This bookshelf is one of many in my small, crowded house in Cambridge. I seem unable to pass an Oxfam shop without sneaking inside to hunt for literary bargains. Luckily my husband Dave is a tolerant man with a talent for shelf building. The one in the photo is my favourite, because it’s beside the table in our living room. I can grab one of my favourite volumes and read in comfort. I’m afraid I’m a bit of pain when it comes to organising my books; they’re arranged by genre and in alphabetical order. I realise that’s a bit sad, but I love being able to grab the particular book I’m looking for without having to hunt day and night. My shelves contain a weird and wonderful mixture of biographies, kids’ books and histories. I also love leafing through our huge atlas, imagining myself as an intrepid explorer, about to set off on an exotic journey.

It goes without saying that I own hundreds of crime novels, trues crime, and factual books about forensic procedures. I’ve found over the years that it’s hugely important to get my facts straight, so I love books written by pathologists and detectives, flicking through them often for interesting facts to slip into my books. I do subscribe to the theory that books can change lives for the better. Certainly they changed mine. I was a very late bloomer, working in a shop for years before going to university, where the reading bug bit me so hard, I’ve never recovered. People often ask who my favourite crime authors are, but it’s a difficult question to answer, there are so many authors I love. But if you check my shelves for evidence, you’ll soon see that Ruth Rendell and Val McDermid take up more space than anyone else. These two queens of crime account for thirty-six volumes between them.

In fact, I hope my husband’s got his toolkit handy. Maybe we could squeeze in just one more shelf?