Anthony Horowitz is not only the author of this novel; he is also a character in it –narrating the tale.
When consulting detective, Daniel Hawthorne, wants someone to write a book about his latest case, he contacts renowned novelist, Anthony Horowitz, with whom he has worked previously, advising on scripts for a TV series. Horowitz is unsure; he is busy with scripts for Foyle’s War and a Tin Tin film but is unable to resist the lure of writing about ‘true crime’ and its detection.
And the crime is tantalising enough. A woman walks into a funeral parlour and arranges her own funeral, supposedly well in advance, but within hours she has been murdered. Hawthorne is called in to assist and Horowitz accompanies him, taking notes on the investigation while trying to get inside the head of his main ‘character’ and understand his methods.
It is not a harmonious partnership. Horowitz makes unwelcome attempts to involve himself in solving the crime; and Hawthorne’s suggested improvements to Horowitz’s drafts are received with similar ill grace. With red herrings and blind alleys, the plot twists and turns, taking in old scores and newly formed enmities. It moves at a fast pace, and whenever Horowitz tries to find respite in his day job, he is interrupted and summoned to a new interview.
It works well enough with Horowitz a literate Watson to Hawthorne’s infuriating Holmes. The name-dropping insight into Horowitz’s work provides added interest and at least seems authentic.
Enjoyable as an off-key whodunnit with a
clever ending.
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