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Like all hunters, good coppers need ability, luck, patience — and the ability to think and feel like their prey, to get under its skin. For DCI Alan Woodcock, hunting criminals was like other hunting, calling for the same skills. Only with no close season.
Was Cocky Cottrell murdered among the whinns and brambles, or was it suicide? Was the very definite murder of a village blackmailer local revenge — or 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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Having grown up on the edge of a Kentish town, with orchards yards away, water meadows and the slow, muddy river full of tench and roach between me and hop gardens on the other side, I wanted to write about a policeman with an authentic country, not Tudorbethan green belt, background and beat.
DCI Woodcock, a northerner, even looks like a hill farmer, whenever possible in breeks and shooting gilet with moleskin shoulder patch — a man who can merge into his background and a hunter.
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