Claire was doing the laundry when the email came. She heard the beep from her computer, but paused to hang her knickers on the line before moving to answer it. (There you go. You do get to see her knickers. She's not in them at the time, but you can't have everything. Imagine the colour and style for yourself). She read the address and smiled. It was from her London contact in Interpol. Gerald. Damn.

'Dear Claire,' wrote Gerald. 'I do so very much hope that this gets through to you, though I'm not at all sure that it will make it. You've probably read about it in the newspaper, but things are really quite bad here now. There is no transport in the city at all. A fire broke out in the underground just the other week and burnt it all. Arson is suspect, but CID seem to have no leads. I believe that the problem you are working on may be relevant. I seem to sense a pattern in the events surrounding you that lead back through a network of fashion designers, the rock industry, the advertising industry, who knows what else? Perhaps even the pizza delivery industry is involved. Sometimes it seems that every element of my life is under constant surveillance. All parts of society are somehow involved, I suspect. Behind it all is a governing presence who is controlling both our lives in some way. I'm finding it very difficult to work out exactly who or what this is. Have you heard the name Peter-Bowman? I believe he may be involved. I keep getting cryptic messages in my dreams about this man. Just last night I dreamt that I was a turnip involved in a choir forced nightly to strain my vocal chords in a song the sole purpose of which was to glorify him and make him money. Some noble lizards attempted to free us but they were also caught in his trap. I do not know what he wants. I think he may be mad. Be very careful if you come into contact with him, as I fear he may be dangerous in some way. Not violent, I do not think he is violent. He is almost certainly a subversive element. I find that I am hampered in my investigations. I can not seem to write the needed reports to pass on to the people in CID. The words just aren't in me whenever I try to write one. I think this must be related, but I just do not know how. How can somebody take control of which words I can use or not? If I were you, I think I would try looking beyond the words. All my love, Gerald'.

Claire was about to reply, when her computer let out a buzzing zap and lost all its smoke at once. The screen went blank. She was beginning to suspect that there would be little point in trying to have it repaired. She was correct in this suspicion.

Considering the contents of Gerald's email, already memorised in her heart, Claire saw that it provided confirmation of the information she had already gathered. Everything pointed to an omniscient, omnipotent figure who could alter the events of their lives as he chose. She glanced around her apartment, wondering where the microphones and video cameras where hidden. Probably not worth searching. She didn't think she'd find anything. Whoever it was was clearly fiendishly clever. But then, Claire was pretty clever herself. She wouldn't have been so successful as a private detective if she was stupid.

Everything in her was telling her that it was time to follow up the clue she had finally forced out of Anton the Alligator. She checked the address of the pub. It was quite close really. Seemed to be within walking distance. Claire walked around her flat gathering together her private detection equipment into the little black bag that she felt could also server to disguise her as a doctor so that ever become necessary. People told things to doctors that they would never tell to ordinary people.

Claire suddenly got a very strong urge to almost run to the pub as quickly as possibly and find out the next piece of information. She opened her door. Then she paused. Surely going to the pub was the right thing to do? Everything lead her to the belief that she would finally be able to uncover the identity of the shadowy figure who had lately taken what appeared to be complete control of her life. But that was the problem wasn't it? She was only going to the pub to find out the identity of the shadowy figure because the shadowy figure was making her go there. Claire jumped. That hadn't even been one of her own thoughts, she was sure of that. It had left an odd, metallic taste in her mouth, while her own thoughts always tasted of noughat. Somebody was seriously trying to get her to go to the pub.

Her guitar was in the corner. The investigation into the French words that was rapidly becoming far more wide spreading had taken up so much of her time lately that Claire hadn't touched it in days. As a small rebellion she grabbed it and began to play her song. The words just wouldn't come, they still would not come. 'Alright,' said Claire for the benefit of any hidden microphones. 'I'll go to the bloody pub if that's what it's going to take to get this song written.'