EDDIE FLYNN,
  
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR




LONDON. Nine million people. A hundred million sins.


And private investigators, sifting the evidence.


I'm the guy in the 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 connections.

Waiting is something I'm easy with. It pays my wages.


Then a figure steps from a doorway. I spot a face. Revelation starbursts the night...
​

Your transgressions are your own but there are always those who want to know. If they sign the contract I'll find you out. Nothing personal. Just another report and posted invoice. I slam the filing cabinet. Move on.


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. Mine was the glamour end of the business, the end where you stooge around in the squalid and blood soaked corners of the city most don't know about and don't want to. But 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. 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.