Find out how to balance the scenes in a crime novel or thriller by using different types of beats that help readers understand the fictional world they’re immersed in. There's a free sample scene analysis too!
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Example from published fiction
Kate Hamer, The Girl in the Red Coat, Faber & Faber, 2015 (Kindle edition, Chapter 6) When I wake up in the morning everything's wonderful. For a moment I can't understand why. Then I remember: Mum's said if the weather's good we can go to the storytelling festival and that's today. |
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1) His name is Teddy Lyons. He is one of the too-many assistant coaches on the South State bench. He is six foot eight and beefy, a big slab of aw-shucks farm boy. Big T—that's what he likes to be called—is thirty-three years old, and this is his fourth college coaching job. From what I understand, he is a decent tactician but excels at recruiting talent. |
Approach 2
Another option is to colour-code the text in a scene according to what type of beats are in play. This can help authors and editors evaluate whether one type of beat is overbearing, and where they might add in additional types of beat to disrupt that dominance. It's a powerful way of communicating the problem visually and quickly. |
Under normal circumstances he would never put his hands on a lady. However, these were not normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.
Ronnie struck the manager just above her right eye with the butt of the .38. A divot the width of a popsicle stick appeared above her eye. Blood spewed from the wound like water from a broken faucet. |
WITH FILTER
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FILTER REMOVED
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Danni knew there was a door in the back of the hut that led into the woods. She could make her escape there.
[Reader’s gaze focuses inwards on Danni’s doing the action of knowing.] |
There was a door in the back of the hut that led into the woods. She could make her escape there.
[Reader assumes it’s Danni doing the knowing since she’s the viewpoint character, and focuses outwards on the solution – the door.] |
The backdoor – it leads to the woods, Danni thought.
[Reader’s gaze focuses inwards on Danni’s doing the action of thinking.] |
The backdoor – it leads to the woods.
[Reader assumes the thought belongs to Danni, and focuses on the substance of the thought.] The backdoor – it led to the woods. [This alternative uses free indirect style; it frames the thought in the novel’s base tense and narrative style – third-person past.] |
He flung open the door and saw the gunman standing over by the window, rifle trained on the street below.
[Reader’s gaze focuses inwards on the man’s doing the action of seeing.] |
He flung open the door.
The gunman stood over by the window, rifle trained on the street below. [Reader assumes it’s the man doing the seeing since he’s the viewpoint character, and focuses outwards on the gunman.] |
ALL THE TAGS!
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REDUCED TAGGING
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‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ I said. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ ‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’ I said. ‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish,’ she said. ‘What do you mean was?’ I said. ‘You’re too funny,’ she said, and pulled a face. |
‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ ‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ ‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’ ‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’ ‘What do you mean was?’ I said. Danny pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’ |
TAG TAKES CENTRE STAGE
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DIALOGUE TAKES CENTRE STAGE
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‘Watch out!’ Danni warned.
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‘Watch out!’ Danni said.
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‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I joked. |
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was? |
EXPRESSION TAG
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ACTION BEAT
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‘No,’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
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‘No.’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
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EXPRESSION TAG
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SPEECH TAG
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‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I laughed. |
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I said. |
ACTION BEATS THAT INTERRUPT DIALOGUE
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ACTION BEATS THAT AMPLIFY DIALOGUE
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Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max rubbed his forehead. ‘Maybe we need a Plan B.’ ‘No.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ Max tilted his head. ‘The fire? What happened?’ ‘It was years ago.’ She waved his question away and jabbed a finger towards the door again. ‘Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’ ‘What do you mean was?’ he said, and smirked. She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’ |
Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max said. ‘I dunno, maybe we need a Plan B.’ ‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ ‘The fire? What—’ ‘It was years ago. Whatever. Focus. Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’ ‘What do you mean was?’ She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’ |
‘And you will have no hesitation in doing what has to be done? You have no doubts?’ (At Risk, Stella Rimington, p. 187)
‘And where’s he getting the money from? You know the situation as well as I do. He isn’t on leave of absence from a university.’ (The Dream Archipelago, Christopher Priest, p. 227) “But your way makes more sense. So you think Maura was working with Rex?” “I do.” “Doesn’t mean she didn’t set Rex up.” “Right.” “But if she wasn’t involved in the murder, where is she now?” (Don’t Let Go, Harlan Coben, p. 76) |
There's a part of him that wants to run down there, charge through, and shoot every fucking person he sees inside that hotel, ending with the man who put him in the chair. Meghan’s brain broke because of him. She is dead because of him. Hotel Memory needs to end.
But that would most likely only get him killed. No, he'll call Gwen instead, propose an off-the-books, under-the-radar op with a handful of SWAT colleagues. If she insists, he'll take an affidavit to a judge. |
Matlock walked to the small, rectangular window with the wire-enclosed glass. The police station was at the south end of the town of Carlyle, about a half a mile from the campus, the section of town considered industrialized. Still, there were trees along the streets. Carlyle was a very clean town, a neat town. The trees by the station house were pruned and shaped.
And Carlyle was also something else. |
Dolly Guntner certainly wasn't in a position to say anything bad about him.
Which left Carol Beakman. Carol had seen him. And while she didn't actually see him kill Dolly, if the police ever spoke with her, she'd be able to tell them it couldn't have been anyone else but him. As far as Cory could figure, the only living witness to his crimes was Carol Beakman. He was nearly back to the cabin. It seemed clear what he had to do. And he'd have to do it fast. |
I won't be able to place this in any kind of context until I go through everything Sam has brought, though he says he didn't see a reply to Jacoby's questions. Certainly the fact that a man who was soon to be a murder victim experimenting in any way with his own DNA is at least curious, and something for me to look into carefully if I stay on the case.
But a nurse comes in and asks me to quickly come to Laurie's room, so right now everything else is going to have to wait. |
He continued, slowly, by a process of osmosis and white knowledge (which is like white noise, only more informative), to comprehend the city, a process which accelerated when he realized that the actual City of London itself was no bigger than a square mile [...]
Two thousand years before, London had been a little Celtic village on the north shore of the Thames which the Romans had encountered and settled in. London had grown, slowly, until, roughly a thousand years later, it met the tiny Royal City of Westminster [...] London grew into something huge and contradictory. It was a good place, and a fine city, but there is a price to be paid for all good places, and a price that all good places have to pay. After a while, Richard found himself taking London for granted. |
He woke in the morning and turned over in the blanket and looked down the road through the trees the way they’d come in time to see the marchers four abreast. Dressed in clothing of every description, all wearing red scarves at their necks. Red or orange, as close to red as they could find. He put his hand on the boy’s head. Shh, he said. (pp. 95–6)
He wallowed into the ground and lay watching across his forearm. An army in tennis shoes, tramping. Carrying three-foot lengths of pipe with leather wrappings. [...] The phalanx following carried spears or lances tasselled with ribbons, the long blades hammered out of trucksprings in some crude forge upcountry. The boy lay with his face in his arms, terrified. (p. 96) |
Through the fathomless deeps of space swims the star turtle Great A’Tuin, bearing on its back the four giant elephants who carry on their shoulders the mass of the Discworld. A tiny sun and moon spin around them, on a complicated orbit to induce seasons, so probably nowhere else in the multiverse is it sometimes necessary for an elephant to cock a leg to allow the sun to go past.
Exactly why this should be may never be known. Possibly, the Creator of the universe got bored with all the usual business of axial inclination, albedos and rotational velocities, and decided to have a bit of fun for once. |
“Come on!” he screams.
‘It’s very … evocative,’ says Ruth. This is true. The brushwork may be crude, the planes out of perspective and the figures barely more than stick men, but there’s something about the work of the unknown airman that brings back the past more effectively than any documentary or reconstruction. |
‘But you think they’re coming back,’ Karen said.
‘Yes, indeed, and we gonna have a surprise party. I want you to take a radio, go down to the lobby and hang out with the folks. You see Foley and this guy Bragg, what do you do?’ ‘Call and tell you.’ ‘And you let them come up. You understand? You don’t try to make the bust yourself.’ Burdon slipping back into his official mode. Karen said, ‘What if they see me?’ ‘You don’t let that happen,’ Burdon said. ‘I want them upstairs.’ |
There is another faint crunching noise as the body spasms once and then goes limp. Blood spreads blackly from his mouth over the collar of his white shirt and starts to drip onto the pale marble of the steps. [...]
You go downstairs and walk through the kitchen, where the two women sit tied to their chairs; you leave via the same window you entered by, walking calmly through the small back garden into the mews where the motorbiked is parked. You hear the first faint, distant screams just as you take the bike’s key from your pocket. You feel suddenly elated. You’re glad you didn’t have to hurt the women. |
Cited sources and related reading
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For almost a minute that was that. Shirley could feel her watch ticking; could feel through the desk’s surface the computer struggling to return to life. Two pairs of feet tracked downstairs. Harper and Guy. She wondered where they were off to. (Dead Lions, p. 17)
His mum pushed past him, bringing a cloud of thick night air seasoned with salt and something he couldn’t place. A perfume perhaps, but not his mother’s normal scent. (Time to Win, p. 321) The blurred figures at the far end of the long corridor seemed almost liquid, or smoke. There, but insubstantial. Fleeting. Fleeing. As she wished she could. This was it. The end of the journey. Not just that day’s journey as she and her husband, Peter, had driven from their little Québec village to the Musée d’Art Contemporain in Montréal, a place they knew well. Intimately. (A Trick of the Light, pp. 1–2) |
Amos Decker trudged along alone. He was six-five and built like the football player he had once been. He’d been on a diet for several months now and had dropped a chunk of weight, but he could stand to lose quite a bit more. He was dressed in khaki pants stained at the cuff and a long, rumpled Ohio State Buckeyes pullover that concealed both his belly and the Glock 41 Gen4 pistol riding in a belt holster on his waistband.
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The Chevy jumped like an old dog that had been kicked and plowed away the hi-test pump. It snapped off and rolled away, spilling a few dribbles of gas. The nozzle came unhooked and lay glittering under the fluorescents. (p. 8)
“Clock went red,” the man on the floor grunted, and then began to cough, racking chainlike explosions that send heavy mucus spraying from his mouth in long and ropy splatters. Hap leaned backward, grimacing desperately. (p. 11) She walked softly up behind him and laid both hands on his shoulders. Jess, who had been holding his rocks in his left hand and plunking them into Mother Atlantic with his right, let out a scream and lurched to hit feet. Pebbles scattered everywhere, and he almost knocked Frannie off the side and into the water. He almost went in himself, head first. (p. 16) |
His size fourteen shoes hit the pavement with noisy splats. His hair was, to put it kindly, dishevelled. Decker worked at the FBI on a joint task force. He was on his way to a meeting at the Hoover Building.
He was not looking forward to it. He sensed that a change was coming, and Decker did not like change. He’d experienced enough of it in the last two years to last him a lifetime. He had just settled into a new routine with the FBI and he wanted to keep it that way. |
17/2/2020
The Dream Archipelago, Christopher Priest, Gollancz, 2009, p. 201
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Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton, Arrow, 2006, Prologue from Kindle edition
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Tacit chronology
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Explicit chronology
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Embraces the logic of standard sentence structure
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Assumes readers don’t understand the word order
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Allows readers to be in the now of the novel
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Pushes readers into an external time and space
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Shows us the story as it unfolds
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Tells us the timeline of movement
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Trims the fat
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Clutters the prose
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You stand up, reach forward and take the neatly folded handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his jacket, flick it open and wipe the blade of the Marttiini on it until the knife is clean. The knife comes from Finland; that’s why the name has such a strange spelling. It hasn’t occurred to you before, but its nationality seems appropriate now and even funny in a grim sort of way; it’s Finnish and you’ve used it to finish Mr Persimmon.
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What you want the reader to experience
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What tense you should write in
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Now – the present of your novel
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Simple past or past progressive
(she stood; she was standing) |
Something that happened before now (i.e. in the novel’s past)
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Past perfect
(she had stood; she had been standing) |
She stood there for a moment, taking in the white Christmas lights Samantha had wound through the slats of her bed’s headboard, and the fuzzy green-and-blue rug the two of them had found rolled up by the curb of a posh apartment building on Fifth Avenue. “Is someone actually throwing this out?” Samantha had asked.
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Tatty was talking to Simon. Frank couldn’t hear what they were saying. He looked down the road, towards the harbour and the dead end, the industrial buildings laid low by the unexpected weight of late summer sun, and somewhere over to his left the top of Nelson’s Monument, clear of cloud for once. He used to enjoy driving down South Denes Road and curving back round onto South Beach Parade, accelerating past the old Pleasure Beach and into a different era.
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'First of all the expert should analyse the mark in detail, describing as many minutiae as she can. Only afterwards should she examine possible matches and carry out a comparison. When analysis and comparison happen simultaneously, experts run the risk of finding matching minutiae [ridge characteristics) because they are looking for them.’
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“The murder,” Simon said. “It was gruesome.”
Ingrid wore a long thin coat. She dug her hands into her pockets. “Go on.” “Aaron was mutilated.” “How?” “Do you really need the details?” he asked. [...] “According to Hester’s source, the killer slit Aaron’s throat, though she said that’s a tame way of putting it. The knife went deep into his neck. Almost took off his head. They sliced off three fingers. They also cut off ...” “Pre- or post-mortem?” Ingrid asked in her physician tone. “The amputations. Was he still alive for them?” “I don’t know,” Simon said. “Does it matter?” |
Witherspoon leaned forward and examined the dead man. It was not a chore he relished. The fact was, he was rather squeamish about dead people, but as corpses went, this was a rather nice one. At least it wasn’t covered in blood.
[…] “The doctor was obviously reading when death occurred,” Witherspoon said. “See how his head is resting on that book. Except for the rather peculiar way his arms are flopped out, one each side, you’d think he was merely taking a nap.” “Well he isn’t napping,” snapped the doctor, glaring at Witherspoon. “He’s dead and the circumstances are very suspicious.” “Suspicious?” Witherspoon echoed. He didn’t think there was anything suspicious about a dead person in a doctor’s surgery. Mind you there were more dead people in hospitals, but surely, if one couldn’t die in a hospital, a surgery was the next best place. […] “Inspector Witherspoon,” Hightower began slowly, as though talking to a thick-skulled child, “if you’d trouble yourself to lift Dr. Slocum’s head, you’ll see why I considered his death suspicious.” Witherspoon swallowed hard and rolled the dead man’s head to one side. He tried not to shudder as a pair of open, beady gray eyes gazed up at him. The face surrounding those eyes was puffed up like bread dough, and the flesh was flushed a bright pink. A hideously swollen tongue protruded from between lips that had been stretched in a horrible parody of a smile. Inspector Witherspoon quickly turned the face away and stepped back. “As you can see, he’s swelled up like a bullfrog,” Hightower continued. “He may well have actually died of heart failure, but I assure you, it was brought on by something else. […] Dr. Slocum’s been poisoned.” |
He bent forward, suddenly, and caught himself with one hand on his knee. Like a runner who hits his limit. Winded and beaten. When Kennon looked up, Caleb could see veins and tendons bulging in his neck. Their eyes met.
“Don’t move,” Kennon said. This time, his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. Emmeline stood to her full height and took a step toward Kennon. He fired the gun at her. Caleb didn’t know if he was trying to hit her or not. A candle inside a glass sphere exploded three feet from Emmeline’s ankle. Closer, in fact, to Caleb’s head. Behind her, the man on the mattress went on twitching. The device clamped to his face was made of iron. Thumbscrews ran along both its sides in double rows. “Inspector, you’ll hit somebody,” Emmeline said. She kept coming toward him. Her dress was cut long in the back, so that its hem trailed on the floor behind her, a black train. Emmeline stepped carefully between the candles, but her dress swept over them. They tipped, spelling wax, sending up smoke as they went out. Caleb got to his back and struggled until his cuffed hands were behind his thighs. He didn’t take his eyes of Emmeline. “You look sick, Inspector,” Emmeline said. “I could get you something to drink. A glass of water, maybe? Something a little stronger?” Kennon fired again and Emmeline didn’t even flinch. The bullet missed her by ten feet, punching a hole in the back of the building. “Stop—” “You should be more careful what you touch,” Emmeline said. “Some things can go right through the skin.” Kennon fell onto his knees. His face was purple. |
But the man came closer. He wasn’t sure. And closer. The beam of light was just above Matlock now. Then it moved to his midsection and Matlock could see the large barrel of the ugly black automatic.
It was the second, the instant he’d waited for. He whipped his right hand up towards the weapon, simultaneously springing his whole body against the legs of the man in the raincoat. He held the automatic’s barrel, forcing it with all his strength toward the ground. The gun fired twice, the impact of the explosions nearly shattering Matlock’s hand, the sounds partially muted by wet earth and the slashing rain. The man was beneath him now, twisting on his side, thrashing with his legs and free arm against the heavier Matlock. Matlock flung himself on the pinned arm and sank his teeth into the wrist above the hand holding the weapon. He bit into the flesh until he could feel the blood spurting out, mingled with the cold rain. The man released the automatic, screaming in anguish. Matlock grabbed for the gun, wrested it free, and smashed it repeatedly into the man’s face. |
Lamaison saw his chance, and he took it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and scrabbled his heels on the carpet, trying to get his feet under him. But Reacher was ready. Readier than he had ever been. He kicked Lamaison hard in the side and swung an elbow that caught him on the ear. Wrestled him face down on the floor and got a knee between his shoulder blades and jammed the SIG against the top of his spine. Lamaison’s head was up and Reacher knew he was staring out into the void. He feet were drumming on the carpet. He was screaming. Reacher could hear him clearly over the noise. He could feel his chest heaving.
Too late, Reacher thought. You reap what you sow. |
ORIGINAL UNFILTERED
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FILTERED BY ME
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When the dark mellowed, he shuffled inside and sank onto the seat that a long-dead troglodyte had hewn into the cave wall. The familiar coldness seeped through his trousers and into his flesh.
Roz Watkins, The Devil’s Dice, p. 1 |
When he saw that the dark had mellowed, he shuffled inside and sank onto the seat that a long-dead troglodyte had hewn into the cave wall. He felt the familiar coldness seeping through his trousers and into his flesh.
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The address is typed on a sticker, the postmark a smudge of ink in the top right-hand corner.
Clare Mackintosh, Let Me Lie, p. 15 |
I notice the address and realize it’s typed on a sticker, the postmark a smudge of ink in the top right-hand corner.
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Earlier that morning, she’d groaned at the invasive ringtone from her partner’s iPhone. […] How could such a small slab of silicone produce so much noise?
Val McDermid, Insidious Intent, p. 14 |
Earlier that morning, she’d groaned at the invasive ringtone from her partner’s iPhone. […] She wondered how such a small slab of silicone could produce so much noise.
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‘So do I,’ said Banks. After a short pause he went on. ‘Anyway, I seem to remember you told me you went to Silver Royd girls’ school in Wortley.’
‘That’s right. Why?’ ‘Does the name Wendy Vincent mean anything to you?’ ‘Yes, of course. She was the girl who was murdered when I was at school. [...] It was terrible.’ Banks looked away. He couldn’t help it, knowing the things that had happened to Linda, but she seemed unfazed. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘And there was something about her in the papers a couple of years ago. The fiftieth anniversary. Right?’ ‘That’s the one.’ ‘It seems a strange sort of anniversary to celebrate. A murder.’ ‘Media. What can I say? It wasn’t a [...]’ (Sleeping in the Ground by Peter Robinson, pp. 273–4) |
‘I wanted to believe he could love me the way I loved him. And then I heard him ask Sophie to marry him, and … and …’ She dissolved into weeping.
(Closed Casket by Sophie Hannah, p. 165) ‘See these?’ She jangled the keys inches from my face then lobbed them over the fence. ‘Not taking them. No way. It’s bribery.’ ‘Right, that list of names – you said there were eighteen.’ ‘Eighty. Not eighteen. Sorry.’ I closed my eyes, massaging my aching temples. ‘Go on then. Take it from the top.’ |
He bends down and starts fiddling with the dial. “Hank asked me to hold something for him.”
(Don’t Let Go by Harlan Coben, p. 201). ‘Just cuts and bruising?’ ‘Yes. The smaller ones had already healed by the time I was found, but this one …’ He placed a finger against chin. I could see star-shaped stitch marks tracing the line of the scar. ‘This one became pretty badly infected. The middle of my face was swollen and there was pus coming out of the wound. I got some sort of bone infection off the back of it as well. It was bad.’ (I Am Missing by Tim Weaver, p. 13) Dave glanced at the signature tattoo on the Matt’s hand. ‘That looks familiar. Who inked you?’ ‘How do you think we should play this?’ I walked over to the window and watched the evening rush-hour traffic. ‘Low profile or head on?’ |
Ray studied his drink and narrowed his eyes. ‘You can be cruel sometimes, you know. I don’t know where you got it from. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth …” Your mother didn’t have a cruel bone in her body.’
(Sleeping in the Ground by Peter Robinson, p. 261) Laura shrugged. “If you came equipped with a bone saw—” “Door opens, silenced 9mm in the brain, killer closes the door, cuts off Young’s hand and bags it, leaves the musical score in the other hand and gets out of there in, say, under five minutes?” “It’s possible.” I turned to Crabbie. “And the rest of the house was untouched. No trophies taken, no money, nothing like that.” “What are you thinking?” he asked. (The Cold Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty, p. 117) James pressed two fingers to his cheek and winced. ‘I’m heading off to the dentist.’ |
‘Most of that time we’ve been in my house, which I’ve selfishly insisted on because that’s where Laurie is. Kevin had no objections, because it’s comfortable and because Laurie is cooking our meals.’
(Play Dead, p. 119. Grand Central Publishing; Reprint edition, 2009) |
MOTIVATION:
The adverb tells us about the emotional motivation behind Carpenter’s insistence (Laurie is his lover), which contrasts with Kevin’s motivation: convenience. |
‘I accept his offer of a glass of Swedish mineral water and then ask him about his business relationship with Walter Timmerman. He smiles condescendingly and then shakes his head.’
(New Tricks, p. 110. Grand Central Publishing; Reissue edition, 2010) |
MOOD:
Removing the adverb might lead us down the path of thinking that Jacoby, the smiler, is being congenial. He’s not. The scene is confrontational, though measured. |
‘Milo is digging furiously in some brush and dirt. The area has gotten muddy because of the rain, but he doesn’t seem to mind.’
(Dog Tags, p. 291. Grand Central Publishing; Reprint edition, 2011) |
SCENE ENRICHMENT:
The adverb enables us to imagine how manic the dog is – we can see his legs pumping, muck flying everywhere, perhaps some doggy drool swinging from the corners of his mouth. That single modifier enriches the narrative. |
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