I take my research very seriously, from being choked unconscious and set on fire

I’m wearing a dark trench coat and beret, and I’m wedged into the fork of a eucalyptus tree, training a handheld video camera at the windows of a station wagon in a parking lot on the edge of the blue waters of the Tasman Sea. Everything about this moment feels uncomfortable. I don’t personally know the occupants of the station wagon, and until about a minute ago there was only one of them. But I accepted the job today, and though every part of me finds this moment cringe-worthy, triggering a cascade of personal taboos, I know this recorded moment will represent, for one party, an important kind of vindication, a type of justice. For the other party, it will no doubt be devastating.

I am an author of 14 crime novels and historical fiction. Over the past two decades, I have taken my research very seriously, from spending time in squad cars and morgues to being choked unconscious and being set on fire. Yes, really.

My current main character is an

Australian private investigator, and I have earned my Certificate III private investigator credentials in the name of research, so naturally I jumped at this opportunity to tag along on a real investigation. Now, in this tree, I am less sure.

Untold hours have been spent sitting quietly outside a residence and keeping a log, and then driving strategically two cars back from the station wagon while its owner bought cigarettes and a newspaper and otherwise went about his day like any man.

The client – his wife – believes he is cheating on her. I had only just begun to form a premature view of his innocence when the man pulled up to this parking spot overlooking the ocean, seemingly to take in the sunshine. Within minutes, a woman with curly blonde hair leapt out of a car next to his and got inside the station wagon. She is now on top of him and the seat is being tilted back. It is obvious what will happen next. The client was right.

What would my main character, PI Billie Walker, do? Well, in this world of moral greys, she would document what she needed for her client’s freedom – using a black and white camera in

1946, not this recorder – and unapologetically go on her way, lamenting the reality of marital work, which had long been the backbone of the trade before modern insurance claims and corporate espionage took over. Back in the 1940s, women could not escape loveless or downright abusive marriages without hard proof of infidelity, the law giving rise to a real need for private enquiry agents and this kind of ‘marital work’, as it is called.

Life is too short to live the same day twice, I remind myself. This has been my personal motto for as long as I can remember, and it’s an awfully good one for a writer obsessed with research. Because although like any writer I am fond of hitting the books to uncover elements and context for a story, in truth there is no better research method than real lived experience. If there is one thing I know as a voracious reader myself, it’s that readers are smart. You can’t pull the wool over their eyes. If a story rings false, the writer isn’t doing their job.

But how does a writer gain experience of another era? I can scour the records, personal stories, news reports and fashion magazines, wear the clothes and walk the halls of the buildings of the time, but I must also do more. This awkward moment constitutes insight so I remain in the tree, filming, despite my discomfort.

A few years ago, when interviewing author Peter James, we ended up in something of a playful contest about the lengths we will go to for research. I was set on fire and choked unconscious. He was locked in a box and thrown into the Thames. And on it went. When it comes to the PI credentials I now have, the irony is that my main character did not need any. Very little in the way of regulations pertained to Australian private inquiry agents in the 1940s, except that they were not allowed to call themselves detectives. That was a title for ‘public detectives’ only – police officers – and the law guarded that title carefully at the time.

So while Hollywood films were filled with private detectives, no such term could be used Down Under. Women also worked in the trade, but the films and fiction of the era leaves them out, so I have taken it upon myself to write them back in. It was and remains a male-dominated profession, however, and the famous slang ‘Private

Dick’ may allude to this, though the meaning more likely derives from the Roma slang dekko, dekker from Romani dik, meaning ‘to look’.

I have looked enough. I turn off the camera. In some way, I suppose this sordid episode is a relief, as tailing a man as he went about his day felt wrong – worse even if he was the picture of innocence. The proof of infidelity now recorded, I climb down from the tree, and my colleague says, ‘Our client got her result.’ Indeed.

I straighten my clothes. Life is too short to live the same day twice, I remind myself, and I seek out my next adventure.

The War Widow by Tara Moss is published by VERVE Books and available now

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