I suffer from a stunning lack of imagination. Seems a strange thing for someone who comes up with some dark storylines to say, but it’s true.

Before I became a novelist, I spent ten years as a ghostwriter, collaborating with politicians, pop stars, psychologists, soldiers, adventurers and actors as they penned their autobiographies.

Is it possible that books exist in the ether, conferring among themselves and choosing an author? And that the author, should they choose to accept the mission, is presented with irresistible driving concepts and characters that will determine the nature of the book?

I could take you to the spot in the road where the idea for No Lie Lasts Forever bloomed in my head.

I was going 65 miles per hour. I know that detail because I was on Interstate 25 near downtown Denver and I never speed except for … I’m getting off track here.

Who wouldn’t want to be like Inspector Morse?