Within a Suffolk town stretching in mists of stars and water, I write mystery novels by glimpses of shadows and imagination. Sometimes I sit moved to stupidity, giggle and collapse in a ball, and sometimes trail off into limtless space. Then secretely, silently, aided by unknown forces (probably my cat), out of the blue and down the computer, spills a mystery, my hero twice sharp walking across the screen twice thick, near death robbing his eyes of the sun. I do pay some duty to wit and love, and labour under the conviction there is always emotional honesty to resonate with women and men, any age, anywhere. Even my neighbour whose heart is of stone brings me a bag of sweeties.