Pendleton hired me because he said he remembered me
from school as a ‘sly, spree little terrier’ and he said he wanted one. After I joined what became the Unholy Trinity
of Abraxus Eye, I could understand why: Pendleton, who had read Applied Maths
and rowed for Oxford, had been an infantry major, and his chief talent was
collation, while his 2IC was a wiry dour, teetotal Scottish former DS named
MacFarlane, from Stirlingshire or somewhere equally exciting; he had little
imagination and no sense of humour, unless of course I missed it. Anyway, we didn’t get on particularly well.
The work was generally much less exciting than all the
gumshoe fiction, and I did wonder just who had put Raymond Chandler up to
writing Marloe. I don’t remember Humphrey
Bogart freezing his vitals off outside a Peckham massage parlour while trying
to work out which wheeze to use on his expenses sheet this time. If I say I never got a bullet hole in my hat,
it was only for want of standing still on the one occasion a mark got the toys
out. My only proper scar is a 4” white
line on my left buttock after I got caught wearing a wire for the NOTW at a dog
fight in 1997, and then the bastards didn’t run the story. I guess that’s what the Romulans call a ‘waste
of skin’.