A balancing act to avoid gratuitous salaciousness

When I am writing crime fiction, I am inevitably faced with the precarious balancing act of trying to ensure my hard-boiled double-espresso novel doesn’t become a dreaded decaffeinated cosy crime story.

Why?

First of all, in the real world, there is no such thing as a ‘cosy’ crime. There is always at least one victim who suffers.

And second, if a book has my name on the front cover, I don’t want anyone to think I am personally glorifying violence, sexual abuse, aggression and misogyny.

Although my new crime thriller, After the Bridge, deals with adult themes such as sexual assault, attempted date-rape, rape, abortion, self-harm and incest, hopefully I’ve avoided any and all gratuitous salaciousness.

As police procedural and crime adviser Graham Bartlett said in the Guardian recently, ‘when I’m working with a scriptwriter or novelist, I encourage them not to use violence against women as an excuse to titillate or entertain. It should be included with thoughtful intentions.’

I am with Graham here one hundred percent, not that I can decide if I am successful at washing gratuitous salaciousness back into the gutter.

Once a book is released to the public, anyone can interpret what they are reading through their eyes.

For instance, one female reader who read an early Bridge ARC, said, ‘the only thing I don't like is the ‘lilac green’ knickers. Takes me out of the story every time as I try to imagine what ‘lilac green’ looks like.’

Another early female reader, an artist who works in water colours, also mentioned the lilac green knickers also memorably grabbed her attention, proving perhaps that my fatalistic post-modern ironic talk was better than my actual walk.

Lilac green knickers may only be mentioned twice in the novel, but they clearly made a lasting impression, possibly for all the wrong reasons.

But why are they there and should they have been removed from the final edit once they had been flagged by ARC readers?

In the final round of edits, I did actually take them out and then put them back in. The pages looked bleak and bare without them. They were an essential prop — like the little black dress — to show Becky was acting out an unwanted part, honey-trapping and seducing men under protest.

The artist said she was impressed how the striking colours of the knickers contrasted with a series of very unpleasant dark scenes. Naturally, I appreciated her astute observation and agreed they were there to add a touch of black comedy to the narrative.

Did I succeed with my precarious balancing act? You’ll need to visit the bridge to find out.