Hello there and thank you for finding my podcast. My name is Mike Bannett and I'm the author and reader of Underwood and Flinch and most of the other tales that you'll find here. Before we begin, I have a couple of quick things you need to know. Underwood and Flinch is intended for an adult audience, not because it contains excessive amounts of

violence and horror. It does have those from time to time, but it's mostly because of coarse language.

The novel was originally intended as a standalone book, so it has a conclusive ending,

but thanks to its popularity with my listeners back when I first podcast it between 2008

and 2012, I wrote another volume and the episodes of that story will follow straight on in this feed after the first book finishes.

So if you're enjoying it, be sure to stay tuned.

And so, with no further ado then, ladies and gentlemen, come with me now to somewhere out in the Mediterranean Sea.

It's 1958, a ship is approaching slowly through fog, and this is our ride, into the story of Underwood and Flinch.

On a chill night in the spring of 1958,

the cargo ship Glen Malach sounded its fog horn as it had done every ten minutes with the last

12 hours and edged slowly onward through mist towards Spain. The ship had left the Algerian port of Oran the previous

morning carrying a cargo of fresh fruit, dates and tobacco. It also carried seven passengers, the majority of whom were in their

cabins getting ready for dinner. However, two passengers stood alone at the stern. The men were dressed in formal black suits. The taller man appeared to be in his late 30s, while the shorter, who also wore a black overcoat, looked about 10 years older.

There was an attitude of stowical regret about both men, as if misfortune had recently come to visit and was now reluctant to leave.

I'm so sorry, Lord Underwood, said the shorter man as he extended his hands to take the body of the cat.

Underwood handed him the corpse and sighed.

Oh, never mind, Flinch. I know you did all you could. Let's just forget about it, shall we?

I know you're not fond of... Really, Flinch, forget it. Underwood drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open.

The second hand wasn't moving, and he tapped gently at the scratched face.

The hand began to move.

He smiled.

At what time do you have, Flinch?

...