When I first started thinking about the Clatterbridge series, I called the opening novel Murder on the Allotment. It did the job. It told you there was a murder, and it told you roughly where. But every time I typed it, something nagged – a faint dissatisfaction I couldn't quite name. Yes, it followed the pattern established by scores of cosy murder mysteries available on the market and yet precisely because of that, it landed with the leaden thud of cliché. This week on the water So I did...