Do we write procedurals about the daily work of a butcher? A landscape gardener? An accountant? Some occupations might lend themselves to narratives – a spy, an adventurer, a doctor, a film star – there are books about them all. But the work of police as they go about investigating a crime is of endless fascination to both readers and writers. Dozens of police procedurals are written and published every year. I have often wondered how many of them are read by police officers, and what they think of them. But I wasn’t too keen to find out what this police officer thought of my novel. Not that one.
The Tanglewood Mystery was not my first book, nor my second, but it came early in my career. I now thought the title was dull and unoriginal: ‘Tanglewood’ was the name of a business complex where the murder took place. A detective serjeant was given the job of sifting through the evidence to establish how the killing had happened. Meanwhile, his career was in jeopardy because he had a secret and uncontrollable addiction to gambling. His move towards an answer to the murder mystery ran in parallel to his coming to grips with his addiction. The idea, the secret method of the killing, was good, as was the way the detective arrived at the solution by calculating odds and risks, but the telling was pedestrian. I’ve written better since.
‘I liked The Tanglewood Mystery,’ she said. ‘Clever and original.’
‘You didn’t find it a little slow? Did it seem unconvincing to you?’
‘Not at all. I wanted to find out what happened. The only thing is – have you ever worked with a forensic police team?’
‘Not directly. Actually, no, not at all.’
‘Have you ever thought of working with a police adviser?’
‘Was the book that bad?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There were no serious mistakes. But there were other possibilities which would have made the story more interesting. An adviser would have been able to suggest them.’
I said: ‘Whatever’s wrong with the novel is my responsibility, and if I left out anything like that it was my fault. But I did have a consultant.’
I then told her about Spoder, who had advised me ever since I wrote my second novel.
‘I don’t think I know him,’ Frejah said. ‘Which force was he with?’
‘Salay Raba Police. He retired a few years ago.’
‘I never knew the Raba force well. What’s his full name, and what rank was he?’
‘He has never told me his given name – I don’t know why. I know him only as Spoder. He was a Detective Inspector before he retired. I don’t collaborate with him. I pay him a retainer, and on my behalf he browses for old files, cold cases, newspaper cuttings and so on. He leaves the stuff with me, and then I write the novel. If I miss anything, that’s my mistake not his.’
‘And you say he’s still working with you?’
‘I wouldn’t be without him.’
‘Does he ever suggest story ideas for a book?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘No! I would never do that.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Frejah. ‘Any experienced detective will have come across many great stories in the course of their work. We don’t solve everything. Even when we work out who the perpetrator was, there’s always something that doesn’t quite make sense, some remark that one of the people involved happened to make that didn’t fit with the facts. I’ve been involved in several cases like that. I could tell you some of them—’
The coffee was at last delivered to the table. I took hold of mine at once, and applied myself busily to the task of adding cream and a little sugar. I stirred the cup with intense interest. I did not look up to meet her gaze.
‘Wouldn’t you be interested in hearing some of them?’ Frejah said. ‘I’m sure you could write a few books based on them.’
And there it was – the suggestion novelists never have an answer for, and try to avoid at all costs.
Everything we write as fiction is based ultimately on story. In some novels a storyline, the narrative, is virtually all there is, in others the story is deeply or subtly woven into the language, the mood, the characters, the setting, and so on. But fiction always directly or indirectly relates the movement of events and decisions that amounts to a story.
Story is what many readers remember about a novel long after they have read the last page. Story is seen as unique to each novel.
We all involve ourselves with story. Most people who read books love to think about ‘what happened next?’, or if they read mysteries ‘whodunit?’. They follow the story, enjoy its twists and turns, wait for the final revelation.
Sometimes readers feel let down by the way the author has tied things up. People want stories to work properly, as they see it, to give a kind of satisfaction. It makes them dream about what they think would have been a more gratifying ending: the hero didn’t die after all, the business didn’t collapse, the couple married and lived happily thereafter, and so on. Or, getting further into the spirit, they think up a whole new plot, one they have never read anywhere or heard about from anyone (they believe). Or they are told an anecdote by a friend, or there is a court case they read about some years ago in a newspaper, or there was some unusual event that occurred in the locality whose details have never spread into the wider world – they all seem obvious material for a novel.
This to me is a natural part of the enjoyment of reading. Reading is a stimulating experience, suggesting ideas and situations and stories. We read partly for that pleasure. The instinct to remember stories and re-tell them is innate. We learn to love stories as children. When we’ve heard a good story there’s a real pleasure in narrating the sequence of events again, especially if it contains a surprise, or ends in an unexpected way, or is funny or shocking. From this instinct, many a successful novelist has emerged.
The creation of a story, though, is not simply a matter of re-telling a sequence of events, however embellished those events might become in the process. Writers do come across unusual or interesting stories in newspapers and magazines, they watch television and take ideas from odd moments in news bulletins, they do listen to what they happen to hear strangers talking about. Some even carry notebooks and jot down snatches of random overheard conversations. But all this is the minor raw material for stories.
Other more complex and undefinable sources exist. Personal experience of things that went wrong, or for that matter went well, or living their own lives as they grew up, taking risks, suffering blows, achieving and surviving. Or there is a need felt by the writer to make a certain point or argument, and then will construct a story to illustrate it. Or one of the great classical works, drama, a major novel from the previous century, will suggest a theme that is still relevant in the present day and can be reworked imaginatively.
There is no rule about this. Where writers find inspiration and develop their ideas is not a practical or literal exercise – nobody can truly describe it because to a large extent it is an internal, organic process.
In all innocence, and with the best intentions in the world, readers will often say to a writer something similar to what Frejah was saying to me: ‘I know a great story. If I tell you what it is, you can write it into your next book.’
Because I did not wish to seem rude or arrogant, but partly because I could not forget she was a cop and I was nervous of the underlying differences that were emerging between us, and also because I was going to be in her company for at least another day, I could not, would not, say any of the above to her.
But I really did not wish to listen to several hours of her case histories.
I said, weakly: ‘Maybe we should be getting back on the road?’
‘There’s no hurry,’ Frejah said. ‘We’ve made good time. I think you’ll be interested in some of my experiences. One of the first cases I ever dealt with—’
‘Frejah,’ I said. ‘You should never tell story ideas to a writer, a novelist. We steal everything we write about.’
‘That’s the
idea! When you hear the story, it will give you scores of ideas for material. You have your cellphone with you? Why not make a recording, and then when you feel like it you can transcribe it. If I’ve left anything out, you can check with me later. The case I’m talking about was years ago, it was a sensation at the time, but almost everyone who knew about it has died since and no one else remembers it.’
‘I think you shouldn’t tell me confidential details of a police case.’
‘This is a cold case, probably no different from what your research colleague turns up for you. The murder was fifteen years ago, and the file has been closed for years.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You’ve never heard anything like this, I promise you. It was a case of murder, and the killer confessed to it, but in the end the case had to be closed because nothing could be proved. It remains a mystery.’
We argued to and fro for a little longer, but in the end there was nothing I could say that would stop her. I yielded to what felt like the inevitable. I took my cellphone from my pocket, switched on the voice recorder and laid it on the table between us.
I listened to what she told me, although at first I was feeling resentful that I was having to. It was noisy in the busy restaurant: there were voices calling, doors opening and closing, piped music, a deafening coffee-making machine with constant loud steam release, interruptions from the waiting staff, and everything else that was going on around us. I had transcribed interviews in the past, and knew how difficult ambient noise could make them.
Frejah was not a natural storyteller. She often repeated herself, or added later something she saw as important but had missed out. She sometimes turned away expressively, causing her voice to drop. She mentioned names I was unfamiliar with: I assumed they were Dearth names. I took a few notes on these, intending to check them with her later.
I watched her, at first only half listening to the story she was trying to construct. Her body language was not confident. She seemed half-guilty about the story, also proud of it, almost playing a game. I had the unmistakable feeling there was some agenda larger than just the telling of her ideas for a plot. Was it a confession? A way of sharing the events so that in some way I would become complicit in them?
My interest increased.
Then she finished. The story came to something of an anticlimax, I thought. It was a police case, not a narrative.
Police cases end in one of three ways. They do not end, because the matter cannot be solved or enough evidence cannot be found, and the case becomes ‘cold’, remaining technically open. Or they end with a successful prosecution and a culprit who is sentenced. Or they end because after investigation of the evidence it becomes apparent there is no point in taking it any further – another kind of cold case. Frejah’s story was of the third type.
I switched off my voice recorder. Frejah ordered more coffee.
9
Dreadful is the Checking
Frejah drove on for another two hours until we came to a small hotel she said she had stayed in several times before. There were still about five hundred kilometres between us and Tristcontenta Hub. From my point of view the hotel was agreeably old school. There were no warnings about mutability, and the one key to the room was conventional.
That evening, when I was alone in my room, I made internet contact with Jo. The broadband was strong in the hotel room, and we spoke for a long time.
I told her about my meeting with Frejah Harsent in the bar.
‘She latched on to me,’ I said. ‘At first I was glad of the company. I was feeling tired after the speech. She said she had read one of my books. Later on, she told me that the trains here are running a reduced service because of strikes, and offered to drive me to the airport instead. It turned out she is a senior cop on this island. So now I’m being driven at high speed across the island, but I’m starting to feel a bit suspicious of her. I’m not entirely sure why.’
‘You sent me some weird emails last night,’ Jo said. ‘I couldn’t make sense of them.’
‘The internet was unusable. It kept dropping characters as I was typing. I was trying to tell you some of this, but I was exhausted and gave up – I couldn’t cope with it.’
‘So what’s wrong with this woman cop? Do I need to ask? A cop’s a cop.’
‘I know – I had no idea at the time she was a cop. She acted like a normal member of the audience, someone who was into crime novels. That was fine. She’s obviously highly intelligent and I liked her. I only found out today what she does. I saw her ID card: she’s at commissioner level. It turns out she has a big grudge against serfs. She implied she wants them locked up. She said she was betrayed by a couple of them some years ago. When I told her that you and I are serfs she hardly spoke to me for another hour. And she packs a gun.’
‘Cops carry guns,’ Jo said. ‘Or some of them do.’
‘This gun is a big one! A military grade semi-automatic, with a huge magazine. It’s hidden in the trunk of her car. I think I wasn’t supposed to see it. The weird thing about this is that Dearth is supposed to be a place where there’s no crime. That’s what the conference was about. So what does she need a gun like that for? And she calls me a 6/17.’
‘A what?’
‘A 6/17. I think it’s police radio code for a lowly serf. Or a hitch-hiker. Or someone they’re suspicious of.’
‘She’s dropping you off tomorrow at the airport?’ Jo said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you won’t see her again after that.’
‘Jo, there’s something you could do for me before I get home. She told me a story this afternoon about a crime she covered up. She seemed proud of it and insisted I had to hear it. She said she thought it would make a good plot for a novel. You know how badly that idea goes down with me.’
‘But you listened anyway,’ Jo said. ‘Of course you did – you always do.’
‘It was difficult. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Would it work as a novel?’
‘Probably not even as a short story. But I found it interesting. She made me take a recording of it, which I’m glad now I did. It was a murder that happened on Salay Hames, the fifth. About fifteen years ago. Someone had his brains bashed out. I had never heard about it before. I can’t find anything on the internet about it. I looked just now. I’ll get Spoder to look into it for me, of course, but before he does I’d like to know if this murder has made it into the literature. Is there any chance you could have a quick look through the indexes of my reference books and see if there’s anything about the case? Only if you have the time, of course.’
Jo would know the books I meant. I had a small shelf next to my desk: encyclopaedias of crime, transcripts of trials, notable police failures and successes, miscarriages of justice, and so on. All with accessible and useful indexes. They were published for a general audience, but for me they were a first reference source.
‘I don’t mind looking,’ Jo said. ‘But wouldn’t Spoder have access to the police files?’
‘I don’t want to activate the Spoder machine until I’m ready! You know how he rushes around, piles stuff on me, always more than I can manage. Then he comes through with even more. Before Spoder gets interested, I’d like to know what is already known, at least to criminologists. There’s probably nothing about it I can use, but you never know.’
I gave Jo a list of the relevant names I had noted. Frejah’s of course, but also the name of the cop she had been partnered with in Dearth City, the murdered man, and the alleged murderer. I spelt them to Jo phonetically. The victim, for instance, was called Woller (or perhaps Waller) Allmann (or Alman or Almann).
‘I’ll have a look for you,’ Jo said. ‘That’s possibly enough to be going on with.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll check the spelling of the names with this woman. Perhaps you should wait until I have those.’
‘I’ll make a start,’ Jo said.
I would not normally ask Jo to begin my research for m
e, but there was something about Frejah’s story, or in particular her defensive body language when telling it to me, that gave her account a certain extra interest. I was certain it was to some extent confessional, suggesting she was involved not so much in the investigation, as she claimed, but in the crime itself. For now, that hunch was enough to give me the feeling I should listen properly to her account as soon as I was home.
‘So when do you think you’ll be back here?’ Jo said.
‘I’m hoping to catch the evening flight tomorrow, but if not I’ll be on the first one the next morning.’
Jo then started telling me about a new job that might be coming her way: a design commission from a major theatre on the island of Muriseay. She would have to fly across there sometime soon and maybe stay a few days, depending on how it worked out. I knew this was the sort of chance she had been hoping for, and I was happy to hear her talking excitedly about the details of the producer who had contacted her, the theatre, the time deadlines, the probable fee. It could be a big break for her.
10
Presumed Guilty
Frejah Harsent and I met for breakfast in the hotel bar, then continued our long drive northwards across Dearth. We were soon passing through another grim industrial area. We saw open-cast mine workings, steelworks and gigantic windowless factories sealed from the world. Tall chimneys gushed white and black smoke. Smaller ones expelled worryingly coloured fumes. Vast estates of dull housing were spread across the undulating landscape. There was a shroud of smoke or fog in the air, low and gloomy. The temperature remained below freezing. Pedestrians were few, but the highway now was cluttered with many vehicles. Frejah drove with her usual sense of dash, but we were always being held up by the slow-moving trucks travelling in both directions. I was used to her adventurous driving by then, and lay relaxed in the contoured, semi-reclined passenger seat. I was glad not to be on the train.
The Evidence Page 8