He poured himself a good measure of Glenfiddich; and shortly thereafter fell deeply asleep in the chair for more than two hours. Bliss.

As he lay abed on Sunday, 21 September, Morse was beset by the nagging feeling that there was so much to be done if only he could summon up the mental resolve to begin. It was like deferring a long-promised letter; the intention lay on the mind so heavily that the simple task seemed progressively to assume almost gigantic proportions.

Morse poured himself a can of beer. “Champagne’s a lovely drink, but it makes you thirsty, doesn’t it?

My life will not be significantly impoverished if I never see another Shakespearian comedy.

Was he really looking forward to it? They were usually a bit of anticlimax, these things. Stillit would do him good. Or serve him right.

Morse firmly believed that there was nothing so unsatisfactory as this kind of halfway house pornography; he liked it hot or not at all.

No, Lewis. Unlike you, I’ve lived a very sheltered life. I have tried to get invited along to one of these porno-parties, but everybody seems to think I’m above such things.

The secret of a happy life, Lewis, is to know when to stop and then to go that little bit further.

A man is little use when his wife’s a widow. Scottish.

As a boy, he had been moved by those words of the dying Socrates, suggesting that if death were just one long, unbroken, dreamless sleep, then a greater boon could hardly be bestowed upon mankind.