A/N: So here's the plan - I like to build characters slowly and take time to introduce everything fully. So if you're looking for a quick fic, walk away now. But if you stick around for the whole thing, I promise you won't be disappointed. Have patience, my young grasshoppers! All good things come in time =D Case in point - the following bit of backstory before we meet our two sets of protagonists. Enjoy.
A strong breeze blew out of the northeast, swirling the dead and dying leaves around the faintly scuffed shoes of the suited man making his way down the street, arms crossed in an attempt to ward against the late autumn chill. 'You just couldn't stay away from the pub could you, George', he muttered angrily, gnashing his teeth together in frustration at a night gone awry. 'You just had to go in and see Beth, and then she had just had to go and get all stroppy and start a row in the middle of the bloody men's room.' And just when he thought he'd been about to get a little action too. He shook his head, still irritated. 'What a cock up.'
She'd started out well, Beth had. Younger than him, but not young enough to raise any eyebrows. Dark hair (he'd always had a thing for brunettes), decent chest, better backside. What a shame her definition of 'open relationship' didn't match his. George was a man who was always in desperate need of a distraction (or two, or three) and he had thought Beth understood that. He was so bleeding busy these days, it's not like he had any time for monogamy – he had to take his pleasure where he could find it, no matter where in the world he found himself. Bloody workload had only increased tenfold since he'd begun, christ, twenty years ago? Already? Apparently the old saying about how things got easier as you got older was wrong then. Or perhaps his life had always been this demanding, and it was only now finally starting to catch up to him. Impending age had a tendency to do that, could backhand a person across the face and make them feel like an old trampoline, saggy in all the wrong places.
He could remember when it had all been a game, when spending fifty-five hours straight on red alert had been fun, had meant two coffees instead of ten, and hadn't resulted in back spasms that left him hunched over like one of Victor Hugo's gargoyles. Ah yes, he sighed, lost in the memories. Life had been flashy cars, a great paycheck, and lots of women, all begging to be one of 'George's Girls'. But no longer. The honk of a passing car brought him back to the present, forcibly reminding him that yes, he was in fact, alone, struggling toward his flat in the bitter autumn air, fighting leaves in his face, and feeling like a dog who'd just gotten kicked in the bollocks by his favorite trainer. This damn assignment, that was the real problem - it was taking up entirely too much of his time, and straining relations at work almost to the breaking point, which always made everything more complicated.
I really am getting too old for this shite, he thought disparagingly, increasing the pace of his stride as a fresh gust blew against him. No matter, he would be back at his flat soon and the embarrassment of the night could be forgotten. There was a nice bottle of brandy sitting on the nightstand, a present from his brother – he could finish on a good note, at least. And perhaps in a few months, he could start thinking more seriously about retirement. Yes, he decided, with a slow nod of his head. Yes, he could live with that, for the time being.
Rather unhappily for George, 'for the time being' was destined to only last for the next six minutes. It was a relatively quick ending, in the grand scheme of things. One heavy tap to the back of the skull, and suddenly his body was pitching forward, crashing haphazardly onto the leaf-strewn cement, head lying at an unnatural angle as rivulets of blood trickled down past unseeing green eyes and seeped slowly into the path's weed infested crevices. A relatively quick ending, for a relatively simple man.
But who was the culprit? The wind whispered of conspiracies, outside forces, and a much larger story than had been witnessed. And it whispered correctly. For it would take a man of extraordinary intellect (oh alright, two men of extraordinary intellect), to determine the full story behind what exactly had happened to George that night, and why.
A/N: So, hopefully this prologue has worked its magic, you are sufficiently intrigued, and want to keep on reading. If this isn't the case, I've failed you and I'm sorry. Please consider reading the next chapter before you give up entirely though, as it features our favorite consulting detective and his long-suffering blogger :D Feedback is much appreciated, of course. Thanks!