Cinch Hand (3/6) By Nick Quantrill

(1/6), (2/6), (3/6), (4/6), (5/6), (6/6).

That was all a few months ago. Since then, I've tailed Mrs. Brogan, but found little evidence of her affair. During this period I learnt how the glitterazzi of Hull lives. I sat in my car outside swanky restaurants, I walked around chic boutiques and I looked on enviously as she pampered herself in health clubs. Naturally, this all added extra costs to the bill as none of these places are found in Hull, but rather in Leeds. With Hull being out on a geographical limb, it's kind of the black sheep of the Yorkshire family. Not a lot tends to go on, so those that can afford to, tend to get their kicks elsewhere in more glamorous parts of the region.

In the end I was forced to concede that she was either extremely careful, or maybe Brogan was just paranoid and she wasn't misbehaving after all. Either way, Brogan wasn't happy with my efforts and refused to pay the other 50%, citing financial difficulties. My understanding was that if I'd uncovered some evidence of wrongdoing, he'd file for divorce and his money problems would presumably be over.

So, I was sat at my desk one morning brooding and contemplating starting legal proceedings to recover the money he owes me when the invite arrives. Brogan had invited me to a game of poker at one of his café-bars with a few friends of his. He knew that I enjoyed a game and he claimed that it was a peace offering. After all, we've known each other for many years, and we shouldn't fall out over something as trivial as money. More importantly to me, he also promised to pay me the money he owed. I have to admit that the chance to pick up the cash was tempting, as was the opportunity to win a few hands of poker, as I'd always been a decent player.

I walked into his bar at the appointed time. As usual it was extremely busy. I don't really understand why, or see the appeal.

It seems that all you need to do nowadays in this city to gain a clientele is stick on a generic CD of breakbeats - I know it's called breakbeats because my son told me - expose some of the original brickwork on the walls, stick up a few arty photographs, add a premium to the prices, and bingo - you've cracked it - you've created your own little piece of café-culture; no thought or care required. Then you wait for the people who want to feel that they're a cut above the regular boozers to flood in and create their own little scene, leaving you free to count the cash.

I make my way towards the bar. When I get close enough to see it, I scan the pumps and the fridge for a name I recognize. I don't really recognise any, so I settle for a small Southern Comfort. I move away from the bar and find some space to stand in the far corner of the room. I pretend to be admiring the photography, so that I don't stand out from the crowd, which is always an essential PI skill.

Then I spot her; Mrs. Brogan. She's in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, which makes her a good ten years younger than Brogan and I, and she looks stunning. Not only is she stunning to look at, she carries herself in that super confident way that the beautiful have. I make my way over to her. I tap her on the shoulder. 'What a pleasant surprise,' I say over the music. She looks at me like I'm something she's just scraped off her shoe. 'Likewise, I'm sure.' She takes a sip from her glass of wine. I laugh. 'There's no need to be like that, surely. Can't we let bygones be bygones?' 'I doubt it, don't you?'

'I was only doing my job.' I shrug and I know that I sound like some pathetic jobs-worth. She scrutinizes my face, probably trying to decide whether I'm telling the truth or not. 'So, what brings you here?' she asks.

Continued... Next Page (4/6)

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