I was sifting paperwork one Monday morning, trying to ignore the northerly that leaked through my office window along with the racket of Westway traffic and commuter trains slowing into Paddington. My electric 2-bar was toasting my feet but making no impression elsewhere in the room, and the cold conspired with the distractions of a weekend's memories to impede concentration. I'd begun to sense a long day looming. Then my intercom kicked into life with an explosion of static that snapped me back to reality with the more immediate prospect of a cardiac.
The thing's an eighties-vintage Motorola I'd picked up on Camden Market and it came with some kind of short-circuit that blasted out static that drowned messages to the untrained ear. I used it mostly for coffee and sandwich orders. I'd had coffee and it was a little early for lunch so I figured something was up. Lucy waited a moment; repeated my name.
‘Mr Flynn. Are you available?' As if she hadn't watched me go into my office twenty minutes back with nothing more than a cup of coffee and a hazy expression. I grinned: it wasn't the pointlessness of the question, it was the way Lucy could “Mr Flynn” me so you'd never imagine the two of us had a history steamier than a Chinese laundry. The history was very old history but something still sparked. Lucy hung on to the desire to mother me even after she'd wrecked my life by ditching me. I put it down to guilt. My Herman Miller chair was tilted back at an awkward angle for business, and I had to strain my abs to get my mouth to the intercom.
‘What's up, Lucy?'
‘There's a visitor to see you.'
‘What visitor?'
‘A Miss Bannister.'
‘We have an appointment?'
‘No.'
That tallied with my memory. We usually see clients by appointment only but I sensed an excuse to defer paperwork. ‘How are we fixed?' I asked. You'd barely notice the pause as Lucy offered to check my diary. Behind the static I heard the sound of blank pages turning.
‘You're free, Mr Flynn.' That tallied too. My excuse was on. I told Lucy to show our guest in and tilted myself upright. Pushed a mess of paperwork aside. Our visitor came through and stopped just inside the door. Lucy followed her in for no reason than to see my reaction. But I can be good at not reacting. My smile barely wavered. Lucy finally got the message and backed out, closing the door. My visitor still didn't move. Maybe it was the look that had replaced my smile. I guess I needed to work on the customer-relations thing.
Behind Closed Doors Description:
“A likeable, wisecracking guy … humour … violent confrontations. Very well recommended” – EUROCRIME
Meet London PI Eddie Flynn. Tough. Tenacious. Busy.
When a teenager barges into his office with a story about a missing friend his instinct is to kick her out. The agency doesn’t work for kids. But call it a lack of judgement: he listens anyway and hears something that does sound kind of funny. The missing friend is Rebecca Townsend. She’s seventeen and she’s vanished without warning, been gone a week from a family who either haven’t noticed or don’t care.
Flynn holds judgement long enough to take a quick gander, and the funny smell grows with each of the family’s desperate denials. And the host of curious goings-on surrounding the household would snag any PI’s curiosity. As for the girl herself: she’s nowhere in sight.
So Flynn digs deeper and finds that another young woman linked to the family is missing, then hits paydirt as some truly unpleasant people come scuttling out of the cracks to issue a clear warning: back off; keep your nose out or pay the price. London PI Eddie Flynn. Tough. Tenacious, No reverse gear.
Flynn ignores the warnings, jemmies the cracks, forces a few doors, and finds he’s barged right into a racket that’s far too important to be threatened by an investigator with more persistence than sense. Eddie Flynn. Tough. Tenacious. Missing in action.
