You can now read chapter three here:
The man who opened the door had the sort of face that looks out of men’s leisure fashion catalogues. But the slitted eyes, Inspector Tuckett surmised, had less to do with attitude than with what had been consumed, imbibed or inhaled, one way and another, the night before. His shoulders filled the doorframe. His white t-shirt looked as though it had been airbrushed onto him. He ran a meaty brown hand through hair as short, stiff and black as a shoebrush. It sprang back into place. All that was missing was the Calvin Klein log cabin backdrop.
“Yes?” The voice was not friendly. The unmoving stare would have daunted a lesser man than Tuckett.
“Chief Inspector Tuckett,
“You can’t. He’s not here.” Australian, thought Tuckett, probably east coast. Almost at once they heard Simon’s sharp voice.
“Let them in, Jack. There’s no point.” After an unnecessarily protracted interval, Jack peeled himself away from the doorframe.
“Well. You better come in, then.” He moved down the hall with a swagger, hips insolent in jeans ripped across the left buttock, a glimpse of black satin boxers revealed.I can't think where my lady got the idea about ripped jeans with satin boxers from.