A great many people helped me write this book. I should especially like to thank:
Mr. McGrath of the Liverpool City Morgue, who was kind enough to describe the formalities to me
the Liverpool Coroner’s Court and its officials for their patience in answering my questions
the staff of Liverpool Public Libraries, for finding out all manner of things for me, and their cataloguing department for cataloguing Glimpses of Absolute Power for me
the assembled writers, wizards of wine, culinary genies, bibliophiles, and croquet champions of LiG: particularly Tony and Cherry, for their advice on car accidents
my friends among the Liverpool cinema managers, for giving me glimpses of the job: especially Tony McCarthy, for his insights into suburban cinema management
and most of all my wife, Jenny, for sharing the birth pangs of The Doll Who Ate His Mother.
Clare Frayn stumped back and forth on Catharine Street, shivering. The July night was mild, the entire street was orange as embers beneath the sodium streetlamps, yet she was shivering. She glanced at her watch. Four o’clock, good God. No wonder she was cold; her body was at its lowest ebb. Even Rob had never kept her up so late before. In a minute she’d chance the brakes in Ringo the Reliant and drive him home.
