Honest adviser with a London investment bank and then the crash and I’m shown the front door. I can only imagine that the shock must have curdled my brain, because I now found myself in partnership with a neurotic control freak, called Howard, in a detective agency in Milton Keynes. Milton Keynes! I ask you!
Gazing out the window with a cup of awful coffee one morning, wistfully thinking of what might have been, a sad ineffectual looking little guy appeared at the door, begging my help. His garden was being eaten wholesale by his neighbour’s goats. He had reached the end of his tether. I bit back the frivolous remark that perhaps it was better that the goats had reached the end of theirs, and torn between irritation and sympathy, directed him to a nearby solicitor.
Then all hell broke loose. That night his neighbours were viciously murdered and poor old Mr ‘Please don’t hurt me’, real name Tomlinson, had had his collar felt for it and had been charged with murder.
And now Howard had agreed to my taking on work for a bent solicitor, working for a local crook.
Both cases were going belly up and someone’s out to kill me.
What a way to start a new career!
