Whistler

My name is Daniel de Boar and I am a journalist - sort of. I work for the business section of one of London's less-well-known local rags. Despite my career shortfall, up until a year ago, I was a happily married man with the world at my feet, a beautiful lady (who happened to be an exceptionally good journalist) on my arm, and our whole lives ahead of us. If I had any problems at all they were of the mundane variety: cleaning up the kitchen when Bert the cat decided yesterday's chicken would look better in his bowl rather than the bin, listening to my Editor moan about my shabby clothes, dandruff - you know, regular stuff.

And then one night, all that changed when I got the knock and the friendly policewoman told me my wife was dead, killed in a car crash.

Well, I could forgive you for thinking the story started there. But no, not so fast. It took almost a year for this story to get interesting. And that was the night when my wife - the see-through version with the floating body - dropped in for a visit.

Now I'm up to my neck in the spirit world of North London, tracking down hordes of misbehaving ghost and protecting the locals from all manner of ghoulish trickery and skullduggery. And if that wasn't bad enough, I spend my days in the company of a person who is likely the oldest living man in the history of humanity - even if he doesn't look a day over 30. A man whose job it is to police the local ghost population, a man with the fashion sense of a 1980's glam rock guitarist and - yes, I can't forget this part - a man who whistles a lot - Yeah, I know, I thought that was weird, too.

An old and particularly nasty ghost has awakened and is trying his best to cause havoc and mayhem by pitting the residents of North London against one another. It seems he won't be happy until every man and woman are either dead or dying - or too knackered to put up a fight. "Just another job for the Whistler" I hear you say. But when he asks for my help...