“It struck me from the very start that my job was to be invisible. I tried to hide myself in Doyle’s shadow, to imitate his literary tropes and mannerisms, but never, as it were, to intrude. I wrote nothing that he might not have written himself. I mention this only because it worries me to be so very prominent in these pages. But this time round I have no choice. I’m writing exactly what happened.”

Here, Horowitz reflects even more openly on the metafiction project and its contrast with his past work. His own life, he posits, had no relevance to writing about Holmes and Watson. Then, he was like a clever mimic, a close trail in a giant’s shadow. Now, he is “prominent” and unavoidable—a witness rather than a faithful disciple. His use of the word “worry” may betray some authorial awareness that metafiction is an experiment and a risk, perhaps even more than following within an established and beloved canon was.

“He was clean-shaven. His skin was pale. I got the feeling that he might have been very handsome as a child but something had happened to him at some time in his life so that, although he still wasn’t ugly, he was curiously unattractive. It was as if he had become a bad photograph of himself.”

Anthony’s description of Hawthorne, at first, mimics his partner’s personality, using terse, short sentences, as if he is writing a summary report. He then gives way to more literary speculation, his “feeling” that Hawthorne once looked different, even appealing, in the distant past. As befits Hawthorne’s reticence about himself, Anthony cannot explain what caused the shift and is confined to saying “something had happened to him at some time” in his past. Hawthorne is a “bad photograph” of himself, an analogy that underlines his existence only in two dimensions, emphasizing how little the reader is likely to learn about him.

“I tried to explain. ‘The actors will understand what I’m trying to get at,’ I said. ‘It’s just a detail. It introduces the scene but it’s a key to how the two men relate to each other.’ ‘But it’s not true, Tony. It’s a load of cobblers.’ I tried to explain to him that there are many different sorts of truth and that television truth might have very little connection with real life. I argued that our understanding of policemen, doctors, nurses…even criminals is largely inspired by what we see on the screen, not the other way round. But Hawthorne had made up his mind.”

This exchange highlights the uncomfortable division, for both protagonists, between the production of fiction and the documentation of real life. Anthony is describing the phenomenon of artistic license, the inclusion of fictional detail for actors to indicate who characters are. Hawthorne insists on a more empirical truth, refusing to see that fiction has its own merits. This conflict between them defines both their characters and the nature of their relationship. Anthony’s insistence on fiction’s power—that it shapes our perception of professions and society—is, in effect, a defense of literature itself, for all of Hawthorne’s refusal to understand it.

“And your other television shows—Poirot and Midsomer Murders—they’re all completely fantastical. You write stories about a fourteen-year-old spy and I know a lot of children enjoy them, but that’s the same. I don’t mean to be rude, but I wonder why you’re not more interested in the real world.’ ‘What is the real world?’ I countered. ‘I just mean real people.’ Some of the children were getting restless. It was time to move on. ‘I like writing fiction,’ I said. ‘That’s what I do.’ ‘Aren’t you worried that your books might be considered irrelevant?’ ‘I don’t think they have to be real to be relevant.’ ‘I’m sorry. I do like your work. But I disagree.’”

Anthony’s mystery interlocutor, tellingly, shares Hawthorne’s relative disdain for fiction. She cares nothing for genre distinctions, calling genre detective fiction for adults “the same” as novels for children merely because both are invented worlds. Her defense of “relevance” above all else is relentlessly practical, ignoring questions of adventure, joy, or emotion. The woman turns out to be Hawthorne’s estranged wife—Horowitz as author sets up these parallels between them, knowing the reader will make the connection later, when Anthony the character does.

“‘You’re being a bit selective with the information,’ he said, at length. ‘And what do you mean by that?’ ‘Well, you say that Mrs Cowper only used public transport but you don’t explain why.’ ‘I say she was eccentric!’ ‘I think you’ll find there was rather more to it than that, mate. And then there’s the question of the funeral itself. You know exactly what she requested for her service but you haven’t written down what it was.’”

Hawthorne’s objections to Anthony’s draft chapter reveal both his character and the genre he operates in but ignores. Mystery writers frequently glance at information the detective will only realize or explain later—Anthony himself only learns the full significance of Diana’s funeral choices in the penultimate chapter. Hawthorne, Anthony emphasizes, understands exactly what the significance of her choices were, even before the killer has been apprehended. Horowitz as author occupies a position between the two extremes, following the rules of his genre while demonstrating Hawthorne’s genius compared to Anthony the character.

“And as I sit there, I’ll take comfort in the knowledge that this is all mine. I am part of it and it is part of me. Mrs Cowper’s living room couldn’t have been more different. As I stepped onto the thick-pile carpet with its floral pattern etched out in pink and grey and took in the crystal chandelier, the comfortable, faux-antique furniture, the Country Life and Vanity Fair magazines spread out on the coffee table, the books (modern fiction, hardback, nothing by me) on the built-in shelves, I felt like an intruder.”

Here, Anthony contrasts the world he is familiar with, the film set, to the crime scene he now occupies. On the film set, he is prominent and possessive, as befits his role as creator. The connection between fiction and self is familiar, intimate, and a “comfort.” The crime scene is alien, unfamiliar, and he feels like an “intruder,” as if he has broken a boundary. But the authorial ego still momentarily intrudes—he takes the time to note that none of his works are on the dead woman’s shelves.

“The more I got to know him, the more I saw that he did this quite deliberately. People lowered their guard when they were talking to him. They had no idea what sort of man he was, that he was only waiting for the right moment to dissect them. For him, politeness was a surgical mask, something he slipped on before he took out his scalpel.”

Anthony conducts a brief character study of Hawthorne, using his behavior with witnesses to underline both his skills and his secretive nature. Hawthorne is “deliberate,” as noted in the surgeon metaphor—his tools are sharp and expertly wielded, and he has no concern for the individuals involved. He disarms witnesses unaware that he is “waiting for the right moment”—as if Hawthorne is a skilled predator hiding his teeth, with a separate personality for camouflage. The wording here is sinister and slightly ominous, betraying Anthony’s discomfort with how opaque other aspects of Hawthorne remain.

“I’ve never found it easy coming up with titles. Almost two hundred thousand books are published in the UK every year and although some of them will have the advantage of a well-known author attached, the vast majority have just two or three words on a surface measuring no more than six by nine inches to sell themselves. Titles have to be short, smart and meaningful, easy to read, easy to remember and original. That’s asking a lot.”

Anthony assumes a confessional tone as he shifts into the role of knowledgeable insider. He admits that titles are a struggle for him personally before introducing more detail. The small scale of a single book is counter to the massive total quantity of works published annually. The list of “demands” on a title is extensive, listed in sequence, as if to stack the obligations and the weight placed on the author.

“‘The actor who played him, Ian McEwan, he was a bit over the top.’ ‘Sir Ian McKellen. He was nominated for an Oscar.’ ‘That may be the case. But did he win it?’ ‘Mr Hawthorne is a special consultant for Scotland Yard,’ I cut in. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a book about his latest case…’ ‘It’s called “Hawthorne Investigates,”’ Hawthorne said. Spielberg considered. ‘I like that title,’ he said.”

The dialogue here emphasizes that Hawthorne is so divorced from the world of fiction that he mistakes a famous author for a famous actor. He is, for all his ignorance, entirely comfortable judging art forms, as he questions Peter Jackson about Ian McKellen’s performance, knowing Jackson was the director. To add a kind of insult to emotional injury, Spielberg approves of Hawthorne’s draft title, unaware that Anthony has been opposed to it. The scene reduces Anthony to a spectator, unable to stop Hawthorne’s determination and willingness to ignore social cues.

“It wouldn’t stop. That was the worst of it. The music was so trite, the voice full of that hideous cheerfulness that adults put on when they sing for children. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Damian announced. From the look of him, he was in total shock. It was the first real emotion he had shown since the funeral began.”

Anthony uses adjectives here to indicate the grotesque aspects of the funeral interruption. The music is “trite,” indicating that it is not artful in addition to its persistence. The voice is “hideous” and false, a performance intended for an entirely different audience. Damian’s genuine emotion in the face of it emphasizes his shallow nature—it takes something truly unexpected and upsetting to force him to be genuine.

“Hawthorne had told me then that when a body is discovered, the first priority for any policeman or detective will be their own self-preservation. Are they under threat? Is the assailant still in the building? They’ll make sure they’re safe. Then they’ll look for possible witnesses…classically, the child hiding in the wardrobe or under the bed. Hawthorne would have dialled 999 while I was lying on the floor. I suppose it was nice of him to notice me at all.”

This scene charts the recovery of Anthony’s analytical faculties after the shock of finding Damian’s body—he falls back on his training as a writer to make sense of horror. He also thinks entirely in terms of narrative, imagining a child hiding somewhere on the scene to add drama. The reflection that it is “nice of Hawthorne” to consider his welfare introduces a rueful note, emphasizing Anthony’s vulnerability and lack of expertise in the moment.

“The kitchen had been invaded like the rest of the house. There were more plastic toys, crayons and paper on the table, brightly coloured scribbles sellotaped onto every wall. I remembered the house in Harrow-on-the-Hill and Judith Godwin’s life, destroyed by the loss of a child. The Cornwallises’ house was defined by children too but in a very different way.”

Anthony’s description of the Cornwallis house is a portrait of chaos. The house has been “invaded” by children’s projects, with no space for or sign of adult occupancy. Anthony’s comment contrasting their life to the Godwin’s emphasizes his interest in motifs and themes. One house is joyful, while the other is haunted. Reading with the killer’s identity in mind, however, changes the scene, making it more ominous in its own right.

“You can die in bed. You can die of cancer. You can die of old age. But when someone slashes you to pieces or strangles you, there’s a pattern, a network—and that’s what we’re trying to work out.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know! Maybe you’re not right for this, Tony. It’s a shame I couldn’t go with one of the other writers.’ ‘What?’ I was horrified. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You heard me.’ ‘You spoke to other writers?’ ‘Of course, mate. They turned me down.’”

Hawthorne’s repetition of “die” here echoes his earlier belief that only the murder matters, not the detective. His suggestion that partnering with Anthony was a mistake “horrifies” the other man, emphasizing that Anthony is perhaps the more emotionally invested party. Hawthorne is matter-of-fact in his cruelty, dismissing their prior association and their partnership by saying that “of course” Anthony was his last choice. His entire speech here reveals his anger and contempt, laying the groundwork for an estrangement that ultimately endangers Anthony’s life.

“‘Mr Tibbs is the reason everything happened, Tony. If it hadn’t been for him, Mrs Cowper might never have been killed. And nor would her son.’ I was sure he was joking. But he was sitting there with that strange energy of his, that mix of malice and single-mindedness that made him so hard to read, and before I could challenge him the doorbell rang for a second time.”

Anthony’s assumption that Hawthorne is “joking” reveals how little the two understand each other. Hawthorne’s comment here turns out to be entirely sincere, but at this moment, the reader is left to share Anthony’s confusion. His observation that Hawthorne is full of “malice” underlines that he may be a skilled detective but that what makes him compelling is his inscrutability, not his warmth.

“‘But we’re not monsters. We’re not criminals. We were in love.’ But Hawthorne wasn’t having any of it. It seemed to me that his face was paler and his eyes more vengeful than ever.’ ‘You wanted sex. You were cheating on your wife. And because of that, a child died.’”

Godwin’s denial of real culpability or blame reveals his capacity to cling to deception—an enduring theme in the work. Hawthorne’s refusal to accept this, and his “vengeful” response, underlines that his is a world of moral absolutes. He declares, unambiguously, that Timothy Godwin’s death is his father’s fault, blaming his infidelity and his lust in a ringing judgment that has no mercy.

“But in just a couple of weeks, everything had changed. I had allowed myself to become a silent partner, a minor character in my own book! Worse than that, I had somehow persuaded myself that I couldn’t work out a single clue without asking him what was going on. Surely I was cleverer than that. For too long I had been following in his footsteps. Now, with Hawthorne away, there was an opportunity for me to take the lead.”

As the novel’s final act approaches, Anthony’s frustrations mount as the change of genre has lost its charm. There is no collaboration in this view of the partnership—instead, he has been virtually swallowed by Hawthorne’s dominance. He decides that he must “take the lead” and reassert control over the investigation. His wording here brings out the theme of the relationship between literature and life—Anthony wants to become an active protagonist, not function as a secondary character.

“Outside RADA, I made three telephone calls. First, I arranged a meeting. Then I called my assistant, who was waiting for me at my office. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back this afternoon. Finally, I left a message for my wife, saying I might be a bit late for dinner. In fact, I wouldn’t have dinner at all.”

Anthony’s use of a numbered catalogue here creates an impression of calmness and predictability. He adds the domestic detail that he informs his wife not to worry if he is delayed, another sign that he did not anticipate what lay ahead. The final sentence, in sharp contrast, foreshadows adventure, perhaps even danger, as the reader is left wondering what causes the sudden change in plans.

“‘I really wish you hadn’t come here,’ Cornwallis said. He still had that very reasonable, mannered way of speaking which he had cultivated over the years and which suited the role he had taken. Because I knew now that it was just a role. With every second that passed, the real Robert Cornwallis was revealing himself to me.”

Cornwallis emerges as a consummate, if terrifying, performer. His “mannered” tone would almost indicate regret were it not also disturbing. Anthony repeats the word “role,” emphasizing that the killer has been a performer all along—and that failing to discern this connection between art and life has now imperiled him.

“‘Amanda Leigh. That’s the one. He used her to get at me but I caught up with her in the end and made her pay.’ He giggled to himself. It was the most convincing portrayal of a lunatic I’d ever seen. ‘I made her suffer and then she disappeared. Do you know where she is? I can tell you if you like—but if you want to find her, you’ll need to dig up seven graves.’”

Cornwallis’s monologue reveals his ego: He frequently repeats “I” and has to be reminded of his victim’s name. He “made her suffer,” emphasizing his own power and thirst for vengeance. He “giggles,” underscoring that his humor is macabre, perhaps even insane.

“And I can honestly say that Watson had never looked up to Sherlock Holmes nor Hastings admired Poirot more than I loved Hawthorne right then and my last thought before I passed out was how lucky I was to have him on my side.”

The allusions here reveal that Anthony truly embraces Hawthorne as his investigative partner. He has, more significantly, accepted his relatively subordinate role, identifying with Watson and Hastings and casting Hawthorne as the master detective. He now “loves” his partner, all previous annoyance forgotten thanks to his rescue.

“It’s a literary convention that the first-person narrator can’t be killed although it’s true that one of my favourite films, Sunset Boulevard, breaks all the rules with its opening shot and there are one or two novels, The Lovely Bones for example, that do the same. I wish there had been some way to disguise the fact that I would make it through to this chapter and wake up in the A& E Unit of Charing Cross Hospital, just a short way down the Fulham Palace Road, but I’m afraid I couldn’t think of one.”

The allusions here emphasize that for all his inexperience at criminal investigation, Anthony is familiar with genre conventions and deeply versed in the world of literature and art. Anthony’s return to literary analysis, and awareness of himself as narrator, signals the conclusion to the text. He admires works that “break all the rules” but resigns himself to his conformity instead.

“Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk I feel as if there’s a dump truck behind me. I hear the whirr of its engine and it suddenly off-loads its contents…millions and millions of words. They keep cascading down and I wonder how many more words there can possibly be. But I’m powerless to stop them. Words, I suppose, are my life.”

Anthony’s metaphor here emphasizes his imagination and love of his craft. He invites the reader into his inner world, where a dump truck stands in for the process of inspiration. He is “powerless” in the face of the creative process. He realizes afresh, after his brush with death, that it is his creativity that matters most to him.

“You were having a go at me and I was pissed off with you—but I didn’t speak to any other writers about this book. You were the only one I approached.’ There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, in the end. He stood up. ‘I heard from that agent of yours,’ he continued, briskly. ‘I liked her. It looks like we’re going to have to wait a bit to get published but she says she can get us a good advance.’ He smiled. ‘At least, the way it worked out, you’ve got something to write about. I think it’s going to be good.’”

Hawthorne’s rare conciliatory tone suggests that he, too, is moved by Anthony’s encounter with a killer. He admits, finally, that their partnership was entirely his choice, with Anthony as central, not an afterthought or a burden. Hawthorne, tellingly, frequently uses the word “we” to describe the future book, signaling that it is finally a joint project. He is optimistic, even smiling, underlining the new level of accord between the two.