Love and marriage, horse and carriage, Batman and Gotham, Holmes and Watson, Romeo and Juliet.
Some things just go together. It is written. Sung, even. Things belong to each other. Should not, cannot be separated. Let no man pull asunder, it says, yoked together, as oxen in the plough
But now? Scotland Yard is sold! To the highest bidder.
Where does that leave English crime writers? Past and present?
What happens to Fabian, to Gideon, to Lady Molly? Are they written out? Are the books, the films rewritten, remade? Is Agatha Christie turning in her grave?
Cor blimey, guv, this is a right one, ain’t it.
What’s next? Flog off Buck House?