Even with the salt sweat of the sea blowing in on the afternoon winds the scent of death was unmistakable. The insistent drone of cicadas from the jacquinia trees surrounding the villa was joined by the sharp buzz of flies lured by the promise of decay. The Inspector in truth had been waiting for the
Anyone who has ever embarked on any creative venture will know the feeling: the first rush of blind enthusiasm where you know this is going to be the greatest story/painting/song ever. Then the hard slog of doing the work. Then the despair. Your brilliant new baby sucks. It sucks on a scale that makes trashing
‘Sugar, my dear?’ A quick nod and Mrs Fitz plinks a lump of Demerara from eagle-claw tongs into the steaming mix of gin and water and swirls the liquid around the glass. Juniper vapours suffuse the dank air as a mittened hand clutches the tumbler. ‘We got troubles Mrs Fitz.’ the man growls in between
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