Big, Big News

This has appeared in the US today. It’s an interview in Publishers Weekly, the biggest of the American publishing trade magazines. It’s the first US interview I’ve had. That alone would make it a big deal. That it’s in something so influential is the icing on the cake. Even better, their starred review of The Hocus Girl is on the following page.

Here’s the interview – which will give you a bit more background to the book.

PW Interview Hocus

And here’s the review. Honestly, I’m still fizzing with pleasure.

HGPWreview

Prolific? Me? Honestly, No…

People keep telling me I’m a very prolific writer. It happened again just over a week ago. I’ve published a number of books over the last few years, definitely more than one a year.

But that’s not prolific. When I hear that word, I think about the way groups worked in the 1960s. They worked hard, and some of them made huge music strides and produced glorious work under pressure.

Let’s look at the Beatles as an example.

Los_Beatles_(19266969775)_Recortado

They fully broke through in the UK at the end of 1962. Between 1963 and 1966, by which time they were a global phenomenon that had never been seen before, they released:

  • Seven LPs
  • 13 Eps
  • 15 singles

On top of that, they also made two films, toured Britain and the world, and appeared countless times on radio and television. Think of the material Lennon and McCartney penned in that time. It truly changed the entire musical landscape.

That’s prolific. That’s influential.

I’m just an amateur, a dilletante by comparison.

I will remind you, though, that The Hocus girl is out in hardback in the UK and from November 1 it will be available everywhere as an ebook.

The Hocus Girl is powerful, persuasive and almost impossible to put down.” – Fully Booked.

“This historical tour de force reminds readers who come for the mystery that life hasn’t changed for the disenfranchised.” – Kirkus Reviews, starred review.

Shouldn’t you give it a try?

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The Ten Year Project

 

It’s hard to believe, but next Spring it’ll be 10 years since my first book set in Leeds was published – The Broken Token, in case you’re curious. There will be a new Tom Harper novel appearing then, the eighth in the series, which will mean I’ve published a total of  22 novels and a collection of short stories set in Leeds in the last decade.

That’s not counting a couple of plays and involvement in the exhibition The Vote Before The Vote, where Annabelle Harper stepped into Leeds history.

annabellecard 200_2

Phew.

I’m going to celebrate it. 10 years is worth celebrating. It took a while to figure out how, though…

It has to be stories. After all, I’m a writer. So from November to next March I will have a short story with one of my Leeds characters each month. I’ll be starting with Dan Markham, taking him into the very beginning of the 1960s, then working my way back through time – Urban Raven, Lottie Armstrong, Tom Harper, Simon Westow, and finishing, quite rightly, with Richard Nottingham.

It’s going to be a challenge. I need to try and capture the essence of each of them, and in some cases it’s been a few years since we met. But I never like to make it easy for myself. I’ve even come up with a logo for everything 10th, just to warn you.

10 years

The Dan Markham story will appear in early November. I hope you’ll like in. In the meantime, you could read the new Simon Westow book, The Hocus Girl. It’s out in the UK in hardback now, and it’ll be available everywhere as an ebook from November 1.

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Cut Me And I Bleed Leeds

Cut me and I bleed Leeds. Not red, but blue and gold and white.

Maybe it’s true. The place is in my heart, my soul, my DNA, with all its soot and grime, its failings and its joys. Leeds is me and I’m bloody proud to be one tiny part of it. In my books (like The Hocus Girl, which was published in the UK on Monday, hint hint), I try to make Leeds itself as important as important as one of the people on the page.

For a long time it wasn’t that way. At 18 I was happy to move elsewhere and I ended up abroad for a long time. But eventually, with that twitch on the thread, Leeds called me home. I moved back six years ago last week and I’ve never felt as if I ever fitted anywhere quite so well.

I’ve been thinking about the first time I realised quite what Leeds meant, when it became more than home, school, the city centre and our neighbourhood. It was probably towards the end of winter in 1961, when the teenage son of my mother’s boss (poor lad) took me to my first match at Elland Road to watch Leeds United play. February or March, maybe. Certainly a grey, dank day, and I was all wrapped up in my dark blue gaberdine school raincoat. My school was very much rugby league – all the boys were taken to the park to play – but football in the playground. Boys and girls had separate playgrounds, covered in sharp gravel, and boys had to wear short every day, no natter the weather. It meant constant sabs on the knees.

I loved football back then, in the way that only a young boy can. So the trip was magical, to an area of town I’d never seen before. Far enough away that it might have been another country. Then into the schoolboys’ pen, and so many people. All the noise.

I don’t remember who we played or what the score was. But all these men singing and cheering for Leeds resonated in me. It stirred something, somewhere in the dirty, black and white world that was the start of the Sixties.

Of course, I didn’t understand what or where or why or how. Really, that didn’t come for decades, not until absence made my heart grow fonder.

Not everyone develops an attachment to their hometown. Not everyone feels the needs to know how it became the way it is, or to celebrate the nameless and forgotten who helped to form it. That’s fine. It’s why I write about the place, to understand it in it’s different eras, its different shapes, from small town to grand city to something in decline. I just happen to be someone who was touched by the madness.

It’s not a perfect place, God knows. I shout and criticise it with the best of them. My Leeds is one that welcomes people from everywhere. It started with the Irish, the Romany, the Jews, and now from every country on earth. To me, they all have someone to give. They’re all Leeds.

So yes, Leeds is me. Take a saw to me and there will be Leeds written right through the middle. I used to think that was funny. Now, though, I say it with pride.

But please don’t actually cut me or saw me open, okay?

 

Related to this, I’m part of a panel on Saturday October 12 at the Leeds Library on Commercial St, talking about locality in crime fiction. I’m sharing the session with France Brody, June Taylor, and the German writer Ursula Maria Wartmann. It will be chaired by another crime novelist, Ali Harper. All the details are here.

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More From The Hocus Girl And Big News

A week and a half until The Hocus Girl is published in the UK.

Yes, I do believe it’s a good book, one of my very best (if you want to know, I feel it’s up there with Cold Cruel Winter, At The Dying of the Year, The Tin God, The Leaden Heart, and The Year of the Gun). It brings real depth to the characters, which you can never do with the first book in a series; at that point, you’re still getting to know them yourself. But Jane in this book…I knew from The Hanging Psalm that she was someone special, but in this she blooms…well, you’ll have to read the book and see, won’t you?

And…BIG BIG NEWS…to put the icing on the week, the publisher has said they’ll be putting out the third book with Simon Westow and Jane at the end of September 2020 (hard to believe such a time exists!). It’s called To The Dark.

Meanwhile, have two more brief extracts from The Hocus Girl to push you to buy it/reserve from the library.

 

As he walked back towards Leeds, Simon sensed someone behind him. Trying to be quiet and doing a piss-poor job of it.

Close to Lady Bridge the path curved, the bushes at the side growing thick and wild. For a handful of seconds, he’d be out of sight. That was long enough. Simon slipped the knife from his sleeve.

By the time the man appeared, head moving from side to side in confusion, Simon was hidden from view. He loosened a second knife in his boot. Give it another few moments. Long enough for the follower to grow frustrated.

Screened behind the leaves, Simon held his breath. A broad, hulking man with a vicious expression was staring this way and that. A club dangled from his belt, next to his knife. Very likely another weapon or two hidden on his body.

The man turned, eyes searching, then stared at the road beyond the bridge. Lady Lodge stood alone, surrounded by a field and a hedge before the hill rose towards a row of half-built houses.

Simon eased himself out from the branches, tensed then dashed forward. Just five paces, but he was moving fast enough to send the man sprawling as he caught him behind his thighs.

The man tried to turn. Before he could struggle, Simon was on him, kneeling on his back, the edge of his blade against the side of his neck as he searched him. Two knives and the club. Simon tossed them into the beck. It had only taken three seconds, and the rush of it left his breathing ragged.

‘I don’t like people following me.’

No response.

‘Why are you doing it?’

‘Orders.’ The man’s voice was stifled in the dirt. Simon grabbed him by the hair.

‘Whose orders?’

‘Curzon.’

Now he knew who this man was. The magistrate’s bodyguard. Whittaker, the former government man.

‘And why does Mr Curzon care what I do?’

‘You’ve been asking questions about his case.’

‘Is that a crime now?’

‘It is if you try to stop justice.’

‘No, Mr Whittaker.’ He felt the man stir at the mention of his name. ‘I’m trying to stop an injustice. You’re going to go back and tell your master that.’

Whittaker snorted. ‘Do you reckon that’ll be the end of it? He’ll give up and apologize because you’re not happy? He’s more powerful than you’ll ever be.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’ll always win. You might want to remind him of that.’ He felt the man tense under him, ready to try and move. ‘Don’t,’ Simon warned. He pressed the steel hard against Whittaker’s neck. ‘I’ll have you dead before you even reach your knees.’

‘We’ll be seeing each other again.’

‘I daresay we will.’

‘Next time things be different.’

‘We’ll find out about that, won’t we?’ He rose swiftly, standing back with his knife ready. ‘Your weapons are in the water. The current won’t have carried them far.’

Simon walked away, alert, ready for Whittaker to chase after him. But he didn’t come.

Curzon had set his dog to warn Simon off. If his case was so strong, why would he need to do that?

 

She needed him to follow her to the churchyard. She’d be waiting there, waiting for him.

The man was twenty paces behind her, she judged. Even in the crowd she could pick out the rhythm of his feet as he followed her. She’d have plenty of time to prepare.

Jem was over by the wall, sitting and watching. He stirred as he saw her. Jane gave him a small sign: stay there, don’t move. Then she stood, as if she was slightly lost, waiting for someone. The knife was concealed in her hand.

Whittaker came up behind her. He probably thought he was quiet, but to her ears, he might as well have been an army on the move. He was close when she turned, and for the smallest moment his step faltered. Then he was on her, leering, his eyes hungry.

‘So you’re Westow’s little slut. People tell me you’re dangerous. There’s nothing to you.’

His hand moved, cupping her breast, fingers squeezing so hard that the pain shot through her. It shocked, it hurt, but Jane didn’t let her face betray a thing. One second, two and then three. Just long enough for him to think her had her cowed. The hilt of the knife rubbed against her gold ring as she let it slide in her fingers. Her right hand shot up and the blade carved a line down his cheek.

He jumped back as if he’d been burned, raising his hand to his face and bringing it down to stare in disbelief at the blood.

‘You bitch!’ he shouted.

Jane didn’t move. She stood with the knife in her hand. Her voice was quiet and calm, hardly more than a whisper.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ she told him. ‘For Henry.’

She took a step forward and Whittaker retreated, still pressing a hand to his face. Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping down his neck to stain the white of his shirt.

He kept moving, watching her until there was enough distance for him to turn his back and walk off.

She’d bested him. Humiliated him. He wouldn’t let this rest. He couldn’t; he was a man. Jane knew that before she began, but she didn’t care. The next time, though, he’d be cautious. He’d be slow. That didn’t matter. She’d do exactly as she promised.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Jem had run across as soon as it was safe.

‘He tried.’ She could still feel Whittaker’s touch on her body. Her breast ached. The mark of his fingers would show in a few hours. The hurt went deeper in her, to her core. She wouldn’t forget and she’d never forgive. ‘But I hurt him more.’ She turned to the boy. For now she’d put it out of her mind; there would be time to think about everything tonight. ‘Have you found the man with the limp?’

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Who Are The Thief-Takers of Leeds?

Thief-taker.

The title has a ring of romance, doesn’t it? Basically a forerunner of the private detective, back before there was an organised police force, other than the Bow Street Runners. But, like being a private detective, there was precious little glamour involved.

Simon Westow is a thief-taker, quite possibly the only one in Leeds at the start of the 1820s, when he first appeared in The Hanging Psalm. To understand how he makes his living, you need to know how justice worked in those days. Big crimes were prosecuted by the state – in The Hocus Girl, it’s the government, through its magistrates, who come after Simon’s good friend Davey Ashton – but theft was a different matter. When items were stolen, the victims would advertise in newspapers for their return. The thief-taker would endeavour to retrieve them for a fee. The victim could prosecute the thief, but it would be done privately, with no guarantee of success. No surprise that most people were simply happy to get their goods back.

Some thief-takers were corrupt, in cahoots with thieves. Simon, though, is far more upright. An honourable man who grew up in the workhouse, bullied and beaten in the early factories where he was sent to work. Until he was 13, already physically imposing, and he’d had enough. He walked out, to face life on his own terms.

He’s been lucky. Very good at his work, he’s become a wealthy man, with a house on Swinegate (that ironically belonged to Amos Worthy, a violent crook who lived there in the 1730s – see the Richard Nottingham books), a resourceful wife who helps at time, and twin sons.

simon and rosie thief taker

Simon and Rosie Westow

He’s a man of principle, trustworthy, respected – and also dangerous. He’s learned from all manner of people: how to fight with knives (he carries there – one on his belt, a second in his boot, and a third up his sleeve), to pick locks, to be a card sharp. And he’s intelligent, a man who can think on his feet.

He’d hate the term, but he’s a hero.

That’s Simon, but who is Jane?

She’s the enigma, the girl who appeared one day to help him find someone. A young woman by the time of The Hocus Girl. She has the ability to follow without being detected and to know when someone is shadowing her. As soon as she pulls the shawl over her hair, she becomes like every other woman: invisible. She knows every inch of Leeds; for fives years she lived on the streets, thrown out by her mother after being raped by her father. She’d a survivor, not afraid or anyone or anything. A killer when she has to be. Someone who expects perfection from herself, and cuts her flesh when she can’t achieve it.

She’s utterly self-contained, able to put all the parts of her life in different compartments and lock them away. She doesn’t need anybody. She doesn’t want anybody. What she owns, she carries in the pocket of her dress, and her most precious possession is her knife. She has money – Simon pays her half of what they earn together – but it’s buried under a tree. She’s a rich young woman if she wants to be, but it’s nothing to her.

jane

Jane

Jane lives with Simon and his wife, Rosie, sleeping in their attic. But it’s a place with a bed, not a home for her. She could walk away without a qualm. There’s only one person in Leeds that she cares about, an old widow named Catherine Shields, who lives in a space off Green Dragon Yard where the town seems to vanish.

Over the course of The Hocus Girl, Jane is going to learn about herself and her past. Things she’d never imagined, things she’d chosen to erase. She’ll learn to come face to face with the truth.

Simon Westow and Jane…the thief-takers.

The cheapest place to pre-order a copy of The Hocus Girl is right here. But better still, why not order it from your local independent bookshop, or from Blackwell’s or Waterstones?

If you want to know what a hocus girl does…you’ll have to read the book.

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A Passion For Leeds

Every so often I have to think about the things that make me write.

It’s a compulsion, there’s no doubt about that, and my first novel was published quite late in life (I was 55) that I’ve been filled with a hunger to say all the things I’ve wanted to say in books.

What changed everything for me was writing about Leeds. Leeds as it might once have been. When I began writing novels, I hadn’t loved in Leeds for 30 years. I had no idea what things were like in the day-to-day now. I was back often to see my parents, but I wasn’t here. I couldn’t write about it now and make it feel real.

The history of Leeds had captured me several years before that. I like to think it still does. But that’s what I keep checking it to consider. My next book (The Hocus Girl) has plenty of things from the city’s past: the first steam locomotive able to move heavy loads, Joshua Tetley opening his brewery, and the government using agent provocateurs – something uncovered and written about in a Leeds newspaper. Making history part of a tale is something I relish. I try to bring Leeds alive, to make people feel they were there, walking the streets.

tetley

Joshua Tetley’s Brewery

Next spring, my novel Rusted Souls, the eighth in the Tom Harper series, is centred around the 1908 Suffragette Riot, which actually happened, although it wasn’t a great riot and the Suffragettes weren’t really behind it. My characters are involved in this history. Not in a Zelig way, but because it’s happening around them in Leeds. It’s natural that they’d be involved.

Leeds isn’t London. It doesn’t have that glamour. It doesn’t even have the big history of York. But it’s a city that made its fortune on wool, grew powerful and rich with industry, and saw its fortunes decline with industry began to decline after World War I. These days it’s money is in retail and digital. The thing is, rich or poor, it’s my home. I care about it. I’m proud of it, happy to be from here. If I have a loyalty to any place, it’s Leeds.

That passion for the city isn’t the only thing that makes me write – I like to tell a story and crime provides the perfect moral framework for drama and tension, good against evil. I like to create characters. Or perhaps I channel them, I’m not really sure.

As I said, it’s a compulsion. But you know what? I’ll never feel bad for writing about the place I feel in my bones.

On Being Cheap

I’m cheap. Well, of course I am, I come from Yorkshire; it’s in my DNA. And it’s quite true, I never pay more for something that necessary. I shop around. I’m unlikely to ever be a John Lewis customer.

That said, I do prefer to buy from independent shops, or those that pay their full whack of taxes. Things being what they were, though, sometimes a bargain from elsewhere can be too good to refuse.

Right now – and I don’t know how long it will last – a couple of my books are very cheap on Amazon.

The Tin God is a little over £2 on Amazon, both in hardback and for Kindle. It costs less that I can for my coffee at La Botega Milanese when I go into town. And, much as I like their coffee, a book lasts longer. This is one of my favourites, as Annabelle Harper becomes such a central character, and it reflects the local politics of the time – and the way women struggled for the vote. The offer is only in the UK (sorry) and you can find it here.

The Hanging Psalm is also cheap, although, costing more than £4 in both formats, it not quite as much of a bargain. But that price for a hardback? I’m astonished. Here is the page.

I don’t know who’s behind it, whether it’s Amazon or my publisher. But if you’ve been thinking of buying, I doubt there will be a better time. I have no idea how long the prices will last.

The Hanging Psalm is the first Simon Westow book. The second, called The Hocus Girl, comes out at the end of next month. It features undercover government agents (based on a true story from the period – nothing changes), Joshua Tetley about to open his brewery, a real-life female preacher, and the world’s first locomotive able to carry loads. It’s currently available to order for £15.66 right here – definitely the cheapest price around.

Time to go back to being personally cheap…

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Step Back 200 Years And Meet The Real Leeds People Of The Hocus Girl

At the end of September the second Simon Westow novel will be published in the UK. Quite honestly, I believe it’s one of the best books I’ve written. The main story is a version of the William Oliver affair (you can Google it), shifted to 1822 and more taking place in Leeds than the West Riding.

But other threads in the book involve people who were really here at that time – Joshua Tetley, about to set up as a brewer as he bought a site just south of the river which had been Sykes’s Brewery.

There’s also Matthew Murray, a visionary who ran the Round Foundry, which made (among other things) the locomotive that hauled coal from the Middleton Colliery down to the staithe at the bottom of Salem Place, just by…the brewery. The special cog system in the wheels of the engine and on the rails was the idea of Peter Blenkinsop, the mine manager. He’s here, too.

As to hocussing, well, you’ll have to read the book and find out, won’t you? And isn’t that cover a thing of beauty (scroll down to the end)?

Come on, come and meet them. They’re waiting for you…

Across the bridge and through the people on Boar Lane to Mill Hill. Tetley’s occupied an old shop, bow windows on either side of a varnished door. A small bell tinkled as he entered. Inside, open sacks of malt stood against the wall, the smell so overwhelming that Simon thought it might choke him.

Small casks of brandy and bottles of wine stood on the shelves by the wall. He was catching his breath as a tall man emerged from a back room.

‘How might I help you, sir?’ A warm, pleasant voice.

‘I’m looking for Mr Tetley. Joshua Tetley.’

‘I’m Joshua,’ the man said.

‘Simon Westow.’

‘Good of you to call, sir.’

He was tall, with wispy brown hair and sideboards that started down his cheeks before fading away to nothing. Friendly, merry blue eyes.

‘My apologies, I know the scent can be a little intoxicating. I’ve spent too long around it to notice any more. Would you care for coffee, perhaps? Or tea? It will clear the taste.’

Simon coughed. ‘I’ll be fine. You said you needed my services?’

Tetley glanced down at the ground for a moment before he spoke. ‘I do. But a question first, if I might.’

‘Of course.’ Everyone had their own strange ways; he’d learned that over the years.

‘I’m considering buying a brewery. Sykes’s, on Salem Place.’

‘Then I wish you good luck.’ Most of the inns and taverns brewed their own beer, the way they always had. He’d seen any number of men try their luck as commercial brewers. Most only lasted a few months before closing their doors. Sykes was one of the very few who’d survived.

‘If I said I wanted you to investigate him and his business to find any weak spots, what would you say?’

‘I’d turn you down,’ Simon replied, and Tetley smiled. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

‘Good, very good. I wouldn’t want someone willing to stoop to that. We have a problem, Mr Westow. One of our clerks has vanished and he’s taken fifty pounds of our money with him.’

Quite a sum, close to a year’s wages for a clerk. ‘He could live for a long time on that.’

‘We want it returned. Quietly, though. No need for everyone to know our business.’

‘Of course.’ If people learned the firm had been gulled like that, their reputation would suffer. ‘And no prosecution, I take it?’

‘Just the money, Mr Westow. As much of it as is left.’

‘You’d better tell me about this clerk of yours…’

tetley

***

‘This is Mr Peter Blenkinsop from the Middleton coal field. He designed the cog system for the locomotive that allows it to pull heavy loads of coal.’

330px-The_collier

He was a burly man, with strong callused hands and a sharp face. Like Murray, another man who spent most of his time outside the office. Dark, intelligent eyes assessed him.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Simon said.

Murray rubbed his cheeks, looking like someone who craved sleep far more than riches.

‘Mr Blenkinsop has been very generous in the past, letting people sketch the details of the engine and telling them the specifications,’ he said. ‘So far, no one else has managed to duplicate our success.’ His mouth curled into a smile. ‘Of course, there might be one or two things we’ve chosen not to reveal.’

Blenkinsop laughed, a raw sound like a bark. ‘We’d like to keep it that way,’ he said. ‘Hold on to our advantage. You told Matthew this man had also been at the staithe.’

‘That’s right,’ Simon told him.

‘You’re sure it was him?’ Blenkinsop’s stare hardened. ‘I know there’s been someone who resembles the description.’

That was what Jane had said. He didn’t doubt her. ‘I’m positive.’

‘As you can tell, we’re taking this very seriously,’ Murray said. ‘I’ve had men here bribed to pass on secrets before. It happened a few years ago and it came close to ruining me.’ Memory turned him silent for a few seconds. ‘I’m not going to let that occur again.’

‘What do you know about this man, Mr Westow?’ Blenkinsop’s turn, his rough voice loud.

‘His name’s Whittaker. He’s the bodyguard for Curzon the magistrate.’

‘Is Curzon involved?’ Murray asked with alarm.

‘No,’ Simon answered. ‘I’m sure he’s not.’

‘We want him gone.’

‘Warned off,’ Murray said.

‘Gone,’ Blenkinsop repeated. He’d made his hands into fists, the knuckles white. ‘And we’ll pay you good money to send him on his way. I don’t care how you do it.’

‘Peter—’ Murray began, but the man waved his hand.

‘I don’t know what you imagine a thief-taker does,’ Simon said coldly. ‘But I find what’s been stolen and return it. I don’t kill for money.’

‘Then don’t. Get rid of him some other way. I just told you: I don’t care. Secrets aren’t worth a damned thing once they’re gone.’

‘We’re prepared to pay you one hundred guineas if you can keep our trade secrets intact from these men and send them on their way. The method is up to you. Is that arrangement agreeable to you, Peter?’

A grunt of assent from Blenkinsop. ‘Come and see me tomorrow.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Simon said. He could imagine Rosie’s eyes lighting up with greed as he told her the amount. ‘My methods. But in the meantime, make sure your men turn Whittaker away from the works – and the staithe, too. That will help.’

‘Of course,’ Murray said. ‘We’ll leave you to start your work.’

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