And…? Flat as a pancake, Alan Davies seemed barely there for most of the episode. And then, instead of a fiendish whodunit, we were presented with a Columbo-like pre-revealed howdunnit. All the “humour” seemed to consist of a self-referential poke at Davies’ own past biting proclivities and an agonisingly overplayed, drawn-out, heavy-handed and hamfisted satirisation of Sherlock. Possibly not such a good idea when the central conceit of a locked room mystery and delayed murder brought to mind one of the worse Sherlock plots (The Sign of Three).
In other really, really unrelated, but disturbing news, two nights ago I had a dream in which Joanna Lumley ravenously tore into pieces of particularly juicy, barbecued chicken skewered on a mini-shish-kebab. True story. But that, at least, was interesting.
Lumley aside, let us invent a different, happier end to Creek and not this sad return. The final story in which he retires to that West Sussex windmill and shacks up with a nice, quirky girlfriend. She spends her days writing horror novels, while he continues to perfect a spin on the guillotine trick and occasionally annoys the police.