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and TV presenter Sam Uttley was found dead this morning at his home in North London. It is believed he disturbed a burglar. He died from a single stab wound to the stomach. Police say there was evidence of a break-in at the rear of the house.
    Uttley was discovered by his wife, Rachel, a journalist. Police are calling for witnesses who may have seen one or two men fleeing the scene in the early hours of the morning.
    I had to read the bare words three or four times before they sank in. Suddenly, his lies didn’t matter any more. All I could think of was his eyes on mine, the flash of his easy smile, the touch of his hand. The sparkle of wit in his conversation. The life in him that had been snuffed out. The books he would never write.
    Over a succession of numb days, I pursued the story via the internet. Bits and pieces emerged gradually. They’d had an attempted burglary a few months before. That night, Rachel had gone off to bed but Sam had stayed up late, working in his study. Sam, the police reckoned, had heard the sound of breaking glass and gone downstairs to investigate. The intruder had snatched up a knife from the kitchen worktop and plunged it into his stomach then fled. Sam had bled to death on the kitchen floor. It had taken him a while to die, they thought. And Rachel had come down for breakfast to find him stiff and cold. Poor bloody Rachel, I thought.
    On the fifth day after the news broke, there was a large manila envelope among my post, franked with the Material Girl logo. My story had come winging its way back to me. Inside, there was a handwritten note from Rachel.
    Dear Sarah,
    Thank you so much for your submission. I found your story intriguing and thought-provoking. A real eye-opener, in fact. But I felt the ending was rather weak and so I regret we’re unable to publish it. However, I like your style. I’d be very interested to see more of your work.
    Gratefully yours,
    Rachel Uttley
    That’s when I realised what I’d done. Like Oscar Wilde, I’d killed the thing I’d loved. And Rachel had made sure I knew it.
    That’s when my sleepless nights started.
    And that’s why I’m so very, very grateful for Roger and the case they call Wagon Mound (No.1). And for an understanding of proximity. Thanks to him, I’ve finally realised I’m not the guilty party here. Neither is Rachel.
    The guilty party is the one who started the wagon rolling. Lovely, sexy, reckless Sam Uttley.

Breathtaking Ignorance
    E very caterer’s nightmare. The choking customer, collapsed on the floor gasping for breath. I’d already hurtled through from the kitchen as soon as I heard the coughing and spluttering, and I made it to his side just as he slumped to the floor like a Bonfire Night guy, legs splayed, head lolling, eyes popping.
    The boardroom crowd were keeping their distance, remembering all the strictures they’d ever heard about giving people air. There was a nervous hush, the only sounds the croaking gasps of the man on the floor. I knew exactly who he was. Brian Bayliss, chief legal executive of Kaymen Merchant Bank. I’d catered functions for him, both at the bank’s Canary Wharf headquarters and at his opulent house in Suffolk, and I knew he was as pompous and bossy as they come. But that didn’t stop me kneeling down beside him and dragging him into a sitting position so I could perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. That’s one of the many fascinating things you learn at catering college. You encircle the victim with your arms, hug them tightly and sharply, forcing the air out of their lungs, which in turn frees whatever is blocking their windpipe. The downside is that somebody usually ends up covered in sick.
    Bayliss was bright scarlet by now, his lips turning an ominous blue. I got my arms round him, smelling the sweat that mingled with his expensive cologne. I contracted my arms, forcing his ribs inward. Nothing happened. His gasping sounded ever