'Over the last four years, I’ve been acquitted of a crime I didn’t commit, split up with my long-term partner, my bother and sister-in-law have been murdered, I’ve lost my job, discovered a conspiracy that went to the heart of the British government and threatened to bring it down, and several attempts have been made on my life.
Three books–Playing Harry, Assassination Continuum, and Zero One–have been written about my experiences. The last one, Zero One, I wrote myself. They’re all part of the trilogy, The Harry Fingle Collection.
This trailer tells how it all started, provides some excerpts from each book, repeats an interview I did with a journalist, and gives a short profile of the people who’ve been with me on my four-year living nightmare.' Harry Fingle.
The day the nightmare started
We’d just made love, and lay, naked and still, next to each other, gazing up at the ceiling. Amie took my hand and squeezed it. I did the same, turning my head to face her soft smile, and big brown eyes. I smiled back and reached out to touch her shoulder. She kissed my lips, smiled again, and said, ‘I love you, hon. I will forever.’
We both jolted. Someone was knocking loudly on our front, shattering our moment of tenderness.
‘What the hell? Who’s that? At this time?’ I looked at my watch. It was 6:31 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
‘The taxi?’ Amie said, sitting up and pulling on her T-shirt.
‘No, it can’t be,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘It’s booked for seven-thirty.’ I slid my legs to the side of the bed and stood up. The knocking started up again, even louder and more insistent than before. ‘I’ll go,’ I said and reached for my jeans and T-shirt from the floor. ‘Why didn’t they ring the bell?’ I stood by the bedroom door, looking back at Amie.
Amie shrugged and flung her hands wide open. ‘Search me, hon. They probably did, but we didn’t hear it.’ She grinned. ‘We were busy.’
‘Okay.’ I shrugged. ‘Better go and find out.’ Some weeks earlier, we’d taken the carpet up from our stairs to expose the old, original wooden boards. They scratched my feet and felt cold as I raced down to open the front door open.
‘Mr Fingle?’
I looked at the stern-faced man who’d spoken. He stood about six foot in height, wore a padded, black jacket over an open-necked checked shirt and jeans. He glared at me with an expression that said I was something unpleasant, unsavoury, and smelly–akin to an old, maggoty piece of meat or a dead fish found on a quayside. A uniformed policeman and woman stood close by. They displayed equally unpleasant expressions.
‘What the fuck’s this about?’ I said, guessing it wasn’t bad news or they’d be showing a little more sensitivity.
‘I’m just about to go away on holiday,’ I added, once it was clear none of them were going to answer my question.
‘Are you Mr Harry Fingle?’ the six-foot man asked, looking as though my name had left a bad taste in his mouth.
‘Yeh, that’s me. What this all about?’ I put a hand up to my chin, screwed up my eyes, and peered at him.
He thrust a police warrant card in front of me. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jenkins.’ He nodded at the male police officer. ‘This is Constable Niven,’ he turned to the policewoman stood on the other side of him, ‘and this Sergeant Wilson. I have a warrant for your arrest and a search warrant for your house. Please stand aside and let us in.’
