Ivan's Fingers

A bloodthirsty tale of greed and corruption and the fickle finger of fate.


Ivan's Fingers


 


The back cover blurb . . .

On a drunken whim, Wallace Peech, a neurotic, ex-bank clerk, sets himself up as a private eye. It's just one of many fatally flawed moves in his life. When he realises that his first client, the volatile Rita, is married to Ivan Cherkassky, a Russian gangster, things can only get worse. And they do.

Doctor Kamalika, Wallace's therapist, administers Copesan, an experimental drug, as part of a covert government scheme to rehabilitate mental patients in the community. The drug is supplied by Ivan. When Wallace discovers that both MI5 and MI6 are fighting for control of the case, it's too late to avoid catastrophe. Even the love of Lydia Crayfish, Doctor Kamalika's naïve assistant, cannot prevent Wallace's bungling ineptitude from causing a political storm that reverberates from London to Moscow.

 go to reviews:

And it begins like this . . .

These days, nobody in their right mind would admit to being a banker. But these days, Wallace Peech was seldom in his right mind. He knew he should never have lied to Rita. He knew he should never have told her he was a private investigator, but then he was drunk. Well, who wouldn't be after being given the boot without a bonus? He met Rita Cherkassky by chance. On the day she approached him, he'd just been given the big heave-ho. Fifty-one and thrown on the dung heap. A bachelor with no qualifications, no ambition and a CV that dazzled with white space and mediocrity. Wallace was certainly no hedge fund manager. Until recently, he used to be a nine-to-five counter clerk with a final disciplinary warning for sexual harassment on his personal file. A totally put up job as far as he was concerned, but he couldn't be arsed to fight his corner. His immediate supervisor and the HR manager were both women, so what was the point? Over the years, he'd learnt to take things philosophically. You could only play the hand you've got, was his philosophy. Had he known what a bundle of trouble Rita would be, he would've kept his mouth shut in favour of total inebriation. But he didn't. So here he was, a self-proclaimed, self-employed private dick, still in his nappies, sitting in a brand new, swanky office.

. . . . /

 

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