Inquiry Agent Vandyr Roarke investigates the death of a friend.
by Brad Foster, 2020 ©
Vandyr Roarke is my name, so far as anyone’s concerned. A long time ago, I loved a lady who taught me to use my mind and not my fists. She was one of only two people who ever believed in me, and now she’s gone. Can’t say I blame her for not waiting. Indeterminate sentences sure can play hell on a marriage. Got sick of being stuck in a cold, dark hole at Sytel Correctional Services so I left for home. Turns out that I only traded in for another cold, dark hole.
That other person who believed in me? He’s currently splayed across the slumped concrete staircase outside his home. I shove through the constables surrounding his place and look down on my friend’s corpulent face, now frozen in death. Albie knew me when I was my old, bad self. Now he won’t ever know a damned thing again.
“Oy, back off!” a constable gets in my face. I don’t have much use for them — never a Bobbie around when my old man used his fists most nights.
“And you can rightly piss off, bell end.” I glare at him, producing my card. It looks fancy and has my name and Inquiry Agent after it in a professional script. The nice thing about politicians not getting off their arses is that I don’t actually need a license.
