Ollie came to meet me one afternoon in the front office of the newspaper, a tiny foyer with industrial carpeting and plexiglass windows. We could see the advertising department trying to keep the paper afloat with endless telephone calls, nose-pickings and screen-watching.
A girl walked out of the heavy, metal door carrying a plastic shopping bag. She tootle-ooed her friends saying "do you want any sarnies after I drop this off at the bank?"
Ollie lifted his wrist and stared at his watch. He said to me, deadpan: "Does she do this every Monday at this time?"
I may have been an ingenue but I'd watched enough cop shows to know what clicked in his brain. "Don't you even think about it," I told him. "I know exactly where you live."
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