Day 1:
It was an earlier start than it needed to be, my inherent cheapskatery making me choose the Megabus instead of paying the rip-off train fare, and I departed on the 08.45 from Southampton, making sure to get a window seat on the left side of the bus. This was to enable the best possible look at Firgo as we went by, and also allowed a good deal of street watching.
Which was a mistake. There was a man on Onslow Road shuffling along with a staggering gait, his head lolling to one side. Head and heart sympathised with he and his medical condition, but something else inside me screamed “Zombie”, and I did a double take to ensure this was not so.
Which was another mistake. Not only were the results inconclusive, but the sudden pivot cricked my neck and ensured I was in pain for the rest of the journey.
When I got to the A34 I kept an eye out for Sutton Scotney service station, scene of mixed memories. But all service stations inspire me – they’re one of my top three architectural fetishes, along with shabby non-league football grounds and dilapidated piers (but nice ones are okay too). I always assume Firgo will come right after the services, but no, much further away than I expect. It really was a minor miracle that we made it on three wheels, hope, and desperation all those years ago.
Frustratingly, the coach moved to the outer lane as we passed Firgo, unwisely attempting to overtake a caravan – here of all places! – but I still managed to get a sight of the sign, and that was enough to put me at ease.
The journey was uneventful thereafter, other than me typing a much longer, stream of consciousness write-up about the above, only to accidentally delete it (along with my notes from The Mysterious Affair at Styles!) as I awaited lunch at the Cape of Good Hope, just across the road from St Hilda’s. Reader, you have missed out on a list of my anxieties, a blurry photo of the Queen Mary 2, my rumination as to whether the chalk cliffs near Winchester are in fact chalk, the mystery of the A33, a likening of my inner monologue to Harrison Ford’s original Blade Runner narration, and a TMI as to how quickly my body processed my breakfast sausages. If there is more, I’ve forgotten it, and it is lost forever. I blame the Firgo effect.
Onto the event itself, which kicked off with Val McDermid and Jake Kerridge onstage in comfy chairs. There was no set title or theme, but they discussed Karen Pirie, the 1979-1989 series, and how a story idea came from a remarkable coincidence at a seemingly random wedding. From there, drinks were served in the atrium, and I spoke with Vaseem Khan – a big cricket fan, and I’ve heard, an excellent player – about my cricket related projects. Sadly he has no plans to feature cricket in his own work at the moment.
Then came the early highlight of the occasion, the three-course meal with after-dinner address from Richard Osman. Even without the celebrity speaker, these mealtimes are my favourite part of the weekend. Not even for the first-class fine dining so much as the way it places me – a naturally insular person and terrible at meeting new people – at a table with six or seven strangers and gives me a perfect environment in which to get to know them. There followed a great night with (my apologies for any forgotten names – I meant to take notes during the event but instead find myself writing this days after the event) mother and daughter Elaine (I think) and Rochelle, Nikki, Katy, Jane and another (sorry!), who I put off their food by describing my forthcoming paper on torture and dismemberment.
Richard Osman stepped up and delivered a cross between a stand-up routine and a quiz show, raising £500 for the PD James fund by outbidding Chris Brookmyre for someone’s name as a character in their book, ‘Soon to be known as the Hastings paedophile’. He also hosted the World Cup of Detectives, which culminated in a local derby final with Miss Marple defeating Poirot, as voted for by an overwhelmingly female audience. Perhaps Dorothy L. Sayers should have put Harriet Vane forward instead of Lord Peter Wimsey.
Overall it was a thoroughly entertaining speech, and a lovely send-off to a celebratory first day. It’s testament to the quality of the event, and the talent of the contributors, that this was not the best after-dinner entertainment of the weekend.
Day 2:
After taking a very hearty breakfast, expecting to miss lunch, I went to the first of the paper presentations, with Chris Brookmyre dealing mostly in movies in ‘Family, Friends, and Other Mortal Threats’. Brookmyre clearly loves to hate the late Paul Gleason, naming Deputy Chief Dwayne T. Robinson as the most unlikeable character in Die Hard, and more obviously, Principal Richard Vernon as the most unlikeable character in The Breakfast Club. I don’t know what he thinks of Trading Places, but I could probably guess.
Winnie M Li followed that with a high-energy, rapid-fire speech on the cinema industry, speaking with courage and candour as she described her own ordeal, along with more light-hearted moments, such as a chance meeting with Quentin Tarantino, in which he claimed to recognise her. On her recommendation, I recorded Sunset Boulevard to watch soon.
By great serendipity, there was then a three-hour gap in the schedule, which coincided with the England Women’s World Cup quarter final. So it was back to my room to watch that on my laptop, hoping to avoid extra time and a potential clash with Vaseem Khan’s paper. I had a brief scare, with Colombia going ahead late in the first half, but after an almost instant equaliser, England played well in the second half to run out worthy 2-1 winners, and I never had to miss a single minute of a single paper.
The papers came thick and fast over the next few hours. Vaseem Khan delivered an excellent, entertaining, and informative history lesson on post-independence India. I didn’t go to a great school, and history wasn’t taught, so much of this was new to me, and I appreciate the extension of my knowledge.
Imogen Robertson was up next, occasionally switching to near-fluent Russian to show us the world of the super-rich, dangling oligarchs and fairy gold temptingly before us. She also took the time to extol Lord Peter Wimsey, and lament his early exit from the World Cup.
The horror writer and fan in me loved the next two papers, Fiona Cummins featuring Stephen King, and Alexandra Benedict celebrating the Gothic. Cummins focused largely on Lisey’s Story, one of King’s lesser-known works, but one of my own personal favourites, and Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, a magnificent novella often overlooked in favour of Frank Darabont’s adaptation.
With a distinctly autumnal storm beginning to develop outside, Alexandra Benedict managed to make August feel like October. She drew on Pagan influences, and invoked Agatha Christie’s occasional characters Ariadne Oliver – an unashamed self-insert – and Harley Quin, the Lord of Misrule.
Charlotte Philby – granddaughter of the infamous double agent and ‘third man’ Kim, blended hedonism, espionage, and architecture in describing the events at the Isokon, the Lawn Road Flats. She didn’t seek to gloss over her grandfather’s reputation, instead giving the most sympathetic appraisal to Edith Tudor-Hart, a talented photographer and Soviet spy.
It was a shame my near-namesake Alex Wheatle couldn’t be there to deliver his paper on Chester Himes, but the bright side was that it allowed a proper sit down signing to take place, instead of the awkward free-for-all of last year. Starting the event with 296 signed books in my collection, Val McDermid signed 297, Alexandra Benedict signed 298, and Chris Brookmyre signed 299 and 300, the milestone book being his novel, Want You Gone.
I just had time to drop my books off, shower and change before returning for dinner, and again in great company. A dapper and distinguished Viennese couple, Richard and Ingrid, who were paying their 30th (that’s all of them!) and 20th visits respectively. Not only was Richard my lifestyle role model – his last visit to England was for the World Snooker Championship – but also my fashion icon, clad as he was in tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
Amongst the remainder of the table were Katy, from the last night, and Annie, who I shared a table with last year. Cue more world-class fine dining, more wine than I’ve had for a long time, and more excellent entertainment, in this case the already legendary St Hilda’s whodunnit. Philip Gooden’s excellent script acted with great gusto, especially by Fiona Cummins, unrecognisable from her paper and utterly convincing as a conceited, self-obsessed influencer.
I always had a leaning towards Abir Mukherjee as Sutton Coldfield, the sozzled, fading actor who’d lost his fortune to a crypto crash, if nothing else for the fact that he did it as the inspector in last year’s mystery. His drunken statement gave me no reason to deflect my suspicion, so I accused him and gave the tiebreak answer Marlowe for an old riverside murder and a Los Angeles knight. I didn’t get it as quick as Katy and Annie, but I’ve studied ‘The Simple Art of Murder’ enough to recognise the reference.
When the big reveal came, sure enough, it was Coldfield/Mukherjee. My excitement was tempered by a list of clues which I hadn’t caught, but some I had, and at the end of the night I thought I might be in for some kind of runner-up prize or honourable mention when the winner was announced next morning.
Day 3:
After the obligatory big breakfast, I went to the morning talks. My one concession to hope was to sit downstairs instead of my taking my usual place up in the gallery. The winner was announced, the name read out … Jason Whittle!
Reader, never underestimate my ability to turn a moment of triumph into awkwardness and embarrassment as I took the long walk up to the stage, shook Philip Gooden’s hand, and collected … nothing. Turned out the prizes were boxed up in the foyer and there was no need for me to approach the stage at all. This was my Derek Zoolander moment, and I guess I have a lot of things to ponder.
But after sitting back down all this was forgotten as Robert Goddard delivered a hilarious and delightful free form address in his rich tones. I’ve spent a lot of time in his hometown of Fareham, but never heard such a classy accent in the shopping centre at Thackeray Mall. So rich was his annunciation that merely saying ‘Swindon’ was worthy of a belly laugh, and his tale of accidentally meeting Michael Jackson (not in Swindon) put my earlier awkwardness into perspective.
After his speech I finally got to collect my prize, a rare first edition of Ripley Under Ground by Patricia Highsmith, as proudly exhibited here.
As you can see, it came down to a choice between books to be signed and my shaving kit for the last bit of packing space. And the other delegates, a wonderfully compassionate and friendly bunch reassured me that my earlier moment hadn’t been anywhere as grievous a faux pas as I thought.
There were two papers remaining. First, Jane Casey convincingly likened Mary Stewart’s Nine Coaches Waiting to The Revenger’s Tragedy, and then, with incredibly serendipitous timing Andrew Wilson’s closing presentation gave us Patricia Highsmith’s extraordinary life story, from unhappy childhood to hedonistic youth, to her embittered later life. Both he and programme chair Sarah Hilary took obvious delight in modelling her dressing gown, which is as clear a signifier as you could need to Highsmith’s enduring charisma and appeal.
And that was that. I’m now flitting between looking forward to next year’s event, whether in person or online, and preparing for the busy run of speaking appearances ahead: presenting a paper on violent torture scenes at Captivating Criminality 10 in Bath/Corsham, and a much lighter one on Hugh Fraser as Captain Hastings at the Agatha Christie Conference in Exeter, reading my Pixies-inspired sci-fi story ‘Into the Mountain’ at an anthology launch in Aberdare, and probably appearing on a political panel at BristolCon in … well, I’ll let you guess at that one.
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