Detective Ivan Walker was dead on his feet and no amount of coffee could help, even the strong, death-black stuff that he usually drank. He switched off the espresso machine and took his cup over to the only table in the station canteen that was being used. Roman Dalton PI sat with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look much better than Walker. He looked up as his friend sat.
“You look like death cooled down,” said Dalton.
Walker grunted.
“So, how did it go,” rasped Walker. “How was your meeting with the legendary Sherlock Holmes and his… companion?”
“Well, for a start, he was looking pretty damned sprightly for a man who was supposed to have died over a quarter of a century ago. Dr Watson, too. They both looked a lot better than you do, anyway. Hot time in The City?” said Dalton.
