Historical Crime Fiction – March competition results, adjudicated by Claire Gradidge

It was wonderful to welcome Claire Gradidge back as a speaker and hear about her two new crime fiction books. Claire kindly took the time to adjudicate the competition presented a signed copy of one of her books to the winner. Claire set the competition brief to be:

Write a 300-word crime fiction scene in which the body is discovered.

And the winners are…

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First Place: Midnight in the Medina by Peter Duncan

This is a superb opening scene of what should definitely be a longer story! The description of the exotic setting is achieved with clever and sparing use of proper names and well-chosen details to evoke the night-time medina. I was drawn into the action right from the start. The patrolmen are differentiated in their dialogue and by their actions, and I felt the tension and the reality of their progress through the cityscape. The discovery of the body – and its significance – is well crafted, increasing rather than lessening the intrigue of the piece. There is a strong writing voice/style at work here – I’d absolutely like to read more of ths story!

Claire Gradidge

The two patrolmen left Djemaa el Fna with its hawkers and hustlers, its incessant drums and wailing pungis and smouldering fires, and headed towards Mellah, where the disturbance had been reported.

The alley through this part of the medina stretched into shadowed distance. It was utterly deserted. Even the blind beggar normally huddled outside the laundry had abandoned his spot. They passed the laundry’s shuttered front and the smell of fresh linen mingled briefly with scents of cinnamon and cumin from the closed-up spice store opposite. Then the stink of human effluent, which gripped the city constantly like an illness, returned once more.

‘And what are we supposed to do?’ Sharif, the younger man, reached to check his revolver was still in its holster. He was a rookie, from a more ordered city somewhere in the north. He despised the chaos of this place, yet at the same time was frightened by it.

‘We check out this supposed disturbance, then it’s back to base. Neighbours having a tiff, most likely.’ The older man, Harak, spat at a pile of rotting fruit, still annoyed by being dragged from the messroom’s comfort close to midnight.

Sharif’s radio squawked. He jumped. ‘It must be around here somewhere.’ He spoke too loudly, trying to hide his alarm.
‘There.’ Harak pointed towards a narrow passageway, its entrance barely illuminated by a single weak lamp. Unclipping his torch, he edged into the darkness.

Sharif gulped, then followed.

Halfway along was what seemed like a pile of rags. Harak shone the torch. A lifeless face stared back up. The patrolman recoiled.

‘What-? Who-?’ Sharif stammered.

‘Trouble, that’s what,’ Harak said, recovering himself.

‘Trouble?’

‘You don’t recognise him?’

Sharif hardly looked at the inert face. ‘No, who-’

‘Youngster, this is our inestimable Mayor. The Mayor of Marrakesh.’

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Second Place: Not Exactly What I Meant by Howard Teece

This piece makes great use of dialogue to reveal the story – a wife finding sexy lingerie in her husband’s underwear drawer. By using dialogue to ‘show not tell’, the writer allows room for the reader to interpret/imagine the interaction between the characters. The relationship between the suspicious – but somewhat naïve – wife and the defensive – and secretive – husband is effectively conjured up in a very short piece of writing, which stands up as a complete piece. This was a creative use of the prompt for this month’s competition, and while it wasn’t exactly the ’body’ I was expecting, I loved the clever approach!

Claire Gradidge

She held it between the tongs normally used when barbequing.

‘What, in the name, is this?’

Black. Skimpy. Feminine.

‘Because it sure as shit isn’t mine.’

No.

‘Is it yours?’

Umm.

‘No. You’re not a size 10.’

Well.

‘Not even a US 10. Whatever that means.’

‘That’s a–’ I said.

‘I don’t care. It’s tacky. Tawdry.’

‘It’s silk.’

‘Well, there’s a relief. Not being polyester means it’s biodegradable. Chinese?’

‘It’s British.’

‘Up the workers.’

‘Made in Hampshire, supporting local charities.’ Which sounded weak.

‘And that makes this better?’

‘I…’

‘Me finding some lingerie—in your underwear drawer—when I’m putting your pants away? YOUR pants.’

I studied my slippers.

‘Who is she?’

‘No. It’s not–’

‘WHO. IS. SHE?’

‘No–’

‘Oh, Christ. Tell me it’s clean. Tell me I’ve not been putting fresh laundry in with something soiled.’

‘It’s clean.’

Which deflated her. Slightly.

‘So, explain to me, me having found a silk body with your skivvies, why the police won’t find your body with the fishies?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘You remember saying how pleased you were with your weight loss, but that you no longer had anything nice that fitted?’

I looked up and soldiered on. Best to die in battle.

‘So, I saw it, and thought: British-made, silk, your size. In US, weirdly. But after I got it, I realised: Hang on, who is this for, exactly? Isn’t it a bit… sad? At our age? So I got you that book.

‘Anyway. I didn’t know what to do with it. So I hid it in a drawer bottom, hoping you wouldn’t find it, and I could return it.’

I swallowed.

‘Take it back?’

I nodded.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ she said, grinning.

I smiled back.

I didn’t have a receipt.

Every man needs a hobby.

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Joint Third Place: Money by Sam Christie

The opening of this piece is effective and engaging. There is enough intrigue to draw the reader in without being obscure, and the imagery works well to describe the lonely, rarely-visited forest scene. The story felt plausible throughout, and while the ending is left unresolved (if intended as a complete piece in itself), it could work well as the opening scene of a longer story too. I enjoyed reading this – a super piece of writing!

Claire Gradidge

It was a moth-eared waxed hat and a sudden gust that had drawn me to the car.

Had it not been for the fact that I was sick of losing everything and constantly being down on my luck, the BMW saloon, wedged into a steep and obscure ravine, covered by looming larch branches and angular shoulders of rock, might never have been discovered.

It was about fifty metres down from the forestry road; not exactly sheer, but steep enough to make it one of those places that you might measure footfall in decades rather than days.

As for the hat, I’d picked my way down over mossy humps, hefted over fallen tree trunks and slipped on glassy rock. When I finally reclaimed that cursed sentimental bonnet, I just happened to notice a black monolithic sheen under a branch a bit further down and the incongruity drew me in. The glass had started to develop a patina; a green spreading growth that almost seemed alive.

The car was top of the range. You can tell these things by those little augmentations: a thinner yet wider tyre, a curve or bump that almost mirrors the forest it was wedged in. It was a car driven by someone who was a consultant in some way and who might wear one of those mobile phone earpieces even on their day off.

I reached for the passenger door. Just about possible. I should have imagined further than I did, because I hadn’t expected to see anyone inside, but of course, there was a corpse at the wheel.

He was beyond the stink stage, I mean, the car smelt musty but not rotten. He was in pricey sports clothes; Adidas.
There was a bag. Holdall full of money. I weighed the wedges. All fifties.

I had my hat.

Call the police!

I paused, flicked the bundles of money and made the biggest decision of my life.

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Joint Third Place: Wednesday Morning by Kim A Howard

This piece – which could work as a self contained flash fiction – makes good use of the unusual second person narrative form. This engages the reader in the action and gives a true sense of jeopardy to the ending. Who is the dead father’s mysterious visitor and will the narrator escape his father’s fate? Readers are cleverly invited by its structure and form – from almost within the point of view of the narrator – to imagine the outcome for themselves. A really effective piece of writing – well done!

Claire Gradidge

The day starts like any other weekday during term time. You get everyone up, dressed, fed and out the door, more or less on time. You drop the kids at school, then head into town to run errands. You do the light stuff first – bank, chemist for Dad’s prescription, pet shop for worming tablets. You’ve made good time, so you treat yourself to a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle cake at the local café.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jeans. You pull it out and check. It’s a message from Dad. He’s had a call from an old friend who may come to visit. Could you pick up something at the supermarket so he can offer his guest something more than tea and a digestive biscuit. You smile. Dad writes a text just as he would a letter to The Times, including correct spelling and punctuation. You send a brief acknowledgement and say you’ll be with him before lunch. You dab the last crumbs from the plate and lick them from your finger. Time to get back to your chores.

The supermarket is quiet, as it usually is on a Wednesday. You collect your groceries, not forgetting Dad’s fancy nibbles, get through the check-out with no hitches and go back to the car. Your shopping goes in the boot, Dad’s on the passenger seat beside you, and you drive to your childhood home.

You call out as you open the front door. There is no answer, but no wonder. The radio is broadcasting a discussion show at full volume. Dad is in his carver chair at the kitchen table, his back to the hallway, his face to the window and the garden beyond. You don’t suspect a thing, but then you see the rope at his wrists and ankles. You race forward and stretch out your hand. You see the blood. You hear laughter. You run

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Highly Commended: A Striking Discovery by Damon L. Wakes

This piece is a humorous story with a good twist at the end. A take on a hard-boiled (!) crime, a clever use is made of names and images which play on the genre and give a sweet twist to the end. Perfectly crafted to be a complete piece in its own right, this is a flash fiction which comes to a very sticky end!

Claire Gradidge

“You’re sure it’s locked from the inside?”

“Far as we can tell.” Officer Donut shrugged. “That’s why you’re here. The chief felt it would be wise to get your perspective on the matter.”

Bubble Gumshoe inspected the rusting steel doors of the old gelatine warehouse. The docks of Sugar City were rough: especially at night. Anyone inside was in deep trouble, or deep-sixed.

“You didn’t want to crack it open before I got here?” she asked. She might have had a crisp sugar shell, but deep down she was a softie.

“I’ve got a .38 revolver and a packet of cigarettes. Unless you’ve got a blowtorch under your trenchcoat, we’re still waiting on SWAT.”

Bubble Gumshoe took a closer look at the door.

“No blowtorch,” she said, “but I’ll take a cigarette if you’re offering.”

Officer Donut sighed, then tapped one of the chalky candy sticks out of the pack and dropped it into her hand.

Bubble Gumshoe grabbed a sheet of newspaper from a nearby garbage can and slipped it under the door. Then she stuck the cigarette in the keyhole, giving it a quick shove inwards with her palm. There was a soft, metallic “thunk” from the other
side.

She pulled the newspaper back, picking up the small key that had fallen on it.

Then she popped the cigarette in her mouth and the key in the door. Turning it with a flourish, she gestured for Officer Donut to enter.

“Oh, for—” Officer Donut drew his revolver and shouldered open the door.

“POLICE!” he yelled.

Then he went very pale.

There was a brief, silent moment before he doubled over, spewing strawberry jam all over the floor.

Bubble Gumshoe peered around the doorframe. The first thing she noticed was a large scattering of boiled sweets strewn about the room. Then she cast her eyes up, and spotted the battered cardboard and crepe paper form dangling from a roofbeam.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Somebody whacked Jimmy Piñata…”