The Sentence Is Death

I have to thank Daniel Hawthorne, who first approached me to write this series. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all

‘There’s already a book with that title, Hawthorne.’

‘I trust you, mate. You’ll think of a better one.’

I looked out of the window. I still wasn’t sure. But on the other hand, the rain had finally stopped and it seemed to me that a few rays of sunlight were beginning to break through

He smiled. ‘Partners in Crime. That’s what you should call the book.’

She wasn’t amused. ‘You can’t keep ending your books with somebody trying to kill you,’ she said.

He’s staying,’ Hawthorne said. I was surprised he had taken my side, but then of course he would want me to write what happened.

That jolted him. Just for a second I saw the vulnerability, the child he had once been, spark in his eyes and before he could stop himself he asked: ‘Do you like me?’

You breathe in my ear

Your every word a trial

The sentence is death

182.

‘King’s Cross station. W. H. Smith. Why did he buy that book

‘One eight two,’ Hawthorne said

A woman’s glove embroidered with the letter H is left at the crime scene. Modern detectives would be able to tell you where and when it was made, what fabric was used, what size it was and everything it had touched in the last few weeks. But they might not recognise that the H was actually the Russian letter for N and that it had been deliberately dropped to frame somebody else. For these esoteric insights, they needed someone like Hawthorne