The Pact has been long-listed for the Crime Writers’ Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger, awarded annually for the best thriller published in the English language.

Lacey Flint fans will know that Lacey has very few possessions (nothing she can’t pack up in a hurry for a quick getaway), a fact Joesbury remarks upon the first time he sees her flat. A short while later, after she nearly drowns in the Thames (read the book!) he sends her one…

“Joesbury hadn’t been back to visit since that first morning, but the next day, an anonymous parcel arrived from a German company called Steiff. Inside I found a brown cuddly toy with a bright red bow and an impossibly cute face. I had a teddy.”

Steiff teddy bears are a luxury gift, never to be wasted on young children, but Lacey fans who pre-order The Dark have a chance to win one of their very own. Simply follow the link HERE and post proof of pre-ordering. You’ll be entered into the draw.

Competition closes a minute before midnight on 25 May 2022.

Five minutes after Megan drove away in Felix’s mother’s car, leaving her shattered friends behind in the pool house, she knew she’d made a dreadful mistake. On a blind bend, she stopped, oblivious to the danger of oncoming traffic. She was actually contemplating turning around, driving back to Talitha’s house and telling them no, she wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t sacrifice her entire life for the five of them. They would have to come up with another plan. She’d even gone so far as executing the first manoeuvre in the three-point turn when she thought of something. Yes, that might work…

The words above will never appear in any published version of The Pact; it’s highly unlikely anyone but me will ever see the rest of the chapter. Like several other ‘secret’ scenes, it has been consigned to the area of my filing system that I call ‘backstage.’ Because the published novel, to coin a phrase, is but the tip of the iceberg.

Backstage chapters serve many purposes, alternative endings being but one example. I can’t always see how to draw everything together at the end of a story: this could work? maybe that would be better? And so, like Boris Johnson (allegedly) mulling over the advantages and otherwise of Brexit, I write both scenarios and see which sits most comfortably. They’re also great for developing character.  I hate ‘character bling’, that flurry of idiosyncratic detail flung at the reader to give the illusion of depth, but a backstage chapter can be filled with bling. Knowing characters so much better, if only in secret, feeds into the finished work, in a subtle, more convincing manner.

By far the most useful purpose, though, of a backstage chapter, is in solving plot problems. In the latter part of The Pact, the five friends realise they have to track down the letter (the actual pact) that Megan made them sign at the start of the story. Trouble was, I didn’t have a clue where it was. To find it, I had to go right back, to trace Megan’s movements on that fateful night. What happened after she drove away in Felix’s mum’s car? Given her inevitable state of shock, how could she possibly devise a hiding place that would remain sound for two decades? I had no choice but to write the chapter; I had to solve the problems I’d created for myself.

Do backstage chapters need to be written, or can they exist only as vague, shadowy outlines in the author’s head? Well, it depends. My current work in progress (Lacey Flint book 5) has an ending that requires drawing together lots of disparate threads. In my head alone, I couldn’t figure out which characters to involve, how the various steps could unfold, which would be the driving force behind ‘the plan’. I had no choice but to write the chapter in some detail. And then file it backstage.

Perhaps the best, most rewarding aspect of the backstage chapters, though, is when they spark new creative material. Up till now, these have been short stories: Lacey’s Wedding sprang from Joesbury’s surprise proposal at the end of Here Be Dragons. My Craftmen trilogy threw up so many questions: What frightened Father Edward so much in the church one night? The answer is to be found in the ghost story, All Soul’s Eve; whilst the story of the Craftsman’s first three victims is told in Alive!  I even have an idea for a full-length novel, springing from draft backstage chapters in the Lacey Flint series.

To those new to the business of writing, spending time on chapters that will never see the light of day feels counter intuitive; especially when the necessary words can feel so elusive. But the richest, most satisfying novels are built on extensive foundations. Fingers crossed The Pact proves to be one of them.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough, in fact Magpie Lane could be my book of the year. Yes, I know it’s only the first of May, but this haunting tale of family life among the privileged cloisters of Oxford academia will be tough to beat.

Eight-year-old Felicity is missing, and suspicion falls upon her middle-aged Scottish nanny, Dee, a secretive, prickly character whom we only get to know slowly (and whom we never quite trust, but maybe that’s just me.) To say Felicity has issues is putting it mildly; mourning the loss of her mother, frightened by the strange old house, she’s a selective mute, physically incapable of speaking to all but a select few. Her high-achieving father and glamorous Scandinavian stepmother seem oblivious to her pain, leaving her to rely increasingly upon Dee, who responds in turn to the lonely lost little girl.

And then Felicity is really lost. A frantic police hunt ensues. The narrative alternates between Dee in police custody, interviewed by increasingly suspicious officers, and fending off her employers’ accusations (which seem outlandish, but are they?) and flashbacks when we learn more about Dee’s life with this dysfunctional and disturbing family.

I am in awe of how Lucy Atkins writes about Oxford. I know to my cost how hard it is to set a novel in so famous a city, but Lucy gets under its skin, revealing its dark and haunting secrets; she shows us an Oxford beneath the surface. This book toys with the Gothic, but with a very light touch, the creepiness is subtle, the sense of dread so cleverly woven into the day-to-day narrative that we hardly notice until we find ourselves terrified.

I’m a couple of chapters away from finishing as I write this and hardly dare go on. I so much want it to end well for Dee, Felicity (and Linklater, the weirdest love-interest ever) but don’t see how it possibly can. Whatever happens, though, I know I’m in safe hands. Lucy Atkins is an astonishing story-teller.

Twenty years ago we moved to the outskirts of Oxford. It is the city of my son’s birth, of his schooling, at 13 he was confirmed by the city’s bishop. I will probably end my days here, because I’ve grown to love Oxford in the way I never did my ‘real’ hometown.

But so many wonderful books, especially crime novels, have been set here; many of those (Morse, His Dark Materials, A Discovery of Witches) dramatized into hugely popular TV shows. Surely every cobbled alley, stone arch and mediaeval cloister has been seen countless times already? I wouldn’t so much be standing on the shoulders of giants as tumbling from them.

But some stories choose their own locations, and so it was with The Pact. Once I knew the story had to begin with the dreadful mistake of six talented but arrogant pupils at a prestigious private school, I had to base it on a school I knew well. In the book, it is All Soul’s School, but those who know Oxford will recognise Magdalen College School, on the Plain roundabout, a stone’s throw from Christchurch. As I was writing The Pact, my son (the same age as the characters in the book) was coming to the end of his time there, and so there is an element of tribute in the school-based scenes: sports pitches on a secret island in a bend of the river Cherwell, the white bridges leading out of the scented rose garden, the Harry Potter style underground tunnel.

For the most part, the characters in my story are grown-ups, and inevitably gather in pubs. I avoided the cliches of The Lamb & Flag, Eagle & Child, and The Trout at Wolvercote. Great pubs, they’ve all featured too many times in Oxford-centred popular culture. I opted instead for The Perch at Binsey, a pub on the edge of Port Meadow, dating back some 800 years, reputedly haunted by a sailor; and the notorious Turf Tavern. Originating in the 12^th century and described as the hardest pub to find in Oxford, the Turf’s narrow winding passageways and low ceilings make it perfect for nefarious plotting.

Not for me the done-to-death colleges; every cobbled alley, stone arch and mediaeval cloister has appeared many times already, not only in books, but in countless films and TV shows. That said, the MayDay scene is set – inevitably – in and around Magdalen College, and I couldn’t resist the stunning old library at Queens. For the most part, though, I was looking for lesser-known venues, yet ones that were still quintessentially Oxford.

Here are my favourite spots in Oxford, some of which appear in the book:

River Cherwell: Much is made of Oxford’s famous river, the Thames (Isis) but the Cherwell gives us the joy of punting.  A perfect summer afternoon for us is to pick up a punt at the Cherwell Boathouse and drift lazily down-river for lunch at the Victoria Arms in Old Marston. (Going back, upstream, is harder work.) For the less energetic, punts can be hired at Magdalen bridge for an easier trip around Magdalen school field, past St Hilda’s, the Botanic Garden and Christ Church Meadow.

The Botanic Garden, Rose Lane: One of the oldest scientific gardens in the world and built on the site of a Jewish cemetery. Some four hundred years after Jewish residents were expelled from the city, thousands of cartloads of mud and dung were transported in to raise the land above the river Cherwell. Dead bodies and dung – small wonder the plants thrive.

Port Meadow: A vast area of common land, easily accessible from the city centre, that reputedly hasn’t been ploughed in hundreds of years. The Isis (Thames) winds its way through the meadow’s heart, the ancient Godstow Priory guards its northern flank, and cattle and horses roam at will. Rowers, swimmers, canoeists, bridge-jumpers, walkers, runners and party-animals flock to Port Meadow all year round; on a sweet-scented summer evening, there can be no finer place to gather with friends.

The Ballroom Emporium, The Plain: The world’s biggest dressing up box! The most glorious collection of ball gowns, prom dresses, vintage wear, hats of all descriptions, fur coats, military costumes, everything you can name and tons of stuff you never thought of. The smell is of jumble sales, old ladies’ wardrobes, the back of deep, deep, cupboards. This shop gives the impression of being stocked with treasures, some of them buried so well you’ll never find them. It is a shop with a million stories.

Blackwell’s Bookshop, Broad Street: I love all bookshops; it’s wired into the DNA of an author and story lover to do so, but this could be my favourite. There’s something fairy-tale and Tardis like about it. Modest on the outside, but goes on forever once you’re through the doors, and the below-ground Norrington Room has to be seen to be believed.

Richard and Judy, the TV personalities at the heart of one of publishing’s most successful bookclubs, have announced their Christmas 2020 titles in partnership with WHSmith. The Split has made the list.

Along with five other new titles, including Joanna Trollope’s Mum & Dad and A Conspiracy of Bones by Kathy Reichs, The Split will feature in online and store promotions through to mid December. Sharon said, ‘Every author wants to get a book on the Richard & Judy list. I couldn’t be more pleased.’

In a special introduction to the book, Richard & Judy explain why, faced with so much competition, The Split was chosen this time. They say, ‘(we) loved the atmospheric qualities of this story; Felicity’s fractured, tormented mind; South Georgia’s savage, frozen beauty. Sharon Bolton writes wonderfully descriptive prose.’ Judy adds: ‘You won’t see the plot twist coming.’

All six books can be ordered for the bargain price of £29.99 directly from WHSmith.

Ten signed copies of The Split, plus a penguin sponsorship package worth over £100, are being offered in a new competition on the popular internet forum Mumsnet.

Since its founding twenty years ago, Mumsnet has become one of the most influential websites in the world for parenting and women’s issues. It has over 100 million unique users.

Entrants need only answer one simple question about The Split before midnight on 8 December. Follow the link to enter: Mumsnet

I’m delighted to announce that, once again, I’m going to be published in Russia. Eksmo Publishers, affiliated to one of the largest publishing groups in Russia, already boasts a very strong crime fiction and I’ll be joining the likes of Agatha Christie, Stieg Larsson, Lee Child, and Thomas Harris. Eksmo will kick off with Little Black Lies within the next eighteen months. The Russians are known for their innovative and unusual approach to covers, so I can’t wait to see what they come up with.

Thanks, as always, to Rosie and Jessica Buckman who handle my foreign rights sales so brilliantly.

I’m thrilled to be supporting #SignForOurBookshops during lockdown. A cheery wave to wonderful author Holly Bourne, whose brilliant idea it is.

A national lockdown in what is traditionally the busiest period for bookshops (the run-up to Christmas) could prove disastrous for many independents. Even the chains like Waterstones, Foyles and Blackwell’s will struggle. Whilst book-sales increased during the first lockdown, the benefit was almost entirely felt by online retailers, one in particular. Wouldn’t it be nice if this didn’t happen again?

How does it work? Well, when you buy a book from a bricks and mortar bookshop* during the four weeks of lockdown, the author (if involved in the scheme) will send you a signed and personalised bookplate to make your purchase completely unique – or a brilliant Christmas gift. Over 200 authors are taking part, including some very big names, so do get in touch with your favourites on social media to see if they’re involved.

To claim your signed, personalised The Split bookplate**, email me on author.sjbolton@gmail.com, attaching receipt or similar proof of lockdown purchase, and letting me know how you would like your bookplate personalised. Be sure to include your postal address.

Not sure where your nearest bookshop is? Here’s a link to a map of bookshops that are still running through lockdown. www.booksellers.org.uk/bookshopsearch

#SignForOurBookshops will run from November 5th to December 2nd.

*Not including WHSmith as most of their stores are remaining open. (Hurray!) If I have any bookplates left at the end of lockdown, I’ll gladly open this up to WHSmith customers.

**Maximum of 50 bookplates, first-come-first-served, UK only.

#SignForOurBookshops. #KeepOurBookshopsOpen

A neighbour knocked this morning; she was creating, she explained, a Halloween map, showing which houses will be putting on pumpkin displays this year. Seems a bit over-organised, I thought, we’ve always managed to track down the Jack O Lanterns in previous years. Generally speaking, though, I support any and all Halloween activity. Meanwhile, she was still talking: “As Trick or Treating isn’t allowed this year, some of the mums are –“

Hold it right there! What do you mean Trick or Treating isn’t allowed?

What curmudgeonly Gringe has decided that a harmless, hilarious annual activity can’t take place this year? Not Boris, that’s for sure; I checked, and, to date, he’s said nothing about Halloween. I can’t even find a call from the shadow cabinet for a sun-down curfew on the night of the 31 October (although, come to think of it, that would make it all infinitely more exciting.) No, this depressing initiative seems to have sprung entirely from within my own village, people deciding for themselves that a bit of autumnal revelry isn’t quite in the spirit of the times and that it must be stamped out, cold water poured on the Jack O Lanterns before they’ve even been lit.

And we used to be the spookiest spot in Buckinghamshire – how the mighty are fallen.

I genuinely don’t get it: by its very nature, Trick or Treating:

• Takes place in the open air, making it very low risk.
• Is entirely voluntary; no one who doesn’t like it need take part.
• Involves primary-school-age children, among whom Covid is mercifully rare.
• Can easily take place in groups of six or under, thereby breaking no national guidelines.
• Usually involves mask-wearing as a matter of course and, often, hand coverings in the form of werewolf claws, blood-soaked bandages and skeleton gloves.

I’m struggling to see the problem.

And why, in one of the most miserable years our children have had to live through, when they’ve barely seen grandparents, had months off school, played no sports, lost touch with many friends, seen no movies, been to no parties, been denied Easter, family gatherings, maybe even summer holidays – why would we deny them a bit of harmless fun that they look forward to for weeks?

The Halloween monitors seem to think a socially-distanced daytime walk around the village will suffice, following a carefully-charted map, spotting pumpkins and admiring the efforts of anyone who can still be arsed to decorate in the face of all this nonsense. Oh, and to avoid knocking on people’s doors (how Amazon delivery drivers stay alive is beyond me) their parents will give them sweets at the outset; possibly to bribe them into taking part in what sounds like an unspeakably tedious activity.

Do they have any idea what Halloween is all about?

Halloween is lawlessness, banging boldly on a door and demanding a reward with menace; it empowers children, subverting the customary adult/kid power balance and putting them in charge, if only for an hour. It is about the vicarious thrill of venturing out after dark, dressed like a bad-ass, coming across ghosts, zombies and witches, and the child in the clown mask, who might be Finn from Year 5, but might not, because that’s the point of Halloween, we never know quite what’s going on behind the mask. Halloween is about being brave, but not too brave, because mum and dad are right behind us, to keep us safe, to share the excitement. It’s about gleeful, rebellious fun, that children look forward to for weeks, that they talk about for days afterwards, and that becomes an essential part of their childhood memories.

A sterile walk around the village at three o’clock in the afternoon is a poor, poor substitute for one of the highlights of the year. I beg you, mums and dads, think again.

For the avoidance of doubt, Halloween is being celebrated at my house. We will decorate in grand fashion and anyone brave enough to knock on our door will be warmly welcomed and rewarded with chocolatey goodies. If no-one comes, well, I’ll be very disappointed in my neighbours, but I’ll have a shed-load of chocolate to cheer me up.

PS: Since this post was written, I’ve been secretly contacted by a neighbour, to tell me she too will be welcoming Trick or Treaters. Vive la resistance!