Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts

Thursday, 18 March 2021

Ruby Reviews The Making of a Detective by Pat Marry

 

True crime is a difficult genre to nail. A myriad of TV series and films attempt to rehash old crimes, using alleged expert talking heads and corny-voiced narrators to try and squeeze out entertainment from old material without any real insight. The viewer’s appetite is usually left unsated. The same is often the case with true crime in print. An author might gather together a number of similar historical crimes and then, based on research, attempt to serve them up as fresh. In other cases, a memoir can turn out to be disappointingly free of detail from actual cases and more focussed on the introspective views of the author. In the latter case, it is the memoir author’s prerogative to avoid sensationalism if they choose to do so, but it might not delivery the blood and guts a hungry reader thirsts for. Pat Marry’s The Making of a Detective - A Garda's Story of Investigating Some of Ireland's Most Notorious Crimes is a rare book in that it delivers unique insight, juicy true crime case discussion and enough life history to bring the author’s experience and character to the fore.

What often struck me when reading The Making of a Detective was how well it is written. The pace and depth of content are well-balanced. Marry does seem a bit of a strange and quirky character. I can imagine most of the Gardaí who worked with him during his thirty year policing career in Ireland would have polarised opinions about him. Methodical, determined, analytical, a constant learner. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he has OCD or similar. The man’s portrait is very effectively painted.

A frequent problem with true crime books is repetition. The TV series are terrible in this respect, assuming their viewers have such a short span of attention that there must be a recap after each ad break. Other true crime / crime sector memoir books I have read often cause me to flick back through the pages, trying to substantiate an apparent contradiction, to find where else the story has been half-told in an earlier chapter. The Making of a Detective avoids this. In my opinion, this is because Marry used a very skilled ghost writer to pen his book. He even goes so far as to thank and name her, Rachel Pierce, in the Acknowledgements. Even stranger, the Acknowledgments at the end of the book, a section which I usually skim or ignore, is interesting for its content as a standalone chapter.

The Making of a Detective has a strong structure, each chapter dealing with a different perspective on crime. Marry talks about The Dead Body Effect, A Disarming Killer, The devil is in the Detail and so on. These would make good titles for different episodes of a TV series. He reveals fascinating detail of police procedures, advances in forensics, the psychology of crime, and other matters, always referenced to real life cases in Ireland. Most of these cases are murders and Marry has had close involvement with many high profile Irish murder cases, which obviously helps. The reader is left with an impression that Marry is an effective detective who, once on the trail of a perpetrator, is likely to get his wo/man.

As a crime author living in Ireland, the real reason I chose this book was in the hope of gaining further insight of Irish crime detection procedural matters. The Making of a Detective didn’t disappoint on this count either. Marry’s career has brought him from the pre-DNA wilderness years to a current forensic environment which is highly hostile to the perpetrator. If the authorities have a suspect in the frame then it is increasingly difficult for them not to have left incriminating evidence.

If I have one criticism of this book, it is the lack of an index. I know it’s not a text book but there are so many interesting and useful references to aspects of crime that I wish I had labelled the pages while reading. So off I go now, to re-read The Making of a Detective.

Friday, 29 January 2021

Meat as a source of Zombification

 


 

The idea first came to me in a pub in Kilkenny. After a pint or several in Bridie’s Bar and General Store, we martial arts types were swapping war stories about previous jobs when Sean the ginger ninja (name cleverly disguised to protect the innocent) started to talk about his time in the local abattoir.… Continue reading

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Getting Out of Dodge Before It's Too Late! #ASMSG

My second Ger Mayes crime novel, Getting Out of Dodge, is featuring over at the Authors Electric Christmas Sale from 25 - 28 December. Hop on over and grab some truly great books for 99c / 99p. They also have a review site.

Here's the first chapter of Getting Out of Dodge to whet your appetite:



Chapter 1 - A walk in the park

The sky is heavy. Dark purple clouds reflect on the lake’s rippling surface. Here and there an aquamarine gap opens in the sky – maybe a portal to the troposphere? I could do with someone beaming me up there, right now.
‘Look, Ma, look!’ A small boy at the far edge of the water points at a drake terrorising all the other ducks, wings beating as it chases.
The mother pulls her son back by the hand, trying to keep him away from the edge as he hurls chunks of bread at the uninterested, overfed recipients. Two swans glide through the ducks and seagulls swoop in for the spoils.
Plastic wheels on tarmac and a rush of air. A youth on rollerblades flies past the bench where I’m sitting. He moves like a speed-skater but looks like a thief, woolly hat down tight under a hoodie.
‘Fecker!’ shouts another mother as the youth swerves deftly around her pushchair.
Ah, the serene beauty of suburban Dublin.
‘You okay, mister?’ she asks.
I look up. She can’t be long out of school. She’s talking to me but I have no words to share.
‘Jesus! What’s happened to yer face?’
My hand goes to my cheek. My face, my whole body, is sore to the touch. I must look a sight, it was quite a beating.
She shakes her head and walks on.
‘Feckers, the lot of them. Feckers,’ she mutters to the world.
Sean Walsh Park contains everything I hate about this country. I should have left two weeks ago, with the first taste of freedom. Now look.
Across the lake a youngish man in a tracksuit walks cockily, phone to his ear and a beer bottle in one hand. He downs the last of the beer and hurls the bottle into the bushes. Then he switches off the phone and slips it into his jacket pocket.
The little boy feeding the birds turns and runs into the man’s arms. I’m too far away to hear what the mother says but, from the body language, it’s where have you been or who were you talking to. The man ignores her and runs to the water’s edge with the boy. They look across the lake and see me watching, so I turn my head.
I don’t know how I got here, but here I am. It has something to do with this thing between my legs. Everything to do with it.
A breeze picks up and rustles the plastic bag at my feet. I look into the wind and see lads loitering at the far entrance to the park. Even at this distance they look foreign. Something about their trousers. They’re the Romanians. Friends or enemies, I’m not sure. Is this their doing? It could be, doesn’t matter now.
The bag rustles again. I have no idea how I came to be here, can’t remember. I don’t deserve it. This time I tried to do the right thing. My intentions were good.
A shout makes it upwind from the mother with the pushchair. Two uniformed guards struggle past her at the other entrance. A man in a dark jacket follows and then the wiry, brown-suited figure of Detective Inspector Andy McAuliffe. I can smell his cigarettes in my memory.
Andy, I should have taken your advice and got the hell out of Dodge.
Before they reach me I have to know what’s between my legs. But I think I already know and so does Andy, somehow.
The bag is oozing something onto the tarmac. Clear fluid with traces of pink. I open the top of the bag with both hands and my favourite fragrance wafts out. When a woman wears that, it means she’s mine. The scorching sun, sea and sand of the Mediterranean, as the ad says, with a hint of butcher’s shop.
I put my hand inside and let my fingertips touch, then stroke. Her hair is soft and fair. I always loved her hair.





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Sunday, 21 July 2013

Suffer little children


How about this? My nine year-old was on a two day camp here in Ireland a few weeks ago, with a club that shall remain nameless. Instructions to parents included "please ensure that sun protection cream is provided."
He returned from a great time a bit sore. He does tan but it had been very hot and sunny, and his upper back was badly burnt. The adult supervisors told the kids they weren't allowed to apply sun protection to the children's skin as the rules prevent them touching the kids. Also the kids weren't supervised to apply cream to each other where they couldn't reach. My son had managed to smear sun cream on most of his body except the upper back.
We've always been so careful to avoid the kind of burning and peeling of previous generations. A couple of nights of bad sleep, after-sun lotion liberally applied, then the peeling. I was pretty angry at the time but the club was closed for summer and I soon moved on to being a grumpy old man about other things.
Today we were buying lunch at an outdoor event when a man with kids said hello to my son. He said he knew him from the camp club wotsit nameless thingy and asked me if my son had been one of the burn victims. His own son had been hospitalised with second degree burns and given morphine; things had been much worse for him than for my son. I began to express my opinions on the neglect exhibited, lack of supervision, risk to future health and the nonsense of no one exhibiting some common sense. He said he had been there but they weren't allowed to touch the kids and the kids wouldn't have applied the cream to each other.
What was today's event? It was a fundraiser for cancer.

Monday, 25 June 2012

Looking back at where we have been - if every one of us had thirty lucid minutes


'I’m convinced that if every one of us had thirty lucid minutes right before we passed away we would spend almost none of it thinking about how cool it was when we got rich. We would think about who we liked and who we loved, and how the flowers smelt in the springtime, and when we made the passage from youth to adulthood, and what it was like when our children were born and when we gave our daughters away at the altar.'

from Bill Clinton at a New York ceremony of the Irish America magazine 16th March 2011. Whatever your views on Clinton, it's a beautiful thought.

full speech here: Go to 11:00 minutes through the speech

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Friday, 14 October 2011

Thanks to @WodkeHawkinson

I was fortunate enough to be interviewed by the lovely Karen Wodke Hawkinson and the results are posted on Yahoo Associated Content. Here's a narcissistic snippet:

Ruby Barnes, author of Peril, dedicates his writing to the memory of his grandfather, the late Robert 'Ruby' Barnes. In addition to his writing, he also maintains a blog. Ruby has that unique talent for creating characters the reader both loves and hates, and simultaneously roots for and against. From the shipyards of Port Glasgow to the industrial heartland of Southern England, through the fractured reaches of mountainous North Wales and across Scotland 's bottomless lochs, Ruby has traveled and found inspiration for the misfits, rogues and psychopaths that haunt his writing. He is now based in sometimes sunny Kilkenny, Ireland. I was fortunate that Ruby graciously took time from his busy schedule to grant me the interview that follows:

Can you identify a moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer? What was that moment like?
That moment was when, as a teenager, my English teacher accused me of plagiarism over a poem I had written comparing an ancient tower with a mountainside, two sentinels observing time passing by. My parents also disbelieved that it was my own work. It was a moment of incredulity and elation. Then I was heavily marked down for suspected copying.
Read more here...

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

The summertime has come (and gone) and the hills are softly blooming


As Gary Newman (who?!) would say, it's a burning car. The cool autumn draws in and our citizens resort to the traditional method of generating warmth. Pic taken recently by a mountainviews.ie member near Bohernabreena, County Dublin.

Well, there hasn't exactly been a summer here in Ireland, but I've finished my free giveaway of PERIL on Smashwords. If you downloaded it then I hope you enjoy the trials and tribulations of Ger Mayes. All reviews gratefully received - the good, the bad and the ugly.

P.S. If you're a LibraryThing member, look out for PERIL as a member giveaway.


If you've enjoyed reading Ruby's blog then please sign up to Ruby's News for freebies, advance review copies of upcoming novels and occasional updates. Thanks! 

Monday, 11 April 2011

If they ain't heard it then you ain't said it!

Those are the words I remember from a presentation on communication skills by a man named Harvey Thomas. Let's turn back time to 1999.


Harvey Thomas presented to us on the Strathclyde MBA in St Gallen, Switzerland many years ago. He taught us TV interview skills and about communication in general. Harvey had been an advisor to Margaret Thatcher and one of his nuggets of advice to the young female Prime Minister was that she should lower her voice by an octave. The rest is history. For his involvement he earned a bed that flew through the air during the 1984 bombing of the Grand Hotel in Brighton, Sussex. Harvey was saved from death by his huge bulk and lived to find God. A strange but true story. Anyhow, his book If They Haven't Heard it, You Haven't Said it!: Guide to Better Communication is languishing in obscurity, but my copy is on the 'signed by author' bookshelf. He shared many truisms with us in Switzerland for which I am truly grateful (no party political component to my views on that).

So why am I banging on about the above? because Peril just received a review that reflects exactly what I intended when I wrote it. Someone heard what I said:

'Ger Mayes is one of those types of guys who make some women try to tuck him beneath their wing so they can take care of him. Others will follow along and pray he gets exactly what he deserves. Whichever kind you end up being, you're sure to have a blast following this womanizing idiot as he gets himself into one bad mess after another, each one just slightly worse than the one before it. I didn't know whether to laugh, or groan and slap my forehead, thinking it a good idea to pull him by the ear in to see the shrink and glue him to the chair. It's hard to believe one man can make so many bad decisions and get into so much trouble and yet find a way to talk himself out of it. Or does he? You'll have to read PERIL for yourself to find out. Ladies, you may want to hide this one from your husbands. You wouldn't want to give them any ideas. Don't worry about the slow start in chapter one. Once Ger gets the ball rolling, he sets off an avalanche that no one can stop, not even Lady Luck herself. If you like a fast-paced thriller, PERIL is a fun ride I'm sure you'll enjoy.'

My gratitude to Denna Holm. I knew of Denna on YouWriteOn.com but only from a distance. Denna has managed to explain for me some of the mystery of why ladies like PERIL.

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If you've enjoyed reading Ruby's blog then please sign up to Ruby's News for freebies, advance review copies of upcoming novels and occasional updates. Thanks!