After my confused and emotional visitor had left, I sat behind my desk for a few minutes collecting my thoughts, re-analysing my actions. The subject of my most recent investigation had been cautious, even frightened, rather than deliberately deceitful. My client was a moderately rich and somewhat influential businessman; not a big player, but one who had nevertheless managed to make his mark in several cutthroat lines of business. He had paid me a substantial advance - at least, by my standards - to investigate his fiancé of several months.

He'd given me no hint as to what I might expect to find, just the suggestion that she was hiding something. Which she was, but from fear of loss rather than malice. I was convinced of it. It was the kind of decision I am all too often called upon to make, on the behalf of my clients. Life-or-death decisions - or something fairly close to it - for other people, often without their knowledge; decisions which would affect future health and happiness, prospects and proposals; decisions which were not always rigidly aligned with the strictures of the law or the directions of conventional morality. It's my job.

My eyes roved idly around the room as I cogitated. My office is a single room, sparsely and cheaply decorated. Desk, chairs, filing cabinets, all from the thrift store. Nothing much to look at. But it does at least have my name painted on the glass part of the door; Findo Gask – Private Investigations in slightly faded gilt letters. It's just a place to interview potential clients; I don't even lock the door so they can just come in and wait if the mood takes them.

I put the envelope in the top drawer of my desk, hidden under a small pile of unpaid bills, scribbled notes and IOUs. Nobody would ever think of looking for it there. Then I sat back, put my feet on the desk and stared at the ceiling. Nothing to see up there either, apart from a few damp stains. It was time for an early dinner, I decided. And maybe a small aperitif before that.

There's a bar I go to from time to time, on the corner of the next block from my office. Not frequently enough to be identified as a regular, although the barkeep does recognise me when I come in. But that's his job, after all. The bar is on the way to the transit tube entrance which would swiftly convey me to the cavern which contains my apartment, assuming I take a very slightly roundabout walking route. Which is something I often do, just to keep tabs on anybody who might be trying to tail me. Not that anybody was on this occasion. It's just an old habit, mild paranoia, perhaps - which is exactly the kind of thing that has kept me alive all these years.

Inside, the bar was dim and fairly quiet: a smattering of business types taking the opportunity for an after-work drink or two and the chance to talk off-the-record; a few furtive-looking couples who alternated between staring into each others eyes and glancing over their shoulders, obviously enjoying a discreet rendezvous before returning to their respective homes and partners; a couple of lonely-looking guys perched on bar stools nursing a stiff cocktail. One of them was me.

I looked at the reflection of the bulky Goblin in the long and slightly worn-looking raincoat and the brimmed hat. The reflection stared back at me. I took off the titfer and tossed it on the bar next to my dry martini - two olives - then swept up the glass and toasted my own image. The reflection's tired green eyes caught my own. I grinned, showing some fraction of the sharp teeth that almost all Goblins have. The eyes in the mirror narrowed suspiciously and the ears - large and mobile - twisted and twitched in my direction. I guess I had been looking over my own shoulder for far too many decades.

I had chosen this particular bar stool because the refection also showed the main entrance. I like to keep tabs on who's coming and going. Another old survival instinct. As I chewed thoughtfully on my second olive, a figure appeared in the doorway, stopping just inside the entrance and looking around. He really didn't belong there.

Part 1

Part 3