Harvey Garrard's Crime

Harvey Garrard, as his limousine crawled over London Bridge and
turned into the dingy streets beyond, leaned forward in his seat
looking out of the window with the half-weary anticipation of one
who revisits familiar but distasteful scenes. There was a faint
air of disgust in his expression as the well-known odours of the
neighbourhood assailed his nostrils. Forty-eight hours ago he had
been living in a paradise of mimosa and roses warmed by Riviera
sunshine, his senses reacting pleasurably to the...