I am nothing if not fickle.
I know on Sunday I listed books that I'd carefully selected to read this week - but last night and this morning, despite the dense pea souper fog and knowing that the last of Paul Cleave's books - The Killing Hour - scared me witless (yes I know - short trip), I've picked up Cemetery Lake next.
I fully expect to have the lights blazing in the house for a couple of days - nonstop, so all I can say is you can blame my carbon footprint on the author 
"Blue fingernails.
They're what have me out here, standing in the cold wind, shivering. The blue fingernails aren't mine but attached to somebody else - some dead guy I've never met before. The Christchurch sun that was burning my skin earlier this afternoon has gone. It's the sort of inconsistent weather I'm used to. An hour ago I was sweating. An hour ago I wanted to take the day off and head down to the beach. Now I'm glad I didn't. My own fingernails are probably turning blue, but I don't dare look."
A standard exhumation becomes anything but for private investigator Theodore Tate, when bodies begin bubbling to the surface of the cemetery lake. Tate knows he has to let it go and let his former colleagues in the police deal with it. But when the coffin is opened and its occupant is not the old man supposed to be inside, he knows he cannot walk away. He can't let the police keep digging either, because they are getting dangerously close to digging up the real truth: the truth about him. With the evidence mounting against him, Tate must stay ahead of the police and out of jail in order to find a killer. A killer who could turn Tate into the very man he despises.