Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Vanishing Violets by Sarnia de la Mare for Tale Teller Club Publishing
Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Vanishing Violets I was three fingers into a neat whisky and one finger into a thoroughly bad mood when they approached me—two slabs of man, all brow ridge and bad life choices, like someone had built a pair of knuckle sandwiches and taught them how to walk. I'd been stood up again by the barmaid. Nice eyes, dodgy taste in women, said she'd meet me after her shift. She didn’t. I’d even worn my best lipstick. The taller of the two, who had the look of a boxer that lost all of his fights, cleared his throat for a speech. “You Ginny Greaves?” I looked up, slow, without turning. I could see them in the bar mirror, standard private eye technique. “Depends,” I said. “Am I being served or seduced?” “Neither,” said the other, who had a tattoo of a broken heart on his neck and all the charm of a wet sock. “We need your help. Our mum’s gone missing.” Now, I don’t normally take jobs from men who look like they keep their valuables in the boot of a stolen V...
