Chris Nickson's Blog, page 4

The Real Arthur Mangey – In The Paper

Haqppy Yorkshire day, wherever you are. Starting out decidedly wet here, but brighter later, or so they say.

Still, not bad with the Yorkshire Post talking about Arthur Mangey, the hanged man at the root of Them Without Pain. Read it and find out the truth.

Remember, too, you can pre-order from your favourite place or place a reserve at the library. Just over a month until it’s out!

A Sneak Peek…At The New Book

It’s just six weeks until Them Without Pain is published. It’s a twisting tale with its foundation ir real Leeds history, and by the end, one of the main characters will have their life changed completely.

Intrigued? Good. Come on, take five minutes and read a very short extract. You can pre-order it at all the usual places (and indie bookshops are alwasy best). For online, Speedy Hen has the best price with free UK delivery. See it here. I know many can’t afford new hardbacks, but ask your library to get it in for you (and others). It all helps.

Thank you – and enjoy

Jane spotted Simon, dressed in a good suit, and Constable Porter in his best swallowtail coat, with a fresh, crisp stock tied around his neck. Mrs Shields had been right to insist that she wore her best dress; she fitted in. Another man stood with Simon and Porter, someone older, with a sprawl of grey hair and expensive, unfashionable clothes, an eager expression on his face. She touched the gold ring on her right hand that Mrs Shields had long ago given her for luck.

‘This is Miss Jane Truscott’, Simon introduced her. ‘Mr Armistead.’ The man had fine manners, taking her hand and bowing.

‘It’s time,’ the constable said as he glanced at his watch. He picked up a heavy hammer and started to lead the way up the creaking wooden stairs to the galley. Eagerly, Armistead skipped ahead of him.

Jane had been up here before; she knew every crevice of Leeds in her pores. Yet never inside any of the workshops. She watched as Porter selected a rusty old key from a heavy ring of them looped over his arm, and turned it in the lock.

Simon kept his eyes on Armistead. The man was full of anticipation, shifting from one foot to another as the constable opened the door, then scurrying to be first into the room.

He paused, feeling the tiny sliver of fear return at the edge of his mind. Stupid. It was a bright morning, an empty room with others around; there was no danger here.

The workshop was almost bare, only a scarred old wooden table under the dirty window that looked out over Briggate. A thick layer of dust covered everything, cobwebs across the glass and in all the corners. He breathed in the smell of neglect and dereliction, years of scents piled on top of each other. Simon watched Porter gaze around, unimpressed.

Armistead was running his hands across the dirty wooden panelling on the far wall, his face so close to it that he looked to be studying the grain. Very lightly, he tapped his fist against the wood. Simon heard. So did the constable; he raised his head. Hollow. There was space behind there.

‘I can’t see any catch to open it,’ Armistead said.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s going to come down, anyway. Stand back.’ He was reluctant to move until Porter brought the hammer down close to his hands and he slid away to safety.

The first blow fell like thunder, dry wood shattering as splinters flew around the room. Simon realized his throat was dry. He was holding his breath in anticipation. From the corner of his eye he saw Jane, standing, silent, gaze fixed on the scene. He’d done right to ask her. Neither Rosie nor Sally had seemed too interested, but she was rapt.

A second blow, then a third turned into a rhythm of booming. By the fifth he’d made a small gap, enough for an arm. Finally, sweating from the effort, the constable lowered the hammer. Space for a man to wriggle through.

Armistead was the first. That was only fair; he was the one who’d been so certain this hidden room existed. A small shout of delight became a wail of horror.

Simon looked at Porter, then squeezed through the hole.

The secret workshop ran the width of the room. No windows. No light beyond the little that came through the gap. Four feet wide at most, hard rat droppings all over the floorboards. A small wooden bench held two rusted pairs of shears and a tarnished silver coin.

The body was sprawled face down across the floor.

Not an ancient wastage of bones and dry, leathery skin. This one was fresh, barely the start of a high summer stink. The rodents and insects had begun to feast on him, but he guessed the corpse hadn’t even been here a full day.

Simon squatted. In the gloom he could make out two pale lines about an inch apart on the back of the corpse’s left hand.

He knew of one man with scars like that. He’d read about them just the day before.

A Non-Pirate Looks At Seventy

A curious title, isn’t it? It’s actually an oblique reference to a Jimmy Buffett song. I’ve never heard it, I’m not a fan of his music, but I always liked of it – the title “A Pirate Looks At Forty.”

But at seventy? Well, that’s coming up fast. Next week. None of the earlier milestones ever bothered me, but this seems to loom very large. A real intimation of mortality.

I’m keeping a tighter focus for my work, concentrating on my novels only, and an occasional album review to remind myself I was once a music journalist, and loved it. Music still moves me, but even in my little corner of it – roots and world music – so much is passing me by. It’s time for younger voices with a different language to brin g it all alive.

But the books…I have plenty to keep me going. The seventh Simon Westow novel, Them Without Pain, is coming out in two months, and I’m moving along with the eighth (eight? I’m not sure how that’s happened). In May next year, you’ll meet Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden and a little down the line I’ll be joining up with her again in Leeds, this time in 1942. Like I say, ample to keep me going.

I do have a definite sense of time passing these days. It doesn’t worry me; I’ve always been a fatalist. Just don’t let me keel over until I’ve finished whatever I’m writing, because I’m the only one with a clue who it ends, and even them, I’m frequently not certain until I’m almost there. Probably a good reason to keep writing. It’s my talisman, my lucky charm.

I was a late bloomer. I’d always written, and published bits and pieces. But I was almost forty before the music journalism became regular and my first non-fiction quickie bio appeared. Quite a number of those followed, but I was 55 when the first novel – The Broken Token – landed in the world. Since then, 36 others have followed, 31 one of them set in Leeds.

I love this place and its history, even if I came to that later, too.

So yes, 70. No banners, no bunting, definitely no party.

Let it come and I’ll make of it what I can.

By the way, before you go, let me tell you a little about this upcoming novel, Them Without Pain.

This one adds an extra layer as it has a real root in local history: in 1696, goldsmith Arthur Mangey created the elaborate ceremonial Leeds Mace. Two years later, he was accused of treason for coin clipping (debasing the coinage), found guilty and hanged. It was a dubious conviction, at best. In testimony, someone claimed he had a secret workshop where he committed his crimes, but nobody searched for it.

In 1825, they knocked down the block where the workshop was supposed to be, and…they found it. Inside were two pairs of metal shears and an Elizabethan coin.

Those are the facts. In the fiction, the room also contains the body of a man Westow has been hunting who stole a set of silver cups made by Mangey. How does the past connect to the death – and who killed him?

It’s Regency noir, as dark as it can get, set in a town polluted by the growing number of factories belching out their smoke. A place where people arrive, hunting for work and pavements covered to gold, to find only scraps. But where the rich have money, and the criminals can be deadly.

If you’re on NetGalley and approved for Severn House, you can read it now (please leave a review!). If not, you can still pre-order it. Independent bookshops would love your business, but all your favourite places will carry it. Speedy Hen has the cheapest British price, plus free UK delivery. Just saying.

Some Very Good News

I’ve been quiet, I know, but I’ve been busy writing. Just as well, too, as yesterday I signed a contract with my publisher for two new books. I’d hope for one, but two, well, that left me overjoyed.

One is for the eighth Simon Westow novels, currently called A Rage Of Souls, and which is about half done (the project that’s kept me busy), and the other is for a second Cathy Marsden novel, set in 1942 and with the tentative title of 0 Dark 30. That one will appear in Spring 2026 – I know, reaching science fiction dates here, but the first Cathy novel, No Precious Truth isn’t out until next May.

Yesterday my research for the new Westow took me (and Jane) out to the lovely St Mary’s Chapel in Lead, always such a joy.

St Mary’s ChapelFrom inside

I’ve been busy planting in the allotment, too, and relishing the growth as the weather grows warmer; had the first strawberry of the season yesterday and it was deliciously sweet. But plenty of rain has made the slugs believe everything popping out of the ground and is all you can eat buffet…and so it becomes a battle, while I pray for no rain.

And the final thing was my computer gave up the ghost. I’ve had a spare, a laptop, waiting in the wings for months, but it still takes take to make the transition, all the programs, transferring data. I’m obsessive about backing up my work in several places, so nothing was lost.

Meanwhile, I’m beginning to gear up for the release of the seventh Simon Westow book in September. It has its foundation in a piece of Leeds history that should be better known. But you can pre-order the book now. The cheapest price for the hardback is here.

And now, there are some words calling my name…

A Very, Very New Story

Well, a part of one, anyway. The first scene came to me as I was walking, and I needed to write it, to get it out of my head. Then another scene came, and a third…quite what it’s going to be – or if it’s going to be anything at all – remains to be seen.

I’ve tried without success to write something set in Leeds in the 1960s. This might go the way of all the other attempts. Or perhaps it might click. But I’d honestly appreciate your reaction to it.

Picture courtesy of Leodis.

One

Leeds, April 1966

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Clarky began then took a sip of the beer. He was three pints and two Scotches into the evening, right around the time his tongue usually loosened.

            Davy Wilson shook a Gold Leaf from a packet of ten and lit it. They were drinking in the City of Mabgate pub. Just a few hundred yards from Millgarth police station, but the coppers didn’t come in here. Except Detective Constable Robert Clark.

            ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said again. Voice steady. It would take another two of three pints before he started to slur his words. Then the landlord would gently send him on his way home, up the hill to Lincoln Green.

            ‘What?’ Davy asked. Friday evening and across Leeds the mood would be rising. People putting on their best clothes. New dresses, suits from Burton’s. Knotting the tie just right. Some already out drinking, preparing for a night in the dancehalls and discotheques. Not him; another half hour and he’d be on his way home. But first he wanted to hear what Clarky had to say. When you worked for an enquiry agent, a copper’s information was like gold.

            Sometimes gold, anyway. More often it was just shit. Still, no knowing when a nugget would show itself. Worth paying for a pint and a small measure Scotch. The cheap stuff; Clarky would never taste the difference.

            ‘You know George Hathaway?’

            ‘Georgie Porgie?’ Nobody would ever call him that to his face. He was big, as protruding belly, one of the most violent men in town, with a temper that could arrive from nowhere, like the flick of a switch. A criminal, running half the money lending and prostitution in town. And dangerous; there were rumours he’d made a couple of enemies disappear. But smart enough never to be caught, and enough policemen on his payroll to be certain he’d stay free.

            ‘Talk is he’s planning something big.’

            ‘Any idea what?’ He tried to make the question casual. It was business for the rozzers, not someone like him. His work was security. A different, safer world. Still, he was curious. Something useful might slip out.

            ‘No. But he has a pair of councillors in his pocket and I hear they’ve had full wallets lately.’ He took another sip. ‘Same with my Superintendent. He rolled up the other day in a Wolseley. Brand new, a 16/60.’

            They didn’t come cheap, even with the kind of discount a dealer would give the police. Hathway, a pair of councillors and Superintendent Witham. Davy filed it away in his mind. Counted out three shillings and placed them on the bar before he stood and patted Clarky on the shoulder.

            ‘Have yourself another on me.’

Dickie Parsons studied himself in the bathroom mirror, pushing his fringe up a little. It wouldn’t last long, but he wanted to look perfect when he left the house. The suit was just right, three-button, two vents at the back, slim fitting, creases like knives on the trousers. A blue knitted tie.

            In the hall he pulled his good overcoat from the stand and shouted bye to his parents. They’d be in bed long before he was home. He had work tomorrow morning, always a half day on Saturday, but he was twenty years old. Who wanted to stay at home and watch the telly on a Friday night? Plenty of time for that when he was old.

            At the end of the drive, he stopped to light a cigarette. He’d been paid in the afternoon and he had some money in his pocket. Even after paying room and board to his mam and setting a little aside for a holiday, maybe a car or a motorbike, there was still plenty left for the weekend.

            Rod and Jimmy were at the bus stop on Foundry Lane. They’d all been at school together, left as soon as they were fifteen. Jimmy had landed on his feet, an apprentice with an engineering company, with prospects for the future. Rod was a big lad with strong shoulders, content to carry hods full of bricks on the building sites. Dickie, though, he had a touch with engines, working at a garage in Cross Green, on decent money and learning. Always learning. Anything with a motor, he could repair it.

            They had a laugh about work. But nights out were serious business. A few pints and over to the Mecca, see if there were any birds. They’d start at the Market Tavern, just up from the bus station, then across Vicar Lane for a couple more in the Robin Hood for going on to County Arcade and start dancing.

            Dickie was beginning to feel the weekend, a little buzz in his body, like that time someone gave him a Purple Heart. The week before he’d noticed a lass at the Mecca. Short skirt, long legs, short dark hair and big, wide eyes like Twiggy. Mandy, she’d told him as they talked for a couple of minutes before her friends dragged her away to the bus.

            ‘Maybe see you next Friday,’ he told her. He’d keep his eyes open; there’d been a promise in her smile.

            Dickie stood by the bar in the Robin Hood, the air thick with cigarette smoke and talk. He chuckled to himself as he saw the daft little World Cup Willie gonk someone had put on top of the optics. Still, it was only a few weeks until the matches started, and he was looking forward to the football. He was in a good mood, ready to have a little fun, when somebody pushed into him, hard enough to make him lurch forward and spill his beer. The first thing he did was look down. The bottoms of his trousers were safe, just a few drops. Most of it splashed onto his Chelsea boots. A flash of annoyance. He’d only bought them the weekend before.

            Dickie turned around. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

            The man was fat, a glass of Scotch in his thick hand. A pair of hard cases stood beside him.

            ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘No damage done, eh?’

            ‘All over my bloody shoes.’ Suddenly Rod and Jimmy were there.

            ‘I said sorry, all right? Let it go.’

            He’d had just enough to drink to show a little bravado. ‘You can buy me another pint.’

            He saw something change in the fat man’s face. In an instant it grew hard and dangerous.

            ‘I said sorry. I’m not buying you owt. Leave it while you can.’

            ‘Least you can do is stand him another,’ Jimmy said.

            The big man turned his head a little. ‘I’d shut up if I were you.’

            ‘What do you want to do, boss?’ one of the hard men asked.

            ‘Nothing.’ He was staring at Dickie. ‘These boys were just leaving.’ He had a smile that looked like a curse. ‘It’s probably past their bedtime, anyway. Let them go home to mummy and cocoa.’

            It was Rod who put a hand on Dickie’s shoulder.

            ‘Come on, mate. It’s not worth it. We’ve got better things to do.’

            Dickie stood his ground, staring at the fat man for five seconds.

            ‘Yeah,’ he agreed finally. ‘Let’s go.’ As he pulled the door open, he looked back. The fat man was still watching him, amused now.

            ‘Pillock,’ he shouted.

            Then they were out on the street. Only a few yards to the County Arcade and the Mecca where the night could really begin. But he heard the footsteps behind them. He glanced and the others.

            You couldn’t run for it. You didn’t do that. You stood your ground even if you knew you couldn’t win.

            Then Rod and Jimmy were on the floor, the hard men kicking them like they were playing at Elland Road. Dickie was facing the fat man.

            ‘You need to learn some respect, boy.’ He grabbed Dickie’s lapels, pulled him close and brought his head down hard. Dickie felt his nose explode. Pain and a sudden gush of blood. He opened his mouth to cry out. Then the fist caught him on the chin and he was flying back on to the pavement.

Two

Leeds, June 1966

‘Do you remember that assault on Boar Lane back in April? A Friday night, three lads in hospital. One of them in a coma.’

            Davy Wilson lifted his head. Charlie Hooper was staring out of a dirty window, gazing at the blackened stone of Mill Hill Chapel on the other side of Lower Basinghall Street.

            ‘I remember seeing it in the paper. Why?’

            ‘He came out of the coma yesterday. They’re not sure if he has brain damage.’

            Davy waited. Charlie wasn’t the type to bring something up out of the blue and then leave it hanging there. He was usually decisive, mind sparking. Today he seemed…distracted. Sad. Not like him at all. There had to be more

Hooper had served in Military Intelligence during the war, left with a good record, came back to Leeds and started the business. He had the kind of face nobody remembered, a real asset for this line of work. Sharp enough to look ahead and see the divorce laws were likely to change soon. That market would vanish. He’d begun to push the industrial security side of their work to keep them ahead of the competition That was Davy’s field. Aged eighteen, three A-levels behind him, he’d started worked for a company making burglar alarms and sense the possibilities. Three years of that, learning the electronics and how to set everything up, he’d done his research on enquiry agents and gone to see Hooper. Another trade to learn, how to work on the street and with the police while he built up contacts with businesses and Charlie used the friends he’d developed. It was starting to pay off for both of them, and Davy was still only twenty-six.

            ‘Poor lad,’ he said. What else was there?

            Charlie nodded and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. He was in his fifties, white hair, a bald spot on the crown of his head. He smoked too much, starting to go to seed: nicotine stains, jowly, belly ending over the top of his trousers. ‘Happened on a Friday evening right in the middle of town.’ He spoke quietly, thoughtfully; he could have been talking to himself. ‘A couple of witnesses gave statements to the police. The way I heard things, they went back later and changed their minds.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Nobody on the force pushed them.’

            ‘It happens,’ Davy said. ‘We both know that. Someone put the fix in.’

            ‘Yes,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Dickie, the one in the coma, he’s my cousin’s boy.’ He turned his head to stare at Davy. ‘She asked if we could do something.’

            ‘What did you tell her?’

            ‘I rang a couple of coppers I know. They’re not saying a word.’ A pause, no more than a moment, but it felt like a lifetime. ‘You drink with that detective out of Millgarth, don’t you?’

            ‘Sometimes.’ He knew what was coming.

            ‘Can you ask him? See what he knows?’

            ‘I can try.’ Tomorrow was Friday. Come evening, Clarky would probably be in the pub.

            ‘I’d appreciate it.’ A small, wan smile. ‘Dickie’s a good kid. We’re going to have to wait and see how he goes along. Meanwhile…’

            ‘Yes.’

While you’re here, just a reminder that this book is still pretty new, very dark and (I think) pretty damn good. You might like to try it.

Thinking About Richard Nottingham

While I love Tom and Annabelle Harper dearly, along with Simon Westow, his wife Rosie, Jane and Sally, and can’t imagine them not in my life, there’s someone I all too often forget, and it’s to my shame that I do, especially as he’s the only one who truly existed.

Richard Nottingham, the Constable of Leeds.

I wrote seven books with him in the role he had in real life (and to settle any possible questions, no there won’t be more). He gave me my start as a published fiction writer with The Broken Token

(which was also an Independent on Sunday best audiobook of the year) and got me a rating as one of the 10 best crime novels of the year for Cold Cruel Winter. All seven of the novels in that series won starred review in Publishers Weekly.

Richard was kind to me, a true inspiration. I’m proud of all those books, of him, and the community around him in Leeds during the 1730s.

From records, I know he was given a reward in the 1690s for informing on a highwayman – and this well before he became the law himself. Maybe it gave him the taste. Or possibly the fact that Walter Nottingham, perhaps his father or brother, was constable before him.

I made what was a title, a sinecure, a man who take part in official processions, into a proto coppers, with the night watch underneath him. He solved crimes. He found himself in danger. I was stretching history, but Richard seemed to enjoy himself doing it.

My Richard had a wife and two daughters. The real one had other children, of course, one of whom was a young woman who went in to marry into the minor nobility. Richard owned property in town. On Kirkgate at first, then Briggate; Leeds was a very small place at that time. People kept arriving, but there were fewer than 10,000 inhabitants.

I have written about the real Richard Nottingham here, with plenty of detail snippets from documents. Sadly, I’ve never found a portrait of him.

Why mention him at all? Most of the books are out of print in hardback, after all (and only the first is available in paper, I believe). But a number of you who came to my work through Tom or Simon might not know about Richard. You might like him.

The ebooks are all pretty cheap, and you’ll discover a family, as well as a place and time that are close to my heart. I always had Leeds, of course, but Richard showed me what to do with it, and that’s a gift I can never fully repay.

I will remind you that if you haven’t read The Scream of Sins yet, it’s been out for a month now – and God, the reviews have been so good it’s amazed me, since it’s so dark. Why not read it and judge for yourself?

The Tale Of The Unpublished Novels

It’s Sunday and tipping down with rain. Much as I’d love to be out at my allotment, there’s not a chance today.

That means it’s time for a story. A true story about the unpublished novels that preceded The Broken Token. Make a cup of tea, grab a biscuit and pull up a chair, because there were a few of them.

The first came when I was 20. I’d married an American and were we living in a bedsit in Hyde Park – the Leeds one, of course. I’d written poetry, which in retrospect was only slightly better than the usual teenage angst, and some short stories. It was time for my big artistic statement. A novel.

I’d read quite a bit of Richard Brautigan and hooked into that style, as best I could. The problem is that I wasn’t a San Francisco Beat/hippie guy who with a highly skewed, often surreal worldview. I was a 20-year-old Brit who had nowhere near the experience of the world as I believe I did. It probably had a title, but I don’t remember it.

The second came after we moved to the US, living in my wife’s hometown of Cincinnati. I was probably two or three years older. We’d bought a very cheap wreck of a house, we were both working. I’d been reading a lot more American crime novels, people like Michael Z Lewin, who books too place in Indianapolis, about 100 miles away. Bear in mind that this is heading towards the late 70s, a more innocent time. And a much more innocent your Brit, who still had a lot of growing up to do. Never mind that I believed that life had hardened me to my core.

The novel wasn’t completely awful. Hard boiled? No. Scarcely soft-boiled. Someone saw something in it and offered to put it out as a YA if I’d make some (a lot of) changes. I didn’t, and now I’m grateful. The title is lost in the mists of time, but the PI was called Steve Holzer.

There followed a more mainstream, autobiographical novel that was so much of a nothing that I can’t recall the plot. Thankfully, probably. After that, The Ohio Boy, about a talented young Ohio poet who was determined on self-destruction through alcohol. I knew nothing about alcoholism back then and didn’t really research. The poems were the ones I’d written a few years before, still seen through rose-coloured glasses. Unsurprisingly, nobody was interested.

After that? Career Opportunities, an American recalling student days in London and his involvement with the punk scene in 76-77. I still have it somewhere. Never reread it; I don’t need the humiliation. I knew about punk from records and the music papers (this was around 1980, long before any books about it all). I didn’t know London. What could go wrong?

A long gap followed. Divorce, and a move out to Seattle on the West Coast. A few short stories, a couple of one-act plays, then diving into becoming a music journalist, married again, with a young kid and a mortgage, writing a lot of quickie unauthorised celebrity bios. I was back in Leeds regularly to see my parents and picking up books on Leeds history, old enough to start really learning about it.

The result was The Cloth Searcher, an historical novel set in Leeds in the 1730s, with Richard Nottingham as a secondary character. I was stumbling towards something and nearly there, in the opinion of an agent who read it.

“Go and write something else and let me see it,” she said.

I did. That was The Broken Token, and the start of all that’s happened since.

Hey, time to wake up.

To remind you, The Scream of Sins is out there now. I’d be very grateful if you could buy a copy or borrow one from the library. If they don’t have it, ask them to get one in – others can read it after you.

A Writer Apologises

Well hello, and let me begin by saying sorry to you all. I’ve become that kind of person a dislike, ignoring everyone until I have a new book about to be published.

Whatever I say will be an excuse, but…I’ve been busy completing the writing and revision of a novel, the first in a planned new series set in WWII in Leeds. That’s involved a lot of research, of trying to feel my way into the period and make the city and the area into a living, breathing thing. That’s taken time – I’m actually on my final read-through at the moment, and very soon it will be with my publisher. Titled No Precious Truth, all being well it should appear in the summer of 2025.

I’ve also had to deal with the edit for the Simon Westow novel due in September. That one’s called Them Without Pain, and has it jumping-off point in some real Leeds history (the discovery of a long-rumoured secret working in Middle Row). But those edits take time.

And then, yes, The Scream of Sins will be appearing next week. For once, I’m doing no publicity. No events, no bookmarks, nothing. That’s partly an experiment, to see if any of those things do make any sort of difference. More than that, after the big Tom Harper exhibition and event last autumn, I’m still recouping my energy. It took so much more out of me that I’d anticipated.

So there you have it. If you do want to buy The Scream of Sins (and the reviews so far have been excellent), your local independent bookshop will gladly oblige, or this is the cheapest online price, with free UK delivery. Of course, as money is tight, please don’t forget your local library. They can order it in for you.

Again, my apologies. I shall try to do better in future.

A Wish For Happiness

I know, I’ve been quiet for a while, and sorry about that. But I’ve been taking time to breathe a bit after the exhibition and event, and I’ve been writing. The next two Simon Westow books (The Scream of Sins and Them Without Pain) are with the publisher – Scream comes out in March – and I’m busy with the WWII novel featuring Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden, currently seconded to the Special Investigation Branch.

The joy is in the research; the couch is a pile of books about the war (I’ve put together something called Cathy’s War Timeline, which is taped to the bookshelf next to the writing table) and I’m learning more and more. The book takes place in early 1941, so I don’t want to go beyond that; I’ll only confuse myself.

Plenty of great little Leeds details in there, like the barrage balloon at St James’s hospital that someone came free from its mooring. People hung on, tied it to a lamp post – and it tore up the lamp post. It was finally brought down near the city centre. How can you not love a tale like that?

Cathy herself is a joy, easing myself into her mind and her life, so I know how that coat feels on her back, how the gas mask case keeps banging against her hip. The walk down the blackout street to home on Brander Road in Gipton. She’s fully alive.

That’s for the future. It doesn’t have a title yet, but it’ll be appearing in summer 2025, a very distant time.

For now, though, the holidays loom, and I hope yours are all good, healthy and peaceful. Meanwhile, there’s a review of the Tom Harper exhibition and event here. If you prefer, here’s an image.

On, and if you haven’t bought it yet, Rusted Souls is a good gift both to give and receive.

Big, Big, Big News

I know I’ve been quiet for a while.

No real apologies. After the intense pressure of arranging and putting on the exhibition, then taking it down again, I needed some time to decompress and focus on what I really do – write novels.

I’ve been busy there, which brings me to the really big news. The first part is that I finished going through the proofs for The Scream of Sins, the next Simon Westow novel, which will be published in March. If you thought the last couple of books in the series were dark, they’re like a day on the beach compared to this. Honestly, I’m immensely proud of it, and the redemption it finds.

Here’s the blurb:

Leeds, October 1824. Thief-taker Simon Westow’s job seems straightforward. Captain Holcomb’s maid, Sophie, has stolen important papers that could ruin the family’s reputation, and he’s desperate for their return. But the case very quickly takes a murderous turn, and it becomes clear the papers are hiding a host of sins . . .

During the search, Simon’s assistant, Jane, hears a horrific tale: men are snatching young girls from small towns for use by the rich. Those who are unwanted are tossed onto the streets of Leeds to survive among the homeless. With the help of an unlikely, deadly new companion, Jane will do everything to discover who’s responsible and make them pay.

Can Simon and Jane recover Holcomb’s letters and get justice for the stolen girls? It becomes a battle that might result in them losing everything . . . including their lives.

And here’s the cover:

The second piece of news is that I’ve signed a contract for, and completed, another Westow novel, called Them Without Pain, due in September next year. I’ll say it’s based on a true incident, and leave it at that for now.

Enough, right? Not quite. People have asked what I’ll do next, how that there will be no more Tom Harper books. I’ve started a new series, set in Leeds in World War II and featuring Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden of Leeds City Police. She lives with her parent on the Gipton estate, and has been seconded to something new, the Leeds squad of the Special Investigation Branch (the SIB really existed), so she’s working in plain clothes. I’m working on the book, greatly enjoying coming to know Cathy, the men she works with, her friends and family. That one is set to appear in June 2025. 2025…it’s science fiction.

In the meantime, I’ve had more people contact me about Rusted Souls than any other book I’ve written. Tom and Annabelle have touched a lot of people, and I thank you all. They’re both still alive within me. You can always buy the book for Christmas. It’s even better from an independent bookshop, too.