Nikki Copleston's Blog

Readers often ask what inspires me to write, and I have to confess that I’m not really sure. Certain places capture my imagination – houses I visited as a child, favourite towns or country villages. But the setting isn’t enough in itself. Every story needs an idea at the heart of it, a “what if” question that the rest of the story has to answer. For instance, for a competition last year, the theme was “Road map” – a term that had been used a lot at the start of the pandemic, in the figurative sense of ‘a plan of action’.

I imagined a character who’s studying a real map as she heads for her holiday cottage, while a colleague back at the office is dealing with an administrative road map that might well lead to the narrator losing her job. Getting lost on the way to the cottage, the narrator and her partner bicker – as couples do in such situations – so when they arrive at last, it’s a relief to find it’s as remote and beautiful as she’d hoped. Remote but with WIFI, because she needs to keep in touch with her colleague, who’s giving an important presentation and might need her help. But what if it’s not quite that simple? What if the situation isn’t quite as it seems?

The theme of ‘Road map’ inspired me to think of it in both its figurative and literal senses. Memories of tortuous drives through narrow country lanes in search of some elusive destination filled in the rest! Ideas come from newspaper articles, anecdotes overheard on buses or in coffee shops and from my own memories. Take an idea, find the right setting, give it a twist – and create characters with whom the reader can identify – at least a little!    

A winter gale batters the terrace of houses below Greywood Forest. At first light, Barbara Trent sees rusty sheets of corrugated iron embedded in her lawn. She knows where they’ve come from — Ploughboy’s Pit, the old well that’s been filled up with rubbish over the years.

With Corky the terrier at her side, she sets off towards the forest to investigate — and finds the skeleton of a small child, uncovered by the storm.

The fourth book in the series, The Promise of Salvation has Detective Inspector Jeff Lincoln at odds with his new boss, DCI Dale Jacobs, who’s transferred to Wiltshire Police from Avon & Somerset. Younger than Lincoln, and certainly a snappier dresser, Jacobs has his own ideas about the team’s priorities — and they aren’t the same as Lincoln’s.

Is Lincoln still involved with Trish Whittington? Sort of, except now she’s landed herself a job on the Essex coast, organising a library of antiquarian books, and she has an eager young assistant called Stewart. Should Lincoln be worried? Well…

The Promise of Salvation is out on November 11th as an eBook and in paperback. Available from Amazon and SilverWood Books, or to order from your local bookshop.

eBook: The Promise of Salvation (DI Jeff Lincoln Book 4) eBook : Copleston, Nikki: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

paperback: The Promise of Salvation: Amazon.co.uk: Copleston, Nikki: 9781800421547: Books

www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk

 

The fourth book featuring Detective Inspector Jeff Lincoln, The Promise of Salvation, is set in February 2017, a few months after the ending of The Shame of Innocence. A gale has ripped the top off an old well that’s been used by fly-tippers for years. Barbara Trent takes her dog for a walk to investigate – and discovers the remains of a child under all the rubbish in the well. Barbara’s brief moment of fame on the television news then starts a chain of events that leads, days later, to a gruesome murder.

If you’ve been following the series, you’ll recall that Trish Whittington – are she and Lincoln still an item? – has a new job in Essex, leaving Lincoln wondering if there’s a future for them after all. Her post as Local Studies librarian at Barbury Library had become impossible – trust Trish to do something reckless! – so being in charge of a private library on the Essex coast seemed an ideal escape.

Or is it? And will Stewart, her new assistant, test her loyalty to Lincoln?

In this book, Lincoln has yet another new boss, DCI Dale Jacobs, ex-Avon and Somerset Police, a bit of a stickler who doesn’t think much of how things are done at Barley Lane nick.

So who’s the victim of that gruesome murder?

Ah well… Another time, perhaps.

The Promise of Salvation will be available in November, as a paperback and as an eBook.

I’ve finished it! The fourth DI Jeff Lincoln novel is completed. I thought I’d rattle through it during Lockdown, with more time on my hands and, in theory, fewer distractions, but like a lot of people, I felt a kind of underlying anxiety that made it difficult to write.

Eventually, though, with a deadline looming, I got down to it and wrote away. I planned the book more than I planned the other full-length novels, The Price of Silence and The Shame of Innocence, and despite me always saying “that isn’t how I work”, it did make the writing easier.

So what’s it about? It opens with the finding of a skeleton – the bones of a child in the tatters of a summer dress. Could this be the little girl who disappeared from a funfair the weekend Princess Diana was killed?

A case Lincoln is eager to solve – except a more high-profile case crops up with a more high-profile victim, so he’s under pressure from his new boss to concentrate on that instead.

A new boss? Is Lincoln going to get on with this one any better than he got on with DCI Bella Bax in The Shame of Innocence? Is this one going to be as ineffectual as DCI Stan Barker, the Guvnor, in The Price of Silence? Difficult bosses seem to come with the territory. DCI Dale Jacobs has transferred to Wiltshire from Avon & Somerset Police, and he’s from Bristol.

As usual, Lincoln spends a lot of time chasing the wrong leads before he works out what’s really behind the death of local aristocrat Hugh Buckthorn, a man he’d taken to, the one time they’d met.

Is Lincoln still with Trish? Well, yes and no. With Trish working at a private library in Essex, it’s hard to sustain a relationship, and isn’t this the job she’s always wanted? And will it work out?

Lots of questions – and The Promise of Salvation will provide at least some of the answers! I’m hoping it’ll be published in time for the fifth birthday of Silver Crow Books in November. Watch this space!

I haven’t written a blog post for ages, mostly because I’ve been concentrating on finishing the first draft of the latest DI Jeff Lincoln crime novel. I’ve now submitted it and I’m waiting for feedback – nervously, because you get so close to a project, it’s hard to see it objectively the way the beta readers do.

Watch this space for more information!

June and Marjorie don’t have much in common – apart from their mother-in-law. Imagine the fun and games when these two ladies of a certain age go on a mystery tour together! A bitter-sweet tale written during lockdown.

Click ‘Download’ to read all about two ladies of a certain age embarking on a Mystery Tour. [Disclaimer – no local bus company was involved!]

the-mystery-tour-by-nikki-coplestonDownload



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This is where DI Jeff Lincoln’s story starts. Although it was published in 2019, after The Shame of Innocence, it’s the first Jeff Lincoln murder mystery.

The Price of Silence sees Lincoln investigating the apparently random murder of Holly Macleod who ran an employment agency in Barbury and was a popular charity fundraiser. She was found dead in a public toilet on the edge of the town, beside a busy main road. Who would want to kill her? But when they start to look into her background, Lincoln and his team find more questions than answers.

The Price of Silence also introduces Trish Whittington, a librarian and single mum who takes matters into her own hands – with unexpected consequences. Sometimes the people you think you know can surprise you – or shock you.

This investigation eventually takes Lincoln back to North London, where he must confront the past.

The Price of Silence is available in paperback from The History Bookshop, Fisherton Mill, Salisbury, or from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Price-Silence-Nikki-Copleston-ebook/dp/B07ZZJ8QKV

I hadn’t been well. ‘Walk every day, Brian,’ the doctor said, ‘as far as you can. You’ll be right as ninepence in no time.’

It was springtime, so being outdoors was no hardship. I walked as far as Manor Fields, what’s left of a country house, turned into open space — except now they’re going to cover it with a housing estate. I like to poke around the heaps of rubble, looking for scraps of broken china — it’s always willow pattern. One heap, I’d never explored until that day. It was getting overgrown, weeds sprouting through bricks from the old house, smashed roof tiles, rotting wood.

And there it was. A briefcase, brown leather with straps and buckles. Old-style. Must’ve been there a while, a few papers falling out of it already blue with mould. I grabbed a stick and dragged some of the papers near enough to read. Letters, dated only a few months ago. Hmm, so the case hadn’t been here that long after all.

Curious now, I clambered over and gingerly took hold of the briefcase. Insects scurried out from under it, but it was in better shape than I’d thought at first. And it was full of paperwork showing the owner’s name and address, phone numbers, email, even his bank details. Ed Burney, his name was, with a property development company near Watford. A wallet — no money, no cards — with photos of his family, his house —wow, huge garden! He’d want these back, surely?

I took the briefcase home, holding it away from me in case there were spiders inside. Back indoors, I spread the papers out on the living room floor and trained my fan heater on them until they were dry. I phoned Mr Burney and told him that I’d found his briefcase but, sadly, that most of the contents were ruined.

‘Oh, it can’t be helped. Actually, I never thought I’d see it again!’ He sounded relieved. ‘My car was nicked in Watford a month ago and left burnt-out near St Albans, minus the briefcase. They must’ve dumped it on the way. Can you send it back to me?’

‘I haven’t been well,’ I said. ‘Posting it’s going to be impossible. Why don’t I meet you where I found it? It’s only a couple of minutes off the M25.’

Maybe I should’ve told him before we met that the papers might be spoiled, but they weren’t actually illegible. Maybe he’d forgotten how much incriminating stuff was there: lists of contacts, councillors and planning officers he’d got something on, accounts showing what he paid them for the favours they did for him. Stupid man, leaving that sort of information lying around! Asking for it to be nicked!

He parked his 4 x 4 in the entrance to Manor Fields. He wasn’t as big as I’d imagined him: stocky, dark, in chinos and a denim shirt, open at the neck. More casual than I’d expected.

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,’ he said as I showed him the rubble heap where I’d found his case. ‘It’s the family photos I treasure most. Never mind the rest of it. I really owe you one!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘About a reward…’

I don’t think he expected me to ask. He hesitated, then reached into his pocket for a bundle of tenners. He peeled a hundred quid off and held it out to me.

‘It’s worth more than that,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to agree. We argued and he started shouting and before I knew it, I’d picked up an old brick from the rubble heap, a bit of the old manor house that someone like him had demolished, and I was pounding it down on his head again and again.

I put the briefcase back where I found it and rolled him down on top of it. If you walked past, you wouldn’t see anything but rubble unless you went poking about the way I had.

He should’ve known better. Like I said, I hadn’t been well.

Just one last word, that’s all I want

the thank you or the sorry or the wondering why –

just one last word.

And what were our last words, that late and windy night?

You asked me to ask them

to turn the light down over your bed.

I kissed you goodbye.

You were worried I was driving home so late and I said

I’d be all right.

I asked them about the light.

They said they still had tests to do.

They’d have to leave it on.

I often wonder if you think

I let you down,

didn’t ask them after all,

swanned off into the windy night,

for once

not coming back for that extra kiss

like I used to

always

just in case…

Just one last word.

Now EVERYONE is a photographer, there’s an abundance of portraits, selfies and videos around, reminding us of friends and family even if those people themselves are no longer around. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t take more photos of my mum and dad when I could, but I know why I didn’t. I was simply too shy.

Most current mobile phones have excellent cameras in them, and some of us use our phones more for taking photos than for making calls! I had my first camera when I was twelve or thirteen, and took lots of fuzzy photos of places round Salisbury, and of our many cats and kittens.

My husband gave me my first SLR camera in the late Seventies, and I took even more photos – but hardly any of Mum and Dad. Why ever not? Simply, because I felt awkward asking them if I could take their picture, afraid they’d think I was sentimental or silly.

Now I wish I’d been braver about asking, because I have very few photos of them as grownups.

Mum hated having her photo taken, although she hadn’t always. Her Aunt Dot, a milliner by trade, was a keen photographer – still unusual in the Twenties and Thirties – and enjoyed snapping her niece and nephews as they grew up. By the time she’d had two children and become a full-time housewife, though, Mum had put on weight and her platinum blonde hair had turned grey. I can’t remember a time when she didn’t look uncomfortable in front of a camera.

In 1960, Dad’s parents arranged for a professional photographer to commemorate their ruby wedding anniversary. A beautiful July day: Gran and Grandad smile proudly out of the photo, but Mum looks as if she can’t wait for the session to be over.

A couple of years later, when she was helping on the craft stall at Wilton’s Whit Monday fete in the rectory garden, the local newspaper photographer, Henry Wills, snapped her as she was laughing at something another stallholder had said. That was the photo that got into the Salisbury Times.

‘How could he publish THAT?’ she wanted to know. ‘Why print the photo where I’ve got my mouth open, looking gormless?’ Poor Henry was never forgiven!

Ever afterwards, she was wary of anyone circling her with a camera, even if it was me with my Brownie or Instamatic.

Which is why I took so few photos of my parents, because I always felt too shy to ask if I could take a picture of them.

These days, I take plenty of photos of people – at writing events, activities involving Frome Writers’ Collective or my fellow Stellar Scribes, Jan Ellis and Sonja Price. And yet it rarely occurs to me to take photos of my friends – with or without me in the picture.

That was brought home to me very keenly last year, when I lost one of my closest school friends.  Despite drifting apart during our busy careers, Catharine and I had met up many times since I moved back from London, spending days in Bristol or Bath.

I took a few photos when I was with her – we both loved the quirkiness of Bristol and the sublime architecture of Bath – and yet I never thought to suggest taking a selfie of the two of us, or even taking a photo of her. I’m sure she wouldn’t have reeled back in horror if I’d suggested it – although, knowing Cat, she might have done! – but, somehow, I never did.

I have maybe half a dozen photos of her, the most recent at my wedding reception in 1976 – which seems absurd, but is sadly true. And now I wish I’d overcome my shyness and said, ‘You wouldn’t mind if I took a photo of you, would you, Cat?’ I probably thought there’d be other times to ask the question. And now there won’t be.

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The photos I have of my parents are precious. I don’t have either Mum or Dad on video; I don’t even have them on tape, apart from a rather booming cassette of Mum playing the piano at home and breaking off to grumble at my sister for about ten seconds.  Catharine made a short recording for a Bristol local history website, and it’s good to hear her speaking with enthusiasm about a project that was dear to her heart.

And the lesson I’ve learned from this? Don’t be shy about capturing the images and sounds of the people around you. Don’t be like me, only brave enough to photograph my mum and dad when they weren’t looking!

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