It came as a shock to realise it will soon be 50 years since my words first appeared in black and white. 1978, I believe, in a free music paper – my memory on the title in sketchy, Cincinnati Entertainer, perhaps. I’d moved to the US a couple of years before, music mad, and wrote reviews of two LPs, Roy Harper’s Flashes From the Archives Of Oblivion and Kate Bush’s debut, The Kick Inside. They published both.

Over the next few years I published occasional small pieces for them, but never took it seriously. In my free time I was writing novels, thankfully unpublished, then playing in bands.

After moving to Seattle in 1986 I published a few short stories in small magazines, you know, the ones that look great but nobody sees. Penned a few one-act plays which had a performance or two before vanishing. Then I decided to take this writing lark more seriously and found an encouraging editor at the Seattle Rocket, an excellent free music paper, out every fortnight. It took a while, but I improved until they started publishing my reviews, and then features.

I milked it, sending clips around, finding other outlets who’d publish me. An opportunity came to write an unauthorised biography of a recent star (okay, it was Mariah Carey) and I jumped on that. Short deadline, a lot of work, but worthwhile. For the next few years, as a freelance, I grabbed every opportunity that I could reach. I had a mortgage and a young child, and I was desperate to make a living from this. I think every freelancer can relate.

And now, I have another book arriving, as of next week. The Faces Of The Dead, the second Cathy Marsden thriller. The first, No Precious Truth, has sold surprisingly well, so I hope you’ll all buy this one (right now would be fine). In the UK, Speedy Hen has the cheapest hardback prince, with free postage. Just a word to the wise, you know…here’s a small extract to tempt you.

‘The driver was Eric Carr.’ They knew his name. A nobody. Not even a deserter; he’d failed his conscription medical. A touch of flash, acted big, but could only manage small crimes. The definition of small fry, scuffling to keep alive. But his time was over now.

‘What about the passenger?’ Terry asked.

‘A woman.’

‘Who was she? Do we know her name?’

Faulkner checked the sheet in front of him. ‘The identity and ration cards in her handbag say she was called Nina Cordell. I’ve never heard of her.’

‘I have,’ Cathy said, and she felt everyone’s eyes swivel towards her. ‘She was a prostitute a few years ago. In a brothel. A good one where all the town nabobs go. I haven’t heard anything of her in a while, though.’

‘The interesting stuff is still to come.’ His tone turned darker. ‘We found fifteen guns tucked away in the car and some boxes of ammunition. Five Enfield number two revolvers, British army issue, and ten Colt pistols. All brand-new.’ A tiny pause. ‘The Americans use them.’ She sensed the stirring. No doubt now: this was definitely one for them. ‘I’ve been in touch with the Yanks,’ Faulkner continued. ‘They have a military police detachment up here. But they also have some new outfit to deal with this sort of thing. The Criminal Investigation Division. Just formed.’

‘Are they MPs?’ Jimmy asked.

‘The way it was explained to me, they sound more like the American equivalent of us. They’re sending an investigator, but he won’t be here until tomorrow.’

‘Who’s going to be in charge?’

‘We’ll be working together,’ Faulkner said. ‘Those are orders from on high. That’s why we’re in this. He’ll be following up on the American angle, we’ll take care of everything else. Maybe we can have it all in hand by the time he appears. Terry, talk to the armourers at the barracks and ask them to run an inventory to see if any handguns are missing. Smithy, I want you to take a look at the report, then have a word with the NAAFI headquarters here. See if the food and stuff was stolen locally. George, Jimmy: find out where Carr lived and tear the place apart.’

‘What about me?’ Cathy asked once they’d gone.

‘Do you think you could identify this Nina woman?’

It had been a while since Cathy had seen her, but Nina Cordell’s face was still vivid in her mind. Loud, pretty, always glittering and lively. ‘Probably.’ Her leave was definitely over. She was back to earth with a sharp bump.