Category Archives: Adrian Hyland

And I Have My Say and I Draw Conclusions*

Conclusions and EvidenceMost of us make sense of what we see and draw conclusions from it without even being aware of what we’re doing. For instance, suppose you don’t see your car keys where you usually leave them. You look out the window and your car’s still there, so you conclude that no-one stole your car, and your keys must be in the house somewhere. Then you use evidence (e.g. what rooms you were in the last time you had your keys, which trousers you were wearing), and usually, you track them down. You may not be consciously aware that you’re drawing conclusions as you go, but you are.

Evidence and conclusions play huge roles in crime fiction for obvious reasons. Skilled sleuths pay attention to the evidence and use it as best they can to draw reasonable conclusions. Even more skilled sleuths know that evidence can be faked, so they look for more than just what’s obvious. And one of the biggest mistakes sleuths make is to draw conclusions that are too hasty, because they haven’t paid attention to the evidence.

The way sleuths draw conclusions is central to court cases too, since evidence is key to either prosecuting or defending an accused person. ‘S/he did it – I know it!’ simply isn’t enough for a conviction. And there are a lot of crime novels where original investigators didn’t do a good job with the evidence, so the case is re-opened.

Using that connection between evidence and conclusions as a plot point can be risky. A sleuth who doesn’t pay attention to the evidence or who draws all of the wrong conclusions can come off as bumbling, and that’s off-putting. On the other hand, a sleuth who never has to puzzle over what conclusions to draw can come off as not very credible.

Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is one of the most famous fictional users of evidence to draw conclusions and make deductions. Here, for instance, is his commentary on Dr. Watson when they first meet in A Study in Scarlet:
 

‘I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.’
 

In fact, Holmes and his creator had little patience for sudden flashes of intuition.

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot is very interested in psychology, and draws conclusions from psychological evidence as well as physical evidence. And it’s interesting to see how he draws conclusions when the physical and psychological evidence are at odds. That’s what happens, for instance in Dead Man’s Mirror. Poirot is summoned to the home of Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore, who believes he’s being cheated by someone in his inner circle. Very shortly after Poirot arrives, Chevenix-Gore is dead, apparently by suicide (there’s even a suicide note). And at first, that’s what everyone believes, since the physical evidence (locked study door, etc.) suggest it. But to Poirot, someone as self-important as Gervase Chevenix-Gore would simply not believe that the world could get along without him. He wouldn’t commit suicide. So Poirot looks more carefully at the physical evidence and discovers that there are some pieces that don’t add up to suicide either. And that’s how he draws the conclusion that Chevenix-Gore was murdered.

In Adrian Hyland’s Gunshot Road, Aboriginal Community Police Officer (ACPO) Emily Tempest is part of a team that investigates the murder of geologist/prospector Albert ‘Doc’ Ozolins. He was stabbed in his hut not very long after a drunken pub quarrel with John ‘Wireless’ Petherbridge. And the obvious evidence is very strong that Wireless is the killer. So Tempest’s boss Bruce Cockburn draws the very reasonable conclusion that Wireless is the man they want, and is ready to wrap up the case quickly. Tempest notices other evidence though – evidence from nature – and begins to suspect that Wireless may be innocent. So she begins to ask questions. In this novel, there’s an interesting debate between the evidence that comes from things such as bloodstains, wounds and so on, and the evidence that’s more psychological and intuitive. And as it turns out, depending on just the one or the other leads to the wrong conclusions. Fans of Arthur Upfield’s Napoleon ‘Bony’ Bonaparte will know that he too relies on ‘the Book of the Bush’ – evidence from nature – to draw conclusions, and that he often looks beyond the actual physical evidence that he sees.

Sometimes, it’s hard to draw solid conclusions at first, because a fictional death looks so much like a suicide or accident. For example, in Angela Savage’s The Dying Beach, Bangkok-based PI Jayne Keeney and her partner Rajiv Patel are taking a much-needed getaway break at Krabi, on the Thai coast. During their visit, they take a tour that’s led by a guide named Pla. That personal connection is one reason why both are very upset when they learn that Pla’s body has been found washed up in a cave. They decide to take a few extra days to see if they can find out what happened to her. The police report suggests that the victim died by accident or perhaps committed suicide by drowning. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion, and there isn’t very much physical evidence to suggest otherwise. But Keeney isn’t so sure. For one thing, she knows that Pla was an expert swimmer. So although it’s not impossible, an accident is unlikely. And nothing she learns suggests that Pla was despondent enough to kill herself. So Keeney starts asking questions. In the end, she finds that the truth is very different to what it seems on the surface. But at the same time, it’s easy to see why the police would draw the conclusions they did. If you don’t pay attention to those small bits of evidence, it’s very hard to work out whether someone drowned by accident, suicide or murder.

In Helene Tursten’s Detective Inspector Huss, Göteborg police inspector Irene Huss and the other members of the Violent Crimes Unit are faced with a puzzling case. Successful entrepreneur Richard von Knecht jumps from the balcony of the penthouse where he and his wife Sylvia live. At first the case looks very much like a suicide. It’s a reasonable conclusion, and anyone might have a hidden motive for that. But the police pay attention to other pieces of evidence that suggest otherwise. For one thing, the victim had acrophobia. If he was going to kill himself, it seems odd that he’d have chosen that method. For another, there is some forensic evidence that points to murder. So the team has to look at this case in an entirely new way.

And that’s the thing about drawing crime-fictional conclusions. It’s natural and human to draw conclusions from what we see. That’s how we make sense of our world. And those details and pieces of evidence that sleuths see are critical to drawing conclusions. That’s not always as easy to do as it seems, but the way sleuths go from details/evidence to conclusions is an important part of an investigation.

ps. Just to see how this works, what conclusions do you draw from the evidence in the ‘photo? ;-)

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Billy Joel’s Blonde Over Blue.

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Filed under Adrian Hyland, Agatha Christie, Angela Savage, Arthur Conan Doyle, Arthur Upfield, Helene Tursten

She’s Never Had a Nickname*

NicknameNicknames are a big part of many cultures. Sometimes they’re simply shortened versions of people’s names. Other times they’re descriptive (e.g. either ‘Curly’ or ‘Baldy’ for someone with no hair). Still other times they’re intended as insults. Either way, nicknames can add depth to a fictional character. And sometimes, they’re pretty funny, too. Here are just a few crime-fictional examples to show you what I mean.

In Agatha Christie’s Mrs. McGinty’s Dead, Hercule Poirot is persuaded to travel to the village of Broadhinny to investigate the death of a charwoman. Everyone thinks the murderer is her lodger James Bentley, but Superintendent Spence is beginning to think Bentley is innocent. And as Poirot gets to know the various villagers, he suspects that several of them are hiding things that Mrs. McGinty may have discovered. One of Bentley’s few friends, former co-worker Maude Williams, wants to help clear Bentley’s name. Poirot enlists her aid as a sort of spy in the home of Roger and Edith Wetherby, with the goal of finding a clue that might link them to Mrs. McGinty’s death. The Wetherbys are not pleasant, friendly people; in fact, here is how Maude describes them during a conversation with Poirot:
 

‘Old Frozen Fish was shut up in his study as usual…
So I nipped upstairs into Her Acidity’s bedroom…’
 

Those nicknames really are quite descriptive, actually.

In Virginia Duigan’s The Precipice, we meet former school principal Thea Farmer. She’s had the perfect home built for herself in New South Wales’ Blue Mountains, and is looking forward to living there. But then, some bad financial decisions and bad luck get in her way, and she’s forced to sell that perfect home and settle for the smaller house next door – a house she calls ‘the hovel.’ To add insult to injury, her dream home is purchased by Frank Campbell and Ellyce Carrington, and they soon move in. Thea is contemptuous of the new arrivals and very resentful that they’re living in ‘her’ home. In fact, her name for them is ‘the Invaders.’ It’s quite reflective of what she really thinks of them and of her perception of life. Then, unexpectedly, she develops a sort of awkward friendship with Frank’s niece Kim, who comes to live with him and Ellyce. So when Thea begins to suspect that they are not providing an appropriate home for a child, she wants something done about it. The police can’t do much, so Thea makes plans of her own…

Of course, not all nicknames are meant as insults. In Adrian Hyland’s Gunshot Road, for instance, Aboriginal Community Police Officer (ACPO) Emily Tempest investigates when former prospector Albert ‘Doc’ Ozolins is killed. At first it looks as though he was murdered as the result of a drunken quarrel. But Tempest suspects otherwise and starts to ask questions. Doc got his nickname because he was a geologist, and although he was a little eccentric, there are people who respected his knowledge. Tempest’s own miner/prospector father is nicknamed ‘Motor Jack.’

In Kel Robertson’s Smoke and Mirrors, Australian Federal Police (AFP) officer Bradman ‘Brad’ Chen is taking some time off duty to recover from the events of Dead Set. But he’s persuaded to come back to active duty when two politically charged murders occur. Alec Dennet, a member of Gough Whitlam’s (1972-1975) government, has been writing his memoirs with his editor Lorraine Starke. One night they’re both killed, and the AFP wants Chen back at work to help investigate. One possibility is that Dennet and Starke were killed because of the ‘dirty laundry’ he was going to include in his memoirs. There are several people in powerful places who don’t want that to happen. But there are other possibilities too, so Chen and his team have their work cut out for them, as the saying goes. Throughout the novel, Chen works with Constable Paul ‘Voodoo’ Filipowski, who turns out to be very helpful on the case. Voodoo got his name because he was badly injured in one particular incident, but survived, although odds were he wouldn’t. Chen also works with another teammate nicknamed Talkative and with Baby’s Arm, a police videographer.

Fans of Tarquin Hall’s series featuring Vishwas ‘Vish’ Puri will know that nicknames are woven all through that series. Puri himself is sometimes nicknamed ‘Chubby’ because of his fondness for food. His office boy has the equally unflattering name of Doorstop, because he does nothing all day. Then there’s Handbrake, Puri’s driver, and Facecream, one of his investigators who has the knack of blending in wherever she goes. There’s also Tube Light, who is Puri’s top operative and quite skilled with things technical; and Flush, who got his nickname because his was the first house in his village with indoor plumbing.

Sometimes, nicknames are actually more appealing than a character’s real name. For instance, Anya Lipska’s DC Natalie Kershaw frequently reports to DS Alvin ‘Streaky’ Bacon.
 

‘Alvin, she [Kershaw] thought. Who knew?’
 

Her boss doesn’t mind being called Streaky. Alvin is another thing.

And that’s the thing about nicknames. They can be insulting, a sign of bonding, or simply descriptive. They can also add solid character depth. Which fictional nicknames have stayed with you? If you’re a writer, do you give your characters nicknames?
 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from The Go-Betweens’ Head Full of Steam.

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Adrian Hyland, Agatha Christie, Anya Lipska, Kel Robertson, Tarquin Hall, Virginia Duigan

‘Cause When It’s All For One, It’s One For All*

CollectivismTo a greater or lesser extent, cultures tend to be either collectivist or individualist. In collectivist cultures, the emphasis is on group membership and group achievement. The individual gets her or his identity from the group, and in turn is responsible to that group. Collectivism also often includes a strong sense of duty to family, including extended family.

It’s more complex than that, as most concepts involving people are, and cultures and groups do vary greatly in the degree to which they are collectivist. Sound boring? It’s not, when you think of what it means on a day-to-day basis. Hopefully a few examples from crime fiction will show you what I mean.

There are several intances of the way collectivism works in Tony Hillerman’s Jim Chee/Joe Leaphorn novels. In The Ghostway, for instance, Chee is assigned to locate a missing sixteen-year-old Navajo teen Margaret Billy Sosi, who’s disappeared from her school. This case turns out to be related to the death of Albert Gorman, a Los Angeles Navajo who’s recently moved to the Big Reservation. What these cases have in common is kinship. Margaret Billy Sosi is distantly related to Albert Gorman, who at one point stays with Margaret’s grandfather. Chee uncovers this relationship, and since he is also a member of the Navajo Nation, he understands the ties that bind extended families. He tracks Margaret to the Los Angeles area where he gets important information about both investigations. What’s interesting is that it doesn’t occur to Margaret to avoid danger, stay in school, focus on her studies, and so on. She is a part of the web that links all Navajos and her family in particular. So naturally she does what she can to help. And I don’t think it’s spoiling the story to say that the Navajo community takes responsibility for her, too, when she is in need of them.

We also see collectivism in action in Mark Douglas-Home’s The Sea Detective. One plot thread concerns two young girls, Preeti and Basanti, who are members of India’s Bedia group. Their families are in desperate need for money, and their one sure way out is if the girls enter the dhanda, a name for India’s sex trade. The idea is that their families will be paid money for their services. After working for a few years, they’ll return to their villages with yet more money, and be ready to settle back into community life. Instead of being seen as ‘cheap whores,’ young women who do this actually command a type of respect for fulfilling their duties to their families and helping to see that their siblings don’t starve. Preeti and Basanti are taken to Scotland, where they are separated. Basanti gets free of the people who are keeping her as soon as she can, and goes looking for her friend. She soon discovers that the key may be oceanographer Calladh ‘Cal’ McGill. With his help, she finds out what happened to Preeti.

One of Timothy Hallinan’s series features ‘rough travel’ writer Phillip ‘Poke’ Rafferty, an ex-pat American now living in Bangkok. His wife Rose is a former bar girl who has opened up her own apartment-cleaning company. Rose has much to teach Rafferty about the Thai culture in which they live, and one of those lessons has to do with her sense of collective identity and duty to friends and family. She left her home village and ended up as a bar girl so that she could make money to send back to her family. It would never occur to her to do anything else with any extra money she has. And although she’s endured more than her share as a bar girl, it would also not occur to her not to contribute to her family’s welfare. As an aside, Rose’s employees are all former bar girls she’s known who want to get out of that life. Her sense of group membership is strong enough that their welfare is her welfare. So they’re the natural choice when she is ready to hire people.

In Angela Savage’s The Half Child, Bangkok-based PI Jayne Keeney takes on a new client, Jim Delbeck. His daughter Maryanne was a volunteer at New Life Children’s Center, a Pattaya home for adoptable babies and young children whose families can’t take care of them. She jumped, or fell, or was pushed, from the roof of the building where she lived, and Delbeck’s been trying to find out how it happened. The police theory is that she committed suicide, but Delbeck doesn’t believe it. So Keeney travels to Pattaya to investigate. As she does, she gets to know several of the volunteers at New Life, and some of the young women whose children are ‘boarders’ there. In their lives, we see how important kinship and extended family networks are in this society. Not to have such a network is devastating to someone who’s been brought up in a collectivist culture.

We also see collectivism in Adrian Hyland’s Emily Tempest novels. Tempest is half-Aboriginal, but has spent several years away from her roots at Moonlight Downs. When she returns to her home in Diamond Dove (AKA Moonlight Downs) she is welcomed as a family member and taken in. There isn’t much at the Moonlight Downs encampment, but Tempest is welcome to what there is. She is part of the community. For her part, Tempest feels just as responsible to that community. In Gunshot Road, for instance, she briefly takes in Danny Brambles, a fifteen-year-old who’s going through some personal difficulties. It never occurs to her to do anything else. The Brambles family is part of her group – her mob – so she has a responsibility to them.

Qiu Xiaolong’s Chief Inspector Chen novels take place mostly in Shanghai. While there are many cultures in China, one dominant cultural force is the traditional Confucian belief in filial duty. And in several novels in this series, we see examples of characters (including Chen) who place a premium on caring for loved ones. Other characters send money to their families, or promote the careers of family members. Sometimes that works very well; sometimes it doesn’t. But it’s a clear example of how collectivism has become infused into the Chinese culture. We also see that in another way too. A high degree of loyalty to the state is expected of everyone, and it’s also expected that everyone will make many personal sacrifices to further the good of China. Individuals are strongly discouraged from amassing great personal wealth or calling a lot of attention to themselves. The collective is more important.

Readers of series such as Stan Jones’ Nathan Active novels, M.J. McGrath’s Edie Kiglatuk novels or Scott Young’s Matthew ‘Matteesie’ Kitologitak novels will know know that collectivism is an important part of many Arctic and Far North Native/First Nations communities. In those novels, among many groups, people do take responsibility for each other. Doors are left unlocked, food and supplies are gladly shared and so on. Of course, it’s not quite so simple as that, but there is a sense that one person’s welfare impacts everyone’s. And that makes sense in a place like the Far North, where it’s well nigh impossible to go it alone.

These are by no means the only examples of collectivism that we see in crime fiction (I know, I know, fans of Arthur Upfield’s Napoleon ‘Bony’ Bonaparte). But they serve to illustrate how that cultural dimension can add richness to a character or a community.
 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bryan Adams, Robert John Lange and Michael Kaman’s All For Love.

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Filed under Adrian Hyland, Angela Savage, Arthur Upfield, M.J. McGrath, Mark Douglas-Home, Qiu Xiaolong, Scott Young, Stan Jones, Timothy Hallinan, Tony Hillerman

I’m Having My Troubles, Baby, and They’re All Too Much For Me*

Hiding AwayAs we all know, there are times in life when things get to be a bit much. It’s hard enough to handle one major stressor, let alone a group of them. It’s all enough to make even the strongest among us want to hide under a proverbial (or even real) blankie for a while. Of course our rational minds tell us that we have to get through life’s problems. At the same time, it’s a very human reaction (and many people argue, a healthy one) to back away and go and hide when life gets too hard. Eventually, most of us come out to play again once we’ve had that time.

Since crime fiction is full of, well, crime, it’s not surprising that we see a lot of characters who need to go and hide for a bit. It’s all through the genre, and it’s realistic if you think about it. Characters who don’t sometimes need to hide away may not seem as human as those who do. Here are a few examples that came to my mind.

In Agatha Christie’s Sad Cypress, Maidensford’s local GP Peter Lord presents Hercule Poirot with a difficult case. Lord is smitten with Elinor Carlisle, who’s recently inherited quite a lot of money, to say nothing of the family estate Hunterbury, from her aunt, Laura Welman. But the wealth isn’t doing her much good now, as she stands accused of murder. The allegation is that she poisoned Mary Gerrard, the lodgekeeper’s daughter, because Mary was her romantic rival. Elinor has a financial motive as well since Aunt Laura was very fond of Mary and might easily have willed everything to her. Lord wants Poirot to clear Elinor’s name, and Poirot agrees to at least look into the matter. But even though he finds out the truth about Mary Gerrard’s murder, he can’t spare Elinor the stress and difficulty of being imprisoned and on trial for murder. When the whole thing’s over, the one thing Elinor wants more than anything else is to get away – to go and hide. It’s a very natural reaction.

Alan Orloff’s Channing Hayes is a comedian and part owner of The Last Laff, a comedy club in Northern Virginia. In Killer Routine, we learn that Hayes recently survived a terrible car accident that claimed the life of his fiancée Lauren Dempsey. Hayes himself was left with permanent scarring and and a withered left hand. So not only is he dealing with the grief and guilt he feels about Lauren’s death, but he is also coping with his injuries and his altered appearance. He doesn’t drown himself in alcohol or float away on drugs, but he does need some time to ‘step back.’ So as the novel begins, Hayes spends a lot of time at home, avoiding people when he can; and he hasn’t done a standup routine since before the accident. Then everything changes. Lauren’s sister Heather (who also does comedy) goes missing just before her scheduled appearance at The Last Laff. At first it’s put down to ‘cold feet,’ and everyone thinks she’ll turn up in a few days. But when she doesn’t, Hayes starts asking questions. His search for the truth pits him against Heather’s dangerous ex-boyfriend, her difficult parents, and several other people who do not want her to be found. Bit by bit, Hayes returns to his professional life, but not before hiding under the covers for a while.

Adrian Hyland’s Emily Tempest is faced with some terrible stress in Gunshot Road. She’s a brand-new Aboriginal Community Police Officer (ACPO) who’s working under the temporary command of Bruce Cockburn. The two get off to a very rocky start when their team is sent to Green Swamp Well to investigate a murder. Former prospector Albert ‘Doc’ Ozolins has been killed, very likely as the result of a drunken quarrel. But Tempest suspects something more might be going on. So despite Cockburn’s orders to wrap the case up and move on, Tempest insists on looking into the matter more deeply. This of course gets her into serious trouble with her boss. It also runs her up against a very dangerous enemy. After one particularly awful incident, she can’t take much more, and ends up hiding away for a bit with her lover Jojo Kelly and her best friend Hazel Flinders. Tempest isn’t one to avoid life’s troubles; she’s a strong person. But even she needs to ‘duck under the covers’ sometimes.

One of Anthony Bidulka’s series features Saskatoon PI Russell Quant. Like most of us, Quant has a network of friends, including former supermodel Jared Lowe. Lowe’s partner is Quant’s mentor Anthony Gatt, and Quant depends a great deal on their friendship. In one way or another, Lowe gets involved in several of Quant’s investigations without real lasting effects. But everything changes in Stain of the Berry. As a result of the events in that story, Lowe has to re-think an awful lot. Those events also mean that Lowe needs to take some time away from his ‘regular’ life and proverbially hide under the blanket. He eventually pops his head out and begins to take part in life again, but he needs that time to hide away. So does Quant himself a little later in the series. It’s a natural response when life just gets to be too much.

We also see this in Kathryn Fox’s Dr. Anya Crichton/DS Kate Farrer series. Crichton and Farrer are good friends who co-operate on their different cases. Some of those cases are extremely stressful and even traumatic, and they take their toll. For instance, in Malicious Intent, certain evidence links the deaths of several very different kinds of women. At first those deaths seem to be either accidents or suicide, but Crichton and Farrer begin to suspect otherwise. The truth turns out to be much more complex and dangerous than it seems on the surface, and the case proves traumatic. In fact, after the events in the novel, Farrer takes a four-month leave from her job. She needs that time to hide away, so to speak, and recover before she resumes her duties in Skin and Bones.

And then there’s Ivy Pochoda’s Visitation Street. One very warm night, teenagers Valerie ‘Val’ Merino and June Giatto take a ride in a rubber raft on the bay near their homes in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. Early the next morning, local teacher and musician Jonathan Sprouse discovers Val, wounded but alive. June has disappeared. The loss of her friend and the events that led to it are all extremely stressful and traumatic for Val. She can’t handle the way people look at her, the outpouring of concern for June, and her own sense of guilt that she has survived and June has gone missing. So she does her share of ‘hiding under the blankie.’ She confides in no-one, saying as little as she can get away with to make people leave her alone. It’s a very human reaction, especially considering that Val is still very young. By the novel’s end, she’s starting to come to grips with what happened, but she still has plenty of healing to do.

And that’s the thing about getting knocked down by life’s blows. Too much stress isn’t good for us, and neither is trauma. So it’s only natural that when those things happen, we sometimes go into hiding and curl up under the covers. So the next time you need to go hide under the covers, don’t feel bad. You have plenty of company. These are just a few examples of the way this plays out in crime fiction. Your turn.
 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Billy Joel’s You Picked a Real Bad Time.

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Filed under Adrian Hyland, Agatha Christie, Alan Orloff, Anthony Bidulka, Ivy Pochoda, Kathryn Fox

She’s Got a Ticket to Ride*

TravelDisastersLots of people travel during the holidays. It can be lovely to get the chance to see friends and loved ones you haven’t seen for a long time, so a lot of people look forward to it. But as we all know, travel can be unpleasant too. Long lines, airline hassles, delays and so on can all ruin a trip, or at least make it both exhausting and frustrating.

It’s no different in crime fiction. As any crime fiction fan can tell you, just because you have a ticket or a working car doesn’t mean the trip will go well. Just think about these examples…

In John Alexander Graham’s Something in the Air, Columbia University Professor of Law Jake Landau is on a flight from Boston to New York. With him is his friend and personal attorney Martin Ross. The two were in Boston negotiating with the lawyer of Landau’s ex-wife, and are now ready to return home. Tragically a bomb goes off during the flight, and Ross is killed. Landau wants to know how it happened and who’s responsible, but no-one in authority is willing to give hiim any information. So he begins to ask his own questions. Landau finds that the bombing is connected to a powerful and far-reaching drugs ring, and that they now have him in their sights.

Well, you may be thinking, with today’s security procedures, bombs are a lot less likely on planes than they were. Well, that’s true enough, but it doesn’t mean a flight can’t be disastrous. Just ask Joanna Lindsay, whom we meet in Helen Fitzgerald’s The Cry. She and her partner Alistair Robertson are on their way from Scotland, where Joanna’s lived all her life, to Alistair’s home near Melbourne. With them is their nine-week-old son Noah. As anyone who’s ever taken a flight with an infant can imagine, the flight is awful. Noah is what people sometimes call ‘a difficult baby’ to begin with, and the flight brings out the worst in him. He cries more or less non-stop. Joanna is worn out and frustrated and from her perspective, Alistair’s not doing much to help. Of course, the other passengers are none too happy about the screaming baby, and to them, it doesn’t seem that either parent is doing much to remedy the situation. Some offer ‘helpful’ advice; some are just rude. All in all, it’s a horrible flight for everyone and Joanna and Alistair are just relieved when it’s over. What they don’t know is that they’ll soon be plunged into a greater nightmare once they land and Noah goes missing…

So, perhaps planes are not the best idea. Well, there’s always going by train, right? Wrong. Consider Agatha Christie’s work. Fans will know that in Murder on the Orient Express, wealthy American businessman Samuel Ratchett is stabbed on the second night of a three-day journey on the world-fanous Orient Express. Hercule Poirot is on the same trip, and agrees to investigate. The only possible suspects are those who were in the same carriage, so at least the pool of possible killers is limited. But that doesn’t mean the case is easy. And as if that weren’t enough, a severe snowstorm strands the train, making it impossible for anyone to leave it. Not a happy trip. And that’s only one of Christie’s ‘murder en route‘ mysteries! There are several others (I know, I know, fans of The Mystery of the Blue Train).

Speaking of trains, Anne Holt’s 1222 features a group of people who are on a train from Oslo to Bergen. The train crashes, killing the conductor and stranding the passengers. They are eventually rescued and taken to a hotel until arrangements can be made for them. But that’s only the beginning of their problems. One of the passengers is murdered. Another, police detective Hanne Wilhelmsen, wants nothing more than to be left alone. But she is reluctantly drawn into the case. Then there’s another murder. And another. It’s clear that Wilhelmsen is up against someone very dangerous. She’s going to have to find the killer before any of the other passengers dies.

Right, then. Trains are not as safe as you might think. Well, one can always drive, right? Not so fast. Consider what happens in A.S.A. Harrison’s The Silent Wife. Todd Gilbert is a successful Chicago developer who’s had a twenty-year relationship with psychologist Jodi Brett. They’ve had their rough times, but they’ve stayed together and built a strong partnership, or so it seems. Then Todd falls in love with college student Natasha Kovacs. It doesn’t help matters that she’s the daughter of his business partner Dean Kovacs. And the stress only gets greater when Natasha tells Todd she is pregnant with his baby. She wants marriage and a family and at first, that’s what Todd tells her he wants too. But their new relationship doesn’t work out the way either had planned. Then one terrible day, Todd is killed in a drive-by shooting. At first it looks like a carjacking gone horribly wrong. But soon it comes out that the shooters were paid. Now the police have to find out which of several suspects hired them.

Of course, a drive doesn’t have to be fatal to be miserable. Just ask Adrian Hyland’s Emily Tempest. In Gunshot Road, she begins her new job as an Aboriginal Community Police Officer (ACPO). Her first assignment is to travel with two colleagues and her temporary boss Bruce Cockburn from Bluebush to Green Swamp Well. There’s been a murder there, and the police need to investigate. It’s a long, hot ride that’s made no better when Emily spots a car that seems to be in trouble. At her insistence, the team stops to investigate. Needless to say, that doesn’t exactly endear her to her teammates. By the time they’re ready to get back on the road, it’s already begun to get very hot, with the temperature expected to rise even more throughout the day. Five minutes after they start the car, the air conditioning breaks down. And there’s still a long way to go to Green Swamp Well. The trip doesn’t end well either. At first, it looks as though the victim, a prospector/geologist named Albert ‘Doc’ Ozolins, was killed as the result of a drunken quarrel. But Emily isn’t so sure. Her investigation leads her into all sorts of trouble…

You see? All sorts of travel can be very risky. So do be careful as you plan your trip…
 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from The Beatles’ Ticket to Ride.

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Filed under A.S.A. Harrison, Adrian Hyland, Agatha Christie, Anne Holt, Helen Fitzgerald, John Alexander Graham