Events & News


It’s that time of year again.

Halloween is not such a big deal here in Europe as it is in the States, but there is an interesting crossover. The day after October 31st is The Day of the Dead, celebrated in many cultures with a visit to the graveyard, to pay homage to our ancestors. People picnic in cemeteries, light candles and sing songs, including the dearly departed in the party.

Spooky stories and chills up the spine are on my mind.

Last night, Herr Husband and I watched Dressed To Kill, directed by Brian de Palma, starring Angie Dickinson and Michael Caine. Entertaining, definitely. Dated, absolutely. Scary, not in the slightest.

This weekend, I ticked two psychological thrillers off my TBR list, in which the protagonists are not monsters, but perfectly ‘normal’ high-achievers with an obsession. Both very scary.

A brilliant friend introduced me to the concept of All Hallows Read, via the fabulous Neil Gaiman. On Oct 31, we’ll be at our local bookshop introducing stories instead of sweeties and setting light to imaginations. The team pooled our scariest favourites and some have haunted me for days.

When I was little, a book scared me so much I asked my mother to get rid of it. She agreed, concerned at my extreme tearful reaction. Convinced it was still in the house, I searched everywhere until I found it in the attic. I smuggled it out of the house and threw it on the bonfire.

While I recall what disturbed me so deeply, I can’t remember the title. Since then, I prefer to read books that thrill and chill but just as I’d rather not see certain images on screen, I’d prefer not to admit certain concepts to my head.

My favourite spooky stories leave gaps – enough for you to get scared, but not scarred. A few examples:

The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters

The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, by HP Lovecraft

Coraline, by Neil Gaiman

The Bloody Chamber, by Angela Carter

What are yours?

 

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Utrecht 2007

“Howzit? You got here, then?”

“Yes, Joop. I got here. At last.”

“Uh oh. Delays?”

“Right now I’m in a taxi from the airport. Not only did we leave Jo’burg three hours late, but I missed the transfer in Frankfurt and now we’ve just circled Schiphol for forty-five minutes, waiting for a slot.”

Only an asshole like Joop would think it a good idea to whistle into a cell phone.

“Joop, listen. I need to take a shower and eat something. After that, I want to crash.”

“Shit, man. That’s all you want to do? Friday night is jol night, but if you’re creamed…?”

Creamed? Where the hell had this guy learnt his English?

“There’s just one other thing I need.”

“No sweat. An SMS is on its way with the number of that agency I mentioned. It’s not cheap but you can feel the quality.”

“I appreciate that. Meet me in the foyer at ten on Monday, OK?”

“Don’t wanna do anything tomorrow?”

“I got plans, Joop.”

“See you Monday then. Sweet dreams.”

Asshole.

He watched the scenery, such as it was. Grey, flat and bleak, with the occasional windmill to make sure you were paying attention. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. The first of the day. Street noise left behind, he glanced up at what looked like some kind of institution in its own grounds. Classy and quiet. His kind of place.

Goede avond en onthaal. Welcome to Utrecht, Sir. We have good news for you. You have an upgrade today, to one of our Empire Suites. Please follow the porter.”

A second pleasant surprise. Plenty of space, working area, two TVs, and most importantly, a vast bed. He palmed the kid a coin, who left him to explore the room in peace. Throwing off his coat, he sat on the bed. Heavy linen, an excess of pillows and a firm mattress, which would be seeing some action in the next few hours, if Joop wasn’t exaggerating about that agency. The bathroom was massive, well-furnished with towels and little bottles of wife-pleasing potions. He made a mental note to throw some into his case. And a wall of mirrors behind the bath. Better and better. His mood started to lift. There was a message on the flat screen at the foot of the bed.

Mr van der Veld

Welcome to Grand Hotel Karel V

We hope you enjoy your stay.

Flicking to Bloomberg, he started to undress, while checking the screen for any significant currency movements. As he kicked off his shoes, he noticed the ice bucket and chilled Krug Grande Cuvée. There was a card.

With compliments of D’Arcy Roth.

That explained the upgrade. Nice touch. Unnecessary, as there was no-one else in the running, but it certainly put their potential client in the right frame of mind. So, a shower, a glass of Krug, order room service and put a call through to this agency. All needs met.

As he unzipped his case to find his toiletries bag, he heard a discreet knock at the door. He frowned. Unexpected visitors, including hotel employees who wanted to ‘turn down’ his bed, were not welcome. He pulled open the door and his frown lifted. The neat grey suit, official clipboard and pulled-back sleek blonde hair told him she was a hotel employee. The pale skin, drawn over fine bones and high forehead, grey-blue eyes and cherub lips told him she was more than welcome. He checked the name badge. Annelise Visser.

“Good evening, Mr van der Veld. My name is Frau Visser and I …”

“Good evening, Annelise. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand. A momentary flush before she recovered herself to shake it. He was well aware that conventions in the Netherlands dictate that one should use surnames in formal situations. He didn’t give a shit.

“I am the Senior Hospitality Director, sir. I am here to check that your suite is satisfactory.”

“The suite seems fine, Annelise, but I do have one concern.”

The smooth dome of her forehead contracted.

“A concern? What would that be, sir?”

“The champagne.” He pushed back the door and indicated the ice bucket. “Can I be sure this is top quality? You see, I’m used to drinking the best.”

“Sir, the champagne is a Krug Grande Cuvée, and was specifically selected by your company …” a glance at her clipboard. “D’Arcy Roth.”

“They are not yet my company, Annelise. They want me as their client. But if you’ll consent to taste the champagne with me, I guess we can agree that the suite is satisfactory.”

A proper blush now. He loved a blush on a blonde. Pink cheeks, pale skin reddened with warmth. He wanted to turn her over, pull down those panties and spank her right there. Raise some heat in those cheeks.

“Sir, I thank you, but I am on duty right now. Drinking alcohol would be inappropriate.”

“This is the hotel that ‘exceeds your expectations’, right?”

“Yes, but …” She laughed. “OK, I will taste the champagne. But then I am afraid I must go. I have to consider the needs of other guests.”

He didn’t reply, but gestured to the sofa. She sat, knees together, the grey skirt riding up slightly. The lamp behind her created a halo effect. An angel. He smiled as he twisted the cork. She was going nowhere. As the cork popped, he caught the overflow in a flute, with a loaded glance at her to see if she picked up on the image. She returned his smile, politely. He slid beside her and handed her a glass. Before he could propose a toast, she set her glass on the table.

“I’m sorry, sir. Champagne always gives me the hiccups. Would you mind if I take some water? I can get it.”

He placed a hand on her knee. “Sit still. You’re my guest.”

She jumped at the touch of his hand. And he still hadn’t made skin contact, as she wore pantyhose. He hated pantyhose.

In the mini-bar, there was an array of different waters. He grabbed a bottle of Evian and showed it to her. She nodded. Returning to his seat, he placed the water in front of her and raised his flute.

“To a very pleasant stay in Utrecht.”

She tipped her glass to his and looked at him. “To a pleasant stay in Utrecht.” She sipped at the fizz and closed her eyes. “Mmm. I don’t wish to prejudice your opinion, but in my view, that’s lovely.”

Her voice was soft, intimate and breathy. He wanted to hear her say those words again. Mmm, that’s lovely. Preferably as she drew her nails down his back. He hadn’t even registered the taste, but his glass was two-thirds empty.

“I don’t know, Annelise, the jury’s still out. Maybe the second glass will clinch it.” He refilled his and she didn’t stop him replacing the tiny sip she had taken. A good sign.

“Now, what time do you finish tonight, Annelise?” His tongue felt thick and his speech sounded slow.

She swallowed some water and caught a stray droplet with the tip of her tongue. Shit, he wasn’t sure if he could wait till later.

She avoided the question. “Why are you in Utrecht, Mr van der Veld? Is it just business, or pleasure?”

He took another slug and leaned towards her. He felt hot, horny and even a little drunk.

“Until five minutes ago, strictly business. But now, I’m not so sore.”

That struck him as funny, because he wasn’t sore at all. But he was as sure as he’d ever be. He started to laugh, but her eyes were looking into his, with intent. Was it too soon to …?

She smiled and reached for the bottle, refilling both glasses. Her voice was low, full of suggestion. He watched her lips.

“Have I satisfied your concerns regarding the champagne, sir?”

That was flirting. No doubt at all. His body felt warm and heavy and soft, with the exception of his cock, which hardened as she placed her hand on his thigh. She lifted the flute to his lips.

“Satisfy my champagne yet.” His lips buzzed and seemed to be slurring. It didn’t bother him. He felt euphoric, completely relaxed. This was turning out to be quite a hotel. Who needed an agency when room service was laid on? She dropped her gaze to his crotch and up to his eyes. Pupils dilated. She wanted him.

“I guess you wanted to freshen up before I arrived?”

He nodded, and managed to mumble the word, “Shower.”

“How about I run you a bath? More fun.”

No mistaking that. She moved to the wardrobe and opened the door. He tried to tell her the bathroom was behind the other door, but she’d already found it. He laughed again. You’d think the staff … He reached for his glass, barely able to lift it to his lips. His arms were leaden as hell and he felt fantastic. No idea if he’d be able to perform.

 

Here she comes. Pulling him to his feet, helping him undress, just like a nurse, what with the gloves and all. Easing him into the bath. Beautiful; soft hands, warm water. He sinks up to his chin, smiling. He can’t recall feeling better in his life.

She’s smiling too. And singing. He recognises the tune and tries to join in. He wants to touch her face but he can’t move. He’s happy, stroked and caressed by this beautiful woman.

The patterns are hypnotic. Crimson clouds twisting and swirling in the water. He watched as clear water loses the battle, dominated by red. She moves to the other side and turns his wrist, as if she’s trying to see what he has hidden in his hand. It’s funny and it makes him laugh. She’s not laughing. Her face is sharp with concentration as she draws the razor blade along his vein, from wrist to elbow. More red joins the fray, and the clear water doesn’t stand a chance. Now she smiles and puts the blade in his right hand. He can’t hold it and it falls into the redness. He watches it fall, helpless. He heaves his head up to look at her reflection in the mirror and attempts a smile.

It’s not working. He looks like an old dog with wind.

 

Behind Closed Doors is the first in The Beatrice Stubbs Series.

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(Yes, I usually only post once a fortnight. But yesterday was special.)

This piece comes about thanks to Helena Halme, an author friend who is trilingual and talented in every one of them.

Helena nudged me with a discovery – A Book and a Bottle

This is so perfect for your Beatrice Stubbs series!

I investigated. She was right. This initiative by Corney & Barrow with Damian Barr pair the right wine(s) with the perfect book.

Well, hello! Here are three reasons why I love the concept.

  • I have done a great deal of wine research and not just for personal consumption. Wine retailers, viniculturists and critics loaned me their expertise to ensure my wine references are accurate and pertinent.
  • Beatrice loves her food and wine, her neighbour is a wine merchant and one of the books is all about wine crime.
  • Our review site – Bookmuse – always suggests Ideal Accompaniments (food, drink, audio, ambience) along with our weekly book reviews.

So here are six books I can recommend with the perfect bottle to enhance your reading experience. Bottoms up!


Spirit of Lost Angels by Liza Perrat

Spirit of Lost Angels traces the journey of a bone angel talisman passed down through generations of women of L’Auberge des Anges. Amidst the tumult of revolutionary France, it is a testament to the courage of women facing tragedy, betrayal and insanity.

Best bottle: Fleurie, Domaine Lathuiliere Gravallon, Grand-Pré, 2015. Seasoned yet fresh, with some serious history.


Crimson Shore by Gillian E. Hamer

A half-naked woman dead in a ditch. A disappearing pathologist. A teenager run off the road. For a peaceful island, Anglesey is experiencing abnormal levels of crime. What’s the connection?

Best bottleRex Mundi Cuvée Cathare 2016 Full-bodied and rich, this is the Rolls-Royce experience and not for the faint-hearted.

 


Ghost Town by Catriona Troth

1981. Coventry, city of Two Tone and Ska, is riven with battles between skinheads and young Asians. They must take a stand. A stand that will cost lives.

Best bottle: A green wine from Portugal echoes human tensions but reminds us of communal celebration. Vinhos de Moncao Cepa Velha Vinho Verde Branco 2012.


The Rise of Zenobia by JD Smith

My name is Zabdas: once a slave; now a warrior, grandfather and servant. I call Syria home. I shall tell you the story of my Zenobia: Warrior Queen of Palmyra, Protector of the East, Conqueror of Desert Lands …

Best bottle: Muga Rosado 2016. It may look innocent, but do not underestimate something delicate that punches above its weight.


The Englishman by Helena Halme

Nordic Noir meets Scandinavian romance in this stylish 1980s love story.

Best bottle: Prosecco Romeo & Juliet. The effervescence of romance is light and inspiring.


And finally, one of my own.

Tread Softly by JJ Marsh.

“You don’t attract trouble. You go looking for it.” Beatrice is in the Basque Country and up to her neck in trouble and Rioja.

Best bottle: Beronia Blanco Viura 2015. A white Rioja. Once discovered, never forgotten.

 


 

Enjoy your wine/book adventuring and do come back with your own recommendations. Books plus bottles = bliss.

Chin, chin!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Good news for writers!

Creative Spark is back.

Starting Friday, Triskele Books is offering ten weeks of free writing exercises for you to flex your creative musculature.

For a little refresher, take a peek at last year’s content.

It’s all on the Triskele Books blog but I recommend starting with Week 1 – Emma Darwin and Story Fundamentals.

Terrific advice from the professionals.

Honest to goodness FREE – we don’t even ask you to sign up.

Now that is what you call generosity.

 

Good news for readers!

Behind Closed Doors, the first in the Beatrice Stubbs series, is currently £0.99.

One week only, folks! Signed paperback for anyone who gets the tie reference on the cover.

Or you could just avoid that horrible terror of running-out-of-things-to-read-on-holiday/vacation/Ferien/vacaciones/gwyliau/vacances and grab yourself the boxset.

That way you get Switzerland, Wales, London AND Spain all in one go.

Adventures all over Europe from the comfort of your own hammock.

 

Good news for Bookclubs!

Jane Davis, an exceptional author in her own right (I just managed to resist that pun – hello, Maturity) talks to authors about why their books would make great bookclub reads.

Jane’s works are classic examples of the enjoyable and discussable. Recently, she asked me why Bad Apples would work.

Read the post here but you may want to pour yourself a glass of red first.

(In the picture, that is water. Not gin.)

Incidentally, I visit bookclubs often and can also do a Q&A via Skype.

 

Good news for Cultural Connoisseurs

Follow your nose and root around on The Woolf.

I co-edit this Swiss-lit magazine which features artists, writers, tattooists, composers, performers, jewellers and all manner of creative adventurers.

Plus a Gallery like none other.

Plus original poetry, prose and performance.

Go exploring. I guarantee gems.

 

Till next post, in which I shall tackle a thorny issue – author ethics.

 

 

 

The reading at Waterstones. With huge thanks to Novel London

Jane Davis invited me to Virtual Book Club and asked why the Beatrice Stubbs books suit book clubbers. (The answer is wine, in case you’re wondering.)

http://jane-davis.co.uk/2017/06/05/virtual-book-club-jj-marsh-introduces-bad-apples/

Do check out Jane’s novels. They are a gift to the intelligent reader.

And Boxset Two is out now. Travel to Greece, Germany and Portugal without the stress.

https://www.amazon.com/Beatrice-Stubbs-Boxset-Two-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B071P8MW2T

Have a fabulous Sunday.

Is it me, or is there a whiff of optimism in the air?

Last weekend I flew to London.

My mission?

To launch Bad Apples.

On Friday evening, fellow author Debbie Young and I read extracts from our books at Waterstones Tottenham Court Road, organised by Novel London.

What a brilliant event!

Full house, lots of questions and smooth management by Safeena Chaudhry of Novel London and the Waterstones team.

For me, the best bit was rounding a corner and finding myself on top of Ian McEwan. #firsttimeforeverything

Debbie read from Best Murder in Show.

I read from Bad Apples.

We followed up with a Q&A chaired by superb compere Rohan Quine.

Books, literary people and wine. My idea of a perfect evening.

On Saturday, Triskele Books returned to one of our favourite venues, The English Restaurant, with two exceptional author friends for a quintuple book launch.

I had so much fun, sold out of books and loved catching up with my fellow authors and guests. This must be the tenth book event I’ve done and it was the easiest and most relaxing yet.

So that’s it. The sixth and last in the series is out there. I’m happy and elated, nervous and nostalgic even before I’ve got the first review.

Goodbye Beatrice. We had some great times in superb locations.

I’m going to miss you.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bad-Apples-Beatrice-Stubbs-Marsh/dp/3952479608

Pssst! For blog followers only.

Books 3-5 are bundled up in a brand new boxset.http://amzn.to/2ro4GWA

 

 

 

The final book in The Beatrice Stubbs Series is ready for preorder!

Ebook release: 26 May

Paperback: 3 June

Come along to hear me read, answer questions and sign copies with fellow crime writer Debbie Young on Friday 2 June at Waterstones, Tottenham Court Road. http://bit.ly/2qOn3zE

And here, an exclusive for my blog followers, are the first two pages of Bad Apples.

*****

Extract from Rogue by Anonymous

Bears, clowns, cats, butterflies, demons and angels cavort along the banks of the canal, dancing, laughing and twirling their capes in ceaseless balletic arcs. Music drifts through the night air from the square up ahead, growing louder and more frenetic as I approach. My feet stamp along with the beat.

A black and white chequered mask looms out of the crowd. Man or woman? I have no way of telling. It points directly at me and beckons. A strange force compels me forward. As if under a spell, I have no choice but to follow. The light-footed creature tiptoes onto a tiny bridge, stands in the middle, claps silently in time to the music then runs backwards, drawing its arms together, suggesting an embrace.

Aroused and afraid of losing sight of this hypnotic stranger, I cleave from the crowd and speed up, breaking into a run over the ancient stone edifice after the disappearing figure. A flash of white down an alleyway catches my eye and I give chase, my breath ephemeral clouds in the February chill. Moonlight barely penetrates these tiny backstreets, and when it does, merely illuminates skeins of gauzy mist rising from the Venetian waters, creating a theatrical dry ice effect. A whistle from above makes me look up.

The china-faced harlequin, high above me on a crumbling balcony, lit by an arcane street lamp, genuflects in an elaborate bow. I tilt my head back as far as it will go and stare up at the apparition. How did it get up there so fast? Impossible, unless whoever it is has wings. And how am I supposed to follow? I pace backwards across the deserted street until my back grazes the stone wall and fix my attention on the balcony – a stage no bigger than a dining-table – as the performance begins.

The harlequin spreads its arms wide, revealing the dramatic scarlet lining of its black and white cape. Each arm makes a sweeping gesture, once left, once right, acknowledging a vast imaginary audience. The head rolls in figures of eight, apparently seeking someone in the crowd. Then with catlike precision, the mask looks directly at me. One hand floats to its mouth and it blows me a kiss. I press my fingers to my mouth, offer them upwards and blow one in return.

The harlequin clutches at its heart with one hand; the other reaches out to snatch the kiss from the ether. The clenched fist remains in the air while the head is bowed in gratitude. Long hair, black as midnight, spills around the frozen features. This is a woman, I am now sure. With a slow, ritualistic gesture, the figure brings her fist to her mouth and raises her chin in ecstasy.

Once more the arms widen, as if receiving rapturous applause, and then the figure bows to the left, right and centre. She brings both hands to her painted mouth and blows an expansive kiss to her public. Her arms mime a giant heart shape as she embraces her watchers and holds them close. She repeats the gesture, her beautifully chiselled mask somehow evoking modesty, pride, love and passion without a single movement. The third time her hands return to her heart, they are no longer empty.

In the left, a single red rose, striking against the white diamond on the front of her cape. In the right, a handgun, aimed upwards beneath her chin. She kisses the rose and lets it fall from the balcony to the street below. I watch it tumble to the ground, its petals scattering on the cobbles. The shocking report of a gunshot whips my head upwards.

Against a blood-spattered backdrop, her body crumples over the stone balustrade. Long black hair dangles from the remnants of her blasted skull and the white diamonds of her cape turn dark. Something breaks at my feet. Her mask, cracked into shards. I lift one to the light. Her mouth, painted in a silent, frozen smile.

*****

Order your copy here:

Amazon

Smashwords

Kobo

Paperbacks will soon be available at all good bookshops.

PS: If you want one of the secret signed copies, get in touch.

 

 

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