A Private Investigation

As the pale dawn light seeped between the tall buildings into the narrow lane, he struggled to his feet in the doorway in which he had spent the night, stretched to ease his aching muscles and set off at a slow shambling shuffle. Pausing at the corner where the lane joined Flinders Street, he rummaged in the pocket of his old Army greatcoat, produced a crumpled packet of tobacco and, leaning against the wall, rolled a cigarette with trembling fingers,

A wine bottle wrapped in a paper bag protruded from one pocket of the greatcoat, beneath which he wore a stained and faded check shirt and a pair of trousers which may once have been pale grey. They were too long for him, and the cuffs had frayed where they dragged on the ground. The brim of a filthy old cap was pulled well down over his eyes.

After a few drags on his cigarette, he set off into the city. Early morning workers who crossed his path assiduously looked the other way. Reaching Swanston Street, he waited at a tram stop, mumbling to himself. Trams were few and far between at that hour but eventually he slumped into a corner seat of one which would take him along St. Kilda Road.

Had the other passengers not avoided his gaze, they may have noticed, peering out from under the brim of his cap, a pair of alert, piercing blue eyes which moved constantly taking in and assessing his surroundings. He left the tram a few blocks after it crossed the river and shambled along until he came to the car park entrance of a large office building. He pulled a remote control from his pocket and looked around quickly before activating the door. Ducking inside while it was still rising, he waited in the shadows until it closed again. Straightening up to his full height, he strode across the almost empty car park and, ignoring the lift, set off up the stairs with a display of energy reminiscent of a dog just let off the leash.

Reaching the sixth floor, he emerged from the stairwell and let himself into his office. Quickly stripping off the clothes he had worn for the last eighteen hours, he shaved and took a long shower in the adjoining bathroom. Emerging in a crisp white shirt, flashy red tie and smart business suit, he carefully folded the clothing of the derelict, stuffed it into a large plastic bag and put it away carefully in a cupboard. He might need it again.

In the small kitchen, he made a pot of strong, black, coffee and took it to his office. Filling a large mug, he sat at the computer and called up the report on which he had been working. The surveillance of yesterday and last night had cleared up all the loose ends, and it only took about an hour to finish the job to his satisfaction. What had been particularly helpful were his observations of the nocturnal comings and goings through the loading dock a short way from the doorway in which he had spent an uncomfortable night. His client would be well satisfied. The paper on which he printed out the report was discreetly headed --

     MICHAEL O'CALLAGHAN
     Private Investigations.

He heard the outer door open as Sue, his secretary and general assistant arrived. 'Morning, Sue', he called, as he gathered up the papers from the printer.

Entering his office, she asked, 'How did it go last night?'

'Fine, fine! Got everything I needed and the report's finished. Here, can you do the the usual covering letter and get it over to John Williams by courier, please? I'm off to find a very large breakfast. Oh! and when you calculate the account, please add 25% to our usual fee to cover my pain and suffering last night. Just show it as surveillance expenses. I doubt I'll be able to sit comfortably for a week.