 Road to the Soul – Kim Falconer
Journey By Night – Kim Falconer
Eona – Alison Goodman
Burn Bright - Marianne de Pierres
Angel Arias – Marianne de Pierres
 Open Secret: The Autobiography of the Former Director-General of MI5
Reviewed by: Janette Dalgliesh
You would expect an autobiography from Dame Stella Rimington, the first woman Director-General of MI5, to be fascinating. And you’d be right.
But perhaps not for the reasons you might expect.
This is not the licence-to-kill world of James Bond, even though Judi Dench’s “M” was apparently inspired by Rimington. This is the real world of a major secret service, seen through the eyes of a woman who worked “at the coalface” for many years, and who believes passionately in the importance of openness and effective communication.
As she puts it “excessive secrecy harms the position of our vital security services rather than protecting it”.
It’s also the world of a working woman, treading the familiar path of juggling career, husband, children and social change. But it’s a brutal and uncomplaining insight into the extra burden faced by a woman working for an idiosyncratic, secretive and—at least to begin with—antiquated secret service replete with eccentric characters, internal tensions and mind-bending bureaucracy.
Following the terrors of a childhood in the Blitz, Rimington did not start out with any concept of working in the secret services. She attained a degree in English from the University of Edinburgh and began a career as an archivist, demonstrating from the beginning a respect for accurate and well-managed information.
The path which took her from those everyday beginnings, via the restrictive life of a diplomatic wife, and on to the top position at MI5 is remarkable. Not because it’s full of conspiracies and secrets and danger and adventure—although there are plenty of those sprinkled liberally throughout —but because it’s the story of a real woman, with a set of experiences that most of us can relate to.
It’s true that most of us have not been forced out of our homes by an intense and poorly managed media circus, following the announcement of our appointment to a job. And most of us haven’t had to lie to our children about our work. But we can relate to the initial feelings of helplessness and frustration at seeing our loved ones impacted unfairly by our career choices. And we can relate to the moments of taking charge, to find the best solution available at the time.
And that’s what appeals so much about Rimington and her story. She has a quintessentially commonsense approach to everything, whether it’s an urgent call from her child’s school interrupting an important meeting, car troubles in Afghanistan or a sensitive first contact with a wannabe KGB defector.
Her loyalty to the democratic process, and her capacity to remain detached from any particular political ideology, shine through every page. But they don’t stop her from sharing revealing moments in her dealings with the leaders of the day. One of my favourite stories was the much-anticipated first visit by former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to MI5. No doubt Thatcher’s reputation as the “Iron Lady” helped motivate staff in ensuring everything was perfect for her arrival. But after all their hard work, Thatcher’s only concern appeared to be that her whisky wasn’t strong enough.
When Rimington joined the service in 1967, many of the old paradigms still existed. By the time she retired in 1996, she had been instrumental in triggering, implementing or overseeing many significant changes. With typical modesty, she credits many other people for those changes, but it’s clear that her presence and her actions over the years provided a major contribution.
 Rimington was the first woman permitted to undertake field work, and it was her cleverly subtle tactics which finally set MI5 on the path to gender equity in pay and conditions. As Director-General she successfully oversaw the publication of a small booklet about MI5 which revealed publicly, for the first time, details of the service’s activities, operations and duties. Behind the scenes, she was involved at senior levels during the long overdue legislative changes which created better accountability and controls for the service.
Perhaps the clearest demonstration of these major cultural changes lies in the area of recruiting.
In the earliest days of the secret service, born in 1909, and for many years afterwards, new staff were recruited via a discreet tap on the shoulder from someone already inside. In 1967, Rimington herself only discovered she was actually working for MI5 after she agreed to assist one of the First Secretaries at the High Commission in India with his office work. Not surprisingly, this approach to hiring staff resulted in a cloning of existing staff and a resultant intensifying of eccentricities and paranoia. In recent decades the system has been radically overhauled and the old boys’ club approach dissolved.
These days, of course, one applies to join MI5 online. I can’t help thinking Rimington would thoroughly approve.
If you’re looking for a spill-the-beans spy romp, this might fit the bill. Rimington certainly spills plenty of beans, not on operational details (which, as she points out, would put lives at risk), but on the deeper, far more important aspects of the secret service.
If you’re in the market for plenty of conspiracies, eccentricities, plots and counter-plots, and an intriguing insight into the mind-twisting machinations of government and the Civil Service, this would do very well.
And if you like a well-told insight into the very human lives of those who take responsibility, usually unknown and unheralded, for our safety—then look no further. This is the book for you.
 Location, location, location
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
I have a confession to make. I’d love to be a fearless traveller, jet-setting my way around the world, getting to know the intimate secrets of exotic cities and distant locations, trekking Nepal or riding bareback across Mongolia.
But the reality is, I like my pillow too much. I might talk it up big, but scratch the surface and I want five-star comfort, my own hire car, decent roads and an early night with a good book.
I’m not much of a traveller.
The good news is, I don’t have to be. I watch loads of documentaries that take me deep into remote rainforests, up impossible mountain heights and across windswept savannah. But my favourite way to virtual-travel, without a doubt, is between the pages of good crime fiction.
Location can appear so powerfully in crime fiction that it almost becomes a character in the story. For me, a strong sense of place is not essential in other kinds of fiction. As long as I have enough visual information to imagine the characters and figure out what they’re doing, it doesn’t usually matter what city or village or paddock they’re in.
But with crime fiction, that sense of place is enthralling. And without it, a book just won’t do it for me. Obviously that’s one reason I’m a fan of Tara Sharp, with her connection to the rarely-explored and rich variety that is Perth, one of my favourite cities in the world!
So why is location important? To begin with, from a purely practical point of view, the local legal system matters. Can civilians carry weapons? What powers do police or private investigators have? Are vigilantes accepted and encouraged? What other agencies – government or otherwise – might exist? Which drugs are legal, or at least decriminalised? How about prostitution? Bioethical issues?
At a deeper level, location provides a connection to the cultural and political landscape through which our heroes move, and the societal norms that prevail. What gender roles are standard? Are there tensions between the rhetoric of law-and-order and the reality of widespread corruption? Is there a war brewing, or are we in the aftermath of one? How are children viewed—as rare and precious beings, or a cheap and easy workforce?
Each of these can provide key narrative elements for a writer, in endless combinations.
But for me, the best part of a good location is the visceral, sensual flavour of it. The tiny details which bring a place to life. The crawling traffic. The hot dry dust. The frozen wastes. The malls and diners, the scrubby bush, the pubs and theatres and churches and brothels and dives.
Shane Maloney’s version of Melbourne is very like the real Melbourne that I’m familiar with, and he draws it for the reader with fine dexterity, backed up by excellent research. For his bumbling amateur detective, Murray Whelan, the political climate isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a crucial part of his life. Whelan connects with, and gets embroiled in, a variety of typically Melbourne sub-cultures. The older, darker forces of the union movement, the incestuous world of arts politics and the worst of sleazy sports corruption all come under the microscope—and they do it in ways that unmistakeably spell out “Melbourne”. This isn’t just about geography or the layout of a park; it’s about the soul of the place and I love to visit!
 Elizabeth Peters Amelia Peabody books have a similar effect on me, even though her Egypt is that of the 1890s through to the 1920s, now long gone. She takes us from the archaeological digs of Dashur, Amarna and Luxor, replete with heat, sand and musty, bat-filled burial chambers, to the filth-strewn back alleys of Cairo and the colonial extravagances of Shepheard’s Hotel. I know this is fiction, but it resonates with my childhood memory of the old Semiramis Hotel, where I stayed in an opulent suite with my mother, and our trip to the Great Pyramids. That faint echo between her fictional, historical Egypt and the Egypt of my own history, is sufficient to let me relax into the rest of her locations.
Alexander McCall Smith has written several different series of books, each set in different locations. The location I’m familiar with is Edinburgh, home to his 44 Scotland Street series. His description of “…the towering stone edifice of Warrender Park Terrace, with its giddy attic windows breaking out of the steep slate roofs…” takes me straight back my time in that city. I even lived in an apartment building up four flights of stairs, exactly as described in the first novel, 44 Scotland Street—right down to the musty smell in the flatshare bedroom. Ah, memories…
So it’s not surprising that when I read his No 1 Ladies Detective Agency books, I feel confident relaxing into his depiction of Botswana and the world of Mma Precious Ramotswe, where formality and good manners are the order of the day and the mysteries can as easily be a missing dog, a husband devoured by a crocodile or even suspected muti killings. It’s a wonderfully exotic and deeply foreign place for this white-bread, London-born, middle-class girl.
Janet Evanovich’s version of New Jersey, as seen through her Stephanie Plum series, is no less exotic. Although Plum is a product of “the burg”, a respectable, all-American, blue-collar corner of Trenton, she embraces the fact that crazy drivers, armed madmen, sticky heat and unbreathable air are all part of the landscape in Jersey. I suspect I’d find Plum’s Jersey utterly terrifying, but I love to visit through the pages of Evanovich’s books.
Perhaps one day I’ll get my travelling mojo on, and visit Botswana and New Jersey, and all those other places detectives do their thing. But for now when I catch myself jonesing for somewhere different, I’ll take myself off to fiction-land.
Where do you like to go?
 Any Schmo Can Do It
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
You don’t need to be a cop to catch the baddies any more. Well, to be honest, in crime fiction you never did—from Nero Wolfe to our own Tara Sharp, private investigators have been outsmarting both cops and crims for decades.
But I’ve never fancied the life of a PI, so I’ve been checking out other options. Here are my top picks.
Forensics
I could be a forensic anthropologist like Temperence Brennan from Bones, or perhaps one of the criminalists on CSI or a forensic pathologist like Megan Hunt from Body of Proof.
It seems that would let me interview suspects, wield a gun (even better if it’s comical), collect clues and get my hands on any amount of sexy high-tech gadgetry. Best of all, I’m likely to be surrounded by cops who just aren’t quite as smart as me, so I’ll get to explain the science to them in condescending tones, and that has to be fun.
We know that the real world of forensic science is far more exacting and less glamorous than fiction would suggest. But in the real world, forensics simply refers to any discipline being exercised in a legal setting, so there are any number of forensic possibilities as yet unexplored in fiction.
Perhaps there’s an opening for a series with a forensic accountant (Cashed Out) or a forensic astronomer (Death Stars)? Perhaps not.
Psychologist
Although the cops and other agencies have their own profilers, the real fun happens when you let the civilians loose on the scene.
There’s the expert who can tell when you’re lying, like Tim Roth’s wonderfully eccentric Cal Lightman in Lie to Me. With a dodgy past and a distinctly personal set of morals, he loves nothing better than to outwit the cops.
Or how about The Mentalist, reformed carnie and scam artist, played by Australia’s own Simon Baker. He can manipulate and second-guess his way through any case. But his recent success in catching—and killing—the man who murdered his wife and kids will land him in jail.
And all that walking around in a murderer’s mind can’t be fun. Poor old Cracker was a train wreck of a man, and I’m sure his job had something to do with it. No, that’s not for me either.
Amateurs
I’m using the old meaning of the word amateur, from the same Latin expression that gives us the word amorous, is “someone who does something for the love of it”. Amateur sleuths do it for the love of it, not in order to get paid or because they have another agenda (such as doing research).
Here we find Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey, pottering about the English countryside or the streets of London, investigating murders simply because they can.
Amelia Peabody fits here, too, along with her archaeologist husband Radcliffe Emerson. During expeditions to Egyptian digs, she and her family tumble in and out of murder, espionage and intrigue in a most satisfying way.
But the true amateur sleuth either has a job which supports and allows for their ratiocination (as Amelia would say); or has independent means. Which leaves me out of the picture.
Writer
Now that’s more like it! These are some of my favourite crime fighters—the WRITERS.
Jessica Fletcher kept the social order in Cabot Cove for many years, catching murderers left right and centre. And in Moose County, reporter and crime-writer Jim Qwilleran relies on the sixth sense of his Siamese cat Koko to help solve mysteries.
These days, bestselling crime writer Richard Castle (the gorgeous Nathan Fillion—pause for moment of fangirl distraction) has teamed up with cop Kate Beckett to keep murder to a minimum in New York City. In a dizzying display of circular promotions, a real novel entitled Heat Wave was released in 2009. The novel features a fictionalised version of the already fictional Castle (are you still with me?)—who enters into a partnership with Nikki Heat, the character inspired by (the fictitious) Castle’s own (fictitious) relationship with (fictitious) Kate Beckett. Now the (fictitious) Castle even has his own (real) website.
No, that’s all too complicated for me.
 Solution
I’ve got it! I’m simply going to let the sleuths and PIs and consultants and cops and writers do their jobs, while I kick back and enjoy from the comfort of my couch. I can even yell the solution at the TV screen when I figure it out before they do. Perfect.
Spectating Detective.
That’s the job for me.
 Celebrating the classics
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
Crime fiction is a relatively new genre, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have some glorious old titles. And because good crime fiction embeds us powerfully in the time and location of the story, those classics can give us a window into the author’s world, second to none.
I recently reread Dorothy L. Sayers’ wonderful Murder Must Advertise and it got me thinking. Sayers sweeps us into a world she knew well—the advertising industry in late 1930s London. It’s a long-gone world of newspaper ads and manual typesetting, where copywriters and artists quarrel over space on the page; where communications rely on freckle-faced messenger boys, and nourishment comes from the matronly charlady with the tea and cream cakes; where everybody is known as Mr— or Miss— and copywriters quote poetry expecting their audience to recognise it.
Raymond Chandler, by contrast, paints a dark picture of the America in which his characters roam: an urban jungle full of lethal men and femmes fatale, set against a backdrop of booze and sex and illicit highs. His language evokes more than simply time and place; it evokes a hard-edged and highly subjective view of life as lived by his narrator. That view has gone on, especially through film noir, to influence our view of mid-twentieth-century America.
And of course, Arthur Conan Doyle gave us characters completely immersed in Victorian England, replete with details of everyday life, in his classic Sherlock Holmes stories.
Time for a change?
But let’s face it, material written over a hundred years ago, or even fifty years ago, is bound to contain references that a new generation of readers may find incomprehensible.
Shakespeare has been paraphrased and adapted over and over, to make his narratives accessible to a wider audience. Is there now an argument for tweaking these classic stories?
Besides the obscure references, crime fiction from the past often contains material that can make us deeply uncomfortable.
Sayers’ early works include minor characters who use the N-word as a normal expression in everyday conversation—and nobody bats an eye.
Chandler’s heart-boiled detective Philip Marlowe is unremittingly homophobic, anti-Semitic and misogynistic. He frequently expresses a kind of shrugging acceptance of men’s violence towards women; even implies that the women often deserve it.
Holmes’ narrator, Dr Watson, is embedded in the militaristic colonial attitudes of his day, and doesn’t begin to question the rigid gender and class structures in which he lives.
Do I mind being made uncomfortable? In that red-hot moment, when the shock of the N-word or the casual acceptance of violence boots me out of the narrative—well, yes.
Yes I do.
Or maybe not…
But then I’m reminded, by that very discomfort, of how much our world has changed. We no longer see India as a rightful possession of Britain. We don’t nod in agreement when a man says he can see why a girl’s boyfriend would want to slap her. And most of us don’t use the N-word in casual conversation.
 With reprints of old works by authors long dead, the mechanics of cleaning up and modernising these classics would be easy. We’ve seen it done often enough in children’s literature, for reasons of language shifts, clarity and—yes—political correctness. But we’re not talking about impressionable three-year-old readers here. We’re talking about adults.
So no, not for me, thanks. I will fiercely defend my right to read or see or hear a work in as close as possible a form to the one its creator originally intended.
I don’t want my Michelangelo sculptures covered up with fig leaves; I don’t want my Raphael women to go on the airbrush diet. And I don’t want an editor or publisher to muck around with Doyle, Sayers or Chandler. I want to see their worlds the way they did, raw and juicy; and if that means I have to squirm at the occasional racist or sexist remark, I’ll put up with it.
What do you think?
Since publishers have the ability and the opportunity to clean up the language, cleanup the social agenda and politics of the protagonists, make the narrative clearer—should they? Or should they leave well alone, even if it means we have to look up the meaning of an obscure reference, or blush at our heroes’ antiquated attitudes?
 Byron Bay Writers Festival
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
The folks at Byron Bay really know how to throw a writers’ festival—relaxed, sunny, laid-back and all about connecting. This was my first time, and I think I’ll become a regular.
The Festival comprises a core three-day weekend, preceded by more extras than you could poke a stick at: a week full of amazing workshops, a day-long program for local high schools, a film premiere with Q & A, literary food events and a youth day. There is even a sculpture competition, with some fabulous pieces—my favourite was this gorgeous frock made entirely of book pages. Crinkly to wear, but you’d never be bored!
You can see the program for yourself, and you’d have to agree it’s pretty darned impressive for a town with a population of only 9,000. Attendees drive down from Brisbane and up from Sydney; and those of us from further afield fly in from all over the country and all over the world.
My Festival experience lasted a week, and I loved every minute!
I manage three fabulous workshops in the week before the Festival: Kim Falconer’s Bad Boys: Writing Dark Heroes to Die For; Jane Meredith’s The Last Taboo: Writing from the Sacred Realms; and the extraordinary Fiction Masterclass with MJ Hyland.
And then the fun really began on Friday.
The core Festival takes place in a huge area of open ground next door to the Arts and Industrial estate. Marquees of various size are dotted between the usual supply of food tents and discreetly placed portaloo bays. In addition to the various venues, there is a tiny artists’ market with about eight superb stalls, and I believe this may expand in future years.
Attendees can buy one-day passes or cough up for the whole three days—and that gives you access to absolutely everything on site. There are panel discussions, “in conversation” sessions, debates and interviews; and after each session the writers involved make themselves available at the special book-signing tent.
Some attendees plan their day to the second, poring over their program with highlighter at the ready, making a beeline to each session with furrowed brow and determined stride. I belong more to the “I wonder what’s on now?” camp, meandering all over the paddock looking for the next juicy titbits to gobble up.
With so much on offer, it’s inevitable that I missed far more than I experienced. Happily, the wonderful team at the Festival blog provided reports on many of the sessions I missed, including some wonderful encounters with crime writers Liz Porter and Michael Robotham. And ABC North Coast radio was on-site, recording many sessions which can be heard on their website.
My favourite highlights gave me a grab-bag of fabulous memories:
- Learning about the skill of pitching, by watching six authors practice their powers of persuasion in front of a panel of publishers—local writer and broadcaster Annette Malfording’s technique was masterful!
- Falling in love with Stephanie Dowrick’s eloquence on the subject of creativity, her own writing journey and the Divine feminine
- Watching Melbourne activist writer Benjamin Solah give it his all, with a fiery recitation of his spoken word piece Rhyme for Refugees at a poetry tent open reading
But in amongst this cornucopia of word-related abundance, what I’ll remember best is the sense of connection. This Festival is more than simply a collection of brilliant panels and sessions and workshops; it’s a community. A fairground full of people who love words—whether those words are used in ferocious political debate, to make us laugh, to explore strange universes, to sing, or to inspire our love of sensuous food—we came together to celebrate in a giant outdoor weeklong party.
I met up with writer, editor and publisher friends whom I know mainly online—that was to be expected, and was an unregretted reason for missing some fabulous sessions.
But here’s why I really love Festivals like Byron. I don’t suppose for a moment that the big urban Festivals like Melbourne and Sydney—great as they are—would afford me the opportunity to chat animation with Tim Ferguson, the benefits of shea butter with Traci Harding or a cure for jetlag with MJ Hyland.
In the end, it’s all about the people. That’s why it’s MY kind of Festival.
 Keeping it Real: it’s in his stars
Have you heard of Bruce Reynolds? No? What about the Great Train Robbery? How about Ronnie Biggs? Now, that name strikes a chord!
What made him so famous? More interestingly, what made him happy to seek out fame, even notoriety, in a situation where most of us would probably keep schtum?
The Great Train Robbery
The Great Train Robbery was the biggest haul of its kind for a century, netting the gang a whopping £2.6 million in 1963 (around £40 million in today’s money).
Ronnie’s role in the robbery was relatively minor. He was to provide and handle the gang’s own train driver, who would move the entire train to the siding where the haul would be unloaded. But it turned out that Ronnie’s hand-picked driver was a dud; he couldn’t drive that particular type of engine. By any standards, Ronnie’s train-robbing skills were dubious.
Why so famous?
Yet Ronnie is the one everybody remembers. Bruce Reynolds, who allegedly masterminded the entire plot, is relegated to relative obscurity, though he did eventually write his own version of events.
Ronnie first hit the public eye when he escaped, first to Australia and then to Brazil, where complex extraditionlaws kept him safe from Scotland Yard. At this stage, you’d think a bloke still on the lam might duck for cover.
But not Ronnie. Not only did his house become a regular stop for tourists, where he’d regale them with (probably exaggerated) stories of the Robbery; he even recorded a hit single with members of the Sex Pistols.
He wrote a handful of books about his experiences, and has had copious numbers of books written about him; in fact, an Amazon search on “Ronnie Biggs” nets a list of books long enough to keep even me going for months.
And when he finally returned to Britain in 2001 to seek medical treatment, he continued to make public statements through his son, Michael.
He was clearly not a man to shy away from the public gaze.
But why was Ronnie so keen to keep coming back to the glare of the spotlight? Could it simply be part of a self-created ongoing mini-industry, creating income around his bad behaviour of so many years ago? Or was there more to it?
What the stars reveal
Having recently taken up the study of astrology—especially in relation to an individual’s psychological makeup—I wondered if Ronnie’s natal chart (the position of the planets at his birth) would be revealing. Without knowing the exact time of his birth, there’s a limit to what we can ascertain; but even a basic chart is revealing.
Ronnie has not only his Sun, but also his Mercury, in Leo.
Our Sun sign is the one we all read in the Sunday papers, the one we mention when someone at a party says “what sign are you?”. It’s our centre of consciousness, a key to what will make us truly happy. And Mercury, messenger of the gods, influences our mental processes and the way we think about things.
What does this mean for Ronnie, to have these two major planets in Leo?
Leo LOVES the limelight. Leo is a fire sign, a sign of taking the initiative. Leo is all about self-expression and ego-fulfilment. Leo makes the statement “I WILL”.
Someone with this much Leo in their chart could never be truly happy living the quiet, hidden life. Of course, being a Leo didn’t have anything to do with Ronnie choosing a life of crime; but I think it made a big difference to HOW Ronnie lived that life.
 Where is he now?
People in Britain still either love him or hate Ronnie. I think if he’d retired quietly into obscurity, nobody would have cared much either way. But Ronnie was drawn to fame like a moth to a flame, often thumbing his nose at the establishment.
How about you? Have you forgiven Ronnie Biggs for his bumbling role in that long-ago heist; or do you think he did the crime, so he should do the time regardless of how late in life? Or has Ronnie’s Leo energy finally run its course, leaving him at last to decline quietly into an obscure old age?
 Reality is a fluid concept.
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
Time goes fast or slow, depending on whether you’re waiting for a hot date or the dentist. Football’s the best game in the world, if your team is winning; otherwise it sucks. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. And so on.
Add the word “TV” and you’re in a-whole-nother Bizarro World universe.
I’m not talking about peer groups sharing big houses, or competing cheflings who make us go “awwww”—strange as these shows may be. I’m talking about the love-child of documentary and current affairs—the ride-along.
You know the genre: we tag along as the cops/border guards/customs officers/dog handlers do their thing. And we get to peek at what really goes on, out there in Law Enforcement Land.
A notable veteran of the genre is COPS, broadcast in Australia on Network Ten’s sports channel, ONE. According to ONE, it’s “a long-running, popular reality show documenting real cops as they do their jobs”.
So how “real” is real? COPS was the subject of a research study which asked that very question, by analysing 50 hours of programming to see how race and gender are depicted in the show.
We learn a lot about the USA from our screens. If I’d been relying on this show to learn about the USA, here are the top three “facts” I’d have gleaned:
- USA is a very dangerous place
Crimes in the States come in two types: UCR Part I (murder, forcible rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, larceny/theft [over $500], motor vehicle theft and arson) and UCR Part II (everything else). In the 50 hours of COPS analysed, a massive 54 percent of crimes shown were UCR Part I. That’s approximately double the actual national crime stats.
- Boys rule…
… across the board, apparently. Most cops in the show are male—in 50 hours of programming there was one lone female police officer. And apparently women rarely perpetrate crime—four female offenders appeared in total: all white, and mostly involved in DUI, animal offence or alcohol related crime. There were no non-white women at all. Hm.
- Black guys are the worst
OK, I totally cringed as I typed that and I’m sure you cringed reading it. Of course they’re not! But a whopping ninety-three percent of the African-American individuals in COPS appear in the “role” of offender. It’s not much better for Hispanic individuals, with eight-three percent shown as offenders. Yikes.
 But we know it’s not real
Do we?
This is the question being asked by more and more researchers. It’s well-established that most people get their information and—more importantly—form their opinions about law and order from watching current affairs, news and reality TV shows.
The depiction of crime has a significant impact on public opinion; which in turn impacts on public policy.
Producers of these series claim that they simply choose the stories based on what will make “good TV”. But do producers have a responsibility to reflect accurately the reality of policing—for example, that women do have a significant role on both sides of law and order; and that there are plenty of white baddies and non-white good guys?
What do you think? Do you watch this genre? Do you question what you’re shown? Does it influence your opinions on law and order? Tell us what you think.
Disclaimer: I am a complete sucker for the dog handler shows. Just sayin’.
 Top TIps On How Not To Be A Fictional Victim
Article by: Janette Dalgliesh
You could be forgiven for thinking the world is a dangerous place. But I have some ideas that will help!
Get fussy
Feeling safe means that I’m more confident and assured when I’m out and about—and that in turn makes me less of a target. On my first trip to Rome, I read that pickpockets only target tourists who stand around looking lost. I strode about the city as if I owned it, and never had a problem. That attitude has stood me in good stead ever since. But we all see the world through our own personal filter, and if that includes endless TV news stories of muggings and assaults, it can make us very nervous.
So my Number One strategy for feeling safe is to be picky about my exposure to TV news and current affairs. It’s normal for media to focus on bad news stories. But last year, local networks in my home town didn’t do a single story on the 98.77 percent of the population who weren’t victims of “crime against the person” (assault, murder, rape etc).
It’s easy to forget that not experiencing crime is the norm by a long shot. No wonder we get stressed!
But if giving up your nightly dose of TV news is too hard, how about following my easy tips to avoid becoming a crime statistic?
Location, location, location
Obviously you must never, ever move to Midsomer County in England, despite the bucolic beauty of the scenery. Its appallingly high body count is enough to warn you off.
Longstanding crim-catcher extraordinaire, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby (John Nettles), has passed the ball to the safe hands of his cousin, John Barnaby (Neil Dudgeon), also conveniently a DCI . If you DO get murdered, you can rest assured your killer is bound to be caught. But it’s not much consolation, is it?
Even Tom displayed wariness about moving to one of the local villages, recalling the grisly murders associated with every village that his wife Joyce suggested in a discussion about relocating.
Incidentally, Midscomer County is not to be confused with poor old Midsomer-Norton near Bath, which appears to have roughly the national UK average crime rates.
Tip: You might also want to exercise caution before moving to Cabot Cove, Smallville or Eureka. Thankfully Sunnydale was obliterated, so there is one less risky area to move to.
 Witness
If you happen to see someone doing something naughty, don’t waste time. I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s worth saying again: never ring the detective (especially in front of the murderer) and organise to meet later in a dark, lonely spot. Madness!
Also, don’t tell everyone in the village pub or the local bar that you know who did the deed, and for heaven’s sake don’t try and blackmail anyone. It never works. Ever.
Tip: If it’s a copper who’s the baddie, you’ll need to move to an Amish village and hope that Harrison Ford gets there in time.
Friends
If you must befriend a homicide detective or amateur sleuth, please do your due diligence. If the name is Barnaby, obviously run like mad (see aforementioned advice regarding Midsomer County) and it’s probably best not to get to know members of the family. In any case, do check how frequently the friends, relations or acquaintances are murdered (or, in a popular twist, arrested for murder).
Sadly, the same goes if you wish to befriend crime writers. This is especially true if the name is Fletcher, but you still might want to exercise caution with other literary types.
Naturally if the writer’s name is Marianne this recommendation does not apply, and such excellent people may be welcomed into your circle of friends without hesitation.
(But of course, I would say that….)
In essence, my approach is to exercise sensible caution and avoid getting too caught up in so-called reality (or at least, the tabloid version of it). What’s your top tip for being safe?
with Janette Dalgliesh
Top Crime Myths
I’m a placid soul, and I know crime on TV is supposed to be escapism. But that doesn’t stop me wanting to throw a brick at the screen when stories get the simple stuff wrong. Dear writer, is it too much to ask? Here are my top five crime myth peeves:
24 hour wait
Scene: Wife turns up dead after not going home the night before. Detective scowls: “Did you report her missing?” Distraught husband sobs: “I called but missing persons said I had to wait.”
The 24-hour waiting period isn’t universal, even in the USA. In many cases, circumstances would be assessed before dismissing a concerned relative. And in Australia, there is no waiting period for reporting a missing person. If you don’t know where someone is and you have concerns about their safety, you report them straight away. Scriptwriters who reinforce this myth need their wrists slapped.
Sex before science
Scene: Luxe hotel room, blood everywhere and a corpse on the floor. The forensic expert arrives, long hair waving in slo-mo, and proceeds to collect samples protected only by a pair of latex gloves.
I love the forensics sub-genre, to the point where I can forgive its many myths. But this one really gets my goat. UK drama Silent Witness at least pays lip service to the notion of protecting the integrity of a crime scene, with the gorgeous Emilia Fox happily donning baggy disposable coveralls and bootees to do her job. But according to CSI – the biggest franchise in the pack – as long as scientists have their trusty gloves, they can shed hair, skin and clothing fibres to their heart’s content. Grrr.
Instant results
Scene: the forensic lab (yes, again – promise I’ll move on after this). Our sexy scientist prepares her samples in a montage of serious-forehead and shiny equipment. And look! Within minutes of putting the sample into the machine with the to-die-for graphic design – a match!
The science of DNA fingerprinting has been developing and improving for many years, since its first court appearance in a UK immigration case in 1985. While it’s true that the tests are much faster than they used to be, most times the lab work and subsequent analysis and reporting requires more than an ad-break to complete. And it’s rare that DNA evidence comes in the neat package most forensics shows would have us believe. And this could be having an effect on real court cases.
In 2004 a Peoria, Illinois jury let off an alleged rapist because the DNA evidence presented by the prosecution – his saliva on her breast – didn’t match their expectations of forensics.
Witnesses are dumb
Scene: detective gets a phone call from a witness, who whispers “I can’t tell you over the phone… meet me tonight…”. And you know they’ve signed their death warrant.
Really? Witnesses the world over are all calling the cops, and conveniently timing it so they’ll be killed before they can pass on their all-important information? This isn’t a myth about the legal system or the process of investigation, but it’s a myth about what’s likely. Midsomer Murders is a particular offender with this annoying narrative device, though it doesn’t stop me watching (albeit with iPhone game or laptop handily in reach).
Wire me up
Scene: a sympathetic suspect agrees to a lie detector test, and the results prove she didn’t do it. Woohoo!
We love the idea that the bad guys can be caught out, or the innocent exonerated, by a machine. But in the real world, lie detector tests only work on some of the people, some of the time. In the USA, each state has different approaches to the admissibility of these tests, while in Europe, they’re generally not accepted by the courts. Here in Australia, only NSW has made a specific ruling on the matter, also finding the tests not admissible.
Happily, lie detectors in crime fiction are increasingly depicted as having a purely investigatory role, which is closer to the real world. I’ve even seen scripts that discuss the unreliability of the tests.
Perhaps this is a sign that given enough time, writers of crime do eventually let go of their favourite myths. Perhaps all I need to do is wait.
What’s your favourite peeve? Feel free to share!
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