White Meat

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I’d seen him a couple of times on the flat at Randwick racecourse – six foot four and eighteen stone of expensive suiting and barbering with jewellery and shoe leather to match. I’d given him some of my money and he’d put it in a bag. I hadn’t liked him much but it’s hard to like people you lose money to. I suppose we’d exchanged twenty words, not more, on the course, so I was surprised when he rang me at the office.

He was lucky to catch me. I had an appointment that afternoon and had called in to check the mail on a whim – private detecting is slow in the winter and I wasn’t expecting any notes in invisible ink or bundles of currency. Turned out it wasn’t just luck. I thought briefly about ignoring the phone but couldn’t do it.

“Hardy?” The voice was rich, pickled in Courvoisier. “Ted Tarelton, I’ve got a little job for you.”

“Good, I’m free. Tomorrow do you?”

“Today’ll do me. Now!”

He could take my money but not my pride.

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