Slouched in the driver’s seat of his nondescript ’92 Swift, Harry kept an eye on the suspects, a smirk of disbelief flickering across his sallow face. Gingerly, he pressed the heel of his palm to his distended belly. That Chicko Roll for breakfast was playing merry hell with his internals. He wound the rear windows down an inch to relieve the stench, reaching into the glove-box for another antacid.
There was a doubt niggling him that was hard to shift, an aside from the client to his legman, Davey. Now, Davey was not the sharpest tool in the shed, and subtlety was foreign to him, so he often blew things out of all proportion. Harry harboured a suspicion that they were being set up. He cast his mind back to that initial interview, trying to free-associate with this likely looking bunch.
That was it. Why hadn’t he twigged before this!