One of
the questions I most often get asked as a crime writer is: where do your ideas
come from? Here's the provenance of one idea.
In February 1991, the Provisional IRA built a home-made mortar, loaded
it into the back of a van with a hole in the roof, parked it on the corner of
Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall in London, and fired three shells at Number
10 Downing Street.
The
cabinet, headed by Prime Minister John Major, was meeting at the time. One of
the shells exploded in Number 10's garden. It left a hole seven feet deep but
the cabinet escaped injury thanks to bomb-proof windows in the cabinet room.
The attack happened at exactly 10.08am. Twenty
minutes later, I stepped out of Westminster tube station, opposite Big Ben, on
my way to interview a senior Whitehall Permanent Secretary for an article in
the Daily Telegraph. I discovered the
whole area around Downing Street had been cordoned off by police - and no-one,
but no-one, was going in.
My
problem was that the mandarin I needed to interview was confined to his office
behind the taped off area and I was outside it. It seemed that I was going to
lose the interview - and the fee I'd earn from the Telegraph for the article.
But
then I remembered an incident that had occurred early in my career as a
journalist - back in the 1960s. I'd been sent to cover the list at a
magistrates' court. Most of the cases were trivial and not worth a line in the
paper I was working for. But one of them involved a local ruffian who'd been
found guilty of a fairly minor assault charge. After the court adjourned, he
approached me and made it clear I'd get a beating if a word of the case
appeared in my paper. As it happens, his
case was so boring I wasn't going to write about it, but when I got back to the
office I mentioned the incident to the editor. He decided one of Her Majesty's
Journalists couldn't be treated this way and insisted we ran the story on the
paper's front page.
As the
ruffian had been accompanied at the court by a group of likely lads, I thought
it prudent to keep a watchful eye out when I left the office. If I was followed I knew a local hotel near my
office where the front entrance was on one street but the back in another. I'd
nip in the front and slip out the back to throw the likely lads off my tail.
In the
event, it never came to that. But the notion gave me an idea of how I could
breach the police cordon around Whitehall that morning of the attack. I knew a
hotel that had a back entrance in Victoria Embankment Gardens (outside the
cordon) and its front entrance in Whitehall Court (inside the cordon). The back entrance wasn't blocked and nobody
was stopping anyone leaving at the front - although nobody else was doing so. I
made it to the interview and the only person I saw while I was walking to the
mandarin's office was a bald-headed bloke with a worried look. He poked his
head out of the front door of the Ministry Of Defence and asked whether I knew
there'd been a bomb attack!
Many
years later I used the front door-back door ruse in the first of my Crampton of
the Chronicle crime mysteries, Headline
Murder. It's just one of many journalist tricks-of-the-trade which we used
in those days and which I call on in the Crampton books. The books' hero Colin
Crampton, crime reporter on the Brighton Evening Chronicle, knows all the
tricks. He shamelessly uses the scams to get his stories and solve crimes -
most recently in the latest book in the series Front Page Murder.
Front Page Murder by Peter Bartram
It's December 1963 and Archie Flowerdew is sitting
in a cell at Wandsworth Prison waiting to be hanged. On Christmas Eve. It's not
exactly how he planned to spend the festive season. But, then, Archie was found
guilty of murdering fellow comic postcard artist Percy Despart. It seems there's nothing that can stop
Archie's neck being wrung like a turkey's. Except that his niece Tammy is
convinced Archie is innocent. She's determined he will sit down on Christmas
Day to tuck into the plum pudding. She persuades Brighton Evening Chronicle
crime reporter Colin Crampton to take up the case. But Colin has problems of his own. First,
that good turn he did to help out Chronicle sub-editor Barry Hobhouse has come
back to bite him on the bum. Then Beatrice "the Widow" Gribble,
Colin's trouble-prone landlady, needs him to sort out her latest faux pas -
she's accidentally sent a Christmas card to her local butcher suggesting she's
available for hot sex. And that's before Brighton cops clap Colin and girlfriend
Shirley Goldsmith in jail on the charge of harbouring a fugitive from justice. And, anyway, the more Colin investigates
Archie's case, the more it looks like he is guilty… Pick up the third
full-length novel in the Crampton of the Chronicle mystery series to get you in
the mood for a murderous Christmas!
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