When this biography of Catherine Cookson was published in hardcover, eight months before Catherine died, it became a No. 1 bestseller, with 107,000 hardback copies finding their way into readers' hands in just a few months. The reason it leapt away had less to do with my writing than Catherine's own determination to use it as a platform to say things she wanted to say before she died. While she was in bed in Newcastle feverishly writing her last novel, The Silent Lady, I was writing the biography in a remote farmhouse on the North York Moors about 100 miles to the south. When she finished the novel she began to ail seriously and called an end to my visits. But she kept in touch by phone, as she had done for the fifteen years we had known one another. There were, however, still some things that I needed her to consider more carefully than telephones allow and she suggested I jot a few questions on paper and she would dictate answers to them in due course. That was the way she wrote - with a dictating machine on the bed, the tapes then to be transcribed on paper. I heard nothing more in answer to my handful of questions for about four weeks, and knowing she was ill I didn't press her. Then suddenly one day the post man arrived at my door with a box. Inside were eleven tapes. Through the night, whenever she awoke, she had switched on her tape recorder and just talked. In the process she had answered my few questions and much, much more. These tapes, which I still treasure, represent her most personal testament. There were times when I couldn't tell whether it was Catherine speaking or one of her characters, and just how far this influenced the biography would be seen from a letter Catherine wrote to me after she had read my book: 'Your transposing of my character into the characters in the book is simply amazing,' she wrote, and went on to satisfy both her own dignity and every biographer's desire to reveal more than is proferred by his subject, by concluding: 'You know too much about me, Sir!'