In many respects the book in general, and the character of Judith Potts in particular, is a love letter to my Great Aunts Jean and Jess, Grandma Betty, and, of course, my mother, Penny. It was my mother who first taught me how to do cryptic crosswords, and my childhood memories are filled with the sound of laughter as she and her fiercely intelligent female friends set the world to rights over one more glass of Cointreau, or one more cigarette. (My mother will want me to point out that she no longer drinks Cointreau or smokes.)

Finally, I would like to thank my wonderful wife, Katie Breathwick, and our children, Charlie and James. I couldn’t get through the writing process without them. Katie reads multiple drafts, suggests improvements and cuts – in fact, my favourite moment in the novel was her idea – but the whole family have been my sounding board for this story. I can only apologise to them that, over the last couple of years, pretty much every dog walk, family meal or car journey has been tarnished by me either being distracted, distant, or, worse still, trying to elicit their help, which they always gave freely. I really couldn’t have done this without the three of you. Thank you.

Extract

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A Meditation on Murder

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Prologue

Aslan Kennedy had no need of an alarm clock. Instead, he found he woke every morning quite naturally as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

In fact, he’d been waking with the sun ever since he’d decided a few years back that he no longer believed in alarm clocks. Any more than he believed in money, the internet, or any kind of ‘one cup’ tea bag. For Aslan—hotel-owner, yoga instructor and self-styled Spiritual Guru—the wristwatch, with its arbitrary division of seconds, minutes and hours, was a potent symbol of enslavement. A manacle mankind wore while they worshipped at the false idol they called progress.

It made making appointments with him a little trying, of course. But that wasn’t Aslan’s problem. Not the way he saw it.

On this particular morning, Aslan lay quietly in bed (mahogany, Belle Epoque) until he felt his chakras align. He then swung his legs out onto the teak floorboards (Thai, imported) and padded over to a floor-length mirror (gilt-framed, Regency) where he inspected his reflection. The man who stared back at him looked much older than his fifty-six years—if only because his flowing white hair, beard and white cotton nightshirt gave him a Jesus/Gandalf vibe. But, as Aslan would be the first to admit, the miracle was that he was alive at all. And, as far as he was concerned, the reason why he’d been able to turn his life around was entirely down to his wonderful wife, Rianka.