A Manchester Cop

The Business Idea

The Advert appeared on the ‘Gay Manchester’ web site in the personal column.

'Home help required. Usual duties, cleaning, cooking and general bathing, plus some manual tasks currently beyond client's ability. Send CV and photo of qualifications to Signal 09957364427'

Graham was upstairs at Costa Coffee in Canal Street, sitting in a comfortable mismatched leather armchair next to a round table, with another empty chair for the interviewee. Nobody tried to join him, he exuded a no go zone around him. Perhaps it was the black polo neck jumper, or the strange black leather gauntlets or perhaps the eye patch, who knows, if the Vampire nation had pirates this man would be commander, but it didn't put off the tall swaying graceful blond god now approaching him, with a pleasant welcoming smile on his face.

"May I?" he said indicating the seat. Graham nodded. Let's get straight to business he thought, picking up his special mug with difficulty and taking a sip of black coffee.

"Nice picture of your cock you sent me, is it like that in real life or did you photoshop it?” Roy stood up.

"Want to see? We are amongst friends after all."

Indeed they were. As the most outrageous meeting house in Manchester's gay area, every variety of LGBTI+ imaginable came to meet, hook up and in some cases have a coffee. In the night, when the drugs flowed, activity spilled out of the toilets into the upstairs space, but even mid morning a naked penis would not raise much of an eyebrow.

"Perhaps later, why not tell me about yourself first." They paused as a young girl with short pink hair and piercings in all the fashionable places came up with a large skinny soya latte for Roy. He smiled at her, she blushed.

"Where do I start. Well, my parents moved to England from Iceland when I was six, so I was schooled here. At sixteen my parents decided to go back home, they found the politics too restricting. I looked at the Reykjavík gay scene and thought NO WAY, so decided to stay here."

"What age were you when you started wanking?" asked Graham.

"Six."

"And sucked off?"

"Six."

And first had a cock up your arse?"

"Six."

"I see a pattern."

"A teacher at my first junior school immediately took a shine to me as soon as we arrived from Iceland. He took me back to his flat one Saturday afternoon when I should have been doing sports. He explained that as a new foreigner I had to learn more about British culture. So once in his flat he wasted no time, just pulled down my pants and wanked me off. The next week he sucked me off and the third time he buggered me. So I went from total innocent to catamite in three weeks, which I think must still be some kind of record. There were the usual threats of course, parents would be deported, I would be thrown out of school and all that, but I wasn't the only one he was molesting. A week after he buggered me he was caught doing it with another boy from the junior school in the back of his car at a paedo dogging site. By an undercover cop of all people, and he was never seen again. He obviously didn't mention me as I heard no more. Strange thing was, apart from being bloody painful, the confusing bit was that I enjoyed it.

From then on it was just me until puberty, when I met other boys interested in ‘tossing each other off’. By fifteen I had found the gay scene here and was enjoying ‘penetrative sex’” Here Roy made two quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “At that time it was mainly with boys my own age or a little older. Then my parents decided to move back, so I went to nurse training school at MRI, mainly because it was a residential course. A new career beckoned and I was really good at it, but adults appeared over the horizon again in the form of a charge nurse who propositioned me for sex and who I rejected. He made my life hell. After two years I left and started as a bottle washer for a Michelin restaurant in King Street, and flat shared with several of the other boys. Honestly? We were too knackered to shag after service, but gradually I learned a lot about cooking, Marco was a genius. Turns out a genius with no head for figures and he went bust. Since then it has been bar work and pulling the occasional trick to pay the rent whilst I try and figure out what to do. And there you have it. Me.”

“And what do you want to do?”

“Anything where I am in control, where I don’t have to rely upon some bastard not to have a hold over me or mess up and throw me in the street.”

“Would you like to cook me lunch?”

They walked back towards Deansgate. Roy asked for some money, went into a small food store and came out with a carrier bag full. Graham turned into Beetham Tower. Roy stopped and looked up at the forty seven story skyscraper and thought a humble ‘Wow’. Graham waited until Roy caught up, showed his pass to the concierge, signed Roy in and they took the express lift up to the fortieth floor. Roy walked into the most expensive apartment he had ever been in.

“Now I did not expect this” he said.

“The kitchen is through here” said Graham nonchalantly.

Truffled scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and brioche toast followed by lemon syllabub with two bottles of chilled Montrachet. Graham managed to eat with fork and spoon attached to his gauntlets, then he asked Roy to bring the rest of the wine into a room over looking Manchester.

“Smoking room, light me a fag would you” as he fell into a chair. He smoked a couple of B&H then stretched contentedly.

“What do you think?”

“Honestly? I think you need a shower, you stink. Where is the bathroom?”

Graham’s face tightened, he was not used to being talked to like this. In fact he wasn’t used to being talked to at all, but he saw the boy’s cheeky grin and relaxed. He led him through to his bedroom and sat on the edge of the huge double bed. Roy unbuckled his boots as Graham watched him closely. Roy eased off the boots and the thick socks and forced his face to show no emotion though he wanted to throw up all the lunch and lovely wine. Next he undid and eased off the gloves, again desperately trying not to gag. He became aware of Graham watching him closely, so he smiled at him.

“My, we have been in the wars haven’t we. Leave the eye patch on?”

“Now you see why I need some ‘manual’ help, can’t wank with these hands.”

“Oh I think we can do better than that” said Roy, kneeling down and taking Graham’s hardening cock completely into his mouth. As Graham got harder so his cock slid down Roy’s throat. When rock hard he pulled it out of his mouth, rasping his teeth along the shaft, took a deep breath, swung Graham’s body onto the bed, quickly undressed and mounted him dry, sliding the cock deep into his arse. Roy went straight into a hard rhythm, whilst vigorously, rubbing his own cock. Graham’s body gave a shudder, his back arched and Roy shot his own cum over Graham’s chest, avoiding the face for now. He stood up, stepped off the bed, picked up Graham and carried him into the shower. Stood him up, rinsed him with water, switched it off and soaped him all over, then turned him around and entered his arse. Long slow gentle thrusts until Roy came again, then he pulled out, soaped himself, put the shower back on and rinsed them both clean. They dried off and Roy carried Graham back to the bed and lay him gently down on the bed.

“The last person to do that to me” said Graham “Gave me these injuries.”

“Can you tell me your story?” Graham looked at him for a while then turning his head to one side began.

“I was a spy. Good arabic from Cambridge, recruited into MI6 whilst at uni and posted all over the far east as a middle grade operative. Then Afghanistan kicked off, so a group of us were trained up and sent behind lines. The rebels caught me after a couple of weeks, there must have been a leak, I never did find out who. The head man wanted to know something I didn’t want to tell him, so hanging by my hands in a stone dungeon, he put my left foot on an anvil and smashed all the toes with a hammer. Then he fucked me in front of the rest of his men. Back in my cell for a few days, then hanging again whilst he smashed the toes on my right foot. Again he buggered me. A week later he went to work on the left hand, much slower this time, mashing not just the fingers but the bones in the hand as well, then sex. Another week passed and he does the right hand, again sex. Two weeks passed lying naked in a cold damp dark dungeon with just water and occasional slop, I still shudder to think what they put in it, but I still wouldn’t tell him, so I have the very clear memory of his stiletto slowly approaching my eye as one of his men held my head, then it all went black as he thrust the knife deep into my eye. The pain was worse than anything that went before, your eye connects straight to your brain, did you know that? So does the pain, but the screaming was a personal reinforcement not to speak. They teach you these things during training. Just before I was due to have the other eye blinded an SAS team broke in to the jail and dragged me out, killing everyone there, so I never got the chance of revenge. Seeing the mess I was in they did bend their own rules and wiped out all the main man’s family. Wives, children, his parents, brothers and sisters, a pretty thorough job. Unlawful killing they would call it now, but it felt right to me. I spent six months in hospital whilst they patched me up and got me mobile, it was the psych part which took the longest. Then the Service, being a caring employer, dismissed me with a meagre pension and left me to get on with it. I had no wife, no spy has a wife or even lover, so I came North, because, you know what? The pain I could have done without, but the sex I weirdly enjoyed, a bit like the six year old you. Even worse was the humiliation, because every time he buggered me I came, in front of all his men, who whooped and cheered when I did. The one memory I can’t get rid of is the smug leer on the Brigadier’s face as they dragged me back to my cell.

So I hoped that in a new place I could put all that behind away, find a new me. But when I tried to join in people were repulsed and I am afraid to say I grew a tad bitter.”

“Well they don’t repulse me” said Roy bending forward to kiss Graham’s right hand. “I think your injuries make you heroic” and he kissed the left hand. “And Roy will just have to replace them for Graham wont he” he muttered almost to himself. Then he brightened up.

“But all this?” asked Roy waving at the apartment.

“Ah, my cover in Afghanistan was that I was an antique book dealer, allowed me to roam the towns asking questions, and I did pick up some very valuable first editions which I smuggled out and kept for myself. Bought this place. But mostly all gone now.” Roy was tracing one of the harsh scar lines down Graham’s face.

“You said in your advert you wanted someone for twice a week, but you need much more care than that.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“Well I can up my trick rate, bring in enough to keep us both for a while.”

Graham swung off the bed and walked gingerly down a corridor into another bedroom with a large plate glass wall opening onto a balcony.

“This could be your room. If you like.” Roy kissed him hard and long on the mouth.

“Does that mean I have got the job? Fantastic. Now we just need to think of something to make some money.”

“I was meaning to talk to you about that. Get a few more bottles, bring them onto the lounge terrace and let’s talk.”

The Client

“Looks like you’ve been dipping your wick in some dirty oil, Sir Robert. And now it has come back to bite you.”

Sir Robert was standing in a checked shirt and argyle socks, his pants and trousers on the couch next to him, as he was addressed by Mr. Pradeep Estlick, senior consultant surgeon, urology, Manchester Royal Infirmary, in his private rooms in St John Street, who minutes before had been kneeling in front of Sir Robert carefully examining his large penis and pendulous testicles, like so many before him. But this was business of the most serious sort.

“Go on man, tell me the worst” barked Sir Robert.

“It is penile cancer.”

As the second son of a Baronet, Robert Arbuthnot had a typical education. A vicious prep school ‘To put some backbone into the boy’ amongst other things, then Eton, Oxford and the Foreign and Colonial Office.

As a boy he was the recipient of other male’s lust. At prep school it was the headmaster and at Eton it was the older boys, until he grew into his large bulbous frame, more walrus than bull unfortunately, and took over as the penetrative partner in willing or unwilling homosexual encounters.

In the FCO he had a solid if undistinguished career, progressing slowly through the ranks of the Diplomatic Service with various postings abroad. On the way he was married to the Hon. Lady Mary as a matter of form. She sensibly stayed on her parent’s estate, having nothing to do with ‘those damn fuzzy wuzzys’, riding to hounds, keeping dogs and breeding an award winning flock of rare breed sheep. He also acquired a knighthood on the death of both his father and brother, which accelerated his career and landed him the role of assistant ambassador to Morocco. He spent ten happy years there, career advancement was never his goal, instead he threw himself into enjoying the local customs and traditions, particularly that enjoyed by the caliphate, of putting small boys to the sword. He also followed the age old arabic tradition of never fucking anything post puberty, preferring their smooth hairless bodies, small willies, tight puckered arse holes and soft moans when his bulbous cock forced its way into them.

All good things must come to an end and by some administrative mistake, Sir Robert Arbuthnot KCMG KCVO found himself posted to India. Luckily not in Delhi, but Hyderabad. Now, unlike Pakistan, where he would have been much more at home, the people of India were predominately Hindus, and they did not take kindly to big white foreigners molesting their young boys. So when he was discovered deep inside the young son of a senior industrialist, and by the boy’s mother who thought he was having extra English lessons, which to be fair he was, he was bound for Tihar Ashram, India’s worst prison, until diplomatic immunity reared its head. Back home it was not his sexual escapades which annoyed his employers, what happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom after all, but the fact his actions had caused a multi million pound trade deal to be cancelled. He was dismissed from his job. His wife sued for divorce citing non consummation. He was blackballed by his club, an act of gross hypocrisy by the way. He was excluded from the upper class gay circles he used to be a member of. All in all a shitty outcome. When he discovered through trial and error that the lower classes gay scene in London was riven with politics and the rent boys crude and acquisitive, he moved to Manchester to try and start again. He bought an elegant town house in the centre and found the gay community much more accepting of an older man with money, until one boy refused to go down on him because of ‘the big sore on his knob’ as he told it to his mates.

And so here he was getting the worst news imaginable. His consultant continued

“We will lop off most of your todger, naturally, and hit you with a load of gamma rays and poisons, but these things spread rapidly, so you might be in for a bit of a rough time.” He knew Sir Robert would need a good GP when he came out of hospital after what was for men, the worst operation in the world, so he gave Dr John a call.

Dr John was let in via the intercom and went up three stories to Sir Roberts bedroom. He introduced himself, carried out a brief inspection and answered questions.

“One thing you will need in my opinion, is some professional help around the house. I know a very good set up, Handy Home Helps, why don’t I give them a call?”

And that was how, a day later, a slim young man, who looks about fifteen but was actually closer to twenty three, five foot two with a porcelain skin, a white nurses uniform and a large leather satchel, presented himself to Sir Robert for inspection. He answered a few questions, looked round the untidy bedroom, and took his clothes off, standing naked with a large thin erection pointing straight at Sir Roberts face.

“Good lord” said Sir Robert.

“Will I do?” asked the young man.

“Good lord” he said again, so the boys slid his cock into the older mans mouth and came quickly and copiously. The boy pulled on his uniform again.

“Right. I better make a start tidying up in here and then get dinner ready. Anything you fancy?” The man shook his head. “Right. I’ll do a tasty fish gratin. Always takes the taste away I find.”

After lunch , the boy Roth gave Robert his medication, so Robert slept. Roth tidied the bedroom, thoroughly cleaned the kitchen, found himself a bedroom near Robert’s and looked at the lounge. He wasn’t sure how much time his employer would spend out of bed, so he left that until tomorrow and started on dinner. Robert woke quite groggy from his nap, but Roth knew better than to alter the dose the doctor had prescribed, so he sat next to the bed and read society gossip to Robert from his iPad. They talked a bit about Robert’s escapades with minor royalty until it was time to eat. He perked up when Roth served the meal dressed only in a scanty maid apron which ended above his genitals at the front and was naked at the back, allowing Robert to watch Roth’s perfect buttocks and regret what he had lost. He reached out a hand and gently stroked the smooth, hairless skin. Roth looked over his shoulder from what he was doing and smiled. Take it slowly Roy had said. One glass of wine was allowed with the next dose of meds, and Robert was out like a light all night.

Next morning Roth was in his pristine home help uniform, and after a light breakfast there was a ring and a stern nurse, mid forties, came to change Robert’s dressings. ‘Don’t want to risk getting him too excited until it is all healed’ the consultant had said. No fear of that. Roth waited outside, Robert would be embarrassed and he wanted to be a lover, not a confidant. After the nurse had gone Roth got him into a chair and wheeled it into the lounge where Robert could sit looking out of the window over the park and they had a conversation. Robert was still quite weak, Roth could stay on a permanent basis until he was on his feet again, off the painkillers, would leave anytime Sir Robert was tired with him, no obligations, up to him. Robert pulled the young man towards him and kissed him gently on the lips. Roth stayed and that night he curled up in the old man’s arms until he had gone to sleep. The next morning Roth demanded his early morning ejaculation. He always came first thing he told Robert, did Sir want to help or should he wank off in his own room? Sir wanted to help and with surprising strength took hold of the boys cock and painfully wanked him off. ‘You don’t know your own strength you’ said Roth.

Days passed, the dressing was off and the physio started her daily sessions, but they called her a personal trainer, which made it more socially acceptable. Robert began to take walks outside, round the park, sometimes they went to a small bistro for lunch or watched catch up on the TV. Each night Roth nestled in the old mans’s arms until the meds took effect, the went to his own room and onto the internet to report. Each morning Roth had his early morning wank performed by Sir Robert, or EMW as the old civil servant would have it. It became increasingly vigorous, nails down the shaft, teeth on the balls, vibrating dildos up Roth’s arse, watching him have his early morning crap. It just kept escalating, but nothing Roth couldn’t control. One morning, about three months after he had arrived, Roth returned from shopping to see a car pulling away from the house. ‘Now what was that about I wonder’ he thought. That night after dinner Robert wouldn’t take his meds, instead he wanted Roth naked in the lounge, tied him face down to an armchair, got into a large strap on a dildo and buggered him. ‘Shit. That hurt’ thought Roth. The old man then took him to bed and lay caressing him, kissing him and telling him how much he loved him.

“And you do that to me?”

“Oh you can take it, a good little boy like you.”

“I don’t believe you, you don’t really love me, you wouldn’t do that if you did.”

“But I do love you. That car this morning? That was my lawyer. I have changed my will, I am leaving everything to you. There what do you think of that?”

“I think you should take your meds, get your rest so you keep well, fit and strong and can bugger me again tomorrow.”

Two weeks later and Roth was having to use tampons during the day to keep him continent, Robert was using such large dildos now that Roth’s arse was gaping. That night he served a special meal, mince, gravy and mashed potatoes with a sponge pudding and custard to follow, and told Robert it was his turn for once. He had never been near Roberts arse since he had moved in, but he said he wanted Robert to know how it felt.

“Remember when you were a little boy? Let’s go back there.”

He takes Robert into his bedroom and arranges him on his hands and knees, face buried in the pillow. Whist lubing his anus, Roth slips in the Norephine suppository he had been provided with, then wearing a condom, slides his cock in, pushing the suppository deep into Robert’s rectum so it will be absorbed quicker. He keeps two fingers on the side of Robert’s neck and feels as his pulse starts to increase. He moves his cock slowly in and out until Robert’s pulse is hammering, Then he starts to vigorously bugger him. Roberts left hand ineffectually swipes at his backside, then with a croak, clutches at his throat. Roth pulls his cock out and forces his fist as far into Robert’s anus as he can. The vasovagal shock, combined with the untraceable adrenaline analogue, cause Roberts heart to go into fibrillation. He rears up, clutches his chest and falls face down, dead. Roth cleans the lube off Robert’s anus, puts his night gown and bed socks on and arranges him on his side on the bed.

The next morning he comes in with a tray of tea and toast, puts it on the side table and rings Dr John.

“Sir Robert passed in the night. I was asleep, I found him just now when I brought his tea.”

“OK Roth, leave him as he is, I will be right round.”

Dr John came right away, examined Sir Robert, wrote up his notes and filled out the death certificate. ‘Heart failure secondary to multiple metastases.’ Two hours later the undertakers came and took the body away. Roth waited until everyone had finished and gone, then made himself a cup of tea and went to sit in the lounge, looking out of the window at the children’s playground in the park which had so entertained Sir Robert. He smiled.

“I love it when a plan comes together” he whispered to himself.

The Fuzz

D. I. Jill Carson was not a plain woman, but she tried very hard to look as if she was. Brown hair scraped back into a short pony tail, a touch of lipstick, and her embarrassingly adequate bosom held in by a tight tunic, she was nobody’s fantasy playmate. Except of course for her cockapoo Damsel, who uniquely was allowed into work with her.

She was sitting in front of the Chief Super who was at his most pained. Nearly everything about modern policing pissed him off, but edicts from on high were in his top ten.

“I’ve had the CC on this morning. Apparently the CC Kent has got it in the neck from some toff’s wife who says we are completely incompetent. Her ex was as strong as an ox and did not die from a heart attack. We must reopen the case. I don’t remember ever opening one in the first place do you? A Sir Robert Arbuthnot? Big town house in the middle of the gay area. So I want a woman on this one, not a bloke, they are all poofs round there, don’t want anyone accusing us of bias.”

He looked up to see her stony expression.

“OK. I never said that, but you get the picture. Also had top London lawyers on, something called Herbert and Herbert. Sound like poofs as well. Anyway, the toff woman is contesting the will. This Robert bloke left everything to the hired help apparently, so that must be whoever did it. Bottom line, she wants an autopsy and the coroner involved. Pop down and see what she really wants will you. Agree to everything, then bang this home help away and we can finish this one in a couple of days without anymore help from the top brass.”

Jill looked at Google Maps on her desktop monitor.

“It’s a fuck of a long way to Kent” she said. Charley Croaker, her long time sergeant said

“We could go by train, you can drink on the train.”

“What and stay overnight with you in a Travel Lodge? My, how tongues would wag.” Charley had been married for thirty years, and was still mad for it over his wife and three daughters. His fidelity was standing joke between them.

“Get onto Kent, ask for liaison, got to make sure toes are not trod on, says here she is the Lord-Lieutenant of Kent.”

‘Lady Mary Fitzpatrick, Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, Divorcee, eight dogs’ as her bio said, welcomed them into her office the next day. Brusquely she asked

“Good Trip?”

“Long way ma’am.”

“Should have taken the train. Now what do you want to know?”

“Well, I have read what has been sent to us so far, but I always like to meet people in person,The personal touch.” Mary liked this mousey woman, she knew she could tell her exactly what to do and she would do it. Mary liked people she could tell what to do.

“Not sure what I can add. My ex husband was as strong as an ox, he had appetites, by which I mean weaknesses, like any man, but physically he was magnificent. After he left the FCO and we divorced, I have no idea why he went off to live in that grimy backwater, nor why he suddenly needed a house keeper. All I know is that she killed him. Get an autopsy to find out why and arrest her. There is that enough? I have a meeting with the King at three and I need to get ready.”

“Actually I have quite a few questions” began Jill.

“Nonsense, I have told you all you need to know. Geraint will show you out.” At that the butler appeared with their coats and they were unceremoniously ushered out. He stood at the door until they drove off down the drive. Charley knew better than to say anything. Jill tapped her phone in the car, followed the sat nav, pulled into the parking lot at the nearest Travel Lodge, got out and screamed into the air. She shook herself and got back into the car. Charley grinned at her.

“She wants his money" he said. "Knows nothing about the poor sod, just a grubbing gold digger.” Jill looked at him, leant over and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you, I knew you would understand. Let’s get back and stitch that old cow up. Find out what really happened.”

They spent the rest of the drive back discussing the merits of City versus United. Real fans could go on like this for days without drawing breath.

The next morning they started with the house keeper. As the door opened to what was now Roth’s house, Jill was surprised to see this slight young man answering. ‘Ey up’ thought Charley.

“Oh hello, you must be detective Carson and her trusty side kick. So wild west isn’t it. Do please come in. This way.” And he led them upstairs to the first floor lounge.

“This was Sir Robert’s favourite room. Sit anywhere, we have no favourites in this house. Now how can I help you.”

“Thank you for your time sir, and sorry for your loss and our intrusion at this difficult time, but we have had a correspondence from Sir Robert’s ex wife, questioning the cause of death. I wonder if you could talk us through exactly what happened.” Roth looked surprised then puzzled.

“OK, if you insist. Well, I made him supper, he wanted mince and tatties, he was regressing to childhood food I think, then at eight I put him to bed, gave him his medication, waited until he was asleep then went to my room, went on social for a couple of hours and went to sleep. In the morning I made tea and toast as usual, but when I took it in he was lying in bed dead.”

“Sorry, what medication?”

“Well he was ill. Didn’t you know? He had stage four cancer, everyone was surprised he lasted as long as he did.” Jill snapped her note book closed and after more apologies, they left. The interview with his GP didn’t go any better.

“But I put it all on his death certificate. He was treated by the senior surgeon at MRI and when discharged, Pradeep asked me to look after his terminal care. It’s all down there. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”

Jill was in a cold fury. “We have been played by that bloody woman, so caught up in ‘Oh I have to see the King in a minute’ that we missed the basics, they weren’t in the file and I didn’t notice. Thought a quick pat on the head would shut her up, didn’t do due diligence. Right, you ring this consultant for confirmation, cover all the bases now, I will get an autopsy, operation within the last year or something, and then we will rub her nose in it.”

Jill was putting the final touches to the report for her boss when Charley came in.

“Got the post mortem boss. You are going to love this.” He passed her a slim file. She read down to cause of death

“Heart failure due to arrhythmia.” Is that it?” she asked.

“Next page, see under conclusions.”

“No sign of any malignancy? Just what the fuck is going on?”

The Chief Constable was debriefing the small select team due to the sensitive nature of the information.

“Seems that chummy was a bit of a bottom feeder in his day until he was caught In flagrante delicto by a young boy’s mother. This led to his fall and subsequent disgrace, leading him to set up shop again in Manchester. This surgeon, Mr. Pradeep Estlick, is the real deal, top man in his country who was over here on an extended training exchange. It was not a coincidence that he chose Manchester as he was the boy in question’s uncle and knew where Arbuthnot was, so he grasped the moment and cut chummy’s equipment off, telling him he had cancer and it had spread. We have to assume it was the stress of the worry that did for him, nothing shows the young man keeping house was in any way to blame. Lady Mary still wanted to contest the will, balance of mind etc. until I mentioned that the surgeon had returned home to Hyderabad, when she went very pale and withdrew all claims. So good job everyone. Justice of a sort. Oh and Inspector Carson, you will be pleased to know that Lady Mary has resigned as Lord lieutenant, so chalk one up to you.”

“Justice of a sort sir? Maybe, but is it the law?”

“Now that sounds like a topic for a long boozy dinner at Sam’s Chop House, which I will stand you all. I am very pleased at the outcome of the little episode, very pleased indeed. There is more going on in Manchester than meets the eye and I want to establish a special unit, under my direct control, to investigate matters where all is not as it seems, and I would like you Jill to head it up.”