I've just written "The End" on my latest cosy murder. It should feel like a moment of triumph – and it does, partly. But what strikes me more forcefully is the disproportionate amount of time I spent on those final chapters. Days and days circling the ending, revising, reconsidering, starting again. This morning on the water It is, I suppose, like landing a plane: bringing the big bird down safely is why pilots get paid what they do. Writing a novel's ending is precisely that delicate...