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Like all hunters, a good detective needs ability, luck, patience — and the knack of thinking like prey in order to get under its skin.
For DCI Alan Woodcock, hunting criminals was like other hunting and called for the same skills - only with no close season.
Was Cocky Cottrell murdered among the whinns and brambles of Sutton-le-Vale, or was it suicide? Was the very definite murder of a village blackmailer local revenge — or a prelude to an attempt on the life of the American presidential candidate?
For that matter, was the candidate ever the real target?
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I grew up in Kent countryside among apple and pear orchards, a long lush water meadow below a garden and allotments, a slow river full of tench and roach between me and hop gardens on the other side. When I decided to write about crime then, I set it in authentic countryside, not Tudorbethan near-suburb.
DCI Woodcock is a northerner who even looks like a hill farmer in breeks and shooting gilet with a moleskin patch on one shoulder. A man who can merge into his background. A hunter.
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