From handshake to hug – at Bloody Scotland 2023

I simply couldn’t resist the opportunity of saying ‘Fletcher Moss, I presume?’ so had to start off this year’s Bloody Scotland with Alex Gray’s New Crimes, where she talks to new crime writers. She receives so many proofs every year that her house is in danger of collapsing. This year Alex – who apparently is the daughter of a seventh daughter – talked to Fulton Ross, who might be some sort of elf, to Jo Callaghan who knows about AI, and to Alex Hay (I like the rhyming!) who’s into historical heists. And then there’s the ‘thuggish looking deputy headteacher’ who was previously Fletcher Moss, but now writes as Martin Griffin, his real name. I think, anyway. He recognised me and we shook hands and we laughed about his long ago lack of book signing capabilities. It went better this time.

Next I trotted over to the Albert Halls where I denied all interest in Alex Gray several times, on the grounds I’d just seen her. But once I looked at the programme, and also discovered I didn’t seem to have the tickets I needed for my next event, I realised their eagerness in wanting to offer up Alex was that she was the one chatting to James Oswald, with a bit of help from Jonathan Whitelaw.

Unfortunately someone was sitting on my chair when I entered, but I sent witchy thoughts and eventually he moved. Before Alex and James were let loose, it was time for the two minutes in the spotlight from a new writer, reading from their first crime novel. In this case Axl Malton with Cries of Joy. (Took me a while to get his name right…)

You don’t want to watch television with James. He sits there with his notebook, ‘writing is a compulsion, it’s a terrible thing.’ According to James, if you plot, then that’s already been written and no good for when he wants to write. He has a whiteboard in his study, and he forgets his characters’ names. He’s less keen on swearing, but doesn’t mind violent murders. He gets depressed by the news and doesn’t read true crime. If it weren’t for copy editors he’d keep repeating the same clichés over and over.

Alex believes the police – especially in Scotland, who are different – are fine people. All large organisations, including the police, have rogues. And having chatted to lifers in prison, they do not look for inspiration for crime in fiction; reading is purely entertainment.

At the signing after, I was pleased to see that Axl got to sit with James and Alex. And I was glad I caught James before the queues took over, so I could say hello before I was driven home for dinner and a rest, before returning to the Albert Halls for more.

Val McDermid and Abir Mukherjee chatted and joked for an hour, and we all had fun. In fact, it was such fun and the hour was perhaps a little longer than they ordinarily are. Luckily the very determined Ann Landmann was on door duty and let Abir know it was time to stop. Eventually he heeded her, giving everyone enough time to prepare for the next event. I occasionally struggle with hearing things, and had they not handed out the first two chapters of Val’s new book, I’d have come away under the impression the title is Past Lines. It’s not. It is Past Lying. (I have an appointment at the Hearing Clinic this week…) But, as always, great fun to listen to these two talk.

The evening ended with the only slightly delayed event of CrimeMaster, very ably run by C L Taylor and ‘Little’ Luca Veste. (Because Vaseem [Khan] wasn’t there.) The five contestants were Abir Mukherjee, Gytha Lodge, Mark Billingham, Mark Edwards and Susi Holliday. They all brought bribes; some better than others. Then we were treated to the sight of them competing on a sunny Stirling square (last year), proving it’s not really possible to write a – very – short story while running. As for the running in general and crawling through tunnels and jumping over obstacles; well that didn’t go well either.

But the worst came at the end. They had to spell the title of a book with the help of alphabet pasta in tomato sauce, without using their hands. It was disgusting but they all lowered their little faces into the troughs, I mean plates, of pasta. A couple cheated by using each others’ hands. Yeah, I know. It was fun. Even without Vaseem. At least for the audience. I think there was a winner. Possibly Mark Billingham.

This kind of thing is not terribly literary. But it has entertainment value.

Let’s hope Vaseem will be back next year.

The next day was ladies’ day. As chair Jenny Brown pointed out, there were more of us in the audience. On stage we had three ladies; her and Karin Smirnoff and Denise Mina. Both Karin and Denise have recently written books featuring detectives originally invented by men, Stieg Larsson and Raymond Chandler. Similar idea, but they came at it quite differently. Denise of the weird clothes (they are glorious!) likes research and has looked very carefully into LA and all that she needs to know. She also mentioned a Nordic coach trip ( sounds unlikely, I know) where people were told to get off to admire the views and engage in small talk. In Glasgow everyone talks to everyone.

Karin, on the other hand, did no research. She paid someone to do it for her. Although that might have backfired. Being a Swede and from the north of the country as well, she doesn’t like chatting. In her own quiet, non-assuming ways, Karin was actually quite funny. I’d been intending to introduce myself to her at the signing, but felt disinclined to disturb Karin’s Swedish silence, and left her to her queue of fans. After all, why would two Swedes chitchat such a long way from home?

The last day, Sunday, we went to the last panel of the weekend. The ballroom at the Golden Lion was packed to the rafters; a complete sellout. Barry Hutchison, aka J D Kirk, appeared with Marion Todd and Colin MacIntyre, chaired by Caro Ramsay. I’ve never seen quite so many seats in there, and was grateful for my chair in the far corner next to the marble column. I may have rested my head on it when things got a little too ‘Jo Nesbø-ish’ at times.

Marion was a fun new acquaintance for us, who seems to like murdering people in St Andrews. And Barry – aka J D – was pretty relaxed about his writing. He does no research, which is why he murders on home ground where he knows what’s what. He writes 4000 words doing 12,000 steps (he writes on a treadmill thingy). Or some such numbers.

It was clear quite a few people were there for him, issuing stern instructions on not killing any [more] dogs. After some parting words from Gordon Brown, we went to queue outside. The first man in line for Barry hauled six paperbacks out of his rucksack. That’s proper dedication, that is. The queue was long, so I had to wait for my hug, but I got it in the end.

So that was a pretty good Bloody weekend in Scotland, and with some luck Vaseem will be back next year…

Death of a Lesser God

I chose the hardback in the end. I felt that I needed Vaseem Khan’s book as a proper book.

He reckons it’s his best, and I reckon he might not be wrong. I mean, I have loved the others and they can’t be unloved, but writing is a skill that tends to grow, and the plot of Death of a Lesser God is pretty intense. Perhaps you can have too many crocodiles. Not sure, but I suspect so.

Persis Wadia is being tested yet again. She’d make a good friend, although you might want to consider the crocodiles. And the tigers. Her mentee Seema is a really promising character, and at first I wondered if Vaseem had simply forgotten about Archie Blackfinch. He hadn’t. It was quite romantic, in a way, and it never hurts to have more than one man circling a heroine. Although, I’d personally prefer it if they could stay sober.

This is about a white Indian sentenced to death for a murder he claims he didn’t commit. Persis has eleven days to discover what happened. It’s quite deep, thinking about the ramifications of his situation and about what the British did to India. You sort of feel there could not be a story if he’s guilty, but you struggle to see who of all the possible people might have done it.

There are many mirror lives, making it a little hard to keep track of who is who, but also making you see that we are often quite similar. ‘Orphaned’ boys, politicians, the bad local crooks, the mothers, the witnesses, the smarmy potential lovers, the policemen.

I just don’t know what will happen next. Perhaps Vaseem doesn’t know either. (Hint; I like elephants. But also a good love story.)

My saviour

I can’t make my mind up. Kindle? Or dead tree book? Which will it be? Vaseem Khan’s fourth novel about Persis Wadia is out in early August. And I need to decide.

The third one, The Lost Man of Bombay, came with me on my travels last year as a Kindle book. It saved me then, but perhaps I don’t need saving now? I loved it and it was terribly reassuring to have easily to hand. Because I had packed the wrong books. And when space and weight is an issue, the Kindle is no heavier even with the collected works of Sir Walter Scott. But you know that already. (And Scott is purely courtesy of the Resident IT Consultant, sharing his ebook selection with me. And I dare say, if things got really bad, Scott would do nicely.)

So, there I was, having picked what I thought would be a fun and romantic novel, but it turned out to be quite dire and at times like that you need a swift move onto something else. Hence my gratitude to Vaseem and his detective.

If you haven’t read his books about the first female detective in Bombay, then it is high time you did. Meanwhile, I must decide on ebook or paper. This is not made any easier by me having branched into Kindle on the iPhone for those very urgent reading emergencies that I am afraid of experiencing. And then a witch has to have a book made from paper, in case the tech fails her.

From baby elephant to chair

Although I would call it more of a sofa. (Just trying to be funny. And failing.)

Vaseem Khan has been elected chair of the CWA, those literary ‘crime fanatics’ famous for daggers and stuff. But in this photo Vaseem is seated on something larger than a chair. He has blogged about it, too. The chairing, not the seat as such. Or ‘his’ elephant.

I didn’t actually know what the CWA do. Now I’m more in awe of the whole thing, and almost feel as if I’d like to join too.

Last week I quoted the first sentence of Vaseem’s first novel – The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra – and then I read all the other sentences too. It’s been nice, getting reacquainted with Baby Ganesh’s entry into a world of crime. I love him so much, even if he is a little naughty at times.

(Photo Richard Frew)

Hot, or not

With my very senior witch’s hat on I – erm – signed up for this event twice. Nearly three times, in fact. I’m obviously quite keen. ‘How to Write a Crime Fiction Bestseller’ was the way for some Tuesday morning skiving off work, to hang out with Vaseem Khan on Zoom, courtesy of The Society of Authors. It was really for budding crime writers, but as I have no novel – crime or otherwise – in me, I was able to lean back and enjoy.

With two pointy implements behind him – his Historical Dagger Award, and a cactus – plus a suitably messy bookcase, Vaseem looked the business. Apparently crime pays, or at least, it outsells other genres. Beer helps, if he’s to be believed.

I already loved Vaseem, but to find out he used to be a Terry Pratchett wannabe was a lovely surprise. When that didn’t pay, and didn’t even let him escape getting an education, he went to LSE, became a management consultant and went to India to work for ten years. And for twenty long years he wrote seven novels that all failed to go anywhere, possibly because he wrote what he thought was wanted; white, English books.

Success came when he wrote something much more himself, and then added a baby elephant, and there we were. The hook (he kept mentioning the need for hooks) for him was the first sentence: ‘On the day he was due to retire, Inspector Ashwin Chopra discovered that he had inherited an elephant.’ I remember quite liking that.

You need to flex your writing muscle, and presumably that’s what those seven unwanted novels did. With less expectation when you are a new writer, you have the potential to exceed those expectations and that’s good for numbers, for publishers. You need a theme, as well as a plot and characters. If you can write something that is the same – but different – as some successful books, that would be good. Comping is a thing. You will be compared to others, and hopefully a place will be found for you. Vaseem admitted to borrowing from the da Vinci Code (I will try to forgive him).

Another ‘magic ingredient’ is quality, which in Vaseem’s case is to attempt to write like Hemingway. Study your favourite style. Remember the hooks. Make sure you don’t say the police jeep has windows when it doesn’t, i.e. get your facts right. Ginger is not an ingredient for either Chopra or Vaseem (I might have to disown him after all).

Characters matter more than plot. Make sure you have some secondary characters, who are actually interesting. Consider what’s hot, or not. Psychological thrillers are in, as is cosy crime. Everyone wants to be Richard Osman. Or write Gone Girl. Vaseem loves Michael Connelly, but also admitted to basing Chopra on the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.

On writing outside one’s own culture, Vaseem is all for it. (His book for next year is a standalone set in small town US…)

After a [very civilised] potty break, it was question time.

In a crime novel, every book plot needs to be finished. The characters can go on. And you should avoid saggy middles, which I gather is easier with an editor because they will catch anything that sags. For us older [sagging] forgetful readers Vaseem suggests adding reminders of what’s happened earlier in the book. (I thank you.) And female detectives are allowed to get things wrong, just like their male counterparts.

Vaseem likes events, both large and smaller ones. Anything that gets him out there to meet readers. You want book charisma to persuade people to want your book. Newsletters are the best way of selling yourself online. You are in control and can talk directly to fans who have chosen to be on your mailing list. Events are outside your control, but very good even so.

And for god’s sake, bring back Ganesh!!! (Those are my words.)

Sweet sixteen

A year ago Bookwitch ruminated on what sells and what she reads and why.

Today I’m – because we are the same, Bookwitch and I – thinking about the effect Bookwitching has had not just on me but on the young and innocent, like Daughter. We have both put sixteen behind us – but only just. Obviously. Today it’s Bookwitch’s turn to hum ‘She was only sixteen…’

As you may have gathered, Daughter has recently moved and has some vintage shelves to arrange with books. And, it seems, a polar bear. Also two bookmarks, one of which I was intrigued to find personally dedicated and signed by Michelle Magorian.

This is the effect I mean. Somehow a lot of young literature has happened to Offspring. The vintage shelves I mentioned seem to contain mostly books by people I ‘know’ and who Daughter has met through being dragged on bring-your-child-to-work days.

There are an inordinate number of Cathy Hopkins books, and that’s as it should be. Likewise Caroline Lawrence and Liz Kessler and Jacqueline Wilson. Although the latter has had to be pruned down to more manageable numbers of books.

I won’t list them all, but basically, the story of Bookwitch can be seen on these shelves. There won’t be so many new ones, as the e-reader has taken over. This is just as well, because however lovely the vintageness from the local auction-hunter, a flat has only so much space.

Apologies for the tile samples. There is a kitchen splashback to deal with. And I would like it to be known that that book by Vaseem Khan has been ‘borrowed’ from a kind parent.

FGH

Let’s speed that alphabet up, shall we?

French Market or French Quarter? I was sure that for New Orleans Daughter would rate the French Quarter highest, but no, she wanted the market. It was nice. I had a narrow escape, but didn’t actually buy that colourful shoulder bag. I could have. But I sort of realised I’d never use it, and the last thing my bedroom door needs is another bag hanging on the back of it.

It was warm. Sunny. At least the market was shaded. And at the café Du Monde it was practically windy, by which I mean it was open to all sides and there was a welcome breeze. We sat at the table next to where they sat in the first episode of NCIS:New Orleans. Because of course we were there because of it. We even walked past the brick wall with the door in it that was ‘home’ to the NOLA federal agents. The French Quarter was quaint. Interesting. But hot.

We had some grilled cheese, in what was a beautifully cool café. Temperature wise, I mean. There was plenty of grilled cheese during our three weeks. Sometimes a witch has to live off bread/stodge with cheese.

At the Guggenheim they thought we were Glaswegians! Which was sweet of them. Tried telling the nice man in the gift shop that there is more to Scotland than Glasgow, but… He was clearly a learned man, because he knew about Louisiana. The art museum in Denmark, not the state. The weird thing was that we had talked about it just the previous day. And yes, my walls are white.

The one place we had no need for grilled cheese was in Montréal. Cultured people with really good food; not all of it meat, either. Let me recommend the Gandhi. I didn’t think there would be a decent Indian restaurant somewhere like that, but there was. Their Tarka Dal was so excellent I had to have it a second time (in two days), and the naan leftover I spirited away in my own doggy bag, tasted fantastic even 24 hours later when I was safely back at Bookwitch Towers and shouldn’t have needed any emergency reserve food. Couldn’t resist the Ras Malai for dessert, having just read about it in Vaseem Khan’s The Lost Man of Bombay.

The hotel room in San Antonio had a surprisingly versatile coffee machine, which when cleaned up made passable water for tea. Brought our own teabags, and after sending the Resident IT Consultant out for milk, life was almost perfect. He went to H-E-B, which I believe is a local chain of grocery shops. I sent along a M&S carrier bag, because one is green (and so is the bag). Then I got annoyed with him because that meant he didn’t buy one of their gorgeous Halloween bags!

This was rectified the next evening when the bridal party handed them out as goody bags in the bar where we hung out. So all was fine.

So, Halloween. It’s big over there, isn’t it? And where better to spend it than in New Orleans? Even flying there was different. The flight attendants had dressed up. The staff member on the gate was dressed as Waldo (as in ‘Where’s Waldo?’). The ‘bag lady’ at check-in wore the craziest gaudy outfit.

Pumpkins and skulls and cobwebs everywhere, and this is just the airport. New Orleans itself was heavily decorated.

But this is the thing; the next morning all the formerly orange lamp posts wore Christmas garlands. Those elves had been busy.

A report from the pavement

I spent quite a bit of my Bloody Scotland weekend trying to hunt Elly Griffiths down. This entailed looking into bars; a thing I don’t normally do. I wanted her to sign a book, but by the time I had the book, Elly was nowhere to be found.

She was one of the crime writers taking part in Vaseem and Abir’s Red Hot Night of a Million Games. It was a very silly night, but a lot of fun, and it cheered both Daughter and me up. We’ll go next year too if it’s on. Daughter’s favourite was Luca Veste singing Hit Me Baby One More Time. Again. We got to wave our lit-up mobiles in the air and everything. Elly did some good moves with her maracas. Helen Fitzgerald played a convincing corpse on the floor. There was much cheating.

And when all’s said and done, it has very little to do with crime fiction, except that these authors are fun to spend time with.

In Houses From Hell, all I wanted to do was move the furniture on the stage around. Lovely, tartan armchairs, but Helen Grant, Lesley Thomson and Stuart Neville didn’t get to interact enough, because they were not seated in a convenient semi-circle. (Please take note!) Besides that, between you and me, they are quite creepy people. No, that’s not right. They have creepy interests and they put all sorts into their books. Helen even managed to scare her own husband.

When the programme for Bloody Scotland came I wanted to go to so many events. But I know my [lack of] strength, so decided to pace myself, and opted for four, thinking I could add to them later. When the time came, however, four seemed like really quite enough.

After many years of not meeting Martin Edwards in person, there was no way I was going to miss his Cosy Makes a Comeback event. I think of him as a cosy writer. And then he started off by saying he prefers traditional; not cosy. Conveniently enough both the other participants, Jonathan Whitelaw and S J Bennett, as well as the audience, were quick to adapt and the word traditional got a lot of airing. Big audience, too, so I have to say that we are many who like cosy crime. Pardon, traditional.

Hadn’t been sure how the death of the Queen was going to influence the discussion, seeing as S J’s detective actually is the Queen. But she has many plans, and always lets fictional characters do the actual deeds, so this may well continue working. Martin’s excellence at editing [other people’s] vintage crime got a mention, with very many of us being big fans and wanting to know that there will be more from the British Library. He’d initially expected to edit two. There are now over a hundred, so that clearly exceeded expectations.

At the cosy event (sorry!) I said hello to Lizzy Siddal, who I now recognised, and was introduced to her companion Marina Sofia. This turned out to be serendipitous since Marina bore down on me outside the room for the evening event about Detective Duos. We exchanged cards, the way civilised people do, and talked. A lot. For obvious reasons we were able to talk about funny foreigners. Marina is a publisher of translated crime. When Son arrived, in his role as translator of David Lagercrantz’s book, I introduced them, and it turned out they knew about each other already, and a lot more conversation took place.

The Detective Duos event was interesting, and I was pleased to finally come across Ayo Onatade who chaired it. Must have been aware of her for ten years at least. And I had thought it was her I saw down at the Albert Halls the previous night. It obviously was.

One day I’ll have to explain to David Lagercrantz about spoilers. Like not mentioning them too much at events… I liked new-to-me author Ajay Chowdhury, who is a Bloody Scotland-made success, having won a competition to write new crime. Having decided against buying his book before the event on the grounds that it was a hardback, I hurried out afterwards to hand over my money, and still make it to be first in the signing queue.

Simon Mason talked about his two DI R Wilkinses, and if I’d not already read and loved his book, I’d have bought that too. At the end Ayo put them all on the spot, and David agonised at great length before giving up on answering. (In case you want to know what it was about, I’m afraid I can’t remember.) When asked about their personal favourite detective duos, I was very pleased that Ajay chose Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. Haven’t heard those names mentioned in a long time.

I then proceeded to confuse everyone by chatting to Simon and David at more or less the same time at the signing table, about different things in two different languages. I think maybe I won’t do that again. But it was nice to reminisce a little with Simon, and good to introduce myself as the mother of you-know-who to David, who got quite carried away. And he finally got to meet his translator. So I suppose that was all good.

Afterwards Son and Dodo and the Resident IT Consultant went for a beer somewhere. Probably not where I was looking for Elly. Instead I hugged an author and talked about cows with another while I waited outside on the pavement for Daughter to pick me up. It’s quite nice this, finding yourself right next to some favourite writers on the pavement (where many of them go to smoke. But not these two!).

As you may have guessed the cow conversation was with James Oswald, which in turn started Vaseem Khan on the Scots use of the word coo. I worked out later that they might have been on their way to Crime at the Coo. Talked elephants with Vaseem. Obviously. And said what fun we’d had the previous night. Soon after the hug Daughter turned up and she tried to invite him round for chilli. Vaseem turned us down very nicely. But we can try again next year.

So, as I said, you find a lot of authors milling about both in and out of the Golden Lion. And when the ticket table remained unstaffed for rather longer than it should have, Gordon Brown came to the rescue.

Midnight at Malabar House

Vaseem Khan has left his baby elephant and moved back in time to New Year’s Eve 1949 where Persis Wadia is India’s first female police detective in a new crime series. Persis is on night duty at Malabar House when called to the scene of the murder of a British diplomat.

It’s not easy being a woman in such a role where most people want to speak to ‘the man’. Persis is not afraid, however, and as the mystery unravelled she struck me as quite possibly being autistic. If so, it helps her persist in doing a good job, but also alienates others, including potential suitors. Not that she needs a boyfriend. She has a job.

Set soon after Partition, this is an fascinating period to learn more about, regardless of the crime solving. Admittedly, Vaseem isn’t old enough to have been there at the time, nor is he a woman. But he writes his female detective surprisingly well. And he gives her a sidekick in the shape of a white English male; someone who seems to suit Persis really well.

I suppose it’s unavoidable that this is still a pretty white [British] story, with lots of strings being pulled from London. I liked learning more about this side of India; the established Indians and their British counterparts, rather than poverty-stricken villages and people hoping to emigrate.

Persis and her sidekick show a lot of promise. As does the young nation. Hopefully we’ll see more of them.

Last Victim of the Monsoon Express

The fact that I actually bought an ebook is testament to my fondness for Baby Ganesh, my most favourite baby elephant. I discovered that Vaseem Khan had published a novella about Ganesh and his Inspector Chopra, [retired]. And I had to have it. (Took me a while to manage to get it to climb into my Kindle, but that’s my lack of IT skills.)

And it’s set on a train! What could be better? Well, according to Chopra, the size of the dead birds they served for dinner could be greater.

Like the Orient Express, this is luxury train travel, Indian style, and very lovely. Or it is for those who don’t end up murdered, or are suspected of having done the deed. To make up for it, there is of course Ganesh. Because there is nothing strange about taking your elephant on board a train. At all.

An unpleasant man dies. Before too long it seems as though just about everyone on that train had a reason to want him dead. Chopra just has to choose which one it might have been.