Blackstone's pursuits

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Being a Private Enquiry Agent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, there are some days when it cracks me up. And this was going to be one of those days, all right.

Quite a few of the people I’m sent to interview start out by being difficult. Many of them have a two-word vocabulary … if you know what I mean. It’s as if they blame me for their wives having found out about them shagging that nice brunette person, or for their having been caught nicking a few quid from the partnership account.

This guy had done both, and I could tell at once that he was just not going to be the co-operative sort. It wasn’t only that I’d walked in on him and caught him stark naked. My main problem was that the poor, sad bugger was stone dead.

Looking at him, stretched out on his back on the crumpled bed, I could tell that he had been a wee man, a bit closer to five feet than six. But equally, I could guess at once what the nice brunette had seen in him. People are always going on to me about my favourite adjectives. They say I use them for effect, but that’s not true. It’s more that I take pleasure in words which strike me as particularly descriptive. At that moment, looking at him, stretched out on his back on the crumpled bed, ‘disproportionate’ thrust itself to the front of my mind and lodged there.

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