The phone rang. Loud. But then again the detective was like that I suppose, his massive, all-inclusive ego, partnered with his equally large, bushy, be-drenched beard. Both matters shared the same disorganised structure and their fondness to grow out at strange, unexplained angles.

Far from your typical detective, Christopher was an aging, old-fashioned gentleman and did not share his colleagues taste for tailored suits, fancy watches, brushed cufflinks and above all their sickening arrogance and self-confidence.  Although weirdly, he somehow tolerated a top hat.  The man was quite a sight with his hastily (and rather badly) ironed shirt and cheap trousers, twirling his walking stick in the air by its perfectly carved handle, adjusting his ridiculous choice of headwear as he went. The man was a spectacle to say the least. 

I, Rachel Rodriguez, walked beside him, wearing an expensive suit accentuated with polished cufflinks, much to Norton's rather obvious and clear distaste.  The leather briefcase in my right hand swung in time with Norton's walking stick, it's contents as you might expect a little peculiar: a simple document, a fountain pen, coupled with a small bottle of ink; and a beer bottle. As I've said, Christopher was an acquired taste.  Fighting with the future, he was adamant that his cases should all be printed on old-fashioned paper and not displayed on a screen.   However Christopher knew he would get whatever was necessary, after all he was probably the best detective in the city.  Definitely the most unique I had ever met. 

For once we didn't stop for a drink as our little party normally would have, dragging me into a quiet bar in a deserted alley, greeting his favourite bartender as if she was his long lost daughter, a beaming smile on his wrinkled face.  Not today, after all Norton had a case to crack.  And it was raining. So I suppose there were some things we all had in common.

A few minutes later we arrived in the office, Norton apparently viewing the wellbeing of his sodden top hat far more important than the pressing business at hand. Complete with our synchronised performance, I fetched a towel to dry the briefcase with.  He hung his stick over a brass hook and proceeded to dry himself off. 

By now I had set our baggage on the table and was quietly waiting.  Anticipating the moment when it opened with a satisfying click, revealing the intriguing paper in it's leathery walls. He walked over to the table, he may have been old but he certainly wasn't frail.  I knew he was suppressing the desire to bound at the case and prize it open but secretly I knew that both of us savoured this moment and we wanted it to last as long as possible.  If only we knew what was to await us, the old man and his deputy. If only we knew what we would soon get ourselves into.  We may have never opened the case in the first place, accepted this endeavour. God knows it would have been far easier that way.