How is it that Snoopy starts all his books? It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, that's it. It was a dark and stormy night. I guess that's as good a way as any of starting it, because that's a perfect description of the weather outside right now, the wind roaring and wheezing like some malevolent monster wanting to force its way in and tear me apart, the rain smashing and splattering against the windows, occasional flashes of lightning shooting jaggedly across the infinite blackness of the midnight sky.

There's another way that'd be just as good, just as pertinent: once upon a time. That's how they start all the fairy tales, isn't it, the phrase providing a clear and present signal that what you're about to read is a figment of someone else's imagination, that no matter how scary the story you're starting from the premise that it's not true, that it can't be real. Maybe that would put you at ease, if you knew for a fact that it never happened, that I imagined it or made it up. OK, that's how I'll start it then. Once upon a time it was a dark and stormy night.

So who am I? My name's Jamie Beaverbrook, and I'll be forty-six years old next month.

Maybe. The desk I'm sitting at is considerably older than I am and it's in better condition. It's one of those big, military looking things with brass handles and legs as thick as a ship's mast. The desk is in front of a large picture window that overlooks the ocean. The chair is what they call a captain's chair, a thick, padded leather seat with a curved back that comes up to about my kidneys.

It's on wheels so I can scoot it from side to side. When I decided to use the room as a study I put the desk facing away from the window, towards the door, so that when I was working I wouldn't be distracted by the view. It's a hell of a view, a view you could die for the real estate agent told me, and she was right, but with both fingers of the clock pointing directly up there isn't much to see just now.