Cinch Hand (1/6) By Nick Quantrill

(1/6), (2/6), (3/6), (4/6), (5/6), (6/6).

Joe Berry, Private Investigator. That always grabs the attention. I'm a PI, but it's not as exciting as it sounds. No way. I say that with confidence as I stare out of the window of my detective agency into the overcast Hull night. That's right, Hull - the jewel in the crown of East Yorkshire. It's not a glamorous city, but it's where I lay my hat and I've just about scraped a living from this game over the last couple of years. My agency is situated down one of the major routes that leads to the city centre. It seems like I chose the most awkward place possible, nestled in between second-hand car dealers and run-down drinking men's pubs, but at least the rent is reasonable.

Private investigation isn't a good career choice. I used to be an accountant, so I decided on a change, no further explanation necessary.

What could be more exciting than being a PI, I thought? Plenty of things could be more exciting than being a PI it would appear, accountancy for one. Most of my days are filled with form filling and serving legal documents on people. If I'm lucky, and in need of some excitement, I might get to follow somebody's husband or wife for a few hours, usually while sitting in my knackered Vauxhall Corsa. As you'd expect from a man of my means, neither the heater nor the radio work anymore, but it does the job. If nothing else, it's inconspicuous.

A while back, Simon Brogan, a successful local businessman, paid me a visit. Being a prominent businessman in a small city such as Hull hardly puts you on a par with Alan Sugar or Donald Trump, but the man's money still demands attention. I knew that he made his money from owning a string of upmarket café-bars dotted around the city.

I know this because we started our careers together on the same day, just over twenty years ago, with the same accountancy firm. The fact he turned up for our meeting in a sparkling Mercedes convertible and parked it next to my beat up Corsa only served to underline how our career paths had diverged during this period. I invited him in. He settled into the guest's chair in my tiny office. 'Drink?' I asked. I always keep a bottle of scotch in the office for visitors. Clients have come to expect it. I pour myself a Southern Comfort. It's not very manly, I know that, but every PI needs a quirk.

When people contact a private investigator, they have a definite idea of what they're going to find. I don't like to disappoint, so it's a rule of mine to always drink on duty and treat the client with just the right amount of belligerence.

'So, what can I do for you, then?' I ask Brogan. 'I've got a job I need doing.' 'Why me?' I say. I stare hard at him in the dim light. We've had more than our share of arguments and rucks over the years, so I'm curious. Let's not beat around the bush, I'm extremely curious. Brogan and I hate each other and it had been that way since the day that we first met. It's what some people call a chemistry thing. To put it simply, we rubbed each other up the wrong way. We were in our late teens when we first met.

I was much more reserved than he was. I was probably naïve back in those days. I thought hard work and diligence would win the day for me, especially in a career that relied upon such skills. From that first day onwards, Brogan never missed the chance to 'network' as he called it.

Continued... Next Page (2/6)

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