Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

He walked out of our apartment at his normal steady pace, and I heard him thump down the outer steps with scornful finality.

After a moment there were sounds of Helena returning. The pail crashed against the outdoor banister as it always did when she lugged it home full, and she muttered to herself. Then her voice called out sharply as if warning a visitor not to come up, apparently without effect, because feet pattered eagerly up our steps and a head I knew thrust itself round the door. Slick hair, pale eyes, and an insufferable sympathetic air. The familiar unwelcome body followed. It was my old antagonist: Anacrites.

He wore a neutral-coloured tunic with faintly rakish styling, close-fitting boots, and a hard leather belt. Hung on the belt were a small purse, a large note tablet, and a set of nail files to keep him occupied if he ever needed to lean against an Ionic column for hours observing a suspect. Somebody must have been giving him lessons. He had the classic informer's look: tough, slightly truculent, perhaps amiable if you got to know him, a curious and faintly unreliable sort of character.

'Welcome home, and congratulations! I hear that Petronius Longus is unwinding your partnership?' I covered my eyes and shuddered quietly. I was so exhausted I was helpless, and Anacrites could see that. He did the dirty work very gently, like a tooth-puller assuring you it's not going to hurt just at the moment when he makes you scream. 'Mother was right, Falco. Aren't you glad there's someone else available? It looks as if it's you and me now after all!'