One of the principal reasons for the vigour with which crime fiction has reinvented itself in the past 15 years in the UK is the drastic lowering of the average age of its proponents. When I was first published in 1987, I was one of only a handful of writers under 50 producing work in the genre. And although age is no barrier to writing books that are both ground-breaking and challenging (vide Reginald Hill and Ruth Rendell) it is undoubtedly the case that when younger writers take on an established form, they bring to it a freshness and a desire for experimentation. I know that in my own case, I was aware that if things went well for me, I was going to be doing this for the next 40 years, and if I was not to get bored with myself I would need to develop a variety of voices and writing styles to accommodate challenge and growth. I was in this for the long haul, and I was determined that it should always remain enjoyment rather than a chore.

Now, 16 years on, the landscape has altered dramatically. For whatever reason (and there are many put forward, of varying degrees of plausibility) writers are coming to the crime genre in their twenties and thirties. And they are among those who have most pointedly demonstrated that in spite of Martin Amis’s dictum that plot is the enemy of style, it is possible to write good, stylish prose while carrying a coherent, gripping and intricate story with the requisite degree of resolution at the end.

There is a blossoming of talent within the crime genre at present that has not been seen since the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s. But what marks this generation of crime writers out is that they have escaped from the straitjacket of convention and remade the genre in their own image. For five years, I was a judge of the Crime Writers’ Association’s debut novel award, and I was constantly struck by the quality and range of the best of the work on display.

Among the fresh voices who have breathed new life into British crime fiction, I would include Denise Mina, Louise Welsh, Jake Arnott, Jim Kelly and Laura Wilson. They each write very different kinds of book, but what marks them out is their ability to create distinctive characters, place them in vividly realised settings and tell their stories in prose that sings.

Denise Mina won the John Creasey Memorial Dagger for Garnethill, her debut novel. It introduced Maureen O’Donnell, a Glaswegian woman recovering from a nervous breakdown rooted in childhood sexual abuse, a woman with a drink problem and a dysfunctional family. This is not the sort of voice generally heard in fiction, but with deft characterisation and edgy black humour, Mina makes us care about Maureen. We root for her through two subsequent novels, Exile and Resolution, and finally understand more about the society we live in. The Garnethill trilogy was followed by Sanctum, a stand-alone novel that takes real risks with narrative structure and demonstrates the same quality of writing that made the Garnethill novels stand out from the crowd.

Louise Welsh’s The Cutting Room also won the Creasey. It too is set in one of Glasgow’s hidden underworlds. Rilke is an auctioneer, a man whose sexual tastes and natural predilections for the eccentric set him apart from his colleagues. While clearing a house, he uncovers a set of sado-masochistic photographs that grip his imagination and fill him with the desire to uncover the story behind them. The Cutting Room is atmospheric, dark and strange, its unlikely protagonist winning the reader’s affection apparently against all the odds.

Jake Arnott’s trilogy of London lowlife, The Long Firm, He Kills Coppers and truecrime begins in the 1960s and moves forward to the present day. It’s a cunning mix of historical fact, urban legend and fiction that has the distinct whiff of authenticity about it. Arnott plays with story structure and voice, but writes throughout with authority and consistency. Though Arnott has been accused of glamourising gangland, there is nothing glamorous about the lives, or the fates, of his characters; this is ultimately a moral landscape.

Jim Kelly’s first novel, The Water Clock, introduced Fenland journalist Philip Dryden, a man struggling to make sense of his life as his wife lies in a coma after a car accident. Kelly’s narrative style is quirky and sometimes oblique, his characters emerging like a photograph in the developing bath. Both The Water Clock and its sequel, Fire Baby, pull together past and present, gradually revealing unsuspected truths. What is particularly striking about these books is their sense of place, and Kelly creates images that linger in the mind long after the book is over.

Laura Wilson’s four novels – A Little Death, Dying Voices, My Best Friend and Hello, Bunny Alice – are all stand-alones. What they all have in common with Jim Kelly is the long shadows cast by the past. Mixing their time frames between past and present, Wilson’s novels weave intricate tapestries that pull together disparate elements into a challenging whole. Her great strength is her gift for ventriloquism; she can assume the personae of an impressive range of characters and seldom puts a foot wrong.

Every year, it’s heartening to see a clutch of new writers arrive on the crime fiction scene. In spite of cutbacks in most major publishers’ lists, there is clearly still ample room for new talent to blaze a trail. These days, for writers in my position, the act of moving forward now requires a definite look back over the shoulder to see who is fast approaching from behind.

Val McDermid is an award-winning Scottish crime writer who divides her time between Manchester and Northumberland. Her most recent novel is The Distant Echo and previous books include The Wire in the Blood and The Last Temptation.