The inter-island shuttles took off every forty-five minutes throughout the day – some flew direct to Raba, others stopped at intermediate islands. This meant that the scheduled times for arrival were erratic. I hurried away to the next room, where we kept the most recent shuttle timetable. I knew roughly what time her overnight flight from Muriseay would land at Salay Ewwel, so I picked out the three most likely connecting flights. I quickly composed a reply, listing the departure and arrival times of all three, but added that she should text or call me once she was about to board the plane. I would then still have time to drive to Raba Airport to meet her.

She replied at once: THANX!

I walked outside, holding the cellphone in case she contacted me again. It was the delicious hour of the evening, when the sun was going down, the air was still warm, and the cicadas had not yet started their nightly celebration of insect rapture. I believed that with the running out of interest in all those Dearth cops I had everything to look forward to. I was thinking actively about the next scene in my novel draft, glad to be getting back to it after so many interruptions. Jo was likely to be at home for an extended period. We could plan that vacation.

I finally returned to my office, where the computer monitor was still showing the attractive pale blue background. While I had wandered around outside in the balmy air I had made the decision simply to click on No, and then be done with it. However, there had been a development while I was away.

The screen said: Mutability Safeguard Timed Out. Option Auto-Concatenated.

When I touched the keyboard, the program closed.

Todd’s Last Case

25

Todd’s Last Case

We are close to the end. How is it going to turn out?

First I must prepare the ground for what is likely to happen.

There are two major problems with any mystery novel or detective thriller. The first is the almost invariable subject: the presence of death – the problem of the way death is handled in crime fiction. The second is the unavoidable anticlimax always present, lurking blandly at the end of the book.

Neither of these appears to affect the popularity of the genre with readers, nor do writers pay much attention to them from the evidence of the books they write, nor even when they get together socially or at crime fiction festivals.

Death and anticlimax are surely a contradiction in terms?

Death is unspeakable, partly because of the dread we all feel about it, but also because of the inherent unanswerable question facing any novelist: what can be said about it now, or indeed at any time, that would be original, profound or helpful?