Category Archives: Paddy Richardson

One Little Choice*

In many stories, there’s a point of decision. And that decision has consequences that drive the rest of the plot. It may not seem like a momentous decision at the time the character takes it, but it often turns out to make all the difference in the story.

Certainly, we see those sorts of moments in crime fiction. For example, in Agatha Christie’s The Man in the Brown Suit, we are introduced to Anne Bedingfield. Her father has recently died, leaving her with very little money. She doesn’t envision a life for herself as, say, a typist. And she’s not really interested in settling down and marrying. She’s a bit at loose ends when she happens to witness a tube accident in which a man falls (or is pushed) under an oncoming train. Anne happens to pick up a piece of paper that the dead man had in his pocket, and soon works out that it refers to the upcoming sailing of the Kilmorden Castle for Cape Town. On impulse, she goes to a travel agency and books passage on the ship. That decision turns out to have important consequences for her, as she ends up caught in a web of intrigue, smuggled gems, and murder.

William Hjortsberg’s historical (1959) novel Falling Angel is the story of a low-rent New York private investigator named Harry Angel. One day, he gets a call from the upmarket law offices of McIntosh, Winesap, and Spy. It seems that one of their clients, Louis Cyphre, wants to find a man named Jonathan Liebling. Better known as Johnny Favorite, Liebling was a gifted jazz musician. Cyphre says that he helped Johnny Favorite at the start of his career, in return for which he was promised certain ‘collateral,’ which he doesn’t specify. Then, Liebling was drafted into service in World War II. He returned from the war physically and emotionally badly damaged, and was placed in a psychiatric hospital. Then, he disappeared from the hospital. Now, Cyphre wants to find him. Angel’s decision to take the case and look for Johnny Favorite turns out to have major consequences, and drives the rest of the plot. He ends up caught in a case of horror, multiple murder, and worse.

In Pascal Garnier’s The Front Seat Passenger, the police inform Fabien Delorme that his wife, Sylvie, has died in a car crash. Delorme will miss his wife, but their marriage hadn’t been a loving one for some time. What’s worse, in his mind, is that Sylvie was not alone in the car. She had taken a lover, Martial Arnoult, who also died in the crash. Against his better judgement, Delorme sneaks a look at the information the police have on Arnoult. That’s how he learns that Arnoult left a widow, Martine. Delorme’s decision to peek at that information, and then act on it, turns out to be a fateful one. He becomes obsessed with Martine, and it’s not long before things spiral completely out of control for both of them.

Paddy Richardson’s Traces of Red is the first to feature Wellington television journalist Rebecca Thorne. She’s at a crossroads in her career, and wants to cement her position at the top of New Zealand journalism. It’s not going to be easy, as there are younger, ‘hungry’ journalists coming up the ranks. Then, she learns about a possible story that could exactly what she needs. Connor Bligh has been in prison for years for the murder of his sister, Angela Dickson, her husband, Rowan, and their son, Sam. Only their daughter, Katy, survived, because she wasn’t home at the time of the killings. Now, little pieces of evidence suggest that Bligh might be innocent. If that’s true, it’s a major story. Several people caution Thorne against pursuing the story. But she decides to go after it. Doing so has real personal and professional consequences for her, and for other people in her life.

And then there’s Surender Mohan Pathak’s The Colaba Conspiracy. In it, former safecracker/lockbreaker Jeet Singh has ‘gone straight,’ and now owns a Mumbai kiosk where he makes keys. Then, he gets a call from a former underworld connection, offering him quite a lot of money if he agrees to do a job. Singh refuses outright. He doesn’t want to have any more to do with police or prison. Not long afterwards, he gets a visit from his former lover, Sushmita. She tells him that her wealthy husband died in what looked like a carjacking gone wrong. It’s since been proved to be a murder, and she’s suspected of hiring the killer. She has a good motive, too, as she stands to inherit a fortune. Now, she needs a good lawyer to help her clear her name, and she asks Singh for help. He’s still more than half in love with her, although she broke his heart. So, he agrees to get the money she needs. That decision draws Singh into the underworld again, and ends up putting him under suspicion of murder.

A decision may seem like a trivial one on the surface. But sometimes, even those smaller decisions can lead to very big consequences. And those consequences can be dangerous…

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Dave Malloy’s Hero.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Paddy Richardson, Pascal Garnier, Surender Mohan Pathak, William Hjortsberg

To Be Alive Again*

If you’ve ever read tales like Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen, then you’ve encountered the plot structure that’s sometimes called Rebirth. This structure usually features a main character who falls under some sort of spell, enchantment, or other ill fortune, and is trapped, literally or metaphorically. When and if the character breaks free of the trap, she or he starts over. There are a lot of stories with this sort of plot structure, as it works well for fantasy, fairy tales, and so on.

But it’s also present in crime fiction. And it’s not hard to see why. There’s suspense (will the character be freed?) and tension. And it’s a flexible enough structure that it gives the author several possibilities for plot events and characters. There are plenty of examples out there; here are just a few to show you what I mean.

In Agatha Christie’s Appointment With Death, the American Boynton family is on a tour of the Middle East. This isn’t an ordinary family though (if there is such a thing). Mrs. Boynton, the matriarch, is malicious – she is described as a mental sadist – and keeps her family so cowed that no-one dares to oppose her. The rest of the family (two stepsons, a stepdaughter, and a daughter) have all suffered psychologically. In fact, the only family member who seems intact is Mrs. Boynton’s daughter-in-law, Nadine. Disaster strikes when the family pays a visit to the ancient city of Petra as a part of their Middle East tour. On the second day of that visit, Mrs. Boynton dies of what later turns out to be a deliberate overdose of digitalis. Colonel Carbury asks for help from Hercule Poirot, who is in the area, and Poirot looks into the matter. One on of the interesting scenes in the novel is what happens to the Boyntons once they are free of Mrs. Boynton’s influence. I won’t spoil the story, but the epilogue, which takes place five years after the events in the story, shows how the family members have blossomed, if you will.

Patricia Abbott’s Concrete Angel is the story of Eve Moran and, later, her daughter, Christine. Eve has always wanted to acquire and have, and she’s been willing to do whatever it takes to get what she wants, including murder. Christine is born and raised in this atmosphere, and is caught in her mother’s dysfunctional web. And we see how that toxic environment impacts her. But then, she sees that her three-year-old brother, Ryan, is also beginning to be caught up in the same dysfunction. Christine is determined that Ryan will be freed from Eve’s influence; so, she decides to make a plan for both of them to escape. But that’s not going to be as easy as it may seem…

In Paddy Richardson’s Hunting Blind, we are introduced to Stephanie Anderson, a fledgling psychiatrist who lives and works in Dunedin. She gets a new patient, Elisabeth Clark, who at first is completely unwilling to work with her. Slowly, the two develop a rapport, and Elisabeth tells Stephanie about a horrible tragedy from her past. Years earlier, Elisabeth’s younger sister, Gracie, went missing. No trace of the child was ever found. This story sounds eerily like Stephanie’s own family history. Seventeen years earlier, Stephanie’s younger sister, Gemma, also disappeared and was never found. As she works with Elisabeth, Stephanie decides to lay her own ghosts to rest, and find the person who wrought so much havoc. So, she travels from Dunedin to her home town of Wanaka, where Gemma went missing. As Stephanie gets closer to the truth, she also finds herself slowly freeing herself of the tragedy that changed everything for her family. And we see how she starts again.

Harry Bingham’s Detective Constable (DC) (later, Detective Sergeant (DS)) Fiona Griffiths works for the Cardiff police. She’s good at what she does, and she’s learning over the course of the series to be even better. But she’s had to struggle. During adolescence, she had a severe mental illness that, in its way, trapped her. As she’s gone through the process of getting better, she’s slowly freed herself from that trap and started over. But it all still affects her. Among other things, this series shows that the process of rebirth, if you want to call it that, isn’t always immediate.

One of the main plot threads in Finn Bell’s Dead Lemons has to do with the rebirth, if you will, of the protagonist, also named Finn Bell. As the novel begins, Bell is at a crossroads in his life. His marriage is over, and a car crash has left him without the use of his legs. On a sort of whim, he buys a cottage in the tiny town of Riverton, on New Zealand’s South Island. He soon learns that a tragedy devastated the cottage’s former occupants, the Cotter family. In 1988, Emily and James Cotter’s daughter, Alice, disappeared. No trace of her was found, and although the police suspected brothers Darrell, Sean, and Archie Zoyl, there was never enough proof to keep them in jail. A year later, James Cotter also went missing. Bell finds himself intrigued by the mystery, and he’s had his own encounters with the Zoyl brothers. So, he starts to look into what really happened to the Cotters. That process, plus Murderball (wheelchair rugby) help Bell begin to free himself from the tragedies in his life, and start over.

The ‘rebirth’ plot structure allows for some really interesting character development. There’s also lots of opportunity for conflict, suspense, and plot points, too. And it’s got a long history in literature. These are just a few examples. Over to you.

ps. In case you’re not familiar with it, the ‘photo shows a perennial called the Bird of Paradise. The buds on the left are reborn every year and become that beautiful flower you see on the right.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is the title of a Journey song.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Finn Bell, Hans Christian Andersen, Harry Bingham, Paddy Richardson, Patricia Abbott

I Feel Like I’m On the Cusp*

Recently, Sarah, who blogs at The Old Shelter, did a very interesting review of Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles. That novel was first published in 1920, at the cusp of some major social, political, and other changes. And Christie captures that ‘borderline’ time quite effectively. On the one hand, clothes are still conservative, especially for women, and so are social expectations. The ‘Jazz Age’ we often think of when we think of the 1920s (you know – bobbed hair, short skirts, rolled-down stockings, late-night crazy parties, and women smoking) is still a few years off. On the other, things are changing – quickly. Some women are actually wearing trousers, and they’re getting (or have recently gotten) the right to vote (I know, Kiwi and Aussie friends; it happened a bit earlier in your countries). Political movements such as socialism are gaining strength, too. And there are other major changes.

If you’ve watched the ITV production of The Mysterious Affair at Styles on Agatha Christie’s Poirot, you see that cusp even more clearly. To give just one example, there are horse-drawn carriages and automobiles. It’s as if the world is drawing a breath as one era ends and a whole new social order begins. Sarah’s done a fine review, by the way, and you’ll want to stop by her blog and read it.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles, in which Hercule Poirot is introduced, concerns the poisoning murder of his benefactor, Emily Inglethorp. He’s drawn into the case because he happens to encounter Captain Hastings, who’s a friend of the victim’s stepson, John Cavendish. Hastings is staying at the Inglethorp/Cavendish household for a visit, and it’s he who recommends that the family consult Poirot. It’s an interesting story in its own right, but it’s by no means the only novel that depicts that cusp between the last years of the 19th Century/early 20th Century, and what we think of as the more modern age.

For instance, Rennie Airth’s River of Darkness takes place just a few years after the end of WW I, mostly in and near the small village of Highfield. Scotland Yard, in the forms of Inspector John Madden and Detective Constable (DC) Billy Styles, has been called in to assist with a particularly brutal murder. Colonel Charles Fletcher, his wife, Lucy, their maid, Sally Pepper, and the nanny, Alice Crookes, have all been killed. Only four-year-old Sophy Fletcher has survived, and that’s because she hid under a bed during the attack. But she’s had a severe shock, and can’t help much. At first, the murders look like a robbery gone horribly wrong. But it soon becomes clear that this family was targeted. Now, Madden and Styles have to find out why and by whom. It’s a very difficult case, but, with the help of the local GP, Dr. Helen Blackwell, the team finds out the truth. In this novel, we see a society on the brink of the modern age. Blackwell, for instance, is an independent professional. She has modern views of psychology, of women’s roles, and so on. There are some modern conveniences, too, such as cars, motorcycles, and some telephones. At the same time, the local mores are still very conventional, and the Jazz Age hasn’t come to the country, if I can put it that way.

Sarah Waters’ The Paying Guests takes place at about the same time. In it, we are introduced to Frances Wray and her mother, Emily. The war has meant hard times for the Wrays, and they’ve decided they’ll have to open their home to lodgers, who are euphemistically called ‘paying guests.’  Len and Lilian Barber soon respond to the Wrays’ discreet advertisement, and move in. It’s all awkward, especially at first, but it goes well enough. Then, things slowly begin to spin out of control. The end result is a tragedy that changes everything. Throughout the novel, we see a society caught between two worlds, if I may put it that way. On the one hand, Emily Wray has very clear ideas about how ‘ladies’ are ‘supposed to’ behave. The family still has an outhouse, and the kitchen isn’t really modern. On the other, there’s definitely movement afoot. Some ‘regular people’ are getting telephones (although plenty go to a local shop to make calls). And one of Frances’ friends is a busy professional woman who drinks, smokes, and goes out when and where she pleases. That tug-of-war between the old century and the modern world plays its role in the tragedies that happen in the novel, too.

Brian Stoddart’s Superintendent Christian ‘Chris’ Le Fanu series takes place in the early 1920s in India, mostly in and near what is now Chennai. The British Raj is in its last decades, and there’s a real push among many people for some sort of Home Rule. Women, especially English and other European women, are more independent, and don’t always go directly home, shall we say, after a party. There are some modern conveniences, and so on. But at the same time, there are still very strict rules about who may belong to which clubs. The white English are still very much in charge, and the races simply do not mix socially. There are plenty of people, too, who want to keep it that way, and don’t want any talk of Home Rule. Women may be getting more independent, but they are still expected to make it a major priority to find themselves husbands, preferably husbands who are in at least a respectable social class, and who earn a respectable salary. This series is, among other things, a look at a society that’s just on the cusp of the modern, post-colonial, age.

And then there’s Paddy Richardson’s Through the Lonesome Dark. This one’s not, strictly speaking, a crime novel, although there are crimes in it. Rather, it’s the story of three children: Pansy Williams, Clem Bright, and Otto Brader, who grow up in the small New Zealand town of Blackball, just before WW I. It’s a working-class (mostly mining) community, with a rising tide of socialist sentiment. Still, in many ways it’s a very traditional place. Pansy, for example, learns the hard way that, if you’re a girl, just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you’ll get the chance to prepare for university. Getting ahead, so to speak, will not be an option for her. And the boys are expected to follow their fathers and grandfathers into the mines, whatever their own ambitions might have been. The three children are all best friends, though, and determined to stay together always. Then, everything changes when the war comes. Lives are upended, and the three friends are wrenched apart. In the end, and after several tragedies, the characters have to start all over again. And now, the world is metamorphosing. So, as the characters put their lives back together, they will also have to move from the traditional world they knew to something different.

And that’s the thing that Sarah’s post reminded me of – and I’m glad. The early 1920’s were ‘cusp’ years. You might say they were neither here nor there, neither traditional nor thoroughly modern. Little wonder there was so much anxiety at the time. Thanks for the inspiration, Sarah!

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Goldspot’s Cusp.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Brian Stoddart, Paddy Richardson, Rennie Airth, Sarah Waters

But How do You Thank Someone Who Has Taken You From Crayons to Perfume*

As you’ll know if you’ve been kind enough to read my blog, I’m an academic in my ‘day job.’ In that capacity, I’ve worked for a long time with in-service and pre-service teachers. So, I found this post by Lesley Fletcher at Inspiration Import to be especially powerful and resonant. You’ll want to read the post; and, as you’ll be there, anyway, you’ll want to have a look at the rest of Lesley’s excellent site. Thoughtful posts and fine artwork await you there! In fact, Lesley is responsible for the covers of two of my Joel Williams novels (B-Very Flat and Past Tense), and In a Word: Murder. See? Isn’t she talented?

And that’s just the thing. Lesley’s post speaks of a terrible experience she had with a teacher who, instead of helping her develop her skills, did exactly the opposite. It got me to thinking about crime-fictional teachers. There are plenty of examples of cruel, rude teachers in the genre (I know you could think of plenty). But they aren’t all that way. There are plenty of teachers out there, both fictional and real, who are caring, and who exhibit the sort of dedication that I wish Lesley’s teacher had.

For example, Agatha Christie’s Cat Among the Pigeons introduces us to several caring teachers who are passionate about what they do. They work at Meadowbank, an exclusive school for girls. When games mistress Grace Springer is killed one night, the police are called in and begin to investigate. But that murder is only one part of a web of international intrigue, jewel theft, and kidnapping. One of the pupils, Julia Upjohn, visits Hercule Poirot, whom she’s heard of through a friend of her mother’s. She asks him to investigate, and he agrees. As Poirot and the police work through the case, we see how dedicated Headmistress Honoria Bulstrode is. We also see how much a few other teachers, such as Eileen Rich, also love teaching.

In Val McDermid’s The Grave Tatttoo, we meet Matthew Gresham, head teacher at a school in Fellhead, in the Lake District. He’s preparing to present a unit on family trees, and he wants to get the students engaged in their learning, rather than just having them sit and take notes. So, he has each student create a personal family history that will be shared with the class, and, later, with the town. His students by and large like and respect him, and they get started with the assignment. Little does anyone know that this project will be connected with a mystery that Matthew’s sister, Jane, has discovered. She’s a fledgling academic and Wordsworth scholar who has found evidence that there might be an unpublished manuscript somewhere in the Lake District. If there is, it would be the making of her career. So, she travels from London, where she’s been living, back to Fellhead, to start her search. The trail leads to several murders, and, interestingly, to the project her brother has assigned his students.

Gail Bowen’s Joanne Kilbourn Shreve is a (now retired) academician and political scientist. In the earlier novels, in which she’s still active on campus, we see several interactions between her and her students. In A Killing Spring, for instance, she gets concerned when one of her students, Kellee Savage, goes missing. Kellee is already mentally and emotionally fragile, and Joanne is concerned about her well-being. It turns out that Kellee’s disappearance is related to the murder of one of Joanne’s colleagues, Reed Ghallager. There are a few scenes in this novel in which Joanne interacts with students. In them, we see that she cares about them, and knows them as more than just faces and names on her enrollment records. She’s not perfect, even with her students, but it’s obvious that they matter to her, and that she is committed to their success.

In Paddy Richardson’s Swimming in the Dark, we are introduced to Ilse Klein. She and her family emigrated in the 1980s from what was then East Germany. They ended up on New Zealand’s South Island, in the small town of Alexandria, where Ilse has grown up and become a secondary school teacher. She works hard and has earned the respect of her students. And she does care about them. So, when one of her most promising pupils, Serena Freeman, loses interest in school, Ilse gets concerned. Matters get to the point where Serena misses school much of the time, and when she is there, shows no interest in participating or learning. Now, Ilse’s worried enough to alert the school’s counseling staff. That choice touches off a whole series of incidents; and Ilse finds herself getting drawn into much more than she bargained for when Serena goes missing.

There’s also K.B. Owen’s Concordia Wells. She’s a teacher at Hartford Women’s College at the very end of the 19th Century. She’s also an amateur sleuth, who gets drawn into investigations that are considered ‘unseemly’ for a woman. At that time, at that school, many of the faculty members live on campus. So, they do get to know the students, and that’s just as true of Concordia as it is of any other faculty member. She’s devoted to her students, concerned for their well-being, and interested in their development. Yes, they exasperate her at times. But they matter to her very much. In fact, that becomes a challenge for her as her personal life goes on. The school’s policy is that married people cannot teach at the school. So, if Concordia falls in love and decides to marry, she’ll have to give up work she enjoys, and students whose welfare is very important to her.

The fact is, teaching is not an easy job, no matter which educational level. While there are, unfortunately, teachers out there like the one in Lesley’s post, there are also some fine teachers, too. And, in part, my ‘day job’ is to do my small bit to make sure there are more of the latter than of the former…

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Don Black and Mark London’s To Sir With Love.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Gail Bowen, K.B. Owen, Paddy Richardson, Val McDermid

Take All My Preconceptions*

We arguably have a more global society now than ever before. This means that most countries have a diverse population – some more diverse than others. And that means we often encounter people from lots of different backgrounds.

So far, so good. I’d guess most of us believe, at least in principle, that we should be able to work with all sorts of different people. The problem is, it doesn’t always work out that way in day-to-day encounters. Part of the reason for that is that we often have preconceptions of people that we don’t even know we have. They may be unconscious, but they can be no less hurtful for that. In fact, they can end up creating a group of ‘second class’ citizens. To see what I mean in real life, you really should read this excellent post from Marina Sofia, who blogs at Finding Time to Write. G’head, read it now. I’ll wait.

Back now? Thanks. The same thing can happen in crime fiction, even when the characters involved aren’t consciously xenophobic, or even consciously bigoted. It’s simply a set of assumptions that frames those characters’ reactions to others.

For instance, in Agatha Christie’s Hickory Dickory Dock (AKA Hickory Dickory Death), Hercule Poirot investigates when Celia Austin, a resident of a student hostel, is murdered. Her death turns out to be connected to a number of other strange and unsettling events at the hostel, and Poirot works with Inspector Sharpe to find out the truth. That involves interviewing the other people who live at the hostel. Here’s what Sharpe says to Poirot about it:
 

‘‘You met some of them the other night and I wonder if you could give me any useful dope – on the foreigners, anyway.’
‘You think I am a good judge of foreigners? But, mon cher, there were no Belgians among them.’
‘No Belg – oh, I see what you mean. You mean that as you’re a Belgian, all the other nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me. But that’s not quite true, is it? I mean you probably know more about the Continental types than I do – though not the Indians and the West Africans and that lot.’’
 

It’s not spoiling the story to say that Sharpe doesn’t assume the killer has to be someone who’s not English. He doesn’t use cruel slurs, and so on. But his assumptions are there nonetheless.

Ira Levin’s The Stepford Wives follows the fortunes of the Eberhart family when they move from New York City to the small town of Stepford, Connecticut. What seems to be the right move to an idyllic town turns into a nightmare as Joanna Eberhart and her new friend, Bobbie Markowe, discover some very dark secrets that the town is hiding. At one point, Joanna has a conversation with one of the residents of the town, who tells her:
 

‘‘A black family is moving in on Gwendolyn Lane. But I think it’s good, don’t you?’’
 

Admittedly, this novel was first published in 1972. Still, it’s interesting to see how those assumptions come through.

Sometimes, people’s assumptions are clear, or seem clear, even without words. For instance, in one plot thread of Elizabeth George’s With No One as Witness, there’s a series of three murders, all of young boys. The police haven’t ignored the case, but they haven’t made a lot of progress, either. And the media hasn’t paid a whole lot of attention. Then, there’s another murder. Unlike the other victims, this boy is white. Now, the media starts to devote a lot more time and energy to the murders. And there’s a lot of talk that the police are only ramping up their efforts because this newest victim is white. Whether that’s true of each individual journalist and police officer, it seems to show a general assumption that some deaths are more meaningful than others. And that isn’t lost on the police, who return to the older cases and try to put the puzzle together.

Jen Shieff’s The Gentlemen’s Club takes place in 1950’s Auckland. The real action in the story begins when a ship from England docks. One of the passengers is Istvan Zieglar, a refugee from Hungary who wants to start a new life in New Zealand. He’s heard about jobs at Auckland Harbour, and has come to help build the new bridge there. He soon gets involved in a dark mystery surrounding a local children’s home called Brodie House, and its connection to some terrible tragedies. Along the way, Zieglar has to get used to life in his new home. For one thing, he isn’t fluent in English, although he can get by. But, because he sometimes doesn’t understand what people say, his workmates assume that he,
 

‘‘…understands nothing…thick as a brick…’’
 

In fact, the assumption that he can’t do the work costs him the job. The foreman on the job has some other assumptions, too:
 

‘‘…a team of Italians are due here to assist with girders D, E, and F. Not sure what a bunch of Dago tunnellers know about steel girders, but the bosses hired them in their wisdom and we’ll just have to make the most of them.’’
 

Here, it’s very clear that certain assumptions are made about New Zealand workers vs workers from other places.

There’s also Kalpana Swaminathan’s Greenlight, which features her sleuth, retired Mumbai police detective Lalli. In the novel, a small slum known as Kandewadi is the focus when several children who live there disappear and are later found dead. The media and the police don’t do very much about it. That, in itself, reveals assumptions about the lives of the people who live in Kandewadi. Finally, after several such deaths, the media pick the story up, and Inspector Savio, who regularly consults with Lalli, takes up the investigation. And it’s interesting to see how assumptions about life in slums plays a role in the story.

And then there’s Paddy Richardson’s Hunting Blind. In it, newly-minted psychiatrist Stephanie Anderson gets a new client, Elisabeth Clark, who is dealing with the long-ago abduction of her sister, Gracie. Elisabeth’s story is eerily similar to Stephanie’s own. Seventeen years earlier, her sister, Gemma, was also abducted. Now, Stephanie decides to lay her ghosts to rest, and find the person who wrought so much havoc. So, she travels from Dunedin, where she lives and works, to her hometown of Wanaka. Along the way, she meets a hunting guide, Dan, who offers to take her out into the bush. Reluctantly, Stephanie agrees. It’s soon clear that she has preconceptions about Dan:
 

‘‘Wine, please. White wine?’ [Anderson]
‘I can manage both colours. Types as well. So. What type of white?’
He’s grinning again. She sees he’s teasing her.
‘Pinot gris?’ Huh, I guarantee he hasn’t got that.
‘Central Otago?’
‘Uh, yes. Thanks.’
He opens a bottle, fills a glass and hands it to her. ‘I believe I’m making progress.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hope that I’m adequately demonstrating to you that all hunters aren’t blokey yobbos.’
‘I didn’t say they were.’
‘You didn’t actually say it, no.’’

 

It’s an interesting example of the way we can have preconceptions without even being conscious of it.

And that’s the thing about such assumptions and frameworks for thinking. They shape our thoughts and, therefore, our interactions, even when we’re not aware of it.

Thanks, Marina Sofia, for the inspiration. Now, please, do go check out Finding Time to Write. Excellent reviews, thoughtful commentary, and fine poetry await you.

 
 
 

*NOTE:  The title of this post is a line from Orianthi Panagaris’ Courage.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Elizabeth George, Ira Levin, Jen Shieff, Kalpana Swaminathan, Paddy Richardson