It was an ugly petit bourgeois house in a suburb of Paris, noteworthy only for its   proximity to the dump where Marie Antoinette assumed unreal dignities. Bruno Quelcon was the second son of a tedious and mannerless man who lounged around in detective overcoats, dreaming of being a matinee idol, whereas in fact his looks were singularly unremarkable. His wife was a neurotic French bitch who alternated between moaning about food and screaming at her family. The other son, Olivier was a kleptomaniac liar.  Perhaps Mr Quelcon had a mistress. But his wife Marie only ever moaned when out of the bedroom. Continue reading ALCATRAZ FETISH by Richard Godwin →