Sublime

Gary is ten years older than me and perfect for his job. A big chunk of Missing Persons is getting people who stay far from cops to talk to you – street hookers to tell you about the new girl who matches that teenager on the news, homeless addicts to drop by and mention the guy who tried to sleep on their patch last night and looked a lot like that

friend’s uncle had just been elected

Thus, with each passing day, each slipping hour, he grows in confidence. Sure of his concealment, it’s just a waiting game. He’s basically won already.

(Here being a veritable law of bureaucratic administration, it turned out: The more compassionate and effective the high-level official, the more unpleasant and Cerberusian the secretary who barred one’s access to him.)

Fortunately the shows were well received, but even in the theatre ineptitude ruled. During one performance, a loud bell started ringing at regular junctures, which distracted the audience badly. At the interval, Humphrey, who had taken over as stage manager, since we could find no one else in New Zealand who was up to the task, raced round to the f

Very hush-hush, I said. How wonderful to be able to use that expression in all seriousness.

Lancelot frowns. ‘We’re not going to the Department?’ ‘Ah, no,’ says Marlowe. He clears his throat. ‘As I said, there have been one or two changes.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Well, the whole sector’s been privatised. Musty old intelligence agencies broken up and sold to US private equity firms. That sort of thing. The services previously provided by the Departme