SH: I agree we're living through almost unbearably difficult times, and those of us writing crime series are bound to feel the weight and responsibility of that. But I feel all good writing should be at least a little uncomfortable, both in its creation and its consumption. Perhaps that's my personal preference coming out; I know the books I enjoy best are those which touch a nerve or disrupt my complacency, or challenge me to think more keenly about a subject or a people or a time. It's one of the reasons I'm drawn to crime as a genre, because of our obligation to reflect society at its best and worst. The darker we write, the more we need compassion and light also. That said, we live in extraordinary times, not least in their unpredictability. I worry, as a writer of police procedurals, what shape the Metropolitan Police will take in two years' time, for instance. So I suppose I'm saying I see this more as a technical challenge in terms of authenticity, rather than a moral challenge, because the best fiction is always instinctively moral. What challenges keep you awake at night?
SH: Beware the wrath of women wielding Epsom salts ..! You know, I think you may be right, that women harbour thoughts of revenge more readily. Not just because as you say we're living with violence but because traditionally we have so few outlets for anger, and are expected to fulfil roles which take acceptance and forbearance as their starting point. I rather like the idea of quiet, domestic vengeance along the lines of lacing rice pudding. I have an unhealthy fascination with Kate Webster, who murdered her employer and boiled her down into dripping which she sold to the neighbours who'd looked down on her ... But tell me more about the role of revenge in The Killer. Did you set out to write a book about revenge?
SW: The Killer turned into a tale of revenge. I don’t think I set out with that in mind. Initially, like many debut novelists, I hadn’t thought much beyond the first book. I was just happy to be published. So when I was asked for more I went back to the characters and wondered where they might want to go. That’s when I found that really I had dual protagonists – Kaz, the original informant, caught between her gangster brother and the police, and Nicci, the cop forced out of the Job by personal tragedy. Nicci became an exploration of the world of privatised security, which we’ve already referred to in terms of police cuts. Kaz and Nicci are the dark and the light, what you do when you are full of rage and have only yourself to rely on. Of course, as soon as I mention Kaz’s gangster brother and her Essex family, we’re in the realms of “that sort of book”. I have been amused to discover that I’ve inadvertently placed myself in the “marmite sub-genre” – people either love it or hate it. I have had many comments along the lines of “it’s really quite well written for that sort of book.” What I think is rarely discussed around crime fiction are the class divisions both in terms of readers and writers. Most people like stories that reflect some aspect or have some resonance with their own experience. Interestingly though a fictional character from a working class background who seeks to advance themselves through crime, appears to be more intellectually respectable if they are male than if they are female. I’m not entirely sure why. But I think it comes back once again to how we process and fictionalise female experience.SH: There's a thesis in this somewhere: Class and Gender Wars in Crime Fiction. I suppose we could argue that fiction deals in recognisable stereotypes so we get a surfeit of 'female types' (virginal victim, seductive temptress, warrior mother). But what I like about so much of modern crime fiction is the license to subvert stereotypes (in fact, I think of this as an obligation on the part of the crime writer). Which isn't to say that brave books are the ones most often published or pushed, sadly, but the scope is there. In the current climate where a story like The Handmaid's Tale can chill us because it feels not merely prescient but present, I am optimistic about the appetite for books which better explore the female experience from different angles. Certainly I feel we must be reaching saturation point for the sort of thriller where the middle class heroine's lovely lifestyle derails because her husband lied to her about x, y or z. Which books have you read recently which give you hope for more diversity?
SW: I agree we have an obligation to subvert stereotypes. And I must say I think you do that very well in your books, especially with the character of DS Noah Jake. My reading lately has been a bit eclectic. I’m half way through My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier. I’d never read it before and came upon it because there’s a film just out. It’s a great piece of storytelling not to mention a masterclass in how to do an unreliable narrator well. So many recent psychological thrillers are full of tricks and twists that are bolted on to the plot and don’t really come out of the nature or desires of the characters. Written in 1951 it’s still a slicker piece of commercial fiction than much of what’s currently around. However (back to stereotypes), its feminist credentials might not be so hot – I’m not sure because I haven’t got to the end yet.SH: Interesting you've returned to a classic psychological thriller of the 1950s as my current favourite recommendation is Celia Fremlin's The Hours Before Dawn, about to be reissued nearly sixty years after it was first published. Another masterclass in going deep into character for twists and turns - these classics can definitely teach us a thing or two.
It's been fun chatting with you, Susan, and I look forward to seeing where you take your writing next. Stay political, it's so important, now more than ever.
SW: I will. I can’t help myself really. Thanks for chatting!
The Killer is out in paperback today, 29 June, from Pan Macmillan. You can buy it here.
Follow Susan's writing news via her website, susanwilkins.co.uk
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