Jack Vettriano Edith and the Kingpin

Jack Vettriano Edith and the KingpinJack Vettriano DriftersJack Vettriano Dressing to Kill
waiting,' said Susan meaningfully.
She clenched her fists.
IMP Y CELYN, she said.
The book And it was vitally important that she save him instead. She could feel the certainty like a ball‑bearing in her mind. It was absolutely imperative. She'd never met him up close, she'd not exchanged a word with him, he was just one person, but it was him she had to save.
Grandfather had said she shouldn't do that sort of thing. What did he know about anything? He'd never lived.
Blert Wheedown made guitars. It was quiet, satisfying work. It took him and Gibbsson, the apprentice, about five days to make a decent instrument, if the wood was available and properly seasoned. He was a conscientious man who'd devoted appeared in front of her. She just managed to catch it before it fluttered to the floor.'Thank you,' she said.She flicked through the pages of his life until she came to the last one, and stared. Then she hastily went back until she found, written neatly down, his death in the Drum. It was all there ‑ all untrue. He hadn't died. The book was lying. Or ‑ and this she knew was a far more accurate way of looking at it ‑ the book was true and reality was lying.What was more important was that from the moment of his death the book was writing music. Page after page had been covered with neat staves. While Susan watched, a clef drew itself in a series of careful loops.What did it want? Why should it save his life?