LONDON. Nine million people. A hundred million sins.
And private investigators, collecting the evidence.
I'm the guy in a parked car on a dark street in the low hours of a cold wet night, waiting for revelation.
The job's not for everybody but I've learned patience. I slot in music and while away the hours pushing at jigsaw pieces, searching for elusive connections. Waiting is something I'm easy with. Waiting pays my wages.
Then someone steps from a doorway and I spot a face. Revelation starbursts the night...
Your transgressions are your own but there are always seekers after truth who'll pay the fee. If I sign the contract I'll find you out. It's nothing personal. Just another report and posted invoice. I move on. You're forgotten.
In another life I was a Metropolitan Police detective with a reputation for snaring the bad guys. The ones inclined to leave dead bodies in their wakes. The glamour end of police business was mine, the end where you stooge around in the squalid and blood soaked corners of the city most of us don't know about and don't want to. And I always got my guy. I was the best.
What I lacked was diplomatic skill. Dead bodies don't demand tact but the people back at base do, the ones with power and axes to grind, the ones whose feet have been trodden once too often. The people who hire and fire.
So here I am. P.I. Eddie Flynn, ex Metropolitan detective, repurposed to the private sector. I'm out on the streets, watching shadows and lighted windows with some of my reputation and all of my tenacity intact.
If there's a bounty on your misdeeds I'll take the fee and come looking. Resistance is futile. If you hide I'll seek. If you play games I'll play harder. And if you've come up my stairs to hire a dupe then I'll turn the game right round and wreck your plans and invoice you just the same.
There's my card. Give me a call.