Margaret Yorke was among the first of the writers whose books I read when I became interested in crime fiction. I ‘discovered’ her and Ruth Rendell at about the same time. Pondering sadly on her death, having read obituaries and blog tributes, I have been thinking about the last time I read one of her books. Called Dangerous to Know, it was published about twenty years ago. I finished it last winter, having finally borrowed it from my friend Sally, who lives in London, after reading it in short bursts each time I went to stay with her over the period of a year or so. It is a psychological thriller about a man with a dangerously-inflated ego who victimises his wife and daughters and eventually turns to murdering women who he believes have slighted him.
Sally’s copy is a proof from her time working as a bookseller. Finding it again has made me blush, for I realise that by still having it in my possession I have myself committed a crime which I abhor, that of borrowing a book and not returning it to its owner! I am penitent. Dangerous to Know will be restored to Sally next time we meet.
Margaret Yorke produced novels almost once a year for over forty years: an incredible achievement.