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The first novel in a darkly humorous London-based crime series featuring bisexual private detective Duffy.
When Brian McKechnie finds his wife attacked, his cat killed, and himself blackmailed by a man with a suspiciously erratic accent, he engages the services of London's most unusual private eye - Duffy.
A bisexual ex-policeman with a phobia of ticking watches and a love of Tupperware, Duffy is anything but orthodox. But he's street smart, savvy and takes no nonsense from anyone. Intrigued by McKechnie's case and the ineptitude of his ex-colleagues on the police force, Duffy heads to his old patch - the seedy underbelly of Soho - to begin inquiries of his own.
Helped by some shady characters from his past, Duffy discovers that while things have changed in his old stomping ground, the streets are still mean and the crooks walk arm in arm with the blues.
Full to bursting with sex, violence and dodgy dealings, DUFFY is a gripping and entertaining crime novel with a distinctly different and entirely lovable anti-hero.
cigarette to add to the general fug, drew on it a few times, and then spoke without looking at McKechnie. It was as if he were avoiding responsibility for his words, as if McKechnie were simply overhearing him in a pub. ‘Let’s say that I appreciate your problem. Let’s say that it could have happened before. Let’s say that once a case is with an officer of a certain rank, it’s not easy to get that case transferred except at the officer’s own request. As a general rule. I’m naturally speaking in
Street; and if after that you were still unsatisfied, as you came out there might, if you were lucky, be a tout or two on the pavement offering you a really blue film. Now, though, there were whole series of cinema clubs, called Triple-X and X-Citing and Double Blue and Eros Eyrie and Taboo, with gaudy signs outside offering XXX-rated movies to those over eighteen. The heat of the early afternoon made Duffy feel, not exactly randy, but definitely a bit interested. Head down, he turned into a
‘I’m afraid you simply don’t understand business, Mr Duffy.’ And then, indulgently, ‘I might want to build on it at some future date, yes, that could be a possibility.’ Eddy appeared to be thinking. His grip on the garrotte slackened a little. The wires round Duffy’s rig relaxed a bit. ‘I think I must consider what to do with you,’ he finally said. ‘My father always told me as a boy that a rushed decision was usually a wrong decision. I shall have to think about you for a bit, Duffy. You’ll
previous meeting, so he played it reasonably straight. ‘I set up a security firm. Advising businesses about how to vet personnel, that sort of thing.’ ‘Oh, I see. Quite an appropriate profession. What other sort of things?’ ‘Well, I tell them how to set up scanning equipment to stop pilfering, that sort of thing.’ ‘Ah, we may have to come to you for advice one day. At the moment the punters in the shops are much too timid to try running off without paying. That is one advantage we have over
business.’ The phone was put down. McKechnie dutifully started to think about the angles. Was he being preshed? Not yet, anyway. Was he being softened up for being preshed? If so, they were going about it in a pretty extreme manner. Was his wife safe at home? Was he safe? Should he go back to the Guildford police? Should he go along to the station here, West Central, up in Broadwick Street? Should he perhaps try and get the investigation transferred to West Central, and hope that the bit about