L.A. Noire: The Complete Edition Coming to PC

He said he worked for Rockstar. A firm, confident handshake. Steady eye contact. He fitted the description. This was my guy.

He lead me into a room. Blinds down, lights low. Two chairs beneath a tidy desk. A PC hummed itself to sleep in the shadows. A pair of thick rimmed glasses rested on the lacquered surface. A glowing screen bore a familiar image of streetlamps flirting with rain-streaked cobbles. Trumpets sang sadly in the distance.

“Please.”

He gestured toward one of the chairs. The air was charged with caffeine and cobalt. We sat silently.

“Put the glasses on. All will become clear.”

There was no backing out now. After all, this is what I had come here for. For some reason I thought of Viviana: asleep on her side, black hair cascading over white cotton. I took a breath. There was no choice but to trust him.

I reached for the glasses and slid the smooth frames over my ears.

Los Angeles was prettier than I remembered. Its lines seemed smoother, less jagged. Even its citizens looked more dapper; their suits perceptibly sharper, their faces more clearly defined. A smile flickered on my lips.

The magic glasses had the intended effect. Streets yawned into the distance, their mysteries now appearing to hover tantalisingly out of reach. Provided a guy had the hardware and the inclination, he could dive deep into the broken heart of this bitter city and never surface.

Cole Phelps was there. His carried himself in the manner to which I had become accustomed: purposeful, direct, assured. A difficult guy to read. Behind his serious eyes secrets shimmered, like diamonds against black velvet.

09:45. An explosion at the Nicholson Electroplating plant. Neighbourhood demolished. Coroner already on the scene. Just another beautiful morning in the City of Angels.

I guided Phelps to the car. The crude divining rods and geometric markers of old gave way to keystrokes and optical tracking. W, A, S and D were the letters of the law now, and Cole followed them without question.

The place was a mess. This sweep was going to take time. In the old days we used hokey intuition to find clues. Felt for vibrations. Now the vibrations were gone. Nothing to rely on but line of sight. It felt good. Honest. True.

A briefcase amongst the wreckage. Its contents told a liar’s tale. There was more to this than chemistry.

Back to the station. A fresh pile of cases on Phelps’ desk. Crazy labels: ‘Reefer Madness’, ‘Naked City’, ‘The Consul’s Car’, ‘Slip of the Tongue’. Each tag had ‘DLC’ daubed in the corner. Somewhere, a filing clerk needed his wings clipped.

One thing was certain: November 11th was going to be a busy day for Cole Phelps.

L.A. Noire: The Complete Edition (RRP: £39.99) system specifications: