Home.

We have finally returned.

Winchester is still recovering, but he'll be okay. The case is closed. I'll wait for the inevitable news storm that will be created from this, before I do my own coverage.

Returning to the offices was a damn nightmare. Sibylle had let that good for nothing stray cat in each night. It now resides in the surrounding filing cabinets - and when it isn't in one of those, it's lolling across my desk.

Winchester and Sibylle insisted I let it live, so for now I will refer to him as 'Roger Moore' and have done with it.

If you see this cat, feel free to run it over.

Or don't. That's fine too.

See you on the front page.

-S.R.

Hospital Standby.

I'm blogging from the corridor of an Alaskan hospital.

It's bad, sure, but I'll be damned if a big deal is made out of this, especially considering how far Winchester and I have come in this case. It was closed, and then it reopened, which is unusual as it is. This case has got way past the police - way past - and aside from those days spent in the log cabin, it's been exciting and my type of adventure.

Unfortunately, Winchester is the person I'm waiting for. He's been shot. I got him here fast, not long after the bullet penetrated his shoulder, but he's still in surgery. It's a good thing I don't worry. Ever.

We followed the targets, after they finally crossed paths with the cabin, but they must have known we were there all along. Ambushes are one of my least favourite things. They require effort, and above all, catch me off guard. Winchester would sarcastically insist that this is the point, but surprises are never easy for a P.I. to handle. We are a strange breed, trained and seasoned to work with our minds - figuring out possibilities and clues well in advance - and Winchester is (semi) living proof that surprises are not our strong point.

The snow up there was too thick for us to walk through by foot, and so skis were the only option. I felt like an idiot, but Winchester seemed to be enjoying himself; constantly peering into the black sky in the hopes of catching sight of the Northern Lights, or commenting on the surrounding trees, and the way the snowy bristles on them were illuminated by the moon. It was trivial, and relatively annoying, and most likely the reason why they came back to challenge us.

We turned on our heels after hearing the click of magazines being loaded, and made our way down the hill - weaving in and out of the surrounding trees. There were gunshots, plenty of them, and towards the base, towards the light of a nearby village, we thought we were on the home straight.

The final crack of gunfire sent Winchester tumbling forwards. He crashed into the snow, the fine flakes exploding around him, and I halted, whirling to find him on his back, clutching at his shoulder. Impatient, I warned him to get the fuck up, but it was too serious, and the approaching assailants were nearly on top of us.

I managed to drag him to safety. He was stumbling along, and his best was just about good enough as we took shelter by a snowy ridge. The gang went past, and we lost them in the night.

Winchester had to be lifted by helicopter, as the nearest hospital would be impossible to get to by foot, and so here I am.

The most frustrating thing is that we are still no closer to solving this. We know who we need, but the case of getting to him is impossible. Of course, now that he has the protection of an arms dealing gang, he'll be a lot harder to touch.

We live in hope.

- S.R.

Alaska Despatch

Northern lights. If you haven't seen them, well, I reckon I feel sorry for you. Such a sight makes me forget why we are here. Rogers finds my romantic take on our situation tiresome. Someday she will crack. For someone so passionate about what she does, she has a real lack of empathy for beauty and whimsy. For me there is an underlying melancholy to everything. I see it in the sudden shock of cold under a crystal clear night sky. The clean sharp ice of the air feels fresh and inhospitable all at once and that is the mixture of pleasure and sadness I need. It keeps me from becoming a machine from the work we do and even allows me tinge of pity when I look into the eyes of a vicious criminal. Right there under the events that brought that person to a point where Rogers and I bring their world of wrong crashing about their feet, right there is someone who began as someone's child. A small being with hopes, excitement, needs and wonderment. Even the biggest criminals needed their mother once upon a time.

I often think I should take on the case of Scarlett Rogers. Someone once held her close when she trembled with fear at the unknown. Someone sat her on their knee and told her tales to make her gasp and wonder. And yet, huddled on the floor is the sleuthing equivalent of a cold blooded ocean deep killer. I don't care, but it would be interesting to see the past that made the person. I do care, of course, when it means she snarls at me as I look up at the aurora borealis cloaking this northern  icy sky. Fair enough, it kind of wasted many days of staking out in a basic log hovel - but what a sight.

So, having followed many a tenuous lead to trace the diary of a well paying client, we have been clattering about this backward region of Alaska trying to find the man who had a vested interest in the contents of the diary. I had hoped this case would not be a simple chase of a jealous boyfriend, frantic to read all the gorey details of his lover's betrayal - I had not, however, imagined we would be quite so out of our depth and chasing down someone who would at best be considered a person to avoid. Frankly I fear for anyone who is connected to us. If 'he' discovers we are on his trail he is likely to stop at nothing to erase us from his path. Rogers, of course, feels no such fear and considers her indifference to his collosal reputation as her weapon. As though he could be taken down with one dismissive flick of her fringe. Deep down I don't doubt it. One snub from Rogers could dissarm a small army.

We drove deep into this wilderness for the second time after a false alarm which resulted in us returning to Anchorage with tails between legs (but which led to a highly interesting night for me as I became somewhat intertwined with the fate of a seductive woman I met in the general store, until her lumberjack came crashing into our night of boozy bliss. Luckily I had consumed enough whisky and wine so as to be anaesthetised to his fisty insults). Back on the trail we have been keeping a low profile so as to make our presence unknown to enemies and bears, unable even to light a small fire. We were to watch for our mark as he made his way to his unknown hideaway. All we knew was that he had to pass this point. We missed him because I was too consumed with trying to convince Rogers that the sky was beautiful. I hate these big international cases. I'm too broken and rusty for this shit. Why can't we get back to our simple roots. I hear from our secretary that an important case involving a stolen secret family recipe awaits us. Perfect.

For now we need help. Without Rogers agreement I am going to call my man at the company and get some 21st century surveillance on this goon.

On the Case - Scarlett Rogers

I say 'on the case', but actually, we're waiting in a rather swanky hotel at the climax, a stark contrast to that wooden shit hole we found ourselves in early this morning. Winchester ran out of alcohol and - you guessed it - talked my ear off about some fucking political conspiracy I don't care about, for the full duration. We've been put up here while we wait to give a statement to the police. I'd rather just go home, but Winchester insisted upon it. Apparently it would be 'beneficial' and 'helpful' to them if we went along with this. In my opinion it's 'fucking pointless'.

The media will want first dibs on the story, and they're welcome to it. I can't be bothered describing every minute detail of the past few days. While there was, admittedly, a fair smattering of excitement, it was more than balanced, perhaps even outweighed by tedium.

We thought it was safe out there, with only the snow to surround us like cotton wool. I don't know, maybe we thought we'd be protected there, especially considering how dastardly the business had become. 'Get the notebook back from my psychotic girlfriend!' Yeah, should be easy enough. A few novel ideas and angry thoughts scribbled in the pages? Trivial. Succeeded with that on the second day. We're good at what we do. Not surprising.

-But it was never going to be that simple, was it? We'd travelled far enough into the underbelly of the case that we had to see it through. By then we'd already caught the attentions of some unfortunate people. By then we had discovered what the notebook contained, and why said unfortunate people were involved.

Suddenly, oh no we're in Alaska, on the run from a foreign gang of arms dealers.

A day in the life of Rogers and Winchester? No, because it's usually warmer.

- S.R.

On the Case - Norman L. Winchester

I am writing this from a cabin made of logs deep in a wilderness so far from anywhere I ever expected to find myself holed up with Rogers. The sky  is dark and collapsing with rain and I am concerned we will perhaps never break free of this place, but rather be consumed by cold mud without trace.

If I think too carefully about the enquiries we made and the questions we asked to lead us to this point, my head aches and fills with white noise. Some sleeping dogs should be left to lie and my gut reminded me of this when our client approached us with an apparently simple task of recovering his notebook from the belongings of a girlfriend who and run away and gone to ground. Yet I ignored my instincts and so did Rogers. We need the money and, more than that, we needed the thrill. Our offices have been festering with inactivity for some time and the atmosphere thick with reproach. I had no fingernails left to destroy, no whiskey with which to burn my chest back to life and certainly no will left to live another day under the weight of Roger's intolerable bitter fidgeting.

So we took the case and demanded a ridiculous fee upfront, he paid it and I gave my half away that night to wine and dine some not too bright but pretty thing who collapsed on my sofa in heap like a dead bird, too drunk to offer me comfort and reward for my exhausting night of wit, charm and generosity. Rogers has no idea of the male condition and mocked me by proxy from her satisfying night in with a novel while I conned myself that man needs woman like oxygen and all the while all I needed was a slap and some fresh air.

N.L.W.

On the Case - Scarlett Rogers

Winchester and I spent the majority of last night on a stakeout.

I don't mind this necessary aspect of being a P.I. It normally involves cigarette after cigarette and damn good music. Winchester spends most of his time trying to make conversation. Admittedly, 'discussions' soon spiral downwards into arguments, and I wish he hadn't spoken at all. It'd be easier for us both if he just drank himself stupid like he normally does. There's a reason for that hip flask. As I'm normally right, arguments are a collosal waste of my time and energy, anyway.

We were keeping an eye on a dingy bar downtown. I hear it sells a damn good whiskey, but that's not the point. We've followed our noses to this point in the case, and while I can't disclose the details until it's closed, it's shaping up to be a fairly interesting one. We're one step closer after the events of last night.

The cases are getting grittier, sharper, and that does a world of good for Winchester and I's boredom.

Just as long as people stop with the fucking adultery cases.

- S.R.

Missing Emeralds Found: In retrospect - Norman L. Winchester

I live in hope that Rogers' assassination of poor Mrs Jenkin's taste is uncalled for and that, indeed, Mrs Jenkins lives a life of fantastic irony. The niggles in my tired mind lead me away from such hope and land me firmly back in the reality of doilies and artificial room scent.

The Butler is a prat. He can't be named for legal reasons, so we shall refer to his sorry touche as such. The prat figured in his camp little mind that this lady of the manor would ignore his japes or that her taste for gin early in the day would render her too cloudy to notice priceless jewels taking a holiday. NONSENSE! I have yet to convince Rogers of my theory and my hearsay evidence and I can see her scowling through a fog of disagreement across our dingy office. How I wish she would stop tutting and refreshing her name-sake shade of lipstick and pour me a tumbler of fine single malt. This will never happen. We don't have any in this echo chamber of an empty office. Christ knows how that huge spider plant stays alive. It wouldn't be from the hard work churned out by Sibylle whose best work ethic is lighting another fag.

Anyway, you get the picture. This Prat by name and nature butler definitely did the deed, but I reckon upon a deeper scandal brewing here like a shit mug of tea. When I extracted him from the hedge he managed to invade he whispered something (he was badly winded) which I figured to be interesting. "Fag hag". Mrs Jenkins,  do you have secrets you are yet to share with us?

I have thrown out those new shoes. Should have stuck to the boots. Sure they stink, but so does this case.

N.L.W.