Poker and crime fiction were made for each other. Both are built on the same raw materials: imperfect information, the controlled lie, and the constant calculat…
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The pit boss is trained to look for a certain kind of man. He scans the blackjack tables for the lone wolf with the twitchy bet spread, the one who raises his s…
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There is a particular kind of pleasure that belongs only to crime fiction: the moment you close a book and realise you have been fooled — completely, expertly, …
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She walks into the office, or the bar, or the frame, and the temperature changes. The detective knows better. He always knows better. And he is always, glorious…
For most of the 2010s, cosy crime was the genre everyone in publishing was politely embarrassed by. It still sold steadily — it has always sold steadily — but t…