We often find that the characters have aims of their own, and we are often as surprised by them as the reader must be. In A Matter of Justice, there are several characters who are driven by emotions that are so strong they will stop at nothing, will be bound by no laws but their own. We hadn’t intended that to happen, at least not in the beginning. Yet as we worked with and got to know these people, we could see clearly that injustice isn’t the flip side of justice, but something that can drive people to settle scores at any price. It turned out to be a very challenging task to capture their determination.

Characters are fascinating when they act on their own behalf. We never know who the killer may be, because we don’t know what the clues are and how they will affect the other characters and the case—until one fact, one clue, points in the direction of the murderer so forcefully that there is no doubt about that person’s guilt. We work it out step by step with Rutledge himself. We see what he sees, we don’t act as an omniscient being pulling the puppet’s strings.

Do we ever disagree or argue? Oh, yes! Into the wee hours of the night, sometimes. But we usually come to an amicable agreement or look for a variation on whatever theme is causing the problem. Sometimes the problem is not grasping some aspect of a character. Once that’s straightened out, all is well. But not always. Characters can occasionally be as stubborn as their creators, and then we have to accept a different situation. The rector in A False Mirror was determined to interfere in the resolution of the case for reasons that grew out of his own beliefs. We tried to convince him to change his mind, but he had no intention of doing so.

Choosing the setting for each book is exciting too. We begin with a wish list, based on reading and research, then plan our itinerary accordingly. We follow that but not religiously—sometimes unexpected possibilities distract us. For instance, the Exe Valley, where The Murder Stone is set, is a lovely but secluded valley where few tourists ever go. Something about it caught our imagination but we really couldn’t settle on a plot that suited the atmosphere. Then, when our editor asked if we’d like to write a stand-alone, it suddenly came into its own. A village in Northumberland was another place we happened to drive through—and the way the village looked inward, away from the fields that surrounded it, struck us. A small wood not far away seemed dark and secretive, as if it hadn’t changed for centuries. And the two merged in A Long Shadow. We spent some time in “Duddington”, and never saw a living thing—not even a bird or a dog. And then all at once across the fields came a flood of brown sheep, heading for new pastures, herded by a trio of men. Where was everyone else? We never found out.