AOCB

As you can probably tell, I'm still mired in the happy fun la-la land that is my own editing hell. And yes, 'tis a hell of my own making, but that doesn't make it any less filled with porcupines in lime green Speedos signing Whitney Houston's greatest hits at the top of their spiky little lungs.

On the other hand, things could be worse. They're not, but they probably could be. Especially if one was to liberally apply creosote to ones personal areas.

Certainly I've been a bit lax of late (too many prunes) and not linked to the reviewy goodness that is Jim Winters as he gets to grips with the semi naked form of PC John Rickards in BROKEN SKIN (he was naughty and interviewed me for Crimespree magazine as well - the saucy minx!). Nor have I directed you to the lovely Donna Moore's review of the event on Monday evening with myself and the inestimable, intellectual, and inscrutably incorrigible Allan 'Horror Bollocks' Guthrie TOPCNOTY-2007 (there are pictures too). Oh and I've also been Wikipedialised (no, I didn't do it myself, unlike some people...) I think this means I can now legitimately say to people, "Don't you know who I am?" in a high-handed and imperialistic manner. And when they quite rightly tell me that they don't have a clue, I can direct them to the interweb with all it's shiny informational goodness.

But such is life. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall return to the singing of the porcupines. Can't you hear them warbling in the background, like someone's nailed their genetalia to a wobbly washing machine? That's what HELL sounds like. You'll probably find out soon enough yourselves...

Zombie Steel

DI Steel's back from the dead, and she's pissed! Pimps, pushers, prostitutes, paedophiles, and... and other people beginning with 'P' beware - she'll rip your head off and eat the contents!



Aided only by the mysterious smell she produces and a small voodoo doll called 'Timbota' (who hides a secret darker than the underside of a nun), Steel shambles a fine line between homicidal cannibalism and Proustian whimsy in her unquenchable quest for justice, brains, and Martinis made with spinocerebral fluid.



Who is THE STARK MAN? Where did he leave his car? Why do none of his socks match? Only one person can find out:
DI STEEL - ZOMBIE LESBIAN DETECTIVE!
(coming soon, from Channel 5)

Lesser Spotted Bearded Write-ist

No, this isn't going to be a post about plukes, spots or zits. Not even blackheads. This is about events and stuff what I are mostly going to be doing in the not too distant future.

Monday sees me back at the Edinburgh International Book Festival where I'll be cutting a rug, slashing a curtain and making a general mess of the soft furnishings with Mr Allan 'Horror Bollocks' Guthrie. For those of you who missed our 'self indulgent'* event during the Aberdeen Word festival, this will be your chance to see two grown men giggle and snigger as we do the whole thing all over again. Only slightly different as I won't be touching Allan's leg this time. Even though he asked me nicely.

Following hot on the heels of that, you'll be able to spot me lurking in the bushes at a number of Waterstones south of the border down England way:

On Wednesday, September the 4th it'll be Waterstone's Cambridge and the very next day (September the 5th for those of you playing along at home) I'll be Waterstone's Leeds' turn to suffer. And as if that wasn't a good enough excuse to stay at home, shouting at the television, I'll be at these aforementioned lovely emporiums of booky goodness with the artist formerly known as Mark Billingham. He'll be pimping his latest -- DEATH MESSAGE -- I'll be hoovering up the canapés and scoofing all the wine. And probably making fun of him for being in Maid Marian And Her Merry Men, which I used to watch when I was a little kid. I know he likes it when I do that.

(That's him there, on the right, being all on television and stuff)

Just a good job I'm much younger than he is and can run faster ;}#

After that it's down to Hamilton Townhouse Library in Lanarkshire on the 19th, where I'll be all on me tod for an evening of fish-themed frivolity with optional singing. Or just a bit of rambling crime write-ist nonsense, depending on how the mood takes me.

Right, that's enough of the updatearama. Now I must repair to my study floor to do battle with THE EDIT OF DOOM!!!

* Incidentally, it's been pointed out to me that the sandal-wearing journalist who wasn't impress when Al and I strutted our funky stuff in Aberdeen (David Robinson of the Scotsman) is one of those responsible for perpetrating the whole 'Val McDermid wants to chop off Ian Rankin's testicles' brouhaha. See -- that's what happens when you let people wear sandals in public. When will Society learn the lessons of the past? WHEN?!?

The Feline Damien Hurst

Grendel seems to be developing a sense of macabre whimsy. When it comes to displaying the results of her murderous rampage through the fauna of the area, she's become a little bit artistic. In a twisted kind of way.

Take this morning for example -- I got up to find a mouse head on the porch floor, staring up at me. She'd somehow managed to leave a little tuft of skin and fur attached to one side, with a forepaw on it, as if she was making a much smaller mouse out of a bigger one. And not just by eating most of it.

This is not the first time I've wandered out of the kitchen to find the feline equivalent of 'Shark in formaldehyde' waiting for me. Once she managed to eat every single bit of the mouse from behind the ears down. Then displayed it with the nose was pointing up, the ears spread out, so it looked as if the mouse was swimming up out of the concrete.

Which is a bit surreal for six o'clock on a Monday morning.

I wonder why she occasionally leaves these heads for us. I know she thinks they're the tastiest bit -- more often than not it's the bit she eats first. CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH. We can hear her from the kitchen as she munches away. Mmm, tasty mouse head with its little squidgy pink brain in a crispy shell... CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH.

A bit like a walnut whip, I suppose. Only meatier.

The great Steel debate (part 2)

After posting that stuff last week about people wanting me to kill off DI Steel I've been literally swamped with comments demanding that I let her live. Well, when I say 'swamped' I really mean, 'got two or three' -- so it's a very small swamp. Possibly the sort of place Kermit the Frog's estate agent would have called compact and bijou, with ensuite log and ample parking for tadpoles.

But I digress.

Andrew Taylor wades into the debate in this week's Spectator (18 August) with a nice review of BROKEN SKIN:

MacBride focuses on his police officers, foul-mouthed mavericks and hard-drinking misfits to a man and woman. (DI Steel should be declared a national treasure).

Hmm, so now, in order to please everybody, I have to kill her and keep her alive at the same time. Maybe I could kill her and then bring her back to life? A shuffling zombie lesbian crime fighter? There's probably a series in that for Channel 5 or FOX. "DI Steel's back from the dead, and she's pissed! Catch her whacky crime fighting antics only on SKY 1."

No?

She could have some sort of talking Voodoo doll for a sidekick, one that grows to be a full sized person when blood from a crime scene gets splashed on it. Only it sometimes turns evil, for some reason that never really gets explained. And maybe there's someone from the Procurator Fiscal's office who knows the truth, but can't decide what to do about it. Everyone else will just look at Steel's shambling, smelly demeanour and think it's business as normal. Except for the brain eating, of course. She'd have to be a bit secretive about that.

Hey, maybe that's how she solves the crime? As soon as they've finished the post mortem, and everyone's looking the other way, she goes, "BRAINNNNNSSSSS!", scoops the victims' grey matter out of the plastic bucket of formalin and eats it, thereby gaining everything the victim knew and saw.

You know what, I should be writing this down. Anyone out there got a couple of million in their pockets to make a pilot for the series? We'll be rich, I tell you: RICH!

Anyway... Mr Taylor (in the Spectator, remember we were talking about that?) goes on to say:

The procedural background detail feels authentic, the novel rattles along like a bolting horse, and the dialogue crackles like a firework display.

Which is very good for my fragile, bearded ego*. And kinder to the environment too!


* Honestly, it's like a little mouse. A little shy mouse that never gets enough cheese.

Fan mail, for me?

Every now and then I get helpful little emails of advice through the website. And I'm not talking about the kind offers to help some African official embezzle millions of dollars (incidentally, news of my financial acumen seems to be spreading -- hot on the heels of Suleman's kind offer of a share in $19M, I got an email from lovely old Mr. Victor Achums, who wants me to handle £25,000,000 in unclaimed kickbacks for him. Woohoo!) or all that stuff designed to enhance one's sinful trouser parts, but from people who want to help me do better with my writing.

Like this nice message I got today:

please kill DI steel next book. sorry this book was a waste of time

See: polite (he said 'please') and to the point. The book was a waste of their time, but I can improve my chances of giving them pleasure if I kill off DI Steel.

Then there's the other people who email me with things like,

Could some of the characters we have come to know and hate (DI Steele for example) not be put down and picked up on an as-needs basis rather than being more of the same in every novel? Would that give a touch more authenticity and perhaps greater longevity to them??

See -- again with the practical advice!

Only Steel doesn't die in Book Number The Fourth*, that'll have to wait for Book Number The Fifth instead. Maybe something involving a cheese-grater and a jar of petroleum jelly. Hey, never let it be said I don't pander to the desires of my readership.

It's often quite strange, some of the things people come out with. And these are people who seem perfectly nice and normal on the outside. Like the person who came up to me at an event, told me DYING LIGHT depended too heavily on coincidence and wasn't as well written as the other two, then asked if I'd read his screen play and help him get an agent. With a slick build-up like that, how could I refuse? (but I did anyway)

I often wonder what goes through the heads of people who get in touch to say they like the books, but want them done differently. Are they genuinely trying to help? Is this a MISERY-style scenario where I'm going to end up chained to a bed** for not writing the book one very strange person wants to read? Are they twisted hamster molesters, enjoying a happy day's screwing with authors' minds?

Or are they just bored?

* Which has a new title as of last Friday. There's a cover being mocked up, even as we speak. But I'm not going to tell you what it's going to be called, because it might all have changed by the time I've finished typing this sentence. Or this one. Or maybe this one...
** Not in a kinky way, you perverts.

Spreading the wealth

I was going to have a bit of a rant about this piece in the Independent bemoaning Harrogate and the TOPCNotY, but to be honest I can't be bothered. Maybe later, if the vitriolic tide takes me off for a surf on WTF bay...

In the meantime I want you all to be the first to know I'm going to be a multi-millionaire! Yes, the lovely Mr. Suleman Aminu (no less than the Chief Auditor In Charge of the African Development Bank) has unearthed $19,300,000.00 in unclaimed wealth, and apparently 39% of it can be mine, ALL MINE!!!

I have admit that his email started out well enough:

"How are you doing together with your family? [Bit of a personal question, but he's the chief auditor at a big, not made up bank, so I guess it's OK: They're fine. Well, Grendel wouldn't come in last night so I had to wander up and down the road outside the house in my jammies shouting her name and getting bitten by midges, but other than that: fine. Thank you for asking.] I guessed all is well. [And you guessed right, Suleman me old mucker! Except for the midge bites, which itch like a bastard. Pyjama's don't have zip flies you know.] My massage should not be a surprise proposal to you [Yes it bloody well is. You're proposing a massage? I know you're a professional auditor, but are you also a part time masseur? Will this surprise massage involve warm baby oil? From freshly squeezed babies? And will I get to keep my underpants on? I have midge bites to think of you know.] because i got your contact information from the international directory in few weeks ago before i decided to contact you on this magnitude and lucrative transaction for our future survival in life [My future survival? Is it in jeopardy? Is someone coming after me with a sharpened haddock with an insane glint in its eye? Suleman, you're beginning to freak me out here...]."

Then it went on about how he'd just happened to find $19,300,000.00 lying about after some poor bugger went and died in a plane crash, taking all his friends, family and dog with him.

I think this must have been quite an exciting find for old Suleman -- well, it would be, wouldn't it? Not every day you fall over nineteen million dollars -- because my only explanation for what comes next is a very heavy liquid lunch to celebrate.

"As a honour and advantage bestowed to our foreigncustomers base on the rules guilding our bank, it was stated obviously that if you are not a citizen of Burkina Faso , you have the absolute authority to claim the fund hence you are a foreigner despite your differences from the country of origin of the deceased."

What? Eh? WTF? Suleman: cup of black coffee; go for a walk; get some fresh air; stop sniffing the Shake And Vac. I have absolute authority because I'm foreign? Very flattering, but with absolute authority comes absolute responsibility, and I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of commitment. Maybe that's what the massage is for, to loosen me up...

And what does Suleman get for this selfless act of transferring wodges of cash into my bank account? A paltry 52% ($10,036,000.00) at today's currency rates that's only worth £4,964,358.456, barely worth getting out of bed for.

"BUT!" I hear you cry, "39% plus 52% equals 91%, what about the other 9%?" Well, I'm glad you asked me that, because this is the heart-warming part: that 9% is going to go to "respectable Organisations Centers such as CharityOrganisation, Motherless Babies homes, and helpless disabled people in the World" Awwwww... isn't Suleman a sweetie?

"Now, if you are really sure of your trustworthy, accountability, confidentiality on this transaction, contact me and agree that you will not change your mind to cheat or disappoint me when the fund have getting into your account."

I see... so you're going to embezzle nineteen MILLION dollars from your employer, using some weird arsed loophole that makes you sound like you've been drinking Windolene all morning, and you're worried about me cheating you? I can understand that. But I can't promise not to disappoint you -- I may be taller than you expect, or not as bearded. Or maybe I'll break wind at an inappropriate time? Who knows? The point is that life is full of disappointments, you have to accept that Suleman and move on. Otherwise you'll never be able to relax.

And all I have to do for my share of the $19M is give him my telephone and fax numbers! It's a bargain! How can I possibly lose?

A tribute to R.D. Wingfield

I've gone on record umpteen times about how much I admire the writing of R.D. Wingfield. Every time someone asks me who my favourite writer is, or who's had the biggest influence on my work, it's his name I bring up. I even made a complete tit of myself on national television, enthusing away like an electrocuted Muppet about how great his books are. And today I got a phone call from my agent that told me Rodney died last night. He was 79.

A very private man, he'd concealed his battle with cancer for seven years.

I first discovered Rodney David Wingfield back when I was a code-monkey working for an internet company. I popped out one lunchtime, looking for a book to read with my sandwich and there, in Dillons was a name I vaguely remembered from the opening titles of A Touch Of Frost on the telly. So I bought the first one in the series, went back to my desk and read while I ate. Fifteen minutes later I was back in the bookshop buying everything else I could find by the man.

I know that Rodney wasn't the biggest fan of the TV series, but I have to admit that I have a soft spot for it. Without it I might never have discovered the books. I can see his point though: on television David Jason's Frost is avuncular and a little unruly; but Wingfield's Frost is irascible, scruffy, rude, petty, funny, kind hearted, filthy, he cuts corners, he cares, he's generous.. He's a walking bag of contradictions in a scruffy mac and tatty maroon scarf, and that's what makes him so human.

Rodney's plots were twisted, layered and interwoven; his characters flawed, funny and human; his sense of pace and dialogue second to none. If can ever manage to be even a third as good a writer as he was I'll consider myself to be very lucky indeed.

My father-in-law had read non-fiction all his life, never saw the point in all that made up stuff, until I finally managed to persuade him to try FROST AT CHRISTMAS -- the book that got me hooked -- and it did the same to him. He devoured all the other Frost books and there's been no stopping him since. Before: non-fiction fanatic. After: fiction freak. That's how good R.D. Wingfield is/was.

And I owe my career to him. I chose Marjacq Scripts to represent me, because when I was looking for a new agent I came across their listing in the Writers' and Artist's Year Book and saw that they represented him. So I queried, saying how much I admired his work. It was my first agent at Marjacq who told me to stop writing science fiction thrillers and try crime instead. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for Rodney.

Occasionally Agent Phil would forward on a joke email from him, usually rude, always funny, and in a way I started to feel that I sort of knew him, if only by proxy. That I never met him, is something I'm going to regret for a long, long time. In my life there have only been two people whose work I admire so much I doubt I could have spoken to them without making an arse of myself. One was Spike Milligan, the other was R.D. Wingfield.



Rodney was a hugely talented writer -- for my money the best one the genre has ever seen -- it's a tragedy he wasn't more prolific. FROST AT CHRISTMAS came out in 1984 (in Canada, the UK had to wait till 1989), then a gap of three years before A TOUCH OF FROST in 1987, another five years to wait for NIGHT FROST in 1992, three more for HARD FROST in 1995, and four till WINTER FROST in 1999. And each one is a master class on how to write a brilliant police procedural.

And then nothing.

Finally, a couple of years ago I heard from Agent Phil that there was a new Frost book on the go: cue, happy fan-boy dance. I've been looking forward to a new R.D. Wingfield book for eight years. And I'm so sad I won't be able to tell him how much I love it.

A KILLING FROST will be published posthumously on the 7th of April 2008 by Transworld. From what Agent Phil tells me, it's every bit as good as the ones before. And I'm sure it will be. Apparently after all this time not writing, Rodney even had plans for another Frost book after this one. It's such a huge shame he's not going to be here to write it.

His death is a terrible loss to his family and friends and everyone who loves brilliantly written crime fiction. He'll be sorely missed.

Rodney David Wingfield
1928 -- 2007

It didn't look that nasty going down...

Grendel must have read my blog post yesterday, because this morning she tried to cheer me out of my editing blues by being sick on my jeans. Luckily I wasn't wearing them at the time (I was naked, now you come to mention it -- try not to dwell on that though, I don't want to put you off whatever it is you're doing with your non-mouse hand). Yellow, frothy cat puke, what a joy. At least there weren't any chunky bits in it. Chunky bits are always much less pleasant when they're warm.

And now she's out playing Bite Disembowel and Torture with the local mice population. I don't understand how cat's do it: one minute they're barfing their guts up all over the soft furnishings and the next they're gambolling over the back wall, looking for rodents to mutilate. When I'm sick it takes at least a week to recover. But then I'm delicate.

I wonder if it's not some sort of game for her: "Bloooooooargh... cool! Look what I did! ... wonder if I can do that again... BLOOOOOOArgh! Yay! On the rug this time! BLOOOOOOARGH! All over his slippers... Wonder if I can hide a good chunk of chunder under the bed, where they won't find it for ages, so it can go all green and hairy... BLOOOOOARGH! This is great! Blll... Blll... Damn, all empty. Better go eat some more cat food." Munch, munch, munch. "BLOOOOOOARGH! Woo hoo!"

She's such a trooper.