Despite earning a psychology degree, Toni Hill has built a career as a translator and a writer of gripping mysteries since 2011. The first installment of The Summer of Dead Toys trilogy introduces Inspector Héctor Salgado, and Hill’s latest novel, The Last Hangman, unfolds in post pandemic Barcelona with a chilling serial killer at the center. A recent interview with Hill delves into the evolution of his craft and the moral puzzles his work raises.
The Last Executioner is a gray ethical landscape where villains are not purely evil and heroes are not purely good. This nuanced portrayal invites readers to question the easy dichotomy of justice and retaliation, highlighting the tension between law and mercy that often marks real life as well as fiction.
Hill explains that his characters rarely fall exactly into black or white categories. Most people carry a mix of traits, shifting toward one side or the other depending on circumstances. The Last Executioner features a notably psychopathic figure who is deeply reprehensible, yet the reader may feel a strange compulsion to understand him. The protagonists pursuing him are not flawless either. This moral ambiguity forms the core of the novel, inviting readers to reflect on the boundaries of justice and revenge without offering easy answers.
When asked whether the overtly cruel protagonist was difficult to write, Hill confirms that believability is crucial. The villain’s personality must be handled with care, maintaining a blend of empathy and distance that keeps the character real. Thomas, the central figure, emerges as a complex, contradictory person, and this complexity is the source of the novel’s tension and intrigue.
On whether The Last Executioner draws inspiration from a real figure like Nicomedes Méndez, Hill notes that Méndez provided a useful framework for understanding a professional executioner. The historical context shows a world where the garrote was a dangerous, necessary-seeming duty. Inspiration comes from people who perform difficult jobs, even when those roles are morally fraught, and from the idea that someone must carry out such tasks in a society that still enforces capital punishment.
Regarding creative influences, Hill emphasizes the importance of imagination over raw emulation of actual events. While the truth surrounds us, he prefers to explore it through fiction rather than rehash real cases that involve real people who have suffered. His plots are crafted in ways that allow characters to endure and endure themselves through hardship, without being shackled to the strict limits of reality. Reality can be a doorway, but imagination opens vast, uncharted rooms.
Reflecting on the crime fiction scene, Hill observes a shift in public interest and the growing vitality of events like Cartagena Negra. He believes Spanish crime writers have forged a strong, self-sustaining readership that rivals international authors. In the past, prestige in thrillers often leaned toward English or French works; now a wave of Spanish authors explores varied styles, from brisk, agile thrillers to deeper, more socially aware narratives. The ecosystem of events, novels, writers, and readers continues to expand, feeding one another and sustaining a robust culture around crime fiction.
Over twelve years in the literary world, Hill has witnessed a transformation in how audiences engage with crime narratives. The rise of festivals and related events has helped local authors reach broader audiences while also drawing international attention. His work sits at the intersection of psychological depth and procedural tension, offering readers a provocative space to consider questions of justice, empathy, and human frailty. The Last Executioner stands as a testament to the way fiction can illuminate the grey areas in which people live, choosing sides in a never-ending moral debate that remains less about answers and more about the questions we are willing to confront.
At its heart, Hill’s writing invites readers to look beyond clear-cut definitions of good and evil, to recognize the complexity of motives, and to see how context molds character. The dialogue between the investigators and the killer becomes a mirror for the reader’s own judgments, challenging assumptions and inviting ongoing reflection long after the final page is turned. The Last Executioner is less about who is right or wrong and more about how justice is imagined, pursued, and sometimes renegotiated within a world that is never perfectly neat or fair. The novel thus becomes a compelling study in moral complexity, a narrative that treats the idea of punishment as a spectrum rather than a verdict, and a reminder that fiction can be a powerful instrument for exploring the human condition with honesty and courage.