Acorn Books

Sitcom is not easy – some would say that it’s the hardest kind of comedy writing – but it is extremely rewarding. Your name on the credits is a huge validation of the months of hard work you have put into a project.

Sitcom is much loved by the general public and it is endlessly repeatable, which means that the writer will always have their work being broadcast somewhere in the world, and be getting paid for it.

There is nothing like hearing your words performed by professional actors or seeing the scene you wrote on a wet Wednesday acted out on camera for the first time.

mation via New Scotland Yard that Finbar had no known links with terrorists. But the temporary legal powers that had been in force for a generation entitled the police to hold someone on the flimsiest of grounds for forty-eight hours, sometimes more. All Harry could offer in return for Sladdin releasing Finbar was the usual blather about his client being willing to surrender his passport and report to a police station whenever he blew his nose.

The detective considered Harry sombrely. In the end he said, ‘Yes, Mr Devlin, at least for the time being.’

‘So I’m free to go?’ asked Finbar, jumping to his feet in his eagerness to be away.

A poor choice of words for a client with a clear conscience. Harry barely stifled a groan, although Sladdin remained impassive.

‘Free, Mr Rogan? Why, of course. You’ve had a traumatic afternoon. I’m only sorry it has been necessary to keep you for so long. You will understand how anxious we are to identify the culprit as soon as possible – this is hardly a typical case of Liverpudlian car vandalism. And then there is the continuing need to preserv

mpanion. ‘Start with a big company, then sit back and wait.’

The man by his side chuckled, a reaction as unexpected as a snigger from a corpse. Stanley Rowe was a cadaverous individual whose pallor and mournful expression had earned him an appropriate sobriquet. But life hadn’t been too hard on Death Rowe; he had sold his estate agency to an insurance company with more money than sense at the height of the property boom in the late eighties and had bought it back for half the price after the bottom fell out of the market a couple of years later.

ng place. Finally he surrendered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Rogan,’ the girl said and put Finbar through before Harry could tell her to take a message.

‘Harry, at last! This is the third time I’ve called since midday. The lovely Suzanne said you’d gone to some lecture, but this is no time for swotting. Your clients need help.’

‘What can I do for you?’ asked Harry, not finding it difficult to restrain his enthusiasm.

‘Listen, that bloody Sladdin, you know what he’s done? He’s got a couple of fellers in a car down the road keeping an eye on me. When I went out to the newsagent to see what the Daily Post had to say about the bomb, they followed me down the road. Trying to be discreet, like, but I could tell what they were up to.’

After his humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray, Harry didn’t feel inclined to offer his shoulder for crying on. ‘What do you expect? You’re a Dubliner, there was a bomb under your car, you gave Sladdin the impression you were telling less than the whole truth…’

‘I’m a bloody victim! The bomb was meant for me!’

‘Look, you’re not dealing with a fool. Sladdin would be negligent if he didn’t set up some form of surveillance.’

At the other end of the line Finbar sighed. ‘Fat lot of comfort you are. How long is this likely to go on?’

‘Till Sladdin finds out who has it in for you. You could speed things up by coming clean.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Come on, Finbar, let’s not play games. People don’t have their premises burned down and their cars bombed simply for dropping litter in the street. Until you take me into your confidence, there isn’t much I can do to save your skin from Dermot McCray.’

Conveyancing?’ Lucy’s expression of bewilderment made him feel like Dracula asking her to pass the garlic. ‘Wouldn’t you like Sylvia to handle it?’

‘No need,’ he said with dignity. ‘I’m beginning to think I have hidden talents as a property lawyer.’

Lucy turned on her way out. ‘I’d feel safer having the Boston Strangler give me a neck massage!’

After she had shut the door, Harry studied Geoffrey Willatt’s letter. The problem which the Ambroses had raised seemed a simple one: the rear garden of the Graham-Browns’ house appeared to dog-leg around a couple of old horse chestnut trees. The plans with the deeds – which Harry had copied and attached to the contract – indicated that the trees fell inside the boundaries of the property. Actual observation, however, suggested the contrary and there was no fence, hedge or other dividing line at that spot to put the matter beyond doubt. It was the kind of discrepancy which would prove a fertile source of future dispute if not sorted out now.

Harry’s first instinct was to yawn, but after a moment he brightened. There was only one way to wrap the matter up with the speed which both buyers and sellers demanded.

He would have to pay Rosemary a visit.

It would need to be a surprise visit, too, given that he did not have her ex-directory number and that if the transaction was to proceed as promptly as required, he couldn’t afford to write her a letter or wait for her to telephone him. He took one look at the pile of correspondence plaintively hoping for attention and decided there was no time like the present – for calling on Rosemary Graham-Brown, that was, rather than getting stuck in to the tedium of deskwork. He buzzed Lucy and announced his intentions.

Whatever you choose,

We’ll help you get it,

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With Merseycredit.

The right of Frankie Taylor to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but, when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all.

—Aristotle: Politics