Writer’s block is a terrible curse for any budding author. Words won’t flow and the writer will find anything and everything more interesting or important in order to avoid sitting down and stringing together a few sentences.

When it descended on me, I would often be found vacuuming the carpets, polishing the furniture, or hanging out the washing. My wife has become a big fan of my periods of procrastination as she knows our home will be spotless.

It was during just such a period that I decided drastic action was required if I wanted to ever complete the crime thriller I’ve been working on for more than two years.

I’d read about other authors who had taken themselves away to writing retreats, sometimes with fantastic results. It seems that a change of routine, and perhaps a view of cows and countryside, can unblock the creative flow quicker than Mr Muscle clears sinks. 

I guess the fresh air and bucolic bliss combine to act like some sort of Senokot for the brain.

So, I arrived at Wheeldon Trees Cottages, at Earl Sterndale near Buxton, armed with a laptop, a notebook, and great expectations. I was flying solo, with just my four-pawed friend for company, so I had booked a dog-friendly cottage. It was well equipped and had plenty of room for three adults.

After taking a turn off the A515, a pleasant drive through the fields and hills brings you to this little piece of Peak paradise.

As you arrive at Wheeldon you are greeted by husband and wife team Steve and Hazel who have carefully and stylishly crafted this high class rural retreat of nine cosy cottages and a fabulous farmhouse. 

A welcome tote bag packed with goodies such as cookies, eggs, locally blended coffee and tea bags, plus a bottle of wine, is a lovely touch. In the fridge you’ll find a slab of butter and some milk for that much-needed cuppa after a long journey.

Wheeldon ushers you in with a wonderfully warm welcome and the views of the surrounding hills and valleys are something to behold, whatever the weather.

Situated at the foot of High Wheeldon, keen walkers are spoilt for choice with plenty of routes direct from your doorstep. You’ll find a collection of recommended walks in the information book supplied, all laminated so you can take them with you in all weathers.

I enjoyed several walks but chose not to wander too far as my furry companion is getting too old for the long treks we used to enjoy. We took a stroll down the road to the centre of Earl Sterndale, coming back uphill along a public footpath across lovely National Trust land.

After working up an appetite we took a short drive to the High Peak Bookstore and Café where I enjoyed a very tasty sandwich and my pedigree chum appreciated the free dog biscuits. The café serves a wide selection of dishes, including plenty of vegetarian and vegan options. But be warned – it is extremely popular even on days when you might expect it to be quiet, so be prepared to queue for a table for a short while. It’s worth the wait.

The next day we walked down the hill and this time took a left turn to Crowdefoot, which sits on the border of Derbyshire and the Staffordshire Moorlands. The views are simply sensational and, in the centre of the small village, the Pack Horse Inn serves hearty food and a selection of real ales. 

A little further on you will find the larger village of Longnor, which has three pubs, two cafes, a chip shop and a post office.

Further afield, the rather special thermal spa town of Buxton is just a 10 minute drive away, while the pretty town of Bakewell, situated on the banks of the River Wye, is a 20 minute drive. Fifteen minutes along the road to Ashbourne you’ll find picturebook pretty Tissington, where you can join the famous trail.

For cyclists, part of the national cycle network begins just a few yards away from the entrance to Wheeldon. Steve and Hazel have very generously supplied electric bikes which are free to use. The extra bit of ooomph provided by the battery will suit those who enjoy the freedom of cycling but are perhaps not as fit as they once were.

This is a magical location that provides a huge portion of food for the soul. It turns out it can also inspire authors suffering a bad case of writer’s block. I left for home with an even deeper love of the Peak District and 10,000 words closer to completing my crime thriller.

If you’ve ever read Possession by AS Byatt, you’ll know it’s a fantastic novel. The Person from Porlock was inspired by a combination of Possession, the poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and my love of Exmoor in the West Country. Here’s an extract from this 5,000-word short story. Hope you enjoy it.

Day three:

‘Right, let’s make a start,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Steve Windle.

‘Good of you all to get here at short notice.’ 

He took a gulp from a plastic cup of something resembling coffee, and the desk creaked as he put his full weight on it, sitting precariously on one cheek. A big, bald, bear of a man, his creased cotton shirt and black polyester trousers would be tight even on someone a stone lighter.

He had the haggard look of someone who, during a twenty-year career spent mostly in the serious crime squad, had seen it all and wished he hadn’t.

Windle took a deep breath and forced what passed for a smile, like an overgrown baby with wind. 

‘You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you here today. It’s all a bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it?’ 

He looked around the shabby room at each of the five journalists seated in a row on the cracked and faded plastic chairs. Like some of the reporters, they had seen better days.        

‘You look a right motley crew but, believe it or not, you have been handpicked because we know you, and we trust you not to balls this up.’ That smile again.

No-one laughed. Not even the hand-picked team of seven Windle had gathered to lead the investigation.

‘You can take notes, but what I’m going to tell you now must not be published or broadcast until I say so. There is a complete media blackout on this. Break it and we will break you – simple as. If anything gets into the press a young woman could die, and I don’t think you want that on your conscience, do you?’

            The five crime correspondents each mumbled something incomprehensible in response. Windle assumed the message had got through.

‘I really appreciate your co-operation on what is a highly sensitive investigation.’

Ken Lawley was a scruffy little man.

An old-school newspaper reporter, he couldn’t look less like Clark Kent if he tried. His chubby, pock-marked face was partially obscured by an unkempt beard and bi-focal glasses.

With a pot belly hanging over a leather belt straining to hold up his worn, brown, corduroy trousers that rested in folds on his comfortable, wide-fit shoes, he had accepted he would struggle to break into television. 

All he needed was a fishing rod and a toadstool and, if he sat still for too long, he could be mistaken for one of those tacky gnomes found in the gardens of so many tasteless suburban homes. Or, at least, that’s what he had been told on more than one occasion.

In Lawley’s case, it wasn’t just his looks that were deceptive. His broad West Country burr gave the impression he may well be the village idiot.  This he used to his advantage when interviewing the rich and the powerful, who sometimes lowered their guard mistakenly believing they were in the presence of a Wurzle who had just got off his combine harvester.

A modest man at heart, he didn’t feel it necessary to mention the first-class honours degree in English literature he had gained at Cambridge. A lecturer had once told him he looked like a dwarf, but dopey he was not.

During his career in regional newspapers, he had gained a reputation as a quick-witted investigative journalist with a good heart. As chief reporter, it was obvious he cared for his team of young hacks and his community. 

Lawley took notes in near perfect shorthand as Windle described the events of the past three days.

Young estate agent Gerri Harding had failed to return to her office following a viewing of a house in a Bath suburb. Her worried colleagues alerted police, who discovered smears of blood and clumps of her long, brown hair in the bathroom of the vacant semi-detached property, suggesting there had been a violent struggle. She was petite – just 5ft 3in and slim – and could have been easily overwhelmed by a strong and aggressive man.

The following day, her distraught parents received a phone call. In a taped message she explained that she had been kidnapped. She was being treated well, she said, but would be killed if the estate agency failed to pay a £250,000 ransom. Further instructions, on how and where to make the payment, would follow.

‘So, that is it in a nutshell,’ said Windle. ‘We will catch this bastard, but we’d prefer to do it without losing Gerri. Any questions?’

‘Any questions? Good lord, there are so many I don’t know where to start,’ said BBC regional crime correspondent Nick Hatcher. ‘Why don’t you start by telling us just what you want us to do? If there’s a complete media blackout, what exactly is our role in all this?’

‘Simple,’ said Windle. ‘I want you all to know every detail so, when the time is right, we can blitz it across Crimewatch, every newspaper, radio and TV station, and get Joe Public to help hunt him down. Our Press Association friend John, here, will make sure it gets out to all the nationals. We want the BBC to share with ITV and other news channels, while Ken will make sure it gets to every local newspaper in the Midlands. We want all bases covered.’

‘At what stage will you want to press the button,’ asked Lawley.

Windle looked around at his team and shrugged: ‘We don’t know that yet.’

Day four:

An overhead projector whirred quietly and shone its harsh light on the white screen perched on a tripod in the corner of the room. 

‘We’ve had another telephone message from the kidnapper who we’re calling Mr Fish. Not because he’s pond life. No, that’s the name he booked the viewing under. As you’ll see, turns out he’s a bit of a poet,’ said Windle.

He placed a plastic sheet on the glass surface and black words, slightly blurred, appeared on the screen.

And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

I don’t want to kill the bird. If you want to see Geraldine alive again you will do what I say. 

Instructions on where to pay the money will follow. 

            ‘I’m not going to attempt to read the poem out loud, but I think you get the message. We think we are dealing with a very dangerous man. We are going to follow his instructions to the letter and pray that he lets Gerri come home unharmed.’

Lawley thought he recognised the verse, but what did it mean? It contained a threat, that was obvious, but did it go any deeper than that?

Day five:

The lid to the grey plastic wheelie bin opened and Gerri squinted hard as light poured in. Her hands, raised above her chest and cuffed to a steel bar, had turned numb long ago due to the lack of blood circulation. She was close to being hypothermic, the single blanket placed over her providing scant protection from the cold of an early spring night.

‘Rise and shine,’ said Eric Helston. ‘Who’s been a good girl, then?’

            Gerri tried but couldn’t reply as she struggled to gain control of her senses.

            Her hands dropped on to her chest as the cuffs were unlocked and she felt him grab her shoulders. He began to drag her out of her cramped, claustrophobic cell. 

‘Toilet time again. And clean yourself up this time, you’re starting to stink,’ he said, leading her to the filthy loo and sink tucked away at the rear of the workshop. The hot water, perfumed soap and soft towel, with the homely scent of fabric conditioner, were unexpected but helped her begin to feel human again. Briefly.

When she returned he politely asked her to sit. Still shivering, Gerri slumped into an armchair. The arms, stained with a cocktail of spillages, were worn through to the sponge filling. The cushion was at least more comfortable than the plastic coffin she had spent the past four nights in. She recoiled as he took her right foot in his hands and began to massage it through her grey ankle sock. 

‘You’re freezing. I’ll get you another blanket tonight. Got to look after my Geraldine, haven’t I?’

The heater rattled as he moved it across the rough concrete floor, wheeling it closer to her. She welcomed the smell of paraffin burning and the blue flames warming her legs, now bound with a heavy-duty chain to an oil-stained work bench.

She was confused. She had become used to her captor being angry and abusive, controlling her with fear, yet now he was being kind and caring, a totally different man. 

A sense of where she was being held began to dawn. The cluttered workshop had what seemed to be metal bits and pieces from boats on the floor and shelves. There were scuffed, old plastic tenders and a couple of life jackets hanging on hooks. She could hear gulls outside and what she thought was the sound of waves in the distance. Imagining sunshine and a sandy beach, she longed to be free again. On a desk, partially hidden by unwashed mugs and a pizza box, she saw a spoon, stained brown, a syringe and a lighter.

Lawley sipped coffee as he paced around his kitchen, his mind racing as the caffeine took effect.  He had worked on many major news stories in his career but nothing like this. This was a different league. He felt it was all a game for the kidnapper and he, the other four journalists and the police, were being played.

Why the poetry? What was its significance? It had to be a clue, didn’t it? He thought he recognised the poem but couldn’t quite place it.

The phone rang. ‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ he said. The detective at the other end of the line hung up.

As he entered the briefing room he could see the projector lighting up the screen. More verse, this time longer. It was difficult to read – the size of the type was small as there was so much text to fit on to the sheet of acetate.

He squinted and brought the words into focus. He read:

Mary mother, save me now!

(Said Christabel) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet,

And her voice was faint and sweet:—

Have pity on my sore distress,

I scarce can speak for weariness:

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!

Said Christabel, How camest thou here?

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,

Did thus pursue her answer meet:—

My sire is of a noble line,

And my name is Geraldine:

Five warriors seized me yestermorn,

Me, even me, a maid forlorn:

They choked my cries with force and fright,

And tied me on a palfrey white.

The palfrey was as fleet as wind,

And they rode furiously behind.

They spurred amain, their steeds were white:

And once we crossed the shade of night.

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,

I have no thought what men they be;

Nor do I know how long it is

For I have lain entranced I wis,

Since one, the tallest of the five,

Took me from the palfrey’s back,

A weary woman, scarce alive.

Some muttered words his comrades spoke:

He placed me underneath this oak;

            That’s Coleridge, thought Lawley. He recognised it immediately. He had studied the work of the great Romantic poet for a semester. The reference to Christabel was unmistakeable. He now realised the first message was also a quote from Coleridge.

            ‘Evening gents,’ said Windle. ‘Thanks for getting here nice and early and at short notice. Now, with your investigative skills, I’m sure the eagle-eyed amongst you will have spotted we’ve had another poem from our man. Sadly, we’re not sure yet what he’s trying to tell us but we’re working on it.’

            Windle removed the acetate sheet and replaced it with another.

            ‘And this is where it gets really interesting.’ He read aloud from the screen.

            ‘Send Geraldine’s boss to Nether Stowey with the money. At the telephone box on Lime Street he’ll find further instructions. If he’s not there at 9pm on March 31 you won’t see your maid forlorn alive again.’

            ‘We’re going to play it by the book. We can’t take any risks that may lead to Gerri’s death, so we’re going to follow his instructions and see where that leads us. Any questions?’

            Nick Hatcher raised his hand and Windle nodded.

            ‘Sir, do we know anything about the kidnapper yet apart from the fact he seems to have a penchant for poetry? Any insight into what he does, where he’s from, why he has kidnapped Gerri? Does he know her? And is there anything significant about Nether Stowey?’

            ‘We’ve been asking ourselves all those questions but so far we’ve got nothing,’ said Windle. 

            Lawley raised his hand. ‘I think I may be able to cast some light on the subject.’

            Windle looked around at his team. This should be interesting, he thought. ‘Go on then Ken, let’s hear it.’

            ‘Look, of course I may be wrong, but there seems to be a clear link here to the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge.’

            ‘You recognise the poems he’s using then, Ken?’

            ‘Yes, Coleridge is one of our greatest poets. I studied him when I was a skint and scruffy student.’

            ‘You haven’t changed much, Ken.’

            Laughter rippled round the briefing room, a rare moment of levity during a tense investigation.  

            ‘I asked for that, didn’t I? Anyway, yes sir, these are sections of poems by Coleridge. The earlier message was from the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.  In it, Coleridge talks about killing a bird. The second was from Christabel, in which Geraldine was kidnapped by five warriors. There seems to be links to the crime he has already committed and a veiled threat to kill his victim, as I’m sure you’ve spotted. I’m not sure why he’s using the name Geraldine when referring to Gerri.’

            ‘Nor us, Ken. Anything else to add?’

            ‘Well, Nether Stowey was home to Coleridge and his wife for a few years. It’s where he did some of his best work. In fact, his cottage is now in the hands of the National Trust and, as far as I remember, is in Lime Street. It can’t be a coincidence can it? There must be some sort of link.’

            ‘We’ll get the team working on that. Anything else that might help us?

            ‘Maybe. Coleridge and his friend Wordsworth used to walk a lot, embracing nature and gaining inspiration from it. There’s now a pathway you’ve probably heard of – the Coleridge Way – which follows their walking route through Somerset, from Nether Stowey all the way down to Lynton, passing through villages including Monksilver and Porlock. I was wondering if that may come into play at some stage?’

            ‘You could be on to something. Thanks for that. Anybody else got anything to add? No? Okay. We’ve got just under 36 hours before our man needs to be at that phone box. We’ll keep you updated on progress as much as we can without putting the operation at risk,’ said Windle.

            ‘Before you go, I’ve just remembered one more thing that may or may not be relevant,’ said Lawley. ‘Coleridge was a drug addict. Some say the poems he wrote while in the West Country are based on drug-induced hallucinations. It is well documented that he was a regular user of opium. I once saw him described as a lyrical smackhead.’

            ‘Very interesting. I wouldn’t be too surprised if this guy is an addict. It would certainly help to explain his behaviour and why he needs so much cash. Why bother with muggings and burglaries when you can feed your habit for a few years with 250 grand?’

Day six:

            Gerri flinched as the knife flashed in front of her face. Helston stared her in the eye as she sat manacled again to the workbench. Good cop had gone. Bad cop was back. 

She felt him lift her long blonde hair with one hand. The steel blade felt cold against her throat. 

            ‘Don’t try anything stupid, Geraldine. One wrong move and it’s over. You do understand, don’t you?’

            Gerri nodded.

            ‘We’re going on a little adventure now. If you do everything I say, you will see your mom and dad again. Any funny business and it’s all over.’

            Helston tied a makeshift blindfold of black fabric ripped from an old t-shirt tightly around her head and led her through the workshop, out into the chilly early evening air. She heard the creak of the van doors opening and she stepped inside as instructed. A heavy shove from behind sent her sprawling on to a mattress.

            As the rattle of a tired diesel engine filled the air, she felt the vehicle jerk into gear and pull away.

            Lawley put 20p into the drinks machine and waited while it did its thing. He carefully took the plastic cup of steaming coffee and immediately took a sip, knowing from previous painful experience it would be too hot to drink.

‘I need some help.’

‘You’ve burnt your tongue again, haven’t you?’

‘That’s not it.’

‘Go on then. Fill me in,’ said Steve Fulford, news editor at the Bristol Mail. ‘Still nothing we can say about the kidnapping?’

‘That’s right. Windle would never give us anything again if we shafted him on this one. That doesn’t stop us doing our own investigation, though, so long as we’re careful.’

‘What do you need?’

‘There’s some sort of link to Coleridge and Somerset. Could you ask the library team to look through our archives over the last few years to see if any old stories flag up anything suspicious. It could mention Coleridge, or Nether Stowey, drugs, or poetry. It’s just a hunch. I don’t know if we’ll find anything but it’s got to be worth a try.’

‘Sounds a bit tenuous, mate. It’s asking a lot.’

‘I know that. But if this girl dies, and we could have done something to save her, we’ll both feel crap, won’t we?’

‘Fair point. Crack on, then, but keep me in the loop.’

The light was beginning to fade as the van pulled into the layby. It reversed towards the hedge so the rear doors couldn’t be seen by passing drivers. Helston got out and checked the road in both directions. All clear.

As the van doors opened Gerri could hear what sounded like rushing water in the distance. A river, she thought. Too loud. A weir, possibly?

‘Get out and don’t say a word. We’re going for a short stroll,’ he said, as he removed the blindfold. ‘If we pass anyone, don’t make eye contact and act like you’re my girlfriend. That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it?’

She felt his warm fingers wrap around her cold, trembling hand as he began to lead her across the field and over a bridge, past the Tumbling Weir to the left. She tried to make a mental note of the route. Another bridge led them to a pathway across a field and through a pretty area of woodland. The path took them uphill to a gate. The sun had now set and the temperature dropped sharply as the sky darkened. Helston took a torch from his rucksack.

The bright beam lit the path on the right, bushes casting menacing shadows, and they began walking downhill. The ground began to get damp as they got closer to the river bank. Gerri slipped on the muddy footpath and her heart rate quickened as panic suddenly gripped her. 

Helston could hear her breathing in short, sharp bursts. He shone the beam in her face, blinding her temporarily. 

‘Calm down. Don’t freak out, I couldn’t handle it. We’re nearly there now.’

‘Where? Where are we? Why are we here? You’re scaring me.’

‘I won’t hurt you. Why would I? You’re my ticket out of this shithole. Come on, it’s nearly over.’

He grabbed her arm and pulled her along the path. In the torch beam she could see a large tree standing above an ominously dark hole in the sandstone bank. As she stared, she could see what appeared to be an entrance to a cave. 

‘Here we are. You’ll like this, it’s the Pixies’ Parlour. Let’s find you a room for the night with the little people,’ said Helston. As they walked he drew a hunting knife from his rucksack.

Continued…

By Ian Rankin (Orion Fiction 2020):

John Rebus may be retired but there’s plenty of life in the old police dog yet, as we discover in A Song for the Dark Times.

In this the 24^th Rebus novel, we find the grumpy former detective moving home to a ground floor apartment. He can no longer manage the flights of stairs to his old flat due to the disease infecting his lungs.

Rankin, a master of the crime/thriller genre, presents us with two murders for the price of one. 

Salman Bin Mahmoud, a young Saudi playboy with a James Bond obsession and the Aston Martins to prove it, is found stabbed to death in a back street car park in Edinburgh.

Meanwhile, in a small coastal village several hundred miles further north, Keith Grant – the partner of Rebus’ daughter Samantha – has gone missing.

Fearing the worst, Rebus rushes to his daughter’s side, knowing from past experience that she will be the prime suspect.

Although now on Civvy Street, he can’t resist the urge to investigate and focuses on Keith’s obsession with the history of a local Second World War internment camp, where he soon discovers his body in an accommodation hut. 

The question is, are the two murders connected? The camp is on land where owner Lord Strathy wants to build a golf resort. Salman and his wealthy friends have various connections with the aristocrat and may be about to invest in the controversial venture.

Did Keith, who wanted to turn the camp into a tourist attraction, get in their way? Or was he the victim of a crime of jealous passion? Samantha, we discover, had been having an affair with Jess Hawkins, a former City high-flyer who had set up a hippy-style commune on Strathy’s land after a big deal went badly wrong. 

Hawkins happens to believe in free love and has a child with Strathy’s ex-wife Angharad Oates. I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere.

As we’ve come to expect from Rankin, nothing is as straight forward as it might initially seem. There are enough red herrings here to feed an entire murder investigation team. 

Rankin has got the whole band back together. Trusty sidekick DI Siobhan Clarke investigates Salman’s death, ably assisted by DCI Malcolm Fox. 

Both play significant roles as the plot unfolds and you do wonder whether they may be the future focus of Rankin’s writing as Rebus’s legendary powers of detection diminish with age.

We also see the return of Big Ger Cafferty, the head of organised crime who always seems to find a way to gain a hold over senior police officers with some incriminating evidence that threatens their careers.

Rankin’s writing rattles along at pace, driven by his dynamic dialogue and supported by a forensic attention to detail. 

There’s very little room for unnecessary similies or metaphors in his no-nonsense approach to crime writing in which he ratchets up the tension and jeopardy with intelligent twists and turns. 

His command of both character and plot is what makes him one of the world’s leading storytellers.

By Patrick McGuinness (Vintage Publishing 2019):

Anyone with more than a passing knowledge of the murder of Bristol landscape gardener Joanna Yeates will be familiar with the plot of Throw Me to the Wolves.

Names and locations have been changed, but there’s no disguising the fact that the accused – Michael Wolphram – very closely resembles Christopher Jeffries, the man initially suspected of Joanna’s murder.

That may come as no surprise – Jeffries was one of McGuinness’s teachers when he was at school which explains his interest in the case.

Former English teacher Jeffries was later found to be innocent – but not before a national media monstering had destroyed his reputation, guilty only of being a little eccentric.

Oddball Wolphram suffers the same fate, accused of the murder of neighbour Zalie Dyer despite a lack of any evidence, and we are taken on a journey back in time to his days teaching at Chapleton College.

Through the eyes of former pupil Ander, we experience the bullying and beasting of boys at the boarding school. Ander admits that Wolphram, unlike some other teachers, was not in the habit of assaulting pupils.

This is significant because it is Ander who, now a police officer, is leading the investigation into Zalie’s murder.

Many readers will know Jeffries was cleared. They will know Joanna was killed by neighbour Vincent Tabak. In less skilful hands, this would sound a death knell for this story. We know the outcome from the very beginning. We can see the plot twist coming 300 pages before it appears.

That we keep reading, despite this, is testament to the ability of McGuinness to produce a clever, powerful and, yes, highly entertaining alternative take on the tragic events.

Our narrator, straight-man Ander, runs the police investigation and, in parallel, we learn about his life as a young Dutch boy growing up in the sometimes brutal British public school system. He, too, was an outsider and a loner. 

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Ander’s gets the perfect comedy sidekick in Gary, an unreconstructed Mondeo man, who hides his intellect beneath a barrage of witty one-liners.

‘We weren’t taught by men who thought Childline was a home delivery service,’ says Gary, defending his comprehensive school education. When checking a dating website for suspects he stumbles across a man describing himself as ‘husky, dusky and musky’, which, says Gary, sounds like Snow White’s three sex-offender dwarves.

In a single sentence McGuinness takes us all back to our school days. ‘The classroom smells of cheap floor polish, overapplied deodorant and badly wiped arse. Bottle that and you’d have a whole country’s 1980s in the form of a spray.’

Journalist Lynne Forester is cast as the pantomime villain, selling untrue stories, gossip and hearsay to the national media, sating its feeding frenzy by throwing our prime suspect to the tabloid wolves.

Throughout, we are kept informed of the progress of attempts to clear an oozing fatberg wedged in the local sewers. This could be seen as a metaphor for the investigation, cutting through all the filth that had accumulated over the years.

It is an impressive and entertaining story that McGuinness has created. I’m sure Christopher Jefferies would approve of his former pupil’s work. 

One of the most successful thriller writers of all time is Lee Child.  He has written 26 novels, selling more than 100 million copies, so it would appear he knows a thing or two about keeping readers hooked. For example, in his novel Past Tense a couple are locked in a hotel room and are about to be hunted for sport by a group of men.

‘The bikes formed up into what sounded like single file. They drove through the lot. Shorty turned and watched out the window. A procession. The boardwalk lights were still on. The bikes drove by, left to right, one by one. The riders were all dressed in black. They all had bows slung across their backs. They all had quivers full of arrows. They all had weird one-eyed night-vision goggles strapped to their heads. Some of them were blipping their engines. Some of them were up out of their saddles, raring to go. They all rode away. For a second Shorty wondered who had bet on the west. Patty tried the door. It opened.’

Punchy, short sentences – the longest being just 13 words. Pace and purpose. Suspense. Who wouldn’t want to turn the page? When I was invited this year to attend a symposium at the University of East Anglia discussing Child’s work, it was an opportunity I grasped enthusiastically. I have been a fan of his, and his creation Jack Reacher, for many years. His prose has both menace and motivation. From the moment I open a Reacher book, I’m hooked. 

What I learned from the authors and academics discussing Child’s work is that the pacing of thrillers is one of the most important components. They pull you in and take you on a white-knuckle ride from start to finish. They are plot-driven stories that keep you guessing till the very end. Mysteries are about a puzzle, whereas crime thrillers are about adrenaline. They contain social and political commentary. Characters are under duress due to crime or violence and it exposes the flaws and cracks in the status quo.

Lee Child says he has three main criteria in mind when he sits down to write. They are character, plot and pace. Speaking at the UEA symposium, he said: “I put a tremendous amount of work into the rhythm of the sentences, always tripping ahead. They are being propelled forward. It is a technical skill and a lot of work goes into it.” He continued: “Instinctively, I like to write in first person. It is human, it is very connecting, but it is very limiting and takes away a tremendous amount of easily created suspense. Third person occurs more often because it is more consistent with a typical thriller plot.”

I was privileged to see Lee being presented with an honorary doctorate and took the opportunity to have a brief chat with him as he signed books after the event. I had to smile when he signed my copy of Past Tense – To Paul, from one Brummie to another!

The Final Deadline explores the London underworld of money laundering, extreme wealth and equally extreme violence through the eyes of investigative journalist Ed Cobain. When the oligarchs decide they can no longer entertain his threats to expose them, Cobain is forced to run if he wants to survive.

The Final Deadline

By Paul Skipp

Staring at the photo in the polished antique silver frame, Alexander Johnson imagined clambering inside it and escaping to the more innocent life he once led.

Slumped at his desk, he slowly closed his eyes and rubbed his face with trembling hands, feeling the spikey stubble and the deep furrows that ran like battle trenches across his brow.

He yearned to be the happy family man in the image, one arm around the waist of his young wife, the other clutching a giggling toddler against his hip, like a picture from a website selling exotic holidays.

All suntans, sunshine and smiles. They were happy then, he thought.

He cursed the uncontrollable greed that had given him euphoric highs and crashing lows of such depths that at times he had feared he would never recover.

Once he had been a confident businessman, drunk on the power derived from defeating rivals, striking multi-million-pound deals, making massive profits and enjoying the bountiful fruits of his success.

Look at me now, thought Johnson. He opened his eyes slowly and saw his reflection in the blackened, lifeless computer screen. Staring back at him was a broken shell of a man who had accepted his grim fate long ago. 

Constantly looking over his shoulder nervously for the ruthless assassins that would inevitably pay him a visit had taken a very heavy toll. Paranoid, and often on the brink of a breakdown, his mind had been in a constant state of turmoil for months. 

And now the day of judgment had arrived. Despite the grim and final violent act he knew was to come, he greeted his visitors’ arrival almost with relief. 

Like a cow at a slaughterhouse, awaiting a bolt to the head, he sensed this was the end.

There was no escape. The time had come to pay the price, albeit a heavy one. He knew that. 

The sound of scuffed footsteps on the stone stairs leading from the hallway to his office three storeys above broke the silence.

Johnson stood and leaned on his desk for support as his body went into shutdown. Thoughts scrambled, heart racing, bowels loosening, he was about to come face-to-face with his killers. 

He was alone. No-one to help. No-one to care.

The two assassins looked like evil extras from a Bond movie, built like the proverbial brick shithouse, both over 6ft tall with shoulders that seemed almost as wide. Dressed in trademark black army fatigues, just as he had imagined in his darkest moments, their presence now filled him with terror.

Cool and calm, it was obvious to him immediately that they were totally in control. No doubt this was not their first assignment. He knew his enemy was in the habit of hiring highly trained thugs to deliver retribution. 

They had honed their dubious skills on the Bosnian Serb battlefields and at secret training camps staged by one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty organisations in the world. Both enjoyed killing, driven on by a £100,000 blood money pay day.

An overweight, unfit 41-year-old property developer with no experience of armed combat would be no match for them. 

With efficient ease, completely undetected, they had entered his home, bypassing the ageing, low-tech security system after disabling CCTV cameras at the rear of the property. 

Why hadn’t he spent some of his vast fortune upgrading it? Why hadn’t he had a panic room installed? Stupid. It was too late now. 

The taller thug had come impressively armed for the occasion. Johnson could see a gun – a Soviet semi-automatic Makarov pistol – in his shoulder holster. Strapped to his right thigh was a Storm knife, a deadly weapon loved by Russian marines.

Fear gripped Johnson like a cobra coiled around his chest, so tight he now struggled to inhale. His face crumpled as self-pitying tears ran down his face.  

Backing away, he took two faltering steps. Without saying a word, his executioners lunged forward in synchro and grabbed him violently by the shoulders and ankles, immediately tipping him into a horizontal position. Facing downwards, he could see their polished, military-style black boots on the Italian marble-tiled floor, but little else. 

Pain ran through his arms and legs as their iron grip dug into his flesh like bear traps. The smell of stale alcohol on their breath suggested that even experienced killers needed a drop of Dutch courage. 

He made no attempt to fight back. He felt paralysed and unable to struggle. What was the point, anyway? He knew resistance was futile. The grim reaper had arrived in the form of two muscle-bound heavies and there was only one way this was going to end. 

The gym monkeys were clumsy, though. A pair of delicately decorated blue Ming dynasty vases crashed on to the marble floor, shattering into dozens of pieces, as the shorter man’s hip caught the corner of an antique French console table. 

Johnson could feel the cool night air, on the chilly side even for this time of year, as the ornate timber French doors swung open. He caught a brief glimpse of the exclusive square he called home. 

Several of the neighbouring properties belonged to what could best be described as very unsavoury characters. They, like him, had made their fortunes in ways that would, by any standard, be considered highly dubious.

His mansion, located a stone’s throw from Park Lane and Grosvenor Square, in one of London’s most sought-after postcodes, had been owned by a variety of high-profile politicians and celebrities. Its latest resident really wasn’t worthy of the building’s rich history. 

He could hear the familiar sounds of the city. A city he had helped to shape through a series of high-profile property developments that had delivered him and his business partners huge profits. With money had come access to a glittering world of temptation in many forms. He had succumbed too many times for his own good.

It was his city, he had often thought. There was a time when he felt he owned it. This was partially true. He and his paymasters owned huge chunks of real estate in one of the world’s property investment honeypots.

It was a city he would never see again.

A cancer diagnosis is devastating for the individual and also their family. I wrote this piece after being told I was in remission following treatment for blood cancer. I hope I’ve managed to convey what an emotional rollercoaster the cancer journey can be. See what you think.

‘Cup of tea, love?’

He looked up and saw the white-haired volunteer smiling by the metal trolley laden with snacks, cups and a large tea pot.

            ‘You look soaked through. Go on, it’ll warm you up,’ she said.

‘Erm, no. No, thank you.’

‘A sandwich then? We’ve got ham, tuna or cheese, on white or brown.’

‘Very kind, but no thanks – I couldn’t.’

‘A biscuit then? Go on – live a little.’

He smiled back. Live a little longer would be good, he thought.

‘I’ll give it a miss today. But thanks anyway.’

He watched as she moved the trolley slowly around the waiting room, dispensing comfort in the form of a hot drink, a cold sandwich, and warm words. 

For a moment he stared through the window, watching as wind and rain whipped the rose bushes in the courtyard, creating pretty pink and yellow litter from the dislodged petals. 

Heavy grey storm clouds darkened the sky and water cascaded down the glass, he thought for a moment, like tears for patients that had gone before. 

More than 20 people were seated, all facing the same enemy as him. The same enemy, but for each a different fate.

Some watched television, the images and sounds providing a distraction from their worries. Others sat chatting in hushed voices, sharing tales of diagnosis and treatment, even prognosis – good or bad. Some sat quietly, deep in their own troubled thoughts.

The numbers dwindled as doctors came out and called a name, greeting each patient with a cheery welcome before escorting them to a consulting room. As each one left the waiting room, he tried to read their face to see if they had been given good news or bad.

He had brought a novel to read, knowing that appointments were often delayed by an hour or more. Reading helped him escape into another world. Briefly. But then he would lift his head, remember where he was, why he was there and what he had been through. 

Twenty-four rounds of chemo had been a walk in the park compared to the stem cell transplant that followed. Now, here he was, four months later, about to find out if the punishing treatment for the incurable cancer had won him a reprieve.

Where was Brenda? He hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. She had been having a tough time. She was in constant pain, her body slowly being destroyed by the disease in her bone marrow. But she remained hopeful and tried to be cheerful. He would never say it to her, but he knew the outlook was bleak.

Just a handful of people remained. He checked the time. It must be his turn soon, he thought. As the minutes ticked by, he tried not to think too much about what he was about to be told. 

Throughout it all he had tried to have a positive attitude. There were moments, of course, when dark thoughts had consumed him. But he had too much to live for. He wasn’t ready to go just yet. The disease, however, may have other ideas.

‘Peter?’

He looked up and saw a doctor he didn’t recognise. The accent was strong. Greek, possibly.

‘Would you like to join me?’

‘Yes, doctor. Thank you.’

The short walk to the consulting room felt like that of a condemned man. Why wasn’t he seeing the doctor that had helped him through the ups and downs of his emotional and physical rollercoaster? Was this a bad sign? 

‘Take a seat’. 

His legs felt weak. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or fatigue.

‘How have you been?’ 

‘Yes, pretty good. I’m getting some energy back and I can walk half a mile or so now.’

‘Oh, that’s good. Very good. Your body has been through a lot. It will take time. Now, let me check your notes.’

He tried to read the doctor’s face as he flicked through the thick file of papers and found the report.

‘We’ve had your blood results back.’

The doctor looked straight into his eyes. Was there the hint of a smile?

‘It’s good news.’

He paused for a moment, absorbing the words.

‘How good?’ 

‘There’s no sign of cancer. You are in stringent complete remission.’

A brief sense of elation was replaced by doubt. Had he heard correctly? The accent was strong and he wanted to double check what he thought the doctor had said.

‘Could you repeat that, please, doctor?’

‘Of course. You are in stringent complete remission. There is no sign of the cancer. It has gone completely.’ 

It took a second or two for the news to sink in. His vision went blurry as his eyes moistened. Months of tension seeped from his body. His lips trembled as he slumped into the chair. 

He pictured going home and telling his wife and children. It had been tough for them, too. They were hugging him and gently weeping with relief. 

Then small patches of dark blue, like mini ponds full of life, showed and grew his jeans as he allowed the tears to flow. A tissue appeared on the desk next to him and he grasped it gratefully.

‘Congratulations, Peter. You should celebrate. Go home and drink Champagne.’

‘Thank you, doctor. I will. Thank you.’ 

And as he spoke, he noticed shafts of bright sunlight shining through the half-closed blinds.

ENDS