First, that new writers might not be fully aware of the firm characterization already established for both Morse and Lewis. Second, that perhaps some writers might think it appropriate, knowing the two characters well, to develop them accordingly to their own lights and likings. For one or the other of these reasons, several promising stories could not be accepted. And since the copyright of Morse (and indeed of Lewis) remains and will remain with me, my role developed into that of an amateur consultant, occasionally with the directors, but usually with the producers, especially Chris Burt. I hope and believe that such consultations and suggested revisions have been of value.

What notice do you take of the critics?

One or two novelists I know would have no hesitation in answering: “No notice whatsoever, since I never read them.” I respect their independence of spirit, but I am not amongst them. When in the early days I got a mention anywhere, I eagerly sought out the review, and felt deep satisfaction if it was even mildly commendatory, begging Macmillan to send me photocopies of similar mentions in their files. My style, I soon learned, was “mandarin” and “labyrinthine,” and although not quite sure of the significance of either epithet, I rather enjoyed them both. “Alas, the style …” were the first three words of a shortish review once in The Times, and I read no more. I had a mixed bag of reviews from the pens of some distinguished critics, including A. N. Wilson, a writer I (once!) admired, who told his readers that he just could not read my pages. I was tempted to get my own back on him by never reading any more of his pages. On the other hand, I well remember treasuring (forgive me!) the judgment of Marcel Berlins, UK’s most respected crime critic, who wrote that Morse was now “a giant among fictional detectives.”

I wrote to only two reviewers. One was a local woman, herself an embryo crime-writer, I believe, who accused me (or was it Morse?) of being a “breast fetishist” in The Way through the Woods. Although I could see little reason for being ashamed of such an interest in the female form, I did look quickly through the novel, finding only “¼and Morse glanced appreciatively at the décolletage of her black dress as she bent forward with the wine list.”