In case you were missing your summer holidays, here’s a short piece I wrote in this month’s ‘Kensington and Chelsea Today’ about the dangers of the crime writer abroad…
THE CRIME WRITER ABROAD
Few people pity the restaurant critic given a hard time while eating out. So why should anyone worry about the crime writer on holiday? Yet the quandary exists – someone whose job involves choosing exotic locations for dastardly deeds can prove a troublesome guest.
Some examples. Gibraltar, a couple of years ago. While others took photographs of monkeys, or lengthy queues at the Spanish border, I found myself asking the tour guide if there was anywhere on the Rock where a person could efficiently commit suicide. ‘Not me,’ I reassured him, engendering an even more suspicious look. ‘O’Hara’s Battery,’ he replied eventually. ‘1400 feet of sheer limestone. No one’s coming back from that.’
Back in Gibraltar’s Old Town, tourists cooled themselves with ersatz pints of British beer while I headed off to various military installations armed with a camera and notebook. A sunburnt soldier emerged from a sentry post, demanding to know what I was doing. ‘Writing a book,’ I replied, just about convincing him – in the end – not to confiscate my research notes.
Deciding that the plot should extend to Morocco, I caught a catamaran across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangiers. The political atmosphere at the time was febrile, as an alleged terror plot had just been uncovered in La Línea, Spain. My flip-flops – worn out from pacing around the Rock – gave up as I boarded the ship. Tangiers, I guessed, was not an ideal place to arrive barefoot, so I set about emergency shoe surgery – melting the base of the flip-flop so that the loose strap was embedded into the softened plastic. People around me began to vanish quietly below deck, until I realised I was standing alone, sandal in one hand, cigarette lighter in the other. ‘I’m not a shoe bomber,’ I wanted to shout, as another angry man in uniform began marching towards me.
I opted to set my second novel in the cosier environment of Malta. A classic holiday destination, famed for its beaches, happily retired ex-pats and pious, well-behaved natives. Locating a seedy underbelly was going to be a challenge. Deflated after two days of mild and delightful exploration, I contacted a friend of a friend who lived near Valletta. ‘I need some local colour,’ I told him. My associate turned up in his car, ready to take me to the Co-Cathedral of St John, to the clear scuba waters of the Blue Lagoon in Comino. ‘Actually, I want you to show me the most dangerous, unpleasant parts of Malta that you know.’ Once his misgivings had faded, he threw himself enthusiastically into the role. Did I know that prostitution was legal in Malta? That thousands of African migrants were holed up in tent camps just out of sight behind the airport? I did not. A different side to Malta began to emerge.
This month promises a family holiday in Corfu, renowned for its child-friendly tavernas and unspoilt olive groves. My wife is already eyeing me nervously…
Thomas Mogford’s debut novel, Shadow of the Rock, has been nominated for this year’s CWA New Blood ‘Dagger’ award www.thomasmogford.com
© Thomas Mogford, August 2013
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