TIM DIAMOND INC.

PRIVATE DETECTIVE

That’s what it said on the glass.

They were the last words Jake McGuffin ever read. But when you’re being chased by two Dutch killers with a knife and a gun and your name on both of them, you don’t have time to start a paperback book.

It was a long, hot summer. Although I didn’t know it then, it was going to be longer and hotter for me than for anyone else. The day it all started, it was my turn to make lunch — but I’d just discovered there was no lunch left to make. I’d done my best. I’d got a tray ready with plates, knives, forks, napkins and even a flower I’d found growing on the bathroom wall. All that was missing was the food.

“Is that it?” Tim asked as I carried it in. He was sitting behind his desk, making paper boats out of pages from the phone book. “A carton of milk?”

“Half a carton,” I replied. “We had the other half for breakfast.” It was true. Half a carton of long-life milk was all that stood between us and starvation. “I’ll get some glasses,” I said.

“Don’t bother.” Tim reached for a cardboard box on the corner of his desk. He turned it upside down. A single straw fell out. “That’s the last straw,” he announced.

I’d been living with my big brother, Herbert Timothy Simple, ever since my parents decided to emigrate to Australia. Herbert called himself Tim Diamond. He also called himself a private detective. Neither was true. He wouldn’t have been able to find a fingerprint on the end of his own finger. Dead bodies made him feel queasy. When it came to pursuing an investigation, he was so hopeless that the investigation usually ended up pursuing him.

I gazed sadly at the milk. “You need a job, Tim,” I said.

“I’ve applied for jobs, Nick,” Tim protested. He slid open a drawer in his desk. It was bulging with letters. “Look! I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs.”

“How many rejections have you had?” I asked.