One rainy night, The Grim Reaper brought the Dead Detective, Hank Kane, to Glasgow. Chilled to the bone, Hank pulled his coat collar further up around his neck. He felt the flesh literally falling from his bones. He kept forgetting that he was dead. Catching his reflection in moonlit windows soon reminded him. A ghost can be frightening at the best of times. But, when the ghost is you....

Hank turned to his companion, The Grim Reaper.
"You know," said Hank contemptuously, "I always thought I'd be in awe of you."

"And you're not?" asked The Grim Reaper, a little disappointed. "Wait until you see your new office, pal. You might be a tad more impressed."

Pretty soon they reached a doorway. "Here we are," said a cheerful Grim Reaper (who insisted on being called 'TG'…because it was cooler). "Here, hold this a minute, buddy, will ya?" he said, as he put his scythe into a reluctant Hank's bony hand. TG then produced a key from underneath his heavy cloak and turned it in the lock. He and Hank stepped inside. Hank was indeed impressed, taken aback even.

"Hey, Grim, this looks familiar," noted Hank, his mood improving slightly. He removed his hat and tossed it expertly onto the nearby hat-stand. "Looks just like my office back home."

"Yip, that was part of the deal," agreed The Grim Reaper. "I had to recreate your office just as you remembered it in 1953 Los Angeles. After all, it's hard enough for skeletons to feel at home …..except inside a coffin!" TG laughed at his own joke and waited for Hank to join in. When Hank didn't, the smile on TG's face died and his expression changed to one of exasperation.

"D'ya have any idea, Hank, the amount of trouble I had to go to to find some of this junk.... err, I mean 'stuff'? Most of it I got from a strange market people here call, "Ra Barras". You'd be amazed at that place, man. Anyway, check this out,'' said TG as he reached under his cloak and pulled out a Walkman and some CDs.

Hank looked quizzically at the alien-looking goods that TG had thrust into his hands. "What is all this stuff?" he asked, impatiently.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot - you were dead while all this stuff was being invented. I'll explain another time. I got it all for 10 pounds! Not bad, huh? The guy wanted 15 pounds. Didn't know who he was dealing with, obviously. Told him to take a good look at my face, then offered him the tenner again! The Court Of Ghouls gave me a very limited budget to kit this dump out. Spent it all very wisely; saved them a fortune."

Hank looked at TG, like he'd looked at a thousand conmen. "My guess is that the fortune you saved has still to find its way back to the Court. You got receipts for all this stuff?"

The Grim Reaper walked over to Hank and put his arm around his shoulder. "Hank,'' he said, ''I know you're a good detective. I've even 'collected' the souls of the poor saps you sent to the chair and I think they were more in awe of you than of me! But here's the thing, my over-smart friend. Now the law's on my side. The point is that if I don't like you, buddy, I can lose you in a dark hole - and you could be lost for a long, long time."

For the first time in his life, Hank felt completely powerless. He felt the same way low-lifes felt

when they realised their fate was in his hands. Only this time, Hank Kane's hands held nobody's fate, not even his own. He felt empty and was silent, trying to hide his helplessness from TG. But, as Hank would discover, nothing could be hidden from The Grim Reaper.

"Don't worry Hank. It's in my interest to help you. It reflects well on me. Besides, I like my wee 'business trips' and the 'expenses opportunities' they present. You guessed right, not all the money I save goes back to the court. C'mon, what are they gonna do with it?"

Hank didn't scare easily. After all, he was already dead. How much worse could it get? Still, he made a mental note that TG's finances were none of his business. "We got a deal, Grim. So, I guess if I need something for my office, all I need to do is ask you, huh?"

TG looked at Hank, admiring his nerve. "You wouldn't be foolish enough to blackmail me, the Grimmest of all Reapers, would you, Hank?'' he said, unable to hide a slight smile.

"No. I've put away more blackmailers than I care to remember. Let's just say, if I ever ask you for something, its only 'cos it will help me solve a case. And that helps you, right?"

The Grim Reaper looked at Hank, wondering how it was that he suddenly found himself compromised by this crooked cop. He realised that he was now working with someone who was pretty smart. The slight smile grew into a full blown one.

"We got a deal, Hank." TG extended his hand and Hank shook it.

Hank looked around the room. The office looked like something from a Humphrey Bogart movie; old-fashioned black telephone, humming fan slowly spinning on the ceiling, blinds on the window, oblong spotlight on the desk. In fact, the only unfamiliar thing was the constant pitter-patter sound on the windows outside. Rain was not something Hank had had a lot of experience of in 1950s Los Angeles. His famous instincts told him he'd be a lot more used to it by the end of this case.

Hank ventured, "I'll need wheels."

TG grimaced a little but then relaxed. "I'm owed a few favours, I suppose."

"And some gas."

"Petrol, Hank. Petrol's what they call it here. And my guess is that your 'wheels' will need more than petrol." TG paused to think. "What's the expiry date on your credit card, Hank?"

"My what?"

"Never mind. Looks like I'll be financing your detective work. Hope you don't become a financial drain on my resources, Hank."

Hank realised that he needed TG to be his banker as much as his friend.

"Any advice for a newly dead detective?"

"Yeah," replied TG, "keep all receipts."