Beneath the glittering surface of the world of racing, gambling, sales and breeding, there has always existed an underbelly of corruption, violence and sharp practice. In the rarefied atmosphere of wealth and privilege that is the bloodstock industry, the perpetrators are often highly respectable, well-connected members of society. But, with vast sums of money at stake, and disgrace inevitably following upon exposure, they may also be utterly ruthless.  Many of the scams and schemes involve interfering with the star performers, the horses, so it is not surprising that veterinarians frequently find themselves - usually, but not always, unwittingly -  caught at the murky interface between no-expenses-spared glamour and no-holds-barred greed. 

This always exciting and sometimes dangerous setting provides a rich vein of plots for thrillers for insiders like veterinarian, Rory McCormac, who know how to mine it.

Marie Benoît spoke to him recently at his home in Zurrieq just before the launch of his latest thriller A Moving Death

I'm told your first foray into professional writing was via cryptic crosswords?

That was lucky. I got a house-call to a sick dog.  The owner was editor of the RTE Guide (Ireland's equivalent of the Radio Times and its largest circulation weekly). At the time I called, he and his wife were tussling with the Irish Times crossword and struggling. As I was washing my hands, I overheard them discussing a clue and, as they seemed mystified, I suggested the answer.   Twenty minutes, I had an invitation to submit a sample puzzle.  So the RTE Guide got its first crossword and I got a second profession, which I didn't need!  That was thirty years ago and I'm still compiling.

Why do you use the pseudonym, Procrustes for your crosswords?

It seemed an apt name for a setter of mind-stretching clues. Procrustes was the guy in Greek mythology who lured passing travellers into his lair and made them lie on his bed.  If they didn't fit exactly, he'd cut bits off the long ones and stretch the short ones.  Craftily, he had two different-sized beds.  Don't ask me what the point was, but he did it until Theseus stopped him. He made him lie on his own bed: Procrustes didn't fit and Theseus carried out the necessary alterations. As a result, Preocrustes expired - a 'fitting' demise if ever there was one, excuse the pun. 

Did you always want to be a writer?

Yes.  But I always wanted to be a vet, too, so I've been incredibly lucky to be able to have both my cakes and eat them.  They're both demanding professions but they're so different that each provides a break from the other. It's been a kind of balancing act: if I was very busy with practice, I'd have no time for writing full length thrillers so I'd focus on shorter projects, like magazine articles. 

 You draw on your profession - Frank Samson, your hero, is a vet and the skulduggery is perpetrated upon racehorses, etc. 

Sure.  Fiction needs a setting, so you're half-way there if you have an interesting 'other' life.  Most people regard a vet's work as fascinating and, to be fair, there are worse ways of spending a life.  It makes sense for writers to stick with what they know best: Paul Carson, a doctor, writes medical thrillers, John Grisham, a lawyer, writes legal thrillers, and the late Dick Francis, a jockey, wrote racing thrillers.  It's familiar territory; it cuts down on research and ensures that all the technical bits are right.

And helps to avoid serious errors?

A most important point. A serious error, like putting a VW Beetle engine under the bonnet, or referring to a huge Mediterranean beach exposed by the 'retreating tide', can ruin a whole scene.  These two 'factual' clangers were dropped by two of the most successful writers of recent years.  My worstfaux pas - as far as I know - was in describing a spare key in a magnetic box attached to a Land Rover chassis, which I now know is non-magnetic.  In the online version, the box is now attached by a twist of wire.  There may be other errors s but at least that one has been laid to rest.

Are the books in any way autobiographical? Plots? Characters?

I wish. The plots, certainly not.  The characters?  Not consciously.  There may be bits of people I have known incorporated into some of the minor characters.  It's unavoidable, I suppose.

How about Claire, the love interest?

Again, she may be a mixture of women I have met or known, not necessarily as girlfriends.

Why didn't you write your novels under your own name?

When I began writing, my children were young and, as a way of involving them in the adventure, I used their names, Ruairí and Cormac. Random House insisted I change the spelling to Rory.

You've moved around quite a bit, seen the world.

 As a vet, I worked in Connemara on Ireland's west coast, where I'm from; I spent nine years working with the farmers of Malta; and I spent seven magical years as Head Vet of The Stud Section of The Royal Stables of Oman.  In Oman, I was fortunate enough to also be Veterinary Surgeon to the Arabian Leopard Project and the White Oryx Project. 

But, I have also moved around quite a bit as a writer: cryptic crosswords, thrillers and, at one time, I founded and published The Waiting Room Magazine, which I edited and largely wrote.  It had a circulation of 83,000, not bad in a country the size of Ireland. 

What's it like to find that a publisher - in your case one of the biggest in the world - wants to publish you?

Fantastic.  But writing is a series of steps gained - you have an idea; you write it down; you read it objectively and think it's not half bad; you tweak it a bit; you give it to a family member; they like it.  Each one of these steps is a success story in its own right. The further you get, the more satisfying it is, but at no point can you consider yourself a failure.  Then, if it goes really well, you find an agent, who finds a publisher. I suppose it might have been more romantic had I been a starving writer, shivering in a draughty garret, sharing my stale, mouldy crusts with an equally scrawny mouse that had befriended me out of pity, but, in fact, when the news arrived from my agent, life was already pretty good: I had an interesting, well-paid job in beautiful Oman; I was living on the lush oasis that was Royal Razat, the Sultan's private estate; I was Vet to the Arabian Leopard Project, requiring heart-clamping helicopter plunges into very remote, very deep, very narrow canyons; I was Vet to the White Oryx Project, spending whole weeks in the chartless deserts; my agent in London was giving me positive feedback; then, out of the blue, she called with an offer for a three-book deal from Random House, a threefold increase on what another major London publisher had already offered. So, yeah. It was one of the best feelings ever.

What do you think is the most important factor needed to do what you did, to take the giant step from feeling you have a book inside to getting it all down on paper?

For fiction, you need a pretty active imagination, but one that has some discipline.  I've always been a great liar; this is nothing to boast about in everyday life, but, for a writer of fiction, which is just a tissue of lies, nicely told, it is essential.  The trick is in tying those lies together seamlessly and making sure at all times that one never contradicts another because you can be absolutely certain that even minute discrepancies will be picked up by some sharp-eyed reader.  These may be mere 'technical' errors rather than the more serious factual ones that I already mentioned, but when a reader hits one of these 'technical' errors, it's like hitting an unnoticed speed-bump. 

Then there are those very common sins, the miraculous recoveries made by heroes who, on Tuesday night are receiving the hammering of their lives from thugs who leave them for dead, and, by Wednesday afternoon, are not feeling even a twinge as they blithely set about mighty physical feats.

And the guys who escape their captors in a foreign city they have never visited before? They commandeer a taxi and drive straight to the US or UK consulate, avoiding detours - unless they are strategic shortcuts - and outfox their pursuers who, being locals, must know the city like the back of their fists.

But there are worse sins than stretching credulity in action scenes: these are the mighty leaps of 'logic' that some writers feel should enable their hero to exclaim 'Ah-hah! Eureka!' at a point in the book at which the available information falls far short of warranting such a conclusion.  That's probably my pet hate - faulty deducing.

Dr Andrew Azzopardi is launching your latest cop thriller, A Moving Death, tomorrow at '1743' Ir-Razzett L-Antik in Qormi.  As your launch is just one day after the National Book Festival, weren't you tempted to launch at the actual festival itself?

Well, I did consider it, but 1743 is one of my favourite places - great food, great ambience and - like my own house - restored with love to its original state. It's just a lovely place to be in and a lovely space in which to do something as important to me as this.  I've only ever had great experiences at 1743 so I guess the feeling just stays with me and I hope the very positive associations I have always had with the place continue after this.

 Are you superstitious?

No. Not at all.  But everyone has favourite places, locations, situations . . .

The book will be launched today 18 November at '1743' Ir-Razzett L-Antik, Triq il-Wied, Qormi.