The city of Saranda, seen on the approach from Corfu
As a London-based writer of crime novels set in the Mediterranean, I’ve had to develop a system when it comes to research. Usually I start with a location I know well, in the hope that if I love it, the reader will too. Then I come up with the plot. That’s the bit I find agonising – my poor wife has to read hundreds of iterations (and is inevitably the essential player in whipping things into shape). Then, and only then, do I get on a plane.
The system just about works – maybe the plot will shift a little after the final location scout, but the pages get filled with crucial colour gathered on site, as I try to visit the same places as my protagonist, Gibraltarian lawyer Spike Sanguinetti – to see the surroundings through his eyes. Or it did work, I should say, until last year, when something new, wild and unexpected hove into view. Albania.
The gateway to Albania for many people, including Spike Sanguinetti in my new novel ‘Sleeping Dogs’, is Corfu. I’ve spent summers in Corfu since I was a child, and have always hoped to set a book there. The island has a long literary tradition, spanning Homer to the Durrell Brothers, and the mix of high-net-worth individuals, Brits on tour and hardworking Greek locals offers the kind of culture clash in which crime writing can thrive.
These days, Easyjet is the only budget airline that flies to Corfu, but their schedule doesn’t start until Easter. The book’s deadline was the end of the summer, which made it a bit close for comfort, but needs must. So I wrote the parts set in Gibraltar, which was fresh in my mind from previous books, then my wife and I farmed out the children to some unsuspecting relatives and touched down in Corfu Town on a beautiful April morning.
At its closest point, Albania lies just 2km off the coast of Corfu. As a child, I used to stare across the Strait at the mountainous landmass, wondering what life might be like there. Travel to Albania was forbidden in those days, as the Communist dictator Enver Hoxha was in power, but now a very efficient ferry service runs from Corfu Town to Saranda.
Before leaving London, I’d already included some scenes which would be set in Albania. I’d planned a brief hop across the water for Spike – to give him a few days to gain perspective on the shady goings-on in Corfu, then return ready to solve the crime. A daytrip to get a feel for the place was vital, so my wife and I booked tickets and caught the catamaran across the Strait to Saranda.
We’d been recommended a local guide, and sure enough, Viktor was there to meet us, a swift-moving man who spoke excellent English and was a passionate advocate of all things Albanian. Entering into the spirit, he took us on a location scout around Saranda, pointing out places of note and reeling off hair-raising anecdotes as I scribbled in my notebook and my wife took photos. There was still some time until the ferry back to Corfu, so he asked if we’d like to make a quick trip into the mountains. We piled back into his battered blue Mercedes and started climbing.
Within ten minutes, a pickup truck had passed us on the mountain road, its cargo enclosure stuffed with thick-stemmed plants with frilly, five-fingered leaves. ‘Was that what I think it was?’ my wife asked. ‘Where’s it coming from?’ Viktor nodded and pointed up at a village high on the hillside. ‘It’s called Lazarat.’ Surrounding the houses was field upon terraced field of cannabis. ‘People say the village produces two thirds of all the marijuana in the Mediterranean.’ ‘Is it legal?’ Viktor shook his head. ‘But it’s lucrative. Billions of euro a year.’
I asked Viktor to pull over. Only one road led in and out of the village. ‘Look,’ he said, gesturing at a security camera mounted on a telegraph pole. ‘The locals monitor who comes in and out.’ As if to prove his point, a black Hummer suddenly appeared, its gleaming bodywork out of place in the rugged terrain. We couldn’t tell if the driver was watching us – the windows were too dark – but Viktor seemed to take the hint, swiftly restarting his engine and speeding off towards our intended destination, Gjirokastra, birthplace of Hoxha and Ismail Kadare, Albania’s most celebrated writer.
But Lazarat remained on my mind. That such a place could exist just a few miles from Corfu, concealed by a single mountain… I quizzed Viktor further, and he made a throwaway comment about something called the ‘Kanun’. Further questioning revealed the existence of an ancient set of laws still adhered to by many people in the mountains of Albania. One of the Kanun’s diktats relates to vendetta, or gjakmarrja – a duty to take blood if a male relative is killed, leading to many deaths a year, and a cycle of revenge that can go on for generations.
A drug-producing mountain village, a deep-rooted history of vendetta – this was crime-novel gold, and we’d only been in Albania a few hours. My wife and I exchanged a glance and I turned to Viktor. ‘Do you know any good hotels in Saranda?’
And so, a week later, I returned home to embark upon some of the most painful months of my writing career. The clock was ticking: not only did the plot need to be changed to incorporate more Albania, but all the chapters I’d written so far were irrelevant. But as soon as the crisis was over, and the book was safely sent to the publisher, I knew that I wouldn’t change a thing – and that this was likely to be the first of many trips to Albania…
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