The Twyford Code: Winner of the Crime and Thriller British Book of the Year

I stopped in my tracks. There it was. Placed neatly on the chequered cushion. A book. Now, to me, back then, a book was a book. All books were the same. Except they had different covers. This one had a pencil drawing of a boy in a red jumper, watching a model plane in the sky. That I remember clearly. I had to pick it up to sit down, so I did. The moment I touched that book, the bus set off and I settled down with it on my lap, nothing much more in my mind than getting to school. I don’t claim to be an angel. Then or now. No one seemed to own the book, so taking it couldn’t be stealing. But I had enough of a conscience to know I should hand it to the driver. So as the bus trundled nearer the school, I waited on the open deck, glanced over. Couldn’t quite see him for the back of his seat and the blind half up, half down. I would have had to run round and bang on the window of his cab. I dismissed that thought pretty quickly because the possibility of selling the book had taken up residence in my head. Into my school bag it went. The next thing I remember is being.