If newspaper reporter Susanna Morgan tripped in the night and broke her neck, how come the evidence doesn't support this theory? Broken glass litters the floor but there's no injury to her body. And she's received a scratch that couldn't have been caused by the fall. One way or another, there's a puzzle afoot for detective Justin Westwood, and the sleepy suburb of East End Harbor is going to have to face up to a murder in its midst. Her last article was a poorly researched epitaph for a B-movie cowboy star, and film fan Wallace P. Crabbe (a totally unrealistic character) was frothing at the mouth about it -- but surely he couldn't have killed her? Westwood's question is answered when Crabbe disappears suddenly in mysterious circumstances. Why? Whisper the word 'conspiracy' and you're getting warm. Andrews' new novel is a slow burner. The opening is long-winded and clumsy. But once the story kicks in, the prose moves up a gear and the obit becomes central to the plot. The whole thing may be as predictable as Bank Holiday traffic jams, but the writing is strong and Westwood turns out to be a more interesting cop than you'd think.
