Received the manuscript today. As promised, 346 pages "in the powerful tradition of Frederick Forsyth". Unfortunately, as I repeatedly made clear, no one in their right mind - least of all me - needs even a single page more modelled on the meagre talents of the dubious Mr F.

While I am sure that your glitzy international plot - journalist must use his investigative powers to recover kidnapped daughter from "obsessive genius" - was a blast to research, the resultant old-fashioned macho prose is all but unreadable. Might I suggest that if you have any intention of a follow-up (not recommended, by the way), you concentrate on crafting characters rather than peopling your book with cardboard cut-outs defined solely by cigarettes and alcohol.

(Incidentally, Simon, having a couple of said cut-outs recite the events in old Antonioni films at one another is testament more to your ignorance than their intellect; no one watches the grand old man of Italian cinema for his plots, for Christ's sake.)

Need I add that we are passing on The Butcher Bird? I wish you luck in placing your thrill-free thriller with a publisher, but fear very few these days deliberately specialise in stocking the country's remainders shops.