People often ask how much influence my ex-detective partner has on my books, how much detail she feeds in to give them the authentic feel that every reader wants. The answer is a lot, and yet Mo fails to take credit for the effort she puts in. She’s been known to deny any collaboration whatsoever. In the early days that was probably true but, as I’ve said on many occasions, I’ve a readymade research engine at home to call upon, 24/7. That is gold to any crime writer.
During her career Mo has investigated everything from theft to murder, working on some high profile cases, like The Ripper enquiry when it switched to the north during the ‘I’m Jack’ letters. As an ex-probation officer, I have a wealth of experience of my own to draw from.
We have a lot of fun researching locations. Instinctively, Mo has a feeling for the darker side of life that I can use to dramatic effect, creating suspense and drama. Other writers, my agent and publisher, have encouraged us to make more of our unique relationship. We’ve appeared together several times and found, to our great surprise, that readers are fascinated with our process of combining fact with fiction.
While writing fifteen books, Mo’s role has grown. Nowadays, our collaboration begins early, at the ideas stage. During normal conversation she’s probably thrown me a gem that I’ve been considering quietly, mulling over the possibilities without telling her. All ex-coppers like to talk about The Job. It’s in their DNA. Often, ideas spring from something that happened during her career or mine. Most times she has no inkling that she’s said anything of interest – and yet it has sparked my imagination to the point where I’m reaching for my mobile to make a note in case I forget.
The plot of The Lost for example – book one in the Stone and Oliver series – came to me while on holiday in Majorca. Before travelling to the island, Mo had asked if I wanted to take my computer. I said no. I’d been head down for months and owed her my undivided attention. However, sitting poolside, I was overcome by an idea that refused to go away. When Mo noticed my preoccupation, producing my laptop from the bottom of her suitcase, I couldn’t help myself. I wrote the opening scene.
Years later, while negotiating a new publishing deal with Orion, we lit the fire and got comfy to brainstorm ideas. This is the point at which Mo launches forth with one she thinks might work – always before me, annoyingly. I shake my head and usually say something negative. My ego is crushed at this point. I’m the writer in the family, not her, but I say nothing.
She’s still talking, and I wish she’d stop, allowing my slow writer brain to kick in and catch up. I give her side-eyes and she pauses while I contemplate my navel for however long it takes. She’s off again, as enthused as I am with thoughts of a new title, a new investigation. I ask if she wants to write the book. We laugh. She can detect but can’t spell and I know it. I’m not saying she’s unconcerned with the art of writing. It’s the story that grabs her, not the poetry of the words, whereas I’m constantly striving to get better, trying to form seamless passages of prose I can be proud of. We do the hard yards together. Mo is my first reader, the only one I trust to read my work before I send it off. And, like most writers, I rely heavily on editors to make me look good.
The Longest Goodbye is published by Orion
