He looked at the pain and he set himself apart from it. He saw it, examined it, identified it, corralled it. He isolated it. He challenged it. You against me? Dream on, pal. He built borders for it. Then walls. He built walls and forced the pain behind them and then he moved the walls inward, compressing the pain, crushing it, boxing it in, limiting it, beating it.

I felt alienated by the experience and decided to stay away from corporate employment.

Lone women shouldn't stop in the middle of nowhere for giant unkempt strangers with duct tape on their faces.

I was fired from my television job, simple as that. Well, downsized, really, a classic 1990s situation.

Everything you could want - action, suspense, character and setting, all floating on the easy lyricism of a fine writer at the top of his game.

Intensely vivid characters, terrible crimes, and a brutal deep-frozen landscape all prove beyond a reasonable doubt that cold nurtures good and evil as readily as heat ... and that Giles Blunt is a really tremendous crime novelist.

British crime stories tend to be very internal, psychological, claustrophobic, very limited in terms of geography.