Douglas stared out of his one window in his upstairs office, the shutters shadowing his face. The bodies of stubbed out cigarettes lay, bent and smoked to the stub, in the small glass ashtray. Cars swerved and honked their horns on the road below, reminding him of the bad part of town he was in.
He had a tumbler of apple-juice-parading-as-whiskey in his hand and swirled it, creating a small, amber whirlpool. It was what he called the Richardson special. Time was when he'd have the real stuff, but he hadn't for eight years - for the better, really.
That was back when his little detective agency was a fully functional business, not an office he sat in all day and slept in all night, waiting for clients that didn't come.
It was the divorce - the last one - that did it. That little tart of a woman managed to drag his name through the mud. He thought it quite strange that she was unfaithful and yet managed to make herself the victim.
He was thrown out his dark thoughts and memories by a small knock at the door.
"Door's open," He grunted, voice hoarse from disuse.
A small man stumbled through the door as he opened it, kicking the door by accident and bit down a grimace. He was in a feminine brown trench coat and black trousers with… red heels?
Now Douglas could see their lips were painted with cheap clear lip-gloss.
"Mr Richardson?" They enquired, tucking a stray ginger curl behind their ear, and he nodded, "Thank goodness! I've spent about five hours trying to find your office…" Ah, yes. Douglas' office was above a laundry parlour, so it wasn't the easiest to find. "My name is Martin Crieff and I've come on behalf of my employer, Lady Knapp-Shappey; I'm the housekeeper for her manor house on the other side of Fitton. We'd like to enlist your services."
"What's the case… Uh…" Douglas wasn't quite sure what to say. Sir? Madame?
"Just Martin," Martin supplied, obviously something he was used to, "And I prefer 'they' or 'their' to 'she' or 'he'." Douglas nodded his understanding, and Martin bit their shining lower lip. "The case… Is a murder…"
Douglas perked up. A murder case? "Why me?" He asked.
Martin shrugged, "My employer's instructions, Mr Richardson; I don't pretend to know her motivations behind anything. It may possibly be her son, Arthur; he gave the impression he knew you…"
"Ah, yes; Arthur Shappey. I do seem to remember that clot…" Douglas stated.
"Do not refer to Mr Shappey in that manner, Mr Richardson. He is a friend of mine," Martin folded their arms over their chest.
"How good of a friend?" Douglas asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Mrs Knapp-Shappey has likened us to siblings," Martin answered curtly.
"I think I should speak to your employer…" Douglas placed the tumbler on his small desk and took out another cigarette.
"Thank you, Mr Richardson," Martin nodded, handing him a card with the address, "Thank you." And hurried out.
Douglas turned back to the window to see Martin hailing a taxi. What a strange person Martin Crieff was…