Authors as investigators, by Elizabeth Kay

How many authors have fancied themselves as detectives? The ones who love to second guess the plot of a TV series – not just whodunnit, but who missed that vital piece of evidence that was staring them in the face? And furthermore, which character is going to spot it, and what are they likely to say? But it’s not just the hypothetical. Every once in a while an occasion for subterfuge crops up, and authors are not above doing a sly bit of investigation themselves – and, on the whole, being pretty good at it.

Some years ago now an old friend of mine married someone who turned out to be very bad news. Her choice of men had always been questionable – what I’d call presentation over content – and Jock Campbell rang alarm bells. Perhaps she should have known better. He was a habitual liar, something she and I had been quite creative about at school. “You’re late again, Elizabeth.” “The bus got stuck behind a steamroller, Miss.” Whatever you’d done Jock had done it a bit better. After a programme on Scottish Wildcats he said he’d had one as a pet, when its mother was run over. A visit to the British wildlife Centre told another story.  

The Scottish Wildcat is the only cat in the world that has never been tamed. When the Romans arrived in Great Britain they assumed they’d be able to use them to protect their grain stores. Think again. They had to import cats from Egypt – and when I witnessed a keeper who went into feed one being stalked with serious intent by something a fraction his size, I could see why. The long boots were not just decorative.

When Jock found out I was a writer he gave me one of his stories to read. As at the time I thought he was an Oxbridge don I read it, whilst wondering what subtle sub-plot I must have missed. He could spell and punctuate, and was not stupid. My suspicions increased when he said he never paid any attention to editors; either they bought the story as he’d written it, or they didn’t get it at all. All his stories were published in the US, in a magazine that existed but wasn’t available in the UK. When he answered the phone one day I said, “You’ll never guess what Jock, I was in the dentist’s waiting room the other day, and they had some back copies of American magazines. And one of your stories was in it!” He sounded doubtful so I added, “Oh, come on, there can’t be two J. Campbells writing for them.” If I’d said Jock Campbell I suspected he’d have smelt a rat, but this was far too an enticing a bait to resist. He asked me what it was about, so I gave him the plot of one of mine. “Oh yes,” he said, “that was mine.”

Gotcha. I never told him, but from then on I didn’t believe a word he said. If he worked for six months of the 20-odd years they were married I’d be surprised. I knew the name of the college at which he’d supposedly taught, and when a mutual friend confirmed that he’d been a porter there for a while it explained how he sounded so plausible. So I went to the college and said I was arranging a surprise birthday party for him, and would like to get in contact with some of the people with whom he’d worked. They were only too delighted to help, so I gave his name and the years I knew he had been there. But when I tried to follow it up I was met with an impenetrable brick wall, so I think he left under a very dark cloud.

A long time ago a friend of mine was having a fancy dress party. I suspected my first husband was having an affair with her, so I said I wasn’t going and husband headed off on his own. I did the full Polynesian islander bit, with a wig and a lot of face paint, and turned up with another friend by a different route. Sure enough the two of them were being far too friendly. Red faces all round when they realised who I was.

In the early days of the internet I was interested to see how much I could find out about a twelve-year-old fan, as information about children was meant to be sacrosanct. From just her name and the fact that she lived in the US I was astounded to realise I could find her address, her father’s occupation and place of work, her birthday and her school. That was fifteen years ago, and things are a lot more secure these days. I think. But sometimes all it takes is a bit of imagination and a lot of persistence.

Sometimes investigating something can be a matter of luck – being in the right place, and finding the right person. I started a book during lockdown, which featured rhino poaching. I researched it on the web, but when I went on holiday to Namibia last summer I thought I would ask my guide what he knew about it. Far too much, was the answer. For ten months he had run an anti-poaching unit. Until he couldn’t take it any more – he ended up with PTSD and he is probably the toughest man I have ever met. He said he’d only talk to me about it on my own, rather than in front of the rest of the party, and on condition I didn’t refer to any of the names he mentioned. 

His stories were harrowing, shocking, enraging, and I can’t publish half the information he gave me. But what it did give me was a first-hand account of who gets punished (the guys from the nearest village who are trying to feed their families), those who don’t (the middle men who are people in authority who can facilitate illegal exports) and those who encourage the trade in the first place (the mega-rich from countries that think rhino horns are status symbols, or still believe that matted hair in the shape of a phallus can be an aphrodisiac). Yes, I got lucky with where I happened to be and who I spoke to. But I can’t get some of those images out of my head, and they’re the stuff of nightmares.  Be careful what you investigate.