I’m smoking an agreeably mild cigar. The sun is dipping over the dark blue ocean, but the air is still warm. The sound of a tropical stringed instrument, a man singing along to it, echoes down a narrow street nearby. Before me on the table is a long iced glass of Injaba Slammer, the local cocktail. Beyond that, sitting opposite me, is a blonde.
There are times when being a detective sergeant in the Metropolitan Police is not such a terrible job. Those years of watching bad people doing bad things, of listening to lie after guilty lie in interview rooms, of the sheer bloody grinding boredom of solving crime: it turns out that they earn you a spot of credit at the end of the day.
Something like Operation Bird of Paradise – sun, sea, surveillance – comes along and, stone me, you get the nod….
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