I toss drunks every Friday and Saturday night. The extra bucks are always useful and the infrequent scuffles keep my appetite for violence satisfied.

The MacDonald blood in my veins has a long history of warfare and when it boils hot, I find myself spoiling for a fight.

Before my mother had remarried and moved us from Glasgow to Utah, my maternal grandfather had taught me how to fight. Not boxing or any kind of martial art. Real everyday fighting. Down and dirty street fighting with fists, elbows and any other part of the body which could be used to inflict pain upon another human being.

Grandpa’s teachings served me well. My burring Scottish accent got me into plenty of schoolyard fights back in the day. For some reason the local jocks took exception to a cocksure fourteen-year-old landing in their midst and winning the attention of almost every cheerleader.

The fact I won enough battles to establish myself as handy didn’t help matters any. They just decided to come at me in a group. I put a few of them down before they put me in the emergency room. One by one I dealt with them, until all had received enough of a beating to keep them off my back.

‘Hey, Jake, you heard about Kira Niemeyer?’ The question comes from Alfonse Devereaux, whose family had migrated from France to Casperton to work the oilfields around the same time I arrived. Short and puny by nature, his bookish personality had attracted school bullies the way Capitol Hill attracts liars. His black skin hadn’t helped either.

I’d taken him under my protective wing and we’ve been the best of friends ever since.

‘No. Why, what’s she done?’ Kira Niemeyer is one of the local party girls who lives life to the full.

‘It’s what’s been done to her. Her body was found up by Kangle’s Bluff. I’ve just had a call from her father. He wants me to look into her death.’ The concern written on his face isn’t just there because he’s never investigated a murder before.

We’ve both known Kira the way single men know single girls.

‘Isn’t it a police matter?’ Alfonse’s detection skills are used to track errant husbands and embezzled money. I help him with the odd stakeout and provide some muscle as required, but the idea of trying to catch a killer is both exhilarating and unnerving.

Alfonse’s raised eyebrow is enough of an answer. The Casperton Police Department has the mayor’s son and a bunch of his crones as its detectives. Ineffectual and incompetent are two words that spring to mind when thinking about them. The chief of police is a new guy who’s transferred across from somewhere in Idaho, but the detectives on the ground have the investigative skills of a half brick.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I said I’d need to speak to my partner.’

Partner is stretching it, but I’m his go-to person for advice and my work for him has steadily increased over the last year or two.

‘We’ve no experience at investigating murders. We’ll be little better than the cops and that’s saying something.’

‘It’s homicide, not murder. Do I take the case or do we pass?’

He never fails to call me on my habit of still using British terms like murder. As with most ex-pats, not only have I retained my accent – it has grown stronger, as has my fondness for the old country.

If we take the case, we’ll not only be up against a killer, we’ll also have to follow in the footsteps of the most useless police force since the Keystone Kops. They’ll have forensic information and coroners giving them aid. We’ll have Google.

Tossing drunks out of a bar is one thing. Going after a killer is another.

On the other hand, the killer is almost certain to get away with murder if we don’t take the case.

‘Have you talked money yet?’

A nod. Three fingers were raised, meaning Niemeyer has offered treble our usual rate.

The money is good, but it needs to be. Catching killers is work for police detectives who carry guns, not investigators who carry an iPad.

‘Call him and take the job.’ I look at my watch. The Tree is due to close in an hour. ‘You go see Niemeyer, I’ll start asking questions round here.’

I scan the crowd with a practised eye to make sure no more trouble is brewing, then go over to talk to some people I knew hung with Kira.

3

Casperton’s police department is located on Main Street, just opposite the dime store. The red brick and clapboard building is half lit up but as expected there is a light on in the chief’s office.

I park in one of the spaces reserved for detectives, lock my ’93 Mustang and go inside.

An overweight sergeant behind the desk greets me with a scowl. My lack of popularity with the police is due to me tossing three detectives and a patrolman from the Tree last week. The fact they’d deserved it seems to have bypassed the rest of the department.

‘I’m here to see the chief.’

The sergeant doesn’t bother to take his feet off the desk. ‘He’s busy.’

‘Then I’ll be quick.’ Not waiting for an answer I stride along the corridor and knock on the chief’s door.

When he opens the door, I see a man carrying more than his own bodyweight of stress and tension. His eyes are full of intelligence, but the furrows beneath his iron-grey hair tell of his mood.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I’m Jake Boulder and I want to talk to you about Kira Niemeyer’s murder.’

His eyes may narrow but his hand comes out when he introduces himself. ‘Chief Watson.’

I take the chair he points to and wait for him to take his own seat. As I look round the room I’m pleased at the lack of a trophy wall. Chief Watson isn’t trying to impress anyone with his history. Instead he’s more concerned with his job. I’ll bet good money the frame on his desk holds a picture of his wife and kids.

With steepled fingers he appraises me. ‘I take it you’re not here to make a confession’

‘You know who I am, right?’

‘Yeah. You’re the guy who made a fool of some of my men.’

‘They didn’t need me to make a fool of them. I just stopped them before someone got hurt.’

His eyes narrow as he assesses me. I sense his conflict between showing loyalty to his men and the fact he knows they don’t merit any.

I hold up a hand. ‘Cards on the table?’

He gives a short nod. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of me and I’m sure that in the four weeks since you arrived in Casperton, you’ve realised your detectives are a shower of useless idiots who only have a job because Lieutenant Farrage is the mayor’s son.’

His face gives nothing away. But the way he settles back into his chair tells me I’m on the money.

‘Nobody in Casperton has any faith in the police detectives. That’s why Alfonse has such a good business.’

‘I’m aware of AD Investigations.’ His tone is soft but there’s steel in his voice.

‘Kira Niemeyer’s father has hired us to look into her death.’

Once again his face reveals nothing. I’ll have to remember not to play cards with this guy.

‘And? You’re here to get my blessing?’

‘No. Your help.’

A wry smile touches his lips. ‘How am I supposed to help you and why would I?’

‘The police have all the resources and information. Unfortunately, you’re probably the only man in the Casperton PD who knows how to use them. If you’re taking the case on yourself, we’ll call Niemeyer and take a step back. If you’re not, we’re your best chance of putting handcuffs on the killer.’ I make a humble gesture. ‘All I’m asking is you share forensic evidence and any other interesting news with us. In return we’ll share anything we find. If we solve the case first, we’ll call you to come and make the arrest.’

I let Chief Watson mull for as long as he needs. I’ve made my pitch and now the ball is in his court.