Blood Ties and the return of Ben Devlin by Brian McGilloway

 

In 2011, I wrote the final words of The Nameless Dead, the fifth in the Ben Devlin series. It was a strange experience. I already knew as I wrote the book that my publisher at the time would not be continuing with the series. The book then, while always intended as another instalment in Devlin’s story, also revisited some of the characters from Borderlands, bringing the series full circle in a way so that, if it was the end, it could serve as a satisfying conclusion.

My leaving Devlin behind also reflected the status of the Border itself in some ways. When I started Devlin, in 2002/2003, the Good Friday Agreement had, in effect, facilitated the removal of the last of the military infrastructure off the border crossings. Still, after so many years, the border was still a very real presence, at a psychological level at least, even after the border posts had gone. But, as I wrote the Devlin books over the next seven or eight years, charting the development of his growing friendship with Jim Hendry in the north, that psychological border began to weaken too. In the real world, I drove back and forth across the frontier without any awareness of its presence. My children were growing up, not really knowing what it meant in any concrete way. That may be why, by the time I’d written four Devlins, I turned my attention to the North and introduced a new character in Lucy Black with Little Girl Lost. I went back to Devlin for that fifth novel in 2011 to round out his story.

And then he stopped speaking to me., just as the border itself seemed to vanish.

The Nameless Dead came out in 2012 and, with that, I was out of contract. And then, for some reason, a year later, Little Girl Lost began to take off, both here and in the US, selling over half a million copies in a few months between the two territories and offering me a chance to keep telling stories. But the readership, and my focus, seemed to be on Lucy and her stories. Once or twice, I began to write a new Devlin story but found his voice was not there. The story was not his.

Brexit changed that. All at once, the border became a feature of conversation again, of discussion in the media – over here at least, though, strangely, seemingly not in Britain. Sides were redrawn, tribal identities reasserted. The psychological border reappeared. And with that, Devlin re-emerged in my consciousness.

Devlin has always been a punchbag for me – a chance for me to work out how I feel about things, and to explore my own responses and reactions based on his. Two years ago, I lost my dad after a short illness. It left me reeling – we were very close and Devlin’s kindness and decency were very much a reflection of my father, a truly kind, gentle man himself. So, while I did not set out to write a book that reflected on the loss of my father, it was natural that when I heard Devlin’s voice again, had his story begin to compel itself on me, it should be a story of loss and grief. One that looks at how family changes over time and the relationship between fathers and their sons.

It was important to me that Devlin should be the voice who tells that story in Blood Ties. The Devlin books have always explored the borderlands – the grey areas between certainties – and Devlin himself has always reflected an awareness that, here in the border area especially, there are no simple answers, no simple definitions. Devlin is father to both his son and his own father in this book, and yet also still a son himself, learning from both his parent and child. But now his children are moving on to college and his parents have passed: all the things by which he defined himself have changed. And, in the book, he must redefine himself. Or, at the very least, learn to accommodate those changes in his own sense of self-identity.

So, identity became the key theme of the novel, as reflected by the epigraph from the wonderful Elizabeth Jennings poem of that name. Issues of victimhood and the habit (in Northern Ireland especially) of creating a hierarchy of worthiness among victims, as if one person’s grief is more deserving than another’s, feed into that same theme of how we create an identity for ourselves and how it is created for us by others. In this book, the lines between victim and perpetrator are blurred and Devlin must constantly reassess how others are defined by his community even as he tries to redefine himself.

I am grateful to have found Devlin’s voice again, though in all honesty, it is not far from my own. I’m grateful to have him as a way to work out how I feel about the world. And I’m hugely grateful that anyone else would be kind enough to continue following both of us on that journey by reading one of these stories.

Blood Ties by Brian McGilloway (Constable) Out Now 

How can a dead woman avenge herself on her killer twelve years after her murder? This is the puzzle facing Ben Devlin in his latest case. He is called to the scene of a murder - a man has been stabbed to death in his rented room and when his identity is discovered Devlin feels a ghost walk over his grave as he knows the name Brooklyn Harris well. As a teenager, Harris beat his then-girlfriend Hannah Row to death, and then spent twelve years in prison for the murder. As Devlin investigates the dead man's movements since his release it becomes apparent Harris has been grooming teenage girls online and then arranging to meet them. But his activities have been discovered by others, notably a vigilante, who goes straight to the top of Devlin's list of suspects... until he uncovers that Harris was killed on the anniversary of Hannah's death - just too big a coincidence in Devlin's books. So Hannah's family join the ever-growing list of suspects being interviewed by his team. And then forensics contact Devlin with the astounding news that blood found on Harris's body is a perfect match to that of Hannah Row's. Yet how can this be; the girl was murdered many years ago - and Devlin doesn't believe in ghosts.

More information about Brian McGilowaay and his books can be found on his website. You can also follow him on Twitter @BrianMcGilloway.

Michael Russell on History as Mystery

Someone once said that by the time any novel is published, it’s already ‘historical’. A weary complaint about how slowly publishing wheels grind, but the historical novel is a much-loved genre, and recent years have seen a remarkable growth in historical crime fiction. I’m now writing a seventh story about an Irish detective, Stefan Gillespie, set in the 1930s and 40s. The books take a sideways, sometimes wry look at World War Two from the perspective of Ireland, which remained controversially neutral, while providing British forces with tens of thousands of volunteers and secretly working surprisingly closely with British Intelligence. 

The reasons for Irish neutrality, some inevitable, some understandable, some less so, form a web of contradictions in a country scarred by civil strife and, in the early years of the war, facing invasion by Germany or Britain, possibly both at once! 

Such contradictions, as well as the fog of war Stefan Gillespie encounters not only in Ireland, but in Britain, America, Spain, and Germany too, are part of why finding new things to write about a war that has produced more fiction than any other is possible. But real storytelling is not in the sweeping panorama of history. My novels do involve espionage at times, and they do engage with what war means, in ways both trivial and tragic, but it is in the ordinary business of ordinary lives, and yes, ‘ordinary’ murders, that true stories are told. Stories of individuals in extraordinary circumstances, and often in circumstances not so extraordinary. 

But why history as mystery at all? As writers it’s a way to write uniquely about what obsesses us and fascinates us. The link to the past is deep, and fiction gives freedom to explore it in quirky, unexpected ways. That doesn’t mean leaving facts behind, just looking at them differently. There are alternative histories (Robert Harris’s still wonderful ‘Fatherland’), but historical crime readers expect historical history! They are well informed and leap on any mistake. To persuade them to enter your world and inhabit it, you can only invent on firm foundations of fact. 

The things I invent are often pedestrian. The most unlikely events are almost always real, often small things historians have no interest in. When Stefan Gillespie stays at the Irish College in Salamanca, at the close of the Spanish Civil War, only the seminary’s archives provided the coincidence that it was the HQ for German Military Intelligence. Such serendipity is probably the experience of every historical fiction writer. When I needed a police raid on an upmarket abortion clinic in Dublin in 1935, I had no idea such a clinic existed. Not only did it, but the Austrian who ran it was a German spy. Almost too much coincidence for fiction!

But the appeal of historical mystery isn’t a particular time or particular facts. It’s our intimacy with the past that matters. In Powell and Pressburger’s 1944 film ‘A Canterbury Tale’, on the eve of D-Day, Thomas Culpepper gives a lecture to some soldiers, about the Pilgrim’s Way and the Kent village they’re camped near. The soldiers are waiting for the pub to open. They ask why they should care what happened six hundred years ago. Culpepper’s reply isn’t about great events or figures, but the houses we lived in as children and how our grandparents lived.

‘There are more ways than one of getting close to your ancestors… follow the old road and as you walk, think of them. They climbed Chillingbourne Hill like you today, they sweated and paused for breath, like you. And when you see the bluebells in the spring and the wild thyme, and the broom and heather, you’re only seeing what their eyes saw. You ford the same streams. The same birds sing. When you lie on your back, and watch the clouds sailing, you’re so close to those people you can hear the thrumming of the horses’ hoofs, the sound of wheels on the road, and their laughter and talk. And when I turn the bend in the road, where they saw the towers of Canterbury, I feel I’ve only to turn my head to see them behind me.’ 

The ‘old road’ is any road, anywhere. Mine stretches through the Wicklow Hills to the uplands of Dorset, along the Thames into London, across the plains of East Africa and the foothills of Kilimanjaro, through Corfu’s woods to Homer’s wine-dark sea. We’re on a road not less but more travelled-by. Our lives are richer for it. 

But Thomas Culpepper missed something. He didn’t hear a faint gasp, or the cry from the trees as a knife slipped between a pilgrim’s ribs. Historical crime fiction is your opportunity to travel back in time and remedy some murderous omissions... 

The City Under Siege  by Michael Russell (LittleBrown) Out Now

1941, and Detective Inspector Stefan Gillespie is ferrying documents between Dublin and war-torn London. When Ireland's greatest actor is arrested in Soho, after the brutal murder of a gay man, Stefan extricates him from an embarrassing situation. But suddenly he is looking at a series of murders, stretching across Britain and Ireland. The deaths were never investigated deeply as they were not considered a priority. And there are reasons to look away now. It's not only that the killer may be a British soldier, Scotland Yard is also hiding the truth about the victim. But an identical murder in Malta makes investigation essential. Malta, at the heart of the Mediterranean war, is under siege by German and Italian bombers. Rumours that a British soldier murdered a Maltese teenager can't go unchallenged without damaging loyalty to Britain. Now Britain will cooperate with Ireland to find the killer and Stefan is sent to Malta. The British believe the killer is an Irishman; that's the result they want. And they'd like Stefan to give it to them. But in the dark streets of Valletta there are threats deadlier than German bombs...

Photograph ©Hachette

Noireland!

FESTIVAL PROGRAMME 

Europa Hotel, Belfast

FRIDAY 27 OCTOBER

9:30-11:00 Crime writing workshop 1

Crime screenwriting workshop 2

11:30:1:00 Crime writing workshop 1 Crime screenwriting workshop 2

2:00-3:30 Crime writing workshop 1 Crime screenwriting workshop 2

4:00-5:30 Crime writing workshop 1 Crime screenwriting workshop 2

6.30pm-7:15pm OPENING NIGHT PARTY

Join us for a celebration of crime fiction. You will be in the company of some of the legends of crime writing, along with hottest new talent around.

7:30pm-8:30pm LINE OF DUTY

In the spotlight The BBC’s award-winning crime drama Line of Duty has been voted one of the best cop shows of all time. Its creator Jed Mercurio, Adrian Dunbar who plays Superintendent Ted Hastings and the show’s producer Stephen Wright talk about working on one of the greatest crime series on the small screen.

9-10pm BENJAMIN BLACK in conversation with David Torrans John Banville, one of Ireland’s greatest novelists talks about his other life as crime novelist Benjamin Black. From his misanthropic pathologist Quirke, who first appeared in Christine Falls, to his latest historical crime novel Prague Nights, fans will get an insight into what it takes to juggle two separate identities and genres.

SATURDAY 28 OCTOBER

10am-11am A SAFE FEAR

What makes you really scared? Caz Frear, Jo Spain, Ali Land and Steve Mosby discuss why we use crime fiction to explore our deepest fears.

11.30am-12.30pm IDENTITIES

Adrian McKinty, Abir Mukherjee, Stella Duffy and Louise Welsh reflect on questions around identity and how crime fiction explores sexuality, gender, race, culture and religion.

2pm-3pm BORDERLANDS

Borders have shaped the people who live near them for centuries – the culture, politics and the crime that arise because of them. Brian McGilloway, David Young, Arne Dahl and Claire McGowan discuss with Craig Robertson how borders across Britain, Ireland and Europe have inspired their crime writing. They also take a look into the future at what opportunities Brexit might pose for a crime writer.

3.30pm-4:30pm THE DARK SIDE OF COUNTRY LIFE

Beneath the chocolate-box façade, for many crime writers the countryside is a deadly place. From murder mysteries to claustrophobic thrillers, rural life can be a dark and threatening existence. Graeme Macrae Burnet, Anthony J. Quinn, Andrea Carter and Ruth Ware discuss their latest dark tales from the countryside.

5pm-6pm AMERICANA

Stuart Neville (who also writes as Haylen Beck), Helen Callaghan, Ray Celestin discuss why the USA attracts so many crime writers as a setting for their novels – whether they’re American or not. Is America just the perfect location for a crime and, if so, why?

8pm-9pm ROBERT CRAIS in conversation

International bestseller Robert Crais is one of crime fiction’s most influential writers. His career started in television where he was one of Hollywood’s hottest screenwriters, working on legendary shows including Hill Street Blues, Cagney & Lacey and Miami Vice. He then became a full-time novelist, creating one of crime fiction’s most loved partnerships Elvis Cole & Joe Pike.

10pm-late HALLOWEEN PARTY

A criminally good Halloween party! Live music and an award for the best crime-themed costume.

SUNDAY 29 OCTOBER

10.30am-11.30am

TELLING A CRIME STORY 

Steve Cavanagh, Craig Robertson and Eoin McNamee talk to Diana Bretherick about our fascination with real crime and why some people find criminals so fascinating. They discuss the constraints and morality of constructing a narrative around a real crime, either through fiction, or through journalism.

12pm-1pm VIKING v CELT

It’s been over a millennium since the first Viking invasion of Ireland and crime fiction fans are enjoying the current invasion a lot more! But are the Celts and the Vikings so very different? We explore the similarities between Scandinavian and Irish crime fiction with two of the greatest proponents from each side: bestselling novelists Arne Dahl and Liz Nugent.

2:30pm-3:30pm CHRISTIE FOR THE 21ST CENTURY

The whodunit has been hugely popular for well over a century. Three contemporary crime novelists Ruth Ware, Martin Edwards and Andrew Wilson, discuss how the murder mystery is being re-invented for modern audiences.

4pm-5pm SOPHIE HANNAH

The multi-talented, bestselling novelist Sophie Hannah talks to journalist Jake Kerridge about her writing career. From her gripping psychological thrillers to the internationally bestselling Hercule Poirot follow on novels, Sophie is one of Britain’s best-loved crime novelists.

Baby Killers by Sam Blake

For me, getting characters right in fiction is all about motivation, trying to get inside their psyche to understand what makes them tick, what makes them transgress the law, and their own morality, to kill. I spend a lot of my spare time plotting murder, and it’s essential to me, in order to make my characters feel really real, to find out what the factors are that contribute to their behaviour.

Inspiration for story strikes in the strangest ways – as writers we hear snippets of conversation or read something in the paper and the germ of an idea forms.  That ‘light bulb’ moment collides with another, and then another, and then the story grows. But even as I plotted Little Bones, meeting and getting to know the characters who arrived in my head, visiting the locations where they live (they are all real), I still didn’t know what had actually happened – how or why the bones of a tiny baby had ended up in, of all places, the hem of a wedding dress. Despite hours of research looking for an explanation, researching baby killers, it was in fact only as I wrote the scene in which one key witness is giving a statement to my protagonists, Detective Garda Cathy Connolly and DI Dawson O’Rourke, that I found out, with some relief, exactly what had happened and why.

Research is key to any novel, particularly crime fiction where the reader is a stickler for detail and is often an expert on forensic technique. While I was trying to get to the bottom of my story, and the motivation behind what makes people kill their children – or other people’s -  I came across all sorts of true and terrible tales about baby killers – all as you can imagine, making gruelling reading.

In August 2005, China Arnold was accused of killing her 3-week-old daughter in - and this really defies belief - a microwave oven. Investigators in Dayton Ohio said the baby, Paris Talley, was burned to death in the oven after Arnold and her boyfriend had an argument over who the child's biological father was. Arnold was sentenced to life in prison without parole in September 2008. Judge Mary Wiseman told Arnold during the trial, "No adjectives exist to adequately describe this heinous atrocity. This act is shocking and utterly abhorrent for a civilized society."

Roll forward to 2015 and in upstate New York a shallow grave marked with sticks and leaves was the location where police found the battered body of a two-month-old Bronx boy beaten to death by his own father, who was apparently angry that the baby’s mother wasn’t paying him enough attention.

As the Daily News states, “Little Mason Whyte Feliciano’s helpless but routine cries were apparently the last straw.

What followed was a ten day odyssey that included a merciless murder, a threat to kill again, a convoluted cover-up, a frantic drive, a random burial spot, a psychotic breakdown, a therapeutic confession, a hunt for a tiny body and — finally — the arrest of a domineering, narcissistic, heartless abuser-turned killer, authorities said.”

The stuff of nightmares – the cops I know regularly say that truth is stranger than fiction.

My husband was a member of An Garda Síochána (the Irish police force) for thirty years. These cases are the type that an officer will never forget – and in the coastal town of Dun Laoghaire where he was stationed for part of his service, there are few who will forget the Dalkey baby case.  In 1973 a baby’s body was found in an alley close to the Garda station. Wrapped in a plastic bag the little girl had been stabbed over forty times with a knitting needle. The investigation at the time was deeply flawed and the results inconclusive, and in 2007, when the baby’s mother came forward, and the case was re-examined by senior counsel Patrick Gageby, it was found that “most of the surrounding documents, sometime after that date, were lost or mislaid”. When Cynthia Owens made her statement, it became very clear that a paedophile ring was operating from ‘the house of horrors’ as it became known and the Murphy family were systematically abusing as well as selling their children.

For the reader to be sucked completely into a fictional world, the ring of truth must be loud, but every writer has a duty to respect the victims and those affected by real life crime.  Little Bones is set in a real place, but the characters and plot is entirely fictional – it tells of the investigation that unfolds when twenty four year old Cat Connolly makes a discovery that shocks her to the core – even more so because she is very single, very young, and, all set to retain her national kickboxing title for a fourth time, she has recently discovered she’s pregnant - and her world is falling in. Little Bones it is about the search for the truth, about what happened, about how it happened, and why. But for Cat, investigating what appears to be an old case, the consequences are very real, very current and utterly devastating.

© Sam Blake

Sam Blake is a pseudonym for Vanessa Fox O'Loughlin, the founder of The Inkwell Group publishing consultancy and the national writing resources website Writing.ie. She is Ireland's leading literary scout who has assisted many award winning and bestselling authors to publication. Vanessa has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book.

Little Bones is the first in the Cat Connolly Dublin based detective thriller trilogy. When a baby’s bones are discovered in the hem of a wedding dress, Detective Garda Cathy Connolly is face with a challenge that is personal as well as professional – a challenge that has explosive consequences.

Follow Sam Blake on Twitter @writersamblake or Vanessa @inkwellhq – be warned, they get tetchy with each other!

 

William Ryan in conversation with Declan Burke

In the fourth of a series of conversations, author William Ryan talks to author Declan Burke.

Declan Burke is the Irish author of the Harry Rigby series.  The latest book in the series being Slaughter’s Hound, which was shortlisted in the Ireland AM Crime Fiction Category for the Irish Book Awards 2012.  The first book in the Harry Rigby series is Eightball Boogie (2003) which was also shortlisted in the Crime Fiction category at the Irish Book Awards, 2003.  The Big O (2008) was shortlisted for the Goldsboro ‘Last Laugh’ Award in 2009.  His novel Absolute Zero Cool won the Goldsboro ‘Last Laugh’ Award at Crimefest, 2012.  It was also shortlisted for the Crime Fiction category at the Irish Book Awards, 2011.  In 2011, he edited Down These Green Streets, a collection of essays, memoir and short stories written by Irish crime writers about the current wave of Irish crime writing.  With John Connolly, Declan Burke is the co-editor of Books To Die For (2012), a collection of essays on the greatest crime and mystery novels written by the greatest living crime and mystery authors.  Declan Burke is also a freelance journalist and critic.  He has written and continues to write and broadcast on books and film for a variety of media outlets, including the Irish Times, RTE, the Irish Examiner and the Sunday Independent.  He also runs the successful and well-regarded blog Crime Always Pays.  His novel The Big O is available for the first time as an e-book  ($4.99 / £4.99). 

William Ryan is the Irish author of The Holy Thief, The Bloody Meadow and The Twelfth Department (to be published in May 2013); novels set in 1930s Moscow and featuring Captain Alexei Korolev.  His novels have been translated into fourteen languages and shortlisted for The Theakstons’ Crime Novel of the Year, The CWA Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards New Blood Dagger and the Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award.  He lives in London with his wife and son. 

WR: So I've been enjoying listening to an Irish rock band called Rollerskate Skinny this week - on your indirect recommendation. Their album Horsedrawn Wishes features heavily in Slaughter's Hound, your latest book, and so I thought I'd better do some research. It was interesting though - the more I listened to it, the more it felt almost like a soundtrack to the novel. Do you have particular music you listen to when you're writing and do you think it comes out in your books?

DB: Glad to hear you like Horsedrawn Wishes. That album was a huge influence on my writing - the idea that you could be Irish, sure, but that you didn't have to sound Irish. Or, for that matter, like anything else you'd ever heard before. It was very liberating at the time - by which I mean, the late '90s, when I was flailing around trying to get my first book written.

I always used to listen to music when I was writing, usually a collection of songs I'd identified as being close to the sound or feel of what I was trying to achieve. For Crime Always Pays, say, I had a loop of Springsteen songs on the go, because I was aiming for a kind of 'cartoon heroic' feel. I don't mean that Springsteen is in any way cartoonish, just that his songs - or the songs I'd picked out - tended to condense into four or five minutes that kind of heroic narrative you get over the course of a whole book or play. Anyway, it felt right for me.

These days, though, I can't listen to any narrative music at all when I'm writing - anything with lyrics. I don't know if you feel the same? I just find it very distracting. It's also true that I made a conscious decision a couple of years ago to put pop and rock music to one side for a while and listen solely to classical, opera and instrumental music. That has the double benefit of allowing me to listen to music with lyrics, except they're in German, or Latin, or whatever - anyway, they're not distracting from a writing point of view because I just hear the voices as another instrument, or instruments.

Music is good to have when I'm writing, though, as it tends to drown out any possible noises / distractions from outside the office / cave. Maybe I should be less easily distracted ... What about you, are you so buried in the storytelling when you're writing that you couldn't possibly be disturbed?

WR: Sadly I could be disturbed by the back of my hand - not that it's disturbing as such, but I'm certainly easily distracted - very easily distracted. So - no, I can't listen to music as much as I'd like.

Not least because I think, more and more these days, that writing has a rhythm of its own which listening to music can sometimes obscure - and as I'm looking for a smooth read for the reader, which is me in the early stages, I want to avoid anything that might affect that. That's not to say I don't listen to music - I do - but, like you, I'm wary of it.

That thing about being Irish, but not necessarily wanting to sound Irish - do you think that's the reason your early novels - like The Big O - feel Irish yet can't be pinned down to a particular location, or even to being Irish, to an extent?

DB: The issue of location, or setting, is actually a bit of a hot topic for me right now. In my mind The Big O is set in very specific locations in and around my hometown of Sligo, but I was deliberate in not giving the story a particular setting because I was trying to suggest that crimes and their consequences are universal – i.e., that story could have taken place in any mid-sized town anywhere around the world.

With my first book, Eightball Boogie, I was a little constrained by the idea that I was writing about places I knew a little too well, I think. I got over that, or past that, by re-imagining Sligo, by giving it certain places and areas that don’t exist, and then working my characters into and out of those fictional places. It might sound a bit trivial but I needed that invented space in order to allow my imagination off the leash. On the back of my latest book it says "Welcome to Harry Rigby's Sligo" and that feels right - it's not the real Sligo I'm writing about, it's Harry Rigby's version of it.

But there’s a bigger issue at play here too, and it taps into your question about ‘being Irish’. I was born and raised in Sligo in the Northwest of Ireland, but my cultural experiences growing up were American movies and books, British books and music, and football, European movies, Dutch beer … all these things, and more, were as important in forming my appreciation of culture as any and all of the Irish elements. And if I’m going to write, and be true to my experience of what brought me to the point where I want to write, then I’d be a hypocrite not to include, or at least acknowledge, those influences. That’s why Eightball Boogie (and to a lesser extent its sequel, Slaughter’s Hound) is so heavily influenced by Raymond Chandler in particular, and the American hardboiled novel in general. Why The Big O is influenced by Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen and Barry Gifford.

I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with living in a post-colonial country. Ireland has been overlaid with any number of cultures over the past thousand years, and more. And then there’s the fact that emigration has played such an important part in Irish history, and that emigrants bring back all these cultural artefacts and incorporate them into the mix. Do we even know what ‘being Irish’ means?

I think that that’s one of the more fascinating aspects of the new generation of Irish crime writers – the diverse locations. John Connolly setting his books in Maine. Conor Fitzgerald and Rome. Until recently, Adrian McKinty set his books anywhere but Ireland. Ken Bruen, Eoin Colfer, Arlene Hunt, Alex Barclay, Ava McCarthy, Alan Glynn … they’ve all chosen non-Irish settings in recent times. And, of course, William Ryan and Russia. The setting and time were a big draw for me, even before I opened The Holy Thief. Were you conscious of not setting your stories in Ireland? Or was / is 1930’s Russia the crucial aspect of the Korolev novels for you?

WR: I never made a conscious decision not to set my novels in Ireland but, given I haven't lived there since I was 22 and that's some time ago, I don't think it would have been that easy to do. As it happens, the idea for the Korolev novels came around a bit by chance. I used to write screenplays and I wanted to write something about this Russian writer, Isaac Babel, who was a last minute attendee at an international writer's conference in Paris - in 1937. As it happened he had a wife and daughter in Paris, and his mother and sister lived in Brussels - and by then it was pretty clear that times weren't good in Moscow and that he, in particular, was at risk if he returned - but return he did - and I thought it would be interesting to explore why he made the decision he did. I never really got round to writing it but I did a lot of research and when I was thinking about writing a detective novel, 1930s Moscow seemed to be a place no-one else had thought of.

 Of course, it turned out I was wrong about that - Tom Rob Smith, for one, was writing Child 44 at the same time I was writing The Holy Thief - albeit a bit quicker, not that it would have changed my mind.  It's a period of history that fascinates me and which has all kinds of resonances today. I don't think I could write a similar novel in a contemporary setting - we just don't believe in things the way we used to, not in Europe anyway - and the thirties is very much a period defined by blind belief.

You mention Elmore Leonard and Raymond Chandler as influences, amongst others, and I know you spend part of your time reviewing and interviewing other crime novelists for newspaper and radio, as well as persuading them into participating in short story collections and the like. Do you think reviewing and writing about crime has also influenced the way you write?

DB: There’s no doubt that writing about crime fiction has changed the way I write it – although whether for good or ill I really don’t know. You can have too much of a good thing, and there are times when I feel a bit burnt out reading only crime fiction, which can be the case for me for long stretches – I suppose any diet is going to become monotonous if doesn’t have variety. And my own tastes in reading are quite catholic, as I think most readers’ are.

I think, in terms of my own writing, that what reading so much crime fiction has caused me to do is move away from the more conventional kind of story. When you’re immersed in police procedurals, say, the last thing you want to do with your precious free time is to try to replicate that kind of story. That’s probably the main reason I wrote Absolute Zero Cool – I wanted to try to write something I hadn’t been reading, something that took the conventions and tropes of the crime novel and gave them a good old shake-up. To be honest, I’m not even sure that Absolute Zero Cool qualifies as a crime novel. I know that there are more than a few readers who would agree with that …

Something else I’ve noticed is that I’ve come to value language above all other aspects of the crime novel. When you accept that most crime books you’ll read will stick to a very similar pattern, or blueprint – which is, after all, what the genre demands, and why it is so successful – then you start to look for the interesting variations. And for me, an inventive use of language is always the most interesting aspect to the telling of a good story. The crime novels that have resonated most with me in the last year or so have been those from Megan Abbott, James Lee Burke, Tom Franklin, Eoin McNamee – writers who really bear down on a line and make it yield up its fullest potential.

That’s something I’m always curious about, when I’m talking with other writers. As in, the trade-off between being adventurous in language or plotting or characterisation, and the necessity of working within the established parameters. How does that work for you? I think it’s obvious to anyone reading the Korolev stories that language, for example, is important to you as a writer – are you conscious of that kind of necessary compromise when you’re writing?

WR: I think I know what you mean - crime readers can be a little set in their ways when it comes to what they want to see in a crime novel. I once received an online review for The Holy Thief that described me as "very creative with his writing, but excessively verbose". I'm presuming the odd adjective was a bit too much for him.

In some ways, that's not such a bad review, of course. Writing is all about words after all - and while I try to avoid being "excessively verbose", I do try and describe things visually and accurately and sometimes it takes a few words to do that. But I suppose crime fiction, particularly in recent years, has tended towards spare and functional writing - so I may be a bit flowery by current standards.  But I like to allow words to build up a bit of cumulative power and I like to have a bit of rhythm and sound to my sentences - and I think a lot of readers like to read that kind of writing as well, even if some would rather rub broken glass into their eyeballs. One of the things you learn early on as a writer is that books are a bit like marmite - you can't expect everyone to like what you've written.

Generally though I think the curious thing about the crime fiction genre is how much freedom there is within it. While readers have some pre-conceptions about what they expect from a crime novel the whole point of the genre is that they want to be surprised - so I think there's a bit of flexibility in there for writers. And it's a very broad church. Fortunately, I also have a bit of a get-out from most crime rules as I write in a different historical period and from the protagonist's point of view, so I can sort of blame my excesses on Korolev - he being Russian and a bit behind the times. It's dialogue that I spend the most time and sweat getting right. I think that's because I'm often interested in what the characters aren't saying as much as what they are - which may go with the whole 1930s Moscow territory.

I think the way your characters speak to each other is very clean and crisp - and dry - and they seem very real. Does it come easily to you? It reads as if it might. And the vivid characterisation was one of the reasons I admired Absolute Zero Cool so much. The character that comes to life is something a lot of writers experience in the course of a novel - at least in terms of characters not doing what you thought they would - but you took that idea and went a bit further with it. The result was exhilarating to read from a writer's point of view - I was confident you'd bring it altogether in the end,  just wasn't sure how. And by any standards it was a good and original novel, with more of the author in it, perhaps, than most novels. How did you feel about appearing in your own novel, to an extent at least?

DB: Heh. NOTHING comes easily to me when I’m writing. I’m not a natural or instinctive writer by any means – it breaks my heart, for example, when I read about Lawrence Durrell, and how he’d write in blocks of ten thousand words at a time, and then bin the lot if he wasn’t happy with it and start all over again the next day. I’m a three-words-forward, two-words-back kind of writer. I grind it out. Although, having said that, there’s no doubt but that dialogue is the part that comes easiest. I don’t know why, it’s not as if I’m particularly sociable or a good conversationalist in real life. But I’ll often fill a couple of pages with dialogue pretty quickly, which can be great fun, and then take ages going back over those pages and putting in the descriptive bits. Maybe I should abandon books and try writing TV or movie scripts.

I’m delighted to hear that you were so confident reading Absolute Zero Cool that I’d ‘bring it all together’ in the end – I wish I’d been half as confident when I was writing it. But I suppose the ending, the climax or twist or whatever you want to call it, was the least important part of that book – for me, Absolute Zero Cool was all about having a bit of fun with the notion of actually writing a book. I suppose I was trying to explore the extent to which we as readers identify with characters, or how ‘real’ they are to us when we’re reading. And the logical extension of that, from a writer’s point of view, was to see how I would react, as a person and as a writer, if one of my characters ever came to life. I mean, how well, or otherwise, would John Connolly get on with Charlie Parker if Charlie was to sit down on a barstool beside him one night, and start mumbling about demons and the guy outside in the parking lot who is trying to kill him? I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

With Absolute Zero Cool, I just thought it’d be interesting to poke fun at myself for a while, to point up my own limitations as a writer, both in terms of my technical ability and my imagination, or lack of same. To be perfectly honest, though, there’s probably a lot more of me in Harry Rigby than there is in the ‘Declan Burke’ of Absolute Zero Cool.

WR: Isn't that always the way with crime fiction protagonists?  There's definitely a bit of me in Korolev's character. If writing a novel is essentially making things up then I suppose it helps if you have something real to start with - from which to hang your falsehoods - and you just hope that, by the time you've finished, the element of yourself that you started with is reasonably well-hidden. Now that you've mentioned the idea - the thought of a having a beer with Korolev is suddenly appealing, although whether he'd have much interest in spending time with a writer from a decadent capitalist country is another question. That's characters for you though - always biting the hand that wrote them.

It's interesting though, a lot of my latest novel, The Twelfth Department, concerns Korolev's relationship with his son, Yuri, who he inadvertently places in great danger. For me that was very much an exploration of how I feel about my own son, who is quite young still but who I find myself worrying about quite a lot. Not that I'm nervous about his safety as such - I like him to take risks and be adventurous - but when I think of his future or the possibility of something bad happening to him it's - well - a very emotional thing. And Korolev's love for his son and efforts to protect him were very much an exploration of parental love. I suppose it's natural to take day-to-day concerns and work them through in a novel, although in a completely fictional setting.

DB: I can totally understand that. Actually, I’m a bit worried that I’m not distanced enough from the day-to-day concerns when I’m writing. Is that a good or bad thing? I suppose it’s good in the sense that it keeps you rooted as a writer in the here-and-now, and if you can communicate your fears well enough, that should resonate for the reader. Then again, if the reader isn’t remotely interested in your concerns, it could be totally alienating for him or her.

I know that when I was writing Absolute Zero Cool I was working out my fear of not being a good father. My daughter had just been born; and in the months beforehand, being entirely narcissistic and immature, or even more so than I am now, I was worried that being a father was going to eat into my writing time / career. Which is precisely what has happened, of course, although my only regret in that respect is that I didn’t have the same experience about 10 years ago.

People do say that a person’s life is split in two: before having a child and afterwards. And while it’s not strictly true, I can fully understand why they might say that. Before my daughter was born I could appreciate a certain kind of situation as being threatening or terrifying from a theoretical point of view; now, I’m wholly committed to those scenarios on an emotional level. I review film as one of my freelance journalism jobs, but I really should have handed in my press pass as soon as my daughter was born. These days, once a child-in-peril storyline presents itself, all my critical faculties freeze up and I’m silently screaming at the screen, ‘Save the child! SAVE THE CHILD!!!’ Afterwards I have no idea if the film is actually any good or not; I’m just delighted the child was rescued.

I think that played into my current book, Slaughter’s Hound, when I realised I was holding back something when I was writing it, and that I needed to commit to the logic of the story, even if it meant writing something that was truly terrible to me. If I’m totally honest, I’ll also say that it’s holding me back from starting my new book, because at the heart of it is a scenario that is – for me, anyway – utterly horrible. I suppose you tend to conceptualise violence in a different way when a child enters your life. I’m not in the slightest bit interested anymore in whether violence has a particular aesthetic, or whether it’s justified in terms of the plot, etc. I’m really hung up at the moment as to whether I even want to write the kind of story that requires violence – and particularly lethal violence. And don’t get me started on violence against women … There’s nothing like a daughter to make a belated feminist-of-sorts of a man.

Are you fully committed to a career of writing crime / mystery fiction? Is there anything about the genre that might persuade you that you want to write a different kind of story?

WR: I wouldn't imagine I'd go off and try anything too esoteric but I might spread my wings at some stage. I have nothing in mind though. What about you? It sounds as though you're not entirely sure which way you're going to go with your next novel.

DB: "You're not entirely sure which way you're going to go with your next novel," is pretty much tattooed on the inside of my frontal lobe. But yes, in terms of the next book, that's especially true. I have the broad storyline, the main characters, the setting - although I don't have the voice. But even if I did have the voice, I'm still not sure I'd be plunging into it. About all I really know about the next book is that I don't want it to be any kind of book I've written before.

WR: I think, to be honest, that's how every writer should approach every novel. I'm just about to start one myself and, although it features Korolev once again, it also features a Soviet Arctic exploration ship trapped in ice surrounded by what may well be murderous ghosts. Now quite how I'm going to approach that - I've no idea. But I have a good feeling about it. Whether that's enough, only time and effort will tell.

The reason I asked about your next novel was that Slaughter's Hound veered back towards the very Chandleresque style of your earlier novels yet still retained much of the gritty and innovative qualities of Absolute Zero Cool. Both novels were shortlisted for The Irish Crime Novel of the Year and Absolute Zero Cool also won the Goldsboro Last Laugh Award and received great reviews. They were very different novels but they were both dark - in the best traditions of noir - and I was wondering if that was something you were going to follow up. At the same time, I'm conscious that's an awkward question to ask.

DB: " ... a Soviet Arctic exploration ship trapped in ice surrounded by what may well be murderous ghosts." That sounds terrific, can't wait to see it. Not least because it sounds like it'll be bending a few genre conventions out of shape.

I'm definitely heading the same direction with the next book, by which I mean having some fun with the genre's expectations, and in my mind it'll be the darkest piece I've written yet - and that's possibly one reason why I'm so reluctant to start it. It's a kind of a 'heart of darkness' story, I suppose, and I'm conscious that it'll be about violence against women and children, and specifically about the violence done to women and children in the name of fiction. Of course, in order to explore that theme, I'll need to make the violence explicit (or will I?), and while I've already written the core scene, which to me is an utterly horrible scenario, I really don't know if I want to go back into it. Maybe I'm flirting with the idea of making it an Absolute Zero Cool kind of story (in which 'characters' interacted with 'reality') so that I can deflect some of that horror. Or maybe I'm just trying to create a get-out clause for myself, and wash my hands of the violence while still incorporating it into the story - that's possible too. 

Funnily enough, I'm just putting the final touches to the e-book version of The Big O, which was originally published in 2007 and was never available as an e-book before. I wrote that book - which is a comedy caper about a kidnapping gone wrong - as a reaction to writing Eightball Boogie and the first pass of what became Absolute Zero Cool, both of which were pretty dark in tone, and the intention was to try to write a credible crime comedy in which no one was murdered and the violence was kept to the absolute minimum (someone does suffer a gunshot wound, but it's via an accidental discharge). So I guess I've been here before, wrestling with the violence-in-fiction issue. And that was probably the most fun of any book I've written to date, so maybe there's a lesson in there for me somewhere.

Having said all that, it's true that I'm the kind of writer to writes to find out what it is he's really trying to say. So maybe I should just knuckle down and write the bloody thing ...

WR: Well, I don't think I'll be the only one looking forward to whatever you come up with. And, in the meantime, I have to work out how I do the practical research for a novel about being trapped in polar ice over an  Arctic winter ...