Now
My name’s Jayne McCartney. No relation, despite the accent. In case you were wondering. Which you might not have been, but most people do.
I’m a private investigator, and I work from an office on the fifth floor of a once-grand building on a once-grand-and-getting-there-again city’s waterfront. The windows are crusted with dust and grime from the small continents of traffic that flow past every day, and I can tell the time by the chimes of the Liver Building clock.
Right now, for example, I know it’s after 10 p.m. The big bass drum sound of the hour turning woke me up. Not that being unconscious qualifies as being asleep, I suppose. It might have looked the same, except on this occasion it came with a whacking great lump on the back of my head and a matting of blood in my hair. A good look for a chick in her thirties. I might go clubbing.
First, though, I have to master standing up. And finding my phone. And dialling the number of DCI Ken McGowan at Ball Street CID. Despite having a concussion and approximately seventeen fingers on one hand, I manage. Voicemail. Of course. It is after 10 p.m., after all. He’s probably out clubbing.
‘Call me,’ I say. ‘I know where the Chihuahua is.’