I Love Them Whores / They Never Judge You

The Grand Viz and KT McCaffrey have been rapping back and forth about songs as condensed crime fiction novels – stripped-back and pared-down narratives about losers, loners and the kind of suckers who never caught an even break. Bruce Springsteen’s album Nebraska could be considered a mini-library in that respect, although there’s a couple of Townes van Zandt (right, foreground) numbers – The Ballad of Pancho and Lefty, and Waiting ’Round to Die – the CAP Towers crew wouldn’t mind reading as fleshed-out tales. It’s been done before – nine years after Bobbie Gentry’s Ode to Billie Joe (1967) hit the top of the charts, Herman Raucher was commissioned to write a novel (Ode to Billy Joe) based on the lyrics, which then went on to become a best-seller.
  Meanwhile, the Grand Viz went stark raving crazy on his holidays and bought two – yes, two! – new CDs, one on the advice of John Connolly – the new Joan as Policewoman collection, on which the jury remains out – the other a best-of compilation from Jane’s Addiction, whom the Viz hadn’t really listened to since his college days but has been playing off the stereo for the last week. Jane’s Addiction, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular pop combo, were a scuzzy, gutter-friendly surfer band of reprobates and ne’er-do-wells who – much like The Pixies – did all the hard work breaking ground only to see some half-arsed wasters (take a bow, Nirvana) steal all the glory. Cheese-wire guitar licks, a seismic rhythm section, Perry Farrell’s plaintively whining vocals, and lyrics to die for (“I love them whores / They never judge you …”) all added up to a speed-fuelled, head-banging package that was just too hardcore for MTV – imagine Jean Genet writing the score to an unusually melodic earthquake and you’re halfway there. What Jane’s Addiction well might prove to be, however, is the perfect retro-soundtrack for a novel currently spinning its web around the darker caverns of the Grand Viz’s skull … we’ll keep you posted.
  Anyhoo, here’s KT expanding on his song-to-novel theory …

“I collect ‘story lyrics’ like others might collect first edition books. Because of my involvement in crime fiction writing, I have a particular interest in lyrics that contain a crime-related plot, tell a self-contained story and provides a dramatic twist or punchline. So, on this visit to my collection, I’d like to share with you some lyrics that supply all the above in spades.
  “The Road Goes On Forever, written and recorded by Robert Earl Keen, packs a punch worthy of a Martin Scorsese movie and has a killer punch-line that’s guaranteed to make all red-blooded males go - ‘Ouch!’”

THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER

Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town
She had a reputation as a girl who’d been around
Down Main Street after midnight with a brand new pack of cigs
A fresh one hangin’ from her lips and a beer between her legs
She’d ride down to the river and meet with all her friends
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Sonny was a loner he was older than the rest
He was going into the Navy but he couldn’t pass the test
So he hung around town he sold a little pot
The law caught wind of Sonny and one day he got caught
But he was back in business when they set him free again
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Sonny’s playin’ 8-ball at the joint where Sherry works
When some drunken outta towner put his hand up Sherry’s skirt
Sonny took his pool cue laid the drunk out on the floor
Stuffed a dollar in her tip jar and walked on out the door
She’s runnin’ right behind him reachin’ for his hand
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They jumped into his pickup Sonny jammed her down in gear
Sonny looked at Sherry and said lets get on outta here
The stars were high above them and the moon was in the east
The sun was settin’ on them when they reached Miami Beach
They got a hotel by the water and a quart of Bombay gin
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They soon ran out of money but Sonny knew a man
Who knew some Cuban refugees that dealt in contraband
Sonny met the Cubans in a house just off the route
With a briefcase full of money and a pistol in his boot
The cards were on the table when the law came bustin’ in
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

The Cubans grabbed the goodies and Sonny grabbed the Jack
He broke a bathroom window and climbed on out the back
Sherry drove the pickup through the alley on the side
Where a lawman tackled Sonny and was reading him his rights
She stepped into the alley with a single shot .410
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They left the lawman lyin’ and they made their getaway
They got back to the motel just before the break of day
Sonny gave her all the money and he blew her a little kiss
If they ask you how this happened say I forced you into this
She watched him as his taillights disappeared around the bend
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Its Main Street after midnight just like it was before
21 months later at the local grocery store
Sherry buys a paper and a cold six-pack of beer
The headlines read that Sonny is goin’ to the chair
She pulls back onto Main Street in her new Mercedes Benz
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

  “As one-time Taoiseach Albert Reynolds might say - ‘That’s wimmin for ya.’ If you haven’t heard the song, it's worth a spin. Some of you might be familiar with a version by the Highwaymen (Waylon, Willie, Johnny and Kris). Meanwhile, I’ve got a bunch of other lyrics that fall into this ball park so if I detect any interest out there, and if Declan’s in the mood, I’d love to share them with you.” – KT McCaffrey

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP is published by Robert Hale

Mi Casa, Su Casa: KT McCaffrey

The continuing stooooooory of how the Grand Vizier puts his feet up and lets other people talk some sense for a change. This week: KT McCaffrey (right) on soundtracks and writing.

“I’ve tended to incorporate music and song in all of my books to date. I love the idea of having a soundtrack in the background to add that extra degree of atmosphere and encapsulate a special moment in time. I do believe my crime fiction writing has been influenced by certain tunes, lyrics that I’d been exposed to before reaching my teens. I’ve had this almost irrational fascination with song lyrics for as long as I can remember. Back when I attended national school in Clara, Co. Offaly, there was a great colourful Wurlitzer jute box in town that stocked many American Imports and had that great booming bass sound you only get with jute boxes. This was at a time just before the Beatles came along, a time when pop music was in the doldrums.
  “Each day during lunch break I’d sneak into the Bon Bon shop and drop my coins into the slot, press the required numbers and watch the discs being picked up from a rack and flipped on to the turntable. One of the song from that period to take hold of my senses, and create film-like imagery in my head, was ‘El Paso’, by Marty Robbins. What I found so extraordinary about it was its ability to portray such vivid pictures in so few words.
  “These first few verses illustrate what I mean:

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Night-time would find me in Rosa’s cantina;
Music would play and Felina would whirl.

Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina
Wicked and evil while casting a spell
My love was deep for this Mexican maiden;
I was in love but in vain, I could tell

One night a wild young cowboy came in
Wild as the west Texas wind
Dashing and daring,
A drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina,
The girl that I loved.
So in anger I
Challenged the right for the love of this maiden
Down went his hand for the gun that he wore
My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat
The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor ...

  “See what I mean? For me, as a ten-year old, the imagery in the lyrics had the kind of impact a Coen Brothers movie might have on me today. Another song that I played to death on that old Wurlitzer, and that made a similar impression on me, was Lefty Frizzell’s ‘Long Black Veil’. Here again, in just a few lines, and in less than three minutes, the whole gamut of love, the eternal triangle, and murder, is delivered in spades:

Ten years ago on a cold dark night
There was someone killed ‘neath the town hall light
There were a few at the scene, but they all agreed
That the slayer who ran looked a lot like me.
The judge said son what is your alibi
If you were somewhere else then you wont have to die
I spoke not a word though it meant my life
For I had been in the arms of my best friends wife.
The scaffold is high and eternity near
She stands in the crowd and sheds not a tear
But sometimes at night when the cold wind blows
In a long black veil she cries o’er my bones.
She walks these hills
In a long black veil
She visits my grave
When the night winds wail
Nobody knows, nobody sees
Nobody knows but me.

  “Artists like Johnny Cash and Mick Jagger have since recorded versions of Long Black Veil, so obviously I’m not alone in being moved by this simple but evocative song. And talking of Johnny Cash, he, more than most, had the ability to cut a story down to a mere handful of words, while still creating a powerful impact, eg: Folsom Prison Blues:

When I was just a baby
My Mama told me “Son,
Always be a good boy,
Don’t ever play with guns,”
But I shot a man in Reno,
Just to watch him die,
When I hear that whistle blowin’
I hang my head and cry.

  “Yes folks, these are but a few of the songs that set my toes tapping and the cine-camera inside my head whirring. My taste in music has moved along and I love some of today’s output, but my heart remains captivated by those early memories from the late ’50s and early ’60s. There’s a whole bunch of similar story songs of crime and passion that would take up too much space to reproduce on CAP blog but if any of you are interested, you could do a lot worse than google songs like Open Pit Mine by George Jones, Saginaw Michigan by Lefty Frizzell, or Dolly Parton’s The Carroll County Accident.
  “There might even be an idea there for a good crime fiction novel there …” - KT McCaffrey

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP is published by Robert Hale

Mi Casa, Su Casa: KT McCaffrey

The continuing stooooooory of how the Grand Vizier puts his feet up and lets other people talk some sense for a change. This week: KT McCaffrey (right) on casting fiction.

Casting Characters in Fiction

As a writer, the question I get asked most frequently is without a doubt, ‘Do I base my characters on real people, i.e. acquaintances, or do I conjure them up from my imagination?’ My answers are never as clear-cut as I’d like them to be. I could say that for the most part my characters, as the disclaimer at the beginning of my books claims, are fictitious and that any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Well yes, that’s the necessary legalistic position, but of course as an observer of the human condition I am influenced by the people I interact with on a daily basis, so it follows that these same people inform the characters that inhabit the pages of my books. In essence my characters are created from an amalgamation of the crowd I hang with, taking various personality traits and physical shapes from each and blending them so that they form a believable whole.
  Only in one instance did I base a character almost entirely on a living person. In my second novel, KILLING TIME, the fictitious character Jacqueline Miller has been involved in a serious car accident that has changed her life irrevocably. Half her face had been badly damaged in the accident, and evidence of cosmetic surgery remained visible beneath the carefully applied make-up; her left eye looks strangely out of line with the right one. In a court case resulting from the accident, Jacqueline is awarded enough money to allow her give up her teacher’s job and to purchase two houses in Leeson Park.
  Here’s the reality: back in 1969, as a student in the NCAD I got to know a Cork-born woman named Lean Scully. She’d been a teacher before a horrific road accident almost brought her life to an abrupt end. The accident had seriously disfigured her and she needed a series of extensive skin grafts to her face. Arising out of the accident and subsequent court case, she received enough compensation to buy two magnificent houses, numbers 49 and 50 in Leeson Park. She opened a public relations practice in No. 49. Sounds familiar? Even though I was just an art student back then she sometimes hired me to design brochures and corporate publications for her clients. The money I earned ended up in the tills of The Pembroke, Toners and The International Bar. Happy days!
  Lean Scully, this woman I was later to morph into the Jacqueline Miller character, kept lodgers in the second house – among them a young American student from Milwaukee named Peter Straub (right), who would become famous many years later for novels like GHOST STORY, THE FLOATING DRAGON, and THE TALISMAN (written with his friend Stephen King). Straub was attending university at the time, struggling to write poetry and studying for a Ph.D. I knew him on a nodding basis and attended a few poetry readings he gave in various pubs popular with us students (The great traditional musician Donal Lunny who, incidentally was a fellow traveller of mine in the NCAD, took up residence at one stage in the same rooms that Peter Straub once inhabited.)
  Throughout the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s I continued to do occasional design work for Lean and was always delighted when she invited me to attend the lavish, boozy parties she threw in No. 49. In 1999, when I decided to write my first book, REVENGE, Lean offered to read the manuscript before I offered it to a publisher. Unlike me, she was one of those people who knew every rule and regulation in regard to the proper usage of the English language. She was aghast at what I’d given her. ‘It seems to me,’ she said in her deep throaty voice, ‘you have a bucket full of commas, semicolons, apostrophes, and all you do is throw them at the page.’ In my defence, the manuscript represent my very first attempt at writing, though there are some people today who claim I’ve still got that bucket. Once Lean had managed to teach me to turn my text into what she called ‘acceptable English’, she enjoyed reading my books. I remember being concerned about giving her KILLING TIME to read, wondering what she’d make of Jacqueline Miller character. To my surprise, she didn’t make the connection. There is of course the possibility that she didn’t want to make the connection on account of the unsavoury actions I had the fictitious character enact in my story.
  Lean loved reading and listening to classical music but her great love, her passion, was for the theatre. She had become a permanent fixture at the Edinburgh Festival, where her support and opinions were taken seriously and greatly appreciated. In contrast, certain well-known theatrical heads in Dublin viewed her as something of a nuisance and dismissed her with rude indifference. When Lean died in 2004, she had the last laugh, taking revenge on those in Dublin theatre land who had subjected her to such shabby treatment. In her will, she directed her executors to sell the two houses in Leeson Park, and after a bequest to a friend and the Carmelite Fathers, the proceeds from the property was to go to the Edinburgh Festival. I understand it amounted to the guts of €5 million. Don’t you just love it?
  During her lifetime, Lean mixed with the movers and shakers, the glamour set, the golden circle, but I was one of only a dozen people in attendance at her burial in Dean’s Grange cemetery. How sad is that? Since her death all my characters have remained fictitious and any resemblance to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Yeah, right ...

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP is published by Robert Hale

Mi Casa, Su Casa: KT McCaffrey

The continuing stooooooory of how the Grand Vizier puts his feet up and lets other writers talk some sense for a change. This week: KT McCaffrey (right) on catching the crime fiction bug.

The Butcher(ed) Boy

Why, you might ask, would a writer choose to take crime fiction as his or her subject? At what point does an author say, yep, that’s what I’m going to write about? Moi? I think I was about nine years of age when I got the bug. This would have been about the time I got to know an old-style cop named John Duffin from my home town of Clara, in County Offaly. Think ‘Heartbeat’ rather than ‘The Bill’, a time when local Gardai, like the parish priest, the bank manager and the school headmaster, were held in high esteem. A friend of the family, Garda Duffin liked nothing better than to chat about his involvement with local ne’er-do-wells.
  One of the darker stories he told concerned a local murder that had taken place in 1941. This would have been a decades or so before I was born. It kicked off in a somewhat comical manner.
  Bernard Kirwan, who lived with his younger brother Larry on a small farm in Rahan, five miles from Clara, took a notion to do a spot of armed robbery. With minimum preparation, he took a hacksaw to the double barrels of his shotgun, donned a mask, and held up the local postman. Through a contact in the post office sorting room he’d learned that the postal delivery included registered mail containing cash. Bernard could have shot the postman to facilitate his escape but decided instead to blast the bicycle’s tyres with both barrels, an action he hoped would achieve the same objective. He was caught of course (the postman recognised his voice) and was given seven years ‘hard’ in Portlaoise Jail.
  His time inside proved uneventful except for the fact that he learned the skills of butchery while there, a factor that would play a major part in subsequent events. Conditional release was granted four years later. He returned to the farm, intending to take charge, but his younger brother Larry had other ideas. Hostilities broke out and a struggle for supremacy ensued.
  Larry refused to give Bernard food or a wage for his work on the farm. Bernard, with no means to sustain himself, began to steal food and money. Fist fights, and even a knife attack, marked the brothers increasing bitterness. When it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, Larry went missing. His girlfriend became worried when he didn’t show for a date. Friends who had expected to see him became concerned when he failed to show. When Bernard was questioned about his brother’s unexplained disappearance, he claimed Larry had gone to visit an aunt in Kildare. Inquiries took a little longer back then but within a few days it was established that Larry had never gone to his aunt.
  Foul play was suspected.
  Neighbours, aware of the brothers’ hatred for each other, noticed smoke coming from Kirwan’s boiler house twice in as many days. This they considered odd due to the fact that no cooked meal had been fed to the pigs. When it became known that Bernard had learned butchery skills, the Garda decided to investigate. He fobbed them off, saying he’d been burning rubbish, but he now found himself subjected to round-the-clock surveillance. One of those assigned to cover his movements was my friend Garda John Duffin.
  Knowing he was being watched, Bernard undertook long bicycle trips to the neighbouring towns of Kilbeggan, Moate, Tullamore and Mullingar. John Duffin, who carried quite a bit of weight, was forced to get on his bike and follow the suspect to each location and back again. At journey’s end, Bernard would wave cheekily to the fully uniformed and totally exhausted Duffin. Prefiguring The General many years later, Bernard liked nothing better than to cock a snoot at the law.
  Eventually, men working on a bog, less than a mile from the Kirwan farm, dug up a human torso. With what forensics existed at the time they were able to establish that it was the remains of Larry Kirwan. Bernard stood trial, accused of using his butchery skills to kill his brother, hack off the limbs, burn them, and then bury the torso.
  He was found guilty and hanged in 1943.
  I wasn’t the only person that John Duffin told this macabre tale to; he also related it to playwright Brendan Behan, who used it as the basis of his 1954 play THE QUARE FELLOW. I’ve never seen the play but then, I have no need to see it. As a young impressionable lad, I’d heard it first hand – related in far more graphic detail than outlined above – something that insured I would retain a fascination for the darker aspects of the human psychic for the rest of my life. I suppose I should consider myself lucky to have channelled this interest into my writing rather than anything, shall we say, more malevolent. – KT McCaffrey

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP is published by Robert Hale.

Mi Casa, Su Casa: KT McCaffrey on Literary Snobbery

A Grand Vizier writes: The motives behind ‘Mi Casa, Su Casa’ are twofold. First, the idea is to give guest bloggers the few molecules of oxygen of publicity Crime Always Pays can provide. Secondly, even we’re sick of listening only to ourselves, and we reckon some new voices will provide fresh perspectives on crime fiction in general, and Irish crime fiction in particular. And so, with minimum fanfare – a tiny tootle there, please, maestro – here’s KT McCaffrey (right) on – boo, hiss, etc. – literary snobbery.

Several years ago, I attended a literary gathering in the Hume Street HQ of Marino Books, my publishers at the time. Being new to the game and greener than spring cabbage, I experienced what I’ve now come to call Literary Snobbery. I should explain that Marino Books – an imprint of Mercier Press – tended to specialise in literary writing with a special emphasis on poetry. As an experiment, Marino, under the astute guidance of Jo O’Donaghue, decided to dip its toe in the mass market segment of the book trade. As I recall, myself and Terry Prone were the first to be taken on board to test this new strategy. Did it work? Well, I was never given sight of the actual sales figures so it’s hard to tell. I do know, however, that given the size of the print run, the exercise appeared to be relatively successful.
  And so it happened that all the Marino authors, staff and associates, were invited to a pre-Christmas get-together to celebrate the success of the year’s output. That particular year, my second crime fiction paperback, KILLING TIME, had notched up impressive sales, edging its way into the bottom half of the Top 10 Irish best-sellers and attracting a handful of laudatory reviews. Damn it, I had arrived. There I was, chin up, back straight, chest out, vol-au-vent in one hand, glass of red in the other, holding my own with the best of them ... or so I thought.
  Three glasses in, I was giving it large with the verbals when a tall female author, well known in literary circles (though I didn’t know that at the time) asked me if I was happy with my publisher. I said yes, in general I was happy, but annoyed that a few typos and spelling mistakes had made it on to the printed page. She seemed surprised at this and asked what kind of books I wrote.
  “Crime fiction,” I replied, my confidence boosted by the intake of wine.
  She looked at me as though I’d just farted in her face and said, “Oh, crime fiction, well of course it doesn’t really matter in that case.”
  For me, this represented the beginning of a steep learning curve in regard to the differing attitudes I’ve since encountered on planet Literati.
  I think it was about this time that playwright, Hugh Leonard, in his Sunday Independent column, bestowed his ‘Gobshite of the Year’ award to all those readers who’d bought copies of Robert James Waller’s THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY, consigning them to the status of Philistine. Never mind the fact that Clint Eastwood, who may or may not be as bright as Mr Leonard, read the book and liked it enough to turn it into an award-winning film. More recently, in similar vein, game show host Henry Kelly penned an article in which he took issue with all readers who had the audacity to read and ‘enjoy’ Dan Brown’s THE DA VINCI CODE.
  I accept that there are good books and bad books, same as there’s good art and bad art, good music and bad music. Few would argue with that. What gets me is the sheer arrogance and snobbery of those who would presume to chastise the rest of us who succumb to popular culture. I like to think I belong to the Melvyn Bragg ‘broad cultural church’ when it comes to the arts; I love the South Bank Show’s habit of showcasing such various disciplines and artistic divergence as, say, Ian Rankin and J.K. Rowling alongside Mohsin Hamid and Adam Thorp. Unlike some of his contemporary arts commentators, Bragg does not relegate crime writers to the second-division or reject a book simply because it is ‘popular’, ‘a page turner’ or God forbid, ‘plot driven’.
  Is it too much to ask for a little humility, respect and understanding from those who should know better? Yes, of course it is, and besides, what the hell would I have to gripe about if that were to happen? Sorry, did I mention John Banville? – KT McCaffrey

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP is published on February 29

Feline Groovy

THE CAT TRAP, the latest outing for Emma Boylan, KT McCaffrey’s intrepid journo-cum-private eye, arrives on February 29, featuring (a) a recently separated Emma (boo), (b) messy allegations of rape against her new partner (boo-er), and (c) a very groovy cover (hurrah!). Quoth the blurb elves:

Investigative reporter, Emma Boylan, has split from her husband and moved in with Detective Inspector Jim Connolly. All is bliss until Connolly’s ex-wife, Iseult, accuses him of aggravated rape. Iseult, with the help of her friends, fabricates ‘compelling evidence’ against Connolly. Her scheme becomes unstuck, however, when her plan is hi-jacked by someone outside her circle and used for a far more sinister purpose. And when Iseult’s corpse is found, her friends go to the authorities with their concocted evidence against Connolly. Only Emma Boylan appears to be on his side but her motives are questioned when it transpires that she and the detective are lovers. When two more victims meet unnatural deaths, and Emma is attacked, she must protect herself while attempting to resolve the mystery, of who has framed Connolly and killed his ex-wife.

It’s early days, we know, but we’re already seeing THE CAT TRAP as a contender for Cover of the Year …

Why I Write # 112: KT McCaffrey

“One thing’s for sure, it’s not the money – thought I’d get that out of the way up front. I spent years (too many) in graphic design and advertising and made obscene amounts of money doing something my heart was never really in. Belatedly, I got sense and walked away from it. These days I confine my creative activities to writing and painting. Since childhood I’ve had the urge to draw, paint, sing, show-off, anything that satisfies the need to express myself. After studying in the National College of Art and Design, I was given the opportunity to put what creative talents I possessed to use in advertising. I was lucky in so far as it provided a lucrative career but it left me unfulfilled. And then, by chance, an opportunity arose to illustrate a series of Irish Folk Tales. To do this, I had to study the text, analyse the story and identify the set-pieces for illustration. Around this time, I became heavily involved in amateur drama as an actor and a director – an activity that, like the folk tales, forced me to analyse scripts and deconstruct the plots. As a voracious reader and lover of theatre and cinema, it seemed like a natural progression to have a shot at writing myself. I was incredibly lucky to have had my first effort, REVENGE, accepted by Mercier Press. Each year since then I’ve written a book and the thrill of seeing the work in print never diminishes. Why do I write? I don’t have a succinct answer or any kind of logical rationale but it has something to do with the elements outlined above. That, and a measure of madness, a dollop of conceit, an understanding wife, and a need for peer approval might go somewhere to providing an answer.”

KT McCaffrey’s THE CAT TRAP will be published in spring 2008.

What KT Did Next # 349: The Canvas Wrecking Years

Not content with crafting the Emma Boylan series of novels with consummate ease (the latest, The Cat Trap, is released by Robert Hale on October 30), KT McCaffrey (right, in full-on ‘moody self-portrait’ mode) is something of a dabbler in the dark art of canvas wrecking. His brand spanking new interweb page thingy carries the usual news ‘n’ updates, but also a selection of his visual work. KT? What have the innocent little canvases ever done to you, huh?

“When I write, I try to create images in words, but when I paint I take the more direct route. I find that the two art forms provide me with the perfect combination to stimulate the creative juices – if I need a break from writing, I move to the easel; when the layers of paint need time to dry, I return to the keyboard. My wife Mary has a more profound take on my two disciplines, she says – it keeps me from underneath her feet in the house. Nothing like feeling grounded.”

And there you have it. Check it out, folks – the oil portrait of Ken Bruen as Sam Spade is worth the price of admission alone. Especially as there’s no admission price.

What KT Did Next, Again

A busy chap, yon KT McCaffrey (right, in full-on Sam Spade mode). No sooner had we finished reviewing his current release, Bishop’s Pawn (“a superb addition to the canon of Irish crime fiction”), than he’s back on to let us know that its sequel, The Cat Trap, is due out in November courtesy of Robert Hale. Quoth KT:

“Five women, all wealthy and with influential connections, meet once a month to set in motion a project that challenges their collective intellects. For their latest challenge, they accuse Detective Inspector Connolly of aggravated rape, then set about providing ‘compelling evidence’ to support their claim. Only investigative journalist, Emma Boylan (heroine of my five previous novels), appears to be on Connolly’s side, but her motives are questioned when it transpires that she and the detective are lovers …”

Consider us suitably intrigued, sir. But hell, do us a favour and slow down a little with the old scribbling. We’ve already burnt out two keyboards and three sets of fingertips trying to keep up …