To Kill a Mockingbird

To Kill a Mockingbird is a classic novel of the last century, and the film of the book is equally revered. So it’s quite a confession to say that I’ve never watched the movie – an omission I’ve just repaired.

Gregory Peck is, of course, superb as Atticus Finch, the lawyer who takes on the defence of a young black man charged with raping a poor white girl. The court scene is famous (if, one hopes, improbable) and the fact that the story is told by Atticus’s young daughter Scout adds an extra layer of significance.

As a lawyer, I recognise Atticus as one of the great legal figures of fiction. It’s a wonderful story, and shows how good ‘legal fiction’, or, at least, a story with a legal element, can be.

Famously, Harper Lee has never published another book, and she has long declined to discuss her masterpiece. I have to say I find this baffling – if I wrote a book half as good, I’d find it almost impossible to keep quiet. And I love writing too much to contemplate giving up on it. But each to his or her own. Even with a single book, Harper Lee has achieved something most writers can only dream of. Her writing has helped to shape attitudes – and for the better.

From Russia With Love

Over the past few weeks, I’ve watched, at long last, the first three James Bond films. From Russia With Love was the follow-up to Dr No, and it introduced a number of trademark features, including a score by John Barry, and the debut of Desmond Llewellyn as Q, the technical wizard. Again, I thought the film had worn well, considering its age – thanks partly to the excellence of Sean Connery in the lead role, and largely to a tight and fast-moving screenplay, packed with incident.

In this movie, the villainous organisation SMERSH plays Russia off against Britain, and Bond is meant to be the fall guy. We don’t get to see the face of the evil mastermind Ernst Stavro Blofeld, but are allowed a few shots of him stroking a cat with gleeful menace. His henchman include Rosa Klebb (memorably played by the legendary Lotte Lenya), Walter Gotell, who regularly appeared on tv in my youth, and that notable tough guy actor Robert Shaw, who was born in Lancashire – though you’d never guess it from this performance. When one thinks of Shaw’s very different role in The Sting, one realises what a good actor he was, and apparently he was also a novelist of some distinction.

Pedro Armendariz, a Mexican actor, also had a key role in the story, as Ali Karim Bey, who assists Bond before falling victim to assassination by Shaw. I was sad to read that, while the film was being made, Armendariz was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and that he committed suicide shortly after the film was completed. His performance in the movie is very likeable, and he is deservedly remembered for it.

As usual, I enjoyed the John Barry soundtrack. Monty Norman is credited, as usual, with writing the James Bond Theme itself. But, having failed to be commissioned to score the movie, he must have been further and very understandably irked to see his name misspelt on the final credits.

Waterloo Sunset and the Kinks

An endlessly intriguing feature of the blogosphere is that you stumble across all sorts of unexpected delights. I think it was a link from John Baker’s blog that took me to a site on the topic of ‘The Kinks in Literature’, where I found a very positive review of Waterloo Sunset (the song which provided the title was, of course, a Kinks hit written by the great Ray Davies.) It turned out that the compiler of the site is Dave Quayle, and among other things he’s acquainted both with John and that very fine short story writer Mat Coward.

When I was young, my parents used to go out to a club in Northwich called The Grey Parrot (a name slightly reminiscent of The Odd Flamingo, the eponymous club in Nina Bawden’s crime novel, perhaps?) There was a small hotel attached to the club and many bands who played Saturday gigs in the town in the 1960s stayed there overnight. So my parents – rather improbably, it must be said – met a good many pop stars of the 1960s. Their number included the Kinks, and they even obtained for me a photo signed by the band members, though I’m afraid it disappeared years ago. I can’t remember many of the others whom they met, though Lulu was among them, but it does strike me as an amusing paradox that a couple who were definitely not part of the Swinging Sixties should actually have had a few late night drinks with so many stars of the day.

I’ve included a link to Dave’s site in the blogroll. Other recent additions include Pulp Serrenade, which I discovered recently – very good!

Margaret Murphy

Immediately before our prison visit and reception, which I described yesterday, Margaret Murphy was voted in by the members of the Crime Writers’ Association as the CWA chair for the next twelve months. Margaret and her husband Murf weren’t able to attend the whole conference, because of other commitments, but it was great to catch up with them at Lincoln Castle.

The CWA couldn’t have made a better choice than Margaret. She is a very good writer, and (unlike many writers, including me) she is conspicuously, and consistently, efficient. I’ve known her for around 15 years – we first met through the CWA’s northern chapter meetings – and, helped by the fact that her home in Heswall is not too far away from my patch, I’ve had the good fortune to spend a lot of time with her in the intervening years. For a long time, Murf, Margaret and I regularly attended dinners together organised by another crime writing mate, Jim Parkinson, and these were always very enjoyable occasions.

Margaret founded Murder Squad, a ‘virtual collective’ of Northern crime writers, back in 2000, and she invited me to join, along with Ann Cleeves, Cath Staincliffe, John Baker, Chaz Brenchley and Stuart Pawson. The Squad experience has been great for all of us, and we’re meeting up again shortly, after too long a gap. Without Margaret, it would never have existed.

In these difficult economic times, an organisation like the CWA, as well as its members, is bound to come under financial pressure. But I’m sure Margaret will take it in the right direction. I only hope it doesn’t get in the way of the production of more of those splendid novels of hers.

In Prison

At the CWA annual conference in Lincoln, we had a reception on the Saturday evening, before dinner, at the Victorian prison in Lincoln Castle. This was a fascinating place, and we had a chance to look around the condemned cell and elsewhere, nerves appropriately steadied by a glass of wine paid for by the admirable Flambard Press.

Here are a few photos, but I’d like to draw your attention in particular to the prison chapel. This is the only surviving example in Britain of a chapel where the ‘separate system’ was operated. In the mid 19th century, there was a vogue for keeping prisoners completely isolated. They were denied all contact with each other, using solitary cells, a rule of silence – and hoods.

The pews in the chapel were specially designed so that the prisoners could only see the chaplain in his pulpit. Each prisoner stood, or sat, in a wooden compartment which was locked before another prisoner was admitted. Condemned criminals sat at the back, women at the front and debtors to the side. Sitting was actually not easy, since the ‘seats’ were slanted rather than straight – anything to deny comfort, I suppose (and anyone unwise enough to fall asleep mid-sermon would slide on to the stony floor...)

Even in those days, it was recognised before long that this was an utterly inhumane way of dealing with people, and the ‘separate system’ was abandoned. But seeing it was a reminder that being ‘tough on crime’ means very different things to different people at different times.

Red Leaves and Crippen

I’ve been having a very busy time since returning from Lincoln, and this week has included not only a good deal of work, but also two enjoyable events.

The first was an evening at the shiny new branch of Waterstones in Altrincham. Cath Staincliffe and I talked to a pleasingly large audience about our approach to writing, and specifically about Thomas H. Cook’s excellent novel of psychological suspense, Red Leaves. Cath and I are huge fans of the book, though interestingly, some of the readers’ group members in the audience disliked it, mainly because it was too bleak, although one plot hole was cited by Ayisha of Waterstones.

It was good to meet, for the first time, Paul Beech, who sometimes comments on this blog, Jennifer Palmer, who is organising a Mystery Women event which I shall participate in at Manchester’s Portico Library in July, and Caroline Shiach, the competition winner whose story appeared in the anthology Criminal Tendencies, which I mentioned recently.

The second event was another talk about the life and mishaps of Dr Crippen, this time hosted by Alison Russell and taking place at Runcorn Library. A smaller audience, but many questions and much discussion, so a very satisfactory session. The consensus of those attending was that Ethel Le Neve played a more prominent part in the death of Mrs Crippen than has been acknowledged.…

Forgotten Book - Treason in the Egg

My latest entry in Patti Abbott's series of Forgotten Books is the final novel by L.A.G. Strong, Treason in the Egg, published in 1958.

If John Rhode's Vegetable Duck is the oddest title for a detective novel that I know, Treason in the Egg runs it close. Anhd it is not just the title that is a bit out of the ordinary. The novel is described on the title page as ‘a further police diversion’ and the author refers to it in the dedication as ‘this mad offering’. When Ellis McKay, Strong's regular Scotland Yard detective, explains the solution to the mystery to a female admirer, she describes it as ‘a mad rigmarole’. So we may be sure that Strong himself regarded this as a rather eccentric story – and he was right.

Not for the first time, McKay ventures out to the west country and at the start of the book calls at the office of his old chum, Inspector Bradstreet, who is being troubled by a dope-smuggling scare. The reason for McKay’s visit is, however, nothing to do with police work. He is, in his spare time, an accomplished musician and he has been persuaded to speak at a course on Modern Art conducted at nearby Armada House, as a last minute replacement for a lecturer who has been taken ill. Following his arrival at Armada House, McKay finds himself embroiled in a sequence of strange events, including the showing of a bizarre arty film, the highlight of which is a scene featuring an image of an enormous egg. What follows tested my credulity, however.

Strong was a well-regarded novelist - and poet - in his day, although his reputation has not lasted, which is a shame. Sadly, he died suddenly in the year this book first came out. His light-hearted and economical prose style remains agreeable to read, and in McKay and Bradstreet he created a couple of amiable fellows, but his plotting skills were modest. Two other poets who became crime writers and were being published in the Collins Crime Club at the same time, Nicholas Blake (Cecil Day Lewis, an old friend of Strong’s) and Julian Symons, are giants of the genre by comparison. This book certainly has curiosity value, but the whodunit aspect of the story barely registers.

Forensics

Any writer of contemporary crime fiction needs to have some know-how about forensic science. It may not form the heart of the novel (in fact, personally I prefer novels where the author’s knowledge of forensic science is worn lightly) but it’s important to try to avoid crass errors, and this means doing your research.

One of the enjoyable features of the CWA annual conference was a visit to Lincoln University’s state of the art forensic science facilities. A team of experts was on hand to give us valuable insights into a wide variety of aspects of their work – ranging from forensic entomology, through dating dug-up bones, to sample crime scenes with blood spatter evidence.

The experts were friendly as well as informative, and at dinner that same evening I had the pleasure of sitting next to Dr Dorothy Gennard, one of the UK’s five forensic entomologists. Her enthusiasm for her work was palpable and she proved a very agreeable companion.

My Lake District books usually include some forensic science detail – The Arsenic Labyrinth is a particular example – and there can be few pleasanter ways of researching a sometimes dark topic than that offered by the trip to Lincoln University.

Mayo and Marjorie

Many writers dream of having their books televised. In 2006, the dream came true for a long-time friend of mine, Marjorie Eccles. Her series about Inspector Gil Mayo was brought to the small screen by the BBC, and the popular impressionist Alistair McGowan was cast as Mayo.

But it only lasted for one series. I found the pace and quirky humour of the scripts rather appealing, as did the rest of my family, but it seems that we were in a minority. The series was not, in general, well reviewed, and no further programmes were commissioned. A disappointment.

At the CWA annual conference in Lincoln, I spent some time with Marjorie – in fact, as crime writers are wont to do, we visited a forensic science laboratory together! We talked a bit about Mayo, and I imagined what it must be like to experience the mixed emotions of seeing one’s books televised, and yet to feel that the TV versions of the stories are so different from the originals that they are scarcely recognisable.

Marjorie is an entertaining writer who deserves the success she has achieved. I’m sorry that Mayo did not turn into a long-running series, but I’m glad she had the pleasure of seeing her name on TV credits. She and I share a publisher these days, and she continues to publish very enjoyable mysteries at regular intervals. And to be a very pleasant companion.

Bookshops

The CWA annual conference in Lincoln was pretty hectic, with plenty of fascinating talks and activities. I was rather startled to realise that it is 21 years since I first attended a CWA conference, at Scarborough way back in 1988. And I’ve been to most, though not all, of those that have been held since. They are always great fun.

The emphasis of the week-end is social – members’ families are welcome, but it’s not primarily an event for readers (Crimefest, Harrogate and St Hilda’s are all on my schedule for the next few months, though) and there is an educative aspect to many of the talks, which are often given by senior police officers or other experts on the technicalities of crime.

But one marketing event that was included was a book-signing session at the Lincoln branch of Waterstone’s, which I squeezed in between lunch and a tour of some of the excellent second hand bookshops in the city.

And yes, I was very restrained, confining myself to one crime novel purchase – a first edition of Scandal at High Chimneys, a historical crime novel by John Dickson Carr, the king of the impossible crime.