Quintin Jardine's blog

Considering where you come from, that is a cracking email address. I would like to visit Oberon, New South Wales, preferably on a midsummer night, (how’s the donkey population?) as it might be cold in winter, that high above sea level. It looks to be approximately the same distance from Sydney as Wigtown is from Gullane, and every bit as worthy of a visit. Keep working on your local library. If that doesn’t work, have you ever thought of setting up a library of your own, with some like-minded friends? Set up a book group, build up a small fund, draw up a reading list, buy the books on-line, and circulate them. QJ titles won’t be a problem; Hachette Australia should be able to advise you, but if they can’t, I promise that  www.campbellreadbooks.com will.

No, I’m not going to plant a body in Wigtown. No disrespect to the charming place, but it’s in the wrong police area. Sorry you bottled out of asking your question at the Festival. The simple answer is that Stevie had to go because it was his time. I liked the lad too, and his demise wasn’t pre-planned, but when I reached that point in the story I knew it had to happen, and so, to my great regret, it did.

However, you can discard any notion that it had anything to do with a name clash. I’ve been around for a lot longer than the author you mention, and so, with all due respect to him, good guy that he is, if any character’s going to disappear for that reason, it ain’t going to be one of mine.

Yes, Eddie, yes. Do I like it when someone agrees with one of my wilder ideas? Do I ever. Peter Capaldi is a brilliant actor, who’s finally been given a job that lets him express all of his talents. I will go with your proposal of Gareth Thomas as Proud Jimmy, even though he’s at least five years too old for the part, because his brother Harvey is a very old and dear friend. For the same reason I will pass on Douglas Henshall as Andy Martin, in favour of my chum Scott Wilson, the most talented man on Scottish radio, who has a Taggart appearance in his cv.

You do not offer a suggestion for the casting of Alex. Let’s  hear it if you have one.

Yes, Tracey, they do. If you go back to the main site and click on each of the series, Bob Skinner, Oz Blackstone and Primavera Blackstone, you’ll find the books listed in order of publication.

Many thanks to everyone who turned up at Motherwell Library on Monday evening, for the first book event I’ve done in the town where I was born, and lived for my first 23 years. The building was part of my growing up; I as a member when I was a kid and walked past it every day that I didn’t go in. It’s one of many erected in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with funds provided by the philanthropist Andrew Carnegie, and it’s still fit for purpose after more than 100 years.

Motherwell isn’t the town I knew, not any more. It’s fair to say that it’s in a period of transition, following the closure and demolition of the Ravenscraig steel plant, but I have a feeling that its regeneration is going to work out pretty well. Margaret Thatcher is often blamed for the closure of Ravenscraig,  just as she tends to be blamed for everything that’s gone wrong in Scotland since 1979. I’m not one of her disciples, but I’ll defend her against that charge. The strip mill was set up during the Macmillan era as part of an industrial strategy, when Scottish Tory votes still counted for something. If the plan had been conceived properly, it would never have been put on that site; it would have been built instead beside a  deep water port facility allowing iron ore and coal imports to be loaded directly from the dockside into the factory rather than hauled across central Scotland by road and rail. If it had . . . but life’s one big ‘if’ isn’t it.

For all that, I enjoyed the gig, not least for the presence in the front row of my old friend Bill Clark, one of the finest Scottish journalists of his generation. He told me afterwards he was worried that he might have constrained me. That will be the day!

Maybe your man should consider teaching the language, at introductory level, or even teaching English to Spanish speakers. I notice when I’m travelling that there’s an occasional problem with Spanish cabin crew. They assume that we speak our language as fast as they speak theirs, but we don’t. I remember being on a small plane in the US once; the lone flight attendant gave the safety briefing in English and I did not understand one word of it.

Bob is a Canon? Does that make him answerable to Richard Holloway? (Actually, that would probably be good for him.) I’m glad you enjoyed the small name game I played in Fatal Last Words. If I’d picked up last year’s Harrogate programme I could probably have worked even more in. By the way, it’s nice to encounter someone who’s been to Harrogate and isn’t a crime writer. (Or have I made a terrible mistake?)

No, you have not lost the plot. These things happen. People often stumble over names in real life. My Grandma Bell was a mistress of the art; she invariably addressed me as ‘Eh Malcolm, eh George, eh Duncan, eh Quintin’. My youngest uncle swore that he was ten before he realised that his name was not ‘Eh Malcolm, eh George, eh Duncan’. Grandma died when my son was twenty months old, but even in that short  time he had become ‘Eh Malcolm, eh George, eh Duncan, eh Quintin, eh Allan’. And shouldn’t fiction reflect life?

In that case, I look forward to making you absolutely ecstatic. Are you saying that you still live in Port Glasgow? If so, is there much of a Hispanic community there?

Andy will be pleased to hear that help is at hand. He’s not a bad guy at heart, just a little confused, having never really got the scent of Alex out of his nostrils. He does seem to have crossed a line with Bob, though. Question is, whether that line is paint, or just chalk. To answer the other question, yours . . . yes, I am.

Skinner has a long marital (and some extra-marital)  history. He’s found his ideal woman now, one who’s his match in every respect, so don’t look for him to be straying in future.

The next Skinner, ‘A Rush of Blood’, will be released next June. (Not my first choice title, but I’m only the bloody author so what do I know, in the face of the massed ranks of the Headline marketing department?) Sorry I’ve been quiet on Facebook, Lorraine, but there are only 24 hours in my days.

In that case, I’d better write some more. Where’s ‘the cottage’?

Those seven letters are shorthand for the Thirtieth International Festival of Authors, in Toronto, from which I’ve just returned. The trip was bracketed by two nights in Barcelona, a crazy schedule that meant I was on six different flights in seven days, with the inevitability that somewhere I was going to pick up a dose of ‘flu, but it’s of the man rather than the swine variety, so no big deal.

 I may have more to say in detail when I’ve had time to reflect on the trip, but first and foremost I’d like to thank Geoffrey Taylor, the inspired director of IFOA, for his invitation, and for extending the hospitality of Toronto to us all. Thanks also to Mike Russell, the Scottish culture minister, for our Government’s support of the event, and to those with whom I shared a couple of platforms, Mark Sinnett, Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Linden McIntyre, John Bemrose, James Nichol, Colm Toibin, Iain Weir and Martin Levin.

Oh yes; cheers also to the chef in the CN Tower restaurant, to  the team of cyclists who make it revolve, and no hard feelings to the inimitable Joseph Kavan, for the elegant but unintentional way in which he insulted my son.

I wish you’d left your full name, so that I could thank you properly for your generosity in sharing that observation with me, and for reminding me that even the smallest minorities have a right to express their views, within the limits set by the law. The best advice I can give you is to restrict yourself to reading short stories, in the hope that they’re more suited to your attention span.

To tell you the truth, I’m rather immersed in Bob’s world myself. He gets more real by the day. I’m scheduled to spend another few months with him, pretty soon.

I reckon I can help you. I suggest that you click on the purchase link on my website and get in contact with campbellreadbooks. Even if a title isn’t listed there, it can be obtained, and it will be delivered signed.

Amid all the furore over Jenson Button it’s important that another sporting achievement of Sunday October 18 is given due recognition. Today, who’s Scotland’s top male pro golfer, according to the official world rankings. Monty? Not any more? Paul Lawrie? Still making money but no longer a short odds bet. Alasdair Forsyth? Still not quite there. No, step forward Martin Laird.

Who’s he, you ask? Let me tell you. He’s a Glasgow guy who went to college in the US and stayed on there, qualifying for the PGA golf tour by the long distance route, through the secondary Nationwide Tour. In his rookie year he barely retained his card, and this year’s been tough too, but his form has improved steadily, until finally, yesterday, he took a huge step forward in his career by winning the Justin Timberlake Open, after a three-man play-off in Las Vegas, the first Scot  to take an event on the modern PGA tour since the great Sandy Lyle. (Yes, I know; technically, Paul Lawrie is a PGA tour winner, but he did it at Carnoustie.)

I hate to suggest that the British media has an inbuilt bias towards English sportspeople, but I’ve just done a check of UK on-line newspaper site, and I find that twelve hours after Martin’s victory, only the Herald, his home-town journal, has caught up with the fact. It doesn’t rate a mention in the Times, Torygraph or Guardian. If it had been England’s Ian Poulter, they would have been all over it, but as it happens, he’s never won in America.

So, on behalf of all Scots, well done our guy. I look forward to seeing you in next year’s Ryder Cup.

Now I’ve got that off my chest, congratulations to Jenson Button, his boss Ross Brawn, and the entire racing team on a remarkable achievement. I’ve got as much admiration for him as I have for Lewis Hamilton, another guy with an inspirational father to nurture his awesome God-given talent. I read somewhere that Sir Frank Williams once described Jenson as ‘a gentleman racer’. If that was a compliment, I’m pretty sure that it was meant to be back-handed, but I’d prefer to take it at face value. Jenson strikes me as a driver in the finest traditions of Jim Clark, Graham Hill, his son Damon, and the survivor of the founding era, Sir Stirling Moss. I’d rather watch him than a handful of Schumis.

And I mustn’t forget. All praise to Beth Tweddle, who fell off, got up, dusted herself off, and won.

Glad to hear that. I have plans for at least five more, by permission of  the Man upstairs (and I don’t mean Tim Hely-Hutchinson). Skinner Twenty . . . no, I can’t believe it either . . . is ready and waiting, and Headline have asked for four in addition to that. Then there’s the Primavera series. In five years I may take a rest.

You and Brian won’t  have long to wait. As you’ve probably seen from the site home page, Blood Red is due for publication on January 7.