Nothing!
NOTHING, Rog!
Not a damn thing, Rog!
Look at me, Rog! Just look at me! My manhood is in shreds! My dignity is in tatters! My life is in chaos! My pride is in ruins! AND ALL FOR WHAT, ROG? FOR WHAT?!
I’m no longer afraid to confess, Rog, that over the past few months this case — this damnable case, this infernal case — has pretty much taken all I’ve had to give. It’s squeezed me dry, Rog. It’s drained me. It’s very nearly had the best of me: fact.
It’s been a heavy burden, Rog. It’s been a heavier burden than — at times — it was possible for one, lone man (even a powerfully built man, well-preserved, with all his original features still intact) to bear. In truth (and in all humility, Rog), I sometimes thought this case might break me. At points I thought it had broken me. I was like a badly made, reproduction Staffordshire shepherdess (are you still collecting the Staffordshire figures, Rog?) after a bumpy ride down the A59 in the back of a stolen Ford Transit.
My paint — once so pristine — has been scuffed and chipped by this case, Rog. My shiny veneer has been irreparably clouded. At one point — I’ll openly admit — I was even in imminent danger of losing my crook.
Oh yes, I was very nearly shattered by this case, Rog. I say again: very. nearly. shattered. by. this. case. Rog.
Thank heaven for Bostik.
My hands tremble a little as I write to you today, Rog — I don’t doubt that your well-trained eye has already detected the slight wobble (which is precisely why the force holds you in such high esteem, Rog, and a major reason why they decided to ship you — lock, stock and barrel, at the very peak of your powers, without any kind of warning or consultation — from the bustling, crime-ridden metropolis of Leeds, to the sedate, country town of Ilkley, where you now employ your prodigious portfolio of detective skills in overseeing school fetes, book fairs and minor traffic infractions, while maintaining a standard of service which no other qualified recruit on the modern force today would knowingly dare to replicate.
You’ve got huge guts, Rog, huge guts. Let no man presume to tell you otherwise — or any woman, either, if one ever gets within spitting distance).
But enough of my inconsequential witterings, Rog (For what do they matter now? I am yesterday’s news, Rog. My battle with this case is over), let’s just grasp the nettle, Rog, together, Rog, and press on, shall we? Because it’s all about you, now, Rog. This is your moment. So take it, Rog, grab it, Rog (the moment, Rog, not the nettle, you idiot), with those huge, flabby mitts of yours, and hold on fast, kid. Prepare yourself for the ride of your life! It’s sure as hell going to be a bumpy one!
Buckle yourself in tightly, Rog (I took the precaution of asking them — in advance — to enlarge and reinforce the safety-belt. They were surprisingly cooperative, Rog, and they assured me — after doing their sums — that they were at least 37 per cent sure that the stitching would hold in the advent of a sudden stop. Eh voilà, Rog — Les jeux sont faits!).
Because whatever happens, Rog (and which of us may know what the future holds?), it’s going to be a crazy, hazy cavalcade, Rog: a blur of light and speed and blood and lust and heat and spunk and fire (but no biscuits, Rog. No digestives or ginger snaps or HobNobs. Possibly an outside chance of the odd Garibaldi… but then… well… possibly not).
Draw a deep breath and pinch yourself, Rog (more than an inch, Rog? Yeah. I thought as much), because what you’re holding between your eight fat fingers (and two still fatter thumbs) is the Wacky Races of all cases. This is the Top Banana, Rog. This is THE BIG ONE! And it’s all yours, now, Rog. It’s completely and utterly yours, now, Rog.
Blink back the tears, Rog, because this case — this extraordinary case — this astonishing case — this case, which has foiled, baffled and dumbfounded some of the country’s greatest living detective minds… Although… actually… no. On second thoughts, it was only my great, living, detective mind (as you are probably already aware, my faithful colleague, PC Hill, has been off sick for the past month after misaligning his spine — and nobody else ever really gave a tinker’s cuss… A quick word to the wise, Rog, while we’re on the subject: never attempt to learn t’ai chi from a stuttering Bulgarian bricklayer with one ear).
So here it is, Rog, here it is. My stomach loops and contracts as I hand it over (dodgy prawn sandwich at lunch, perhaps?). I am full of relief and awe and gratitude — a little humble, a little proud.
Here it is, Rog. It is yours. It was meant for you, Rog (and I say that with all sincerity). It was preordained, Rog. It was written in the stars, Rog. It was fated.
It’s your destiny, Rog. It was always your destiny.
Because there have been other cases, Rog, and other officers, but there has never been this case, Rog, and this officer. There has never been PC Roger Topping and (my teeth tingle as I prepare to write these words) the case of THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT. Or does it sound better the other way around? THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT case? I’m not entirely sure, Rog. Perhaps the second way is best. Or perhaps the first. Yes. The first. Perhaps the first has more punch, Rog, more attack, more gravitas.
Right. Good. I’m glad we’ve sorted that out. So let’s get down to business now, shall we?
The package, you will observe (if you double-check the contents back against the enclosed inventory — which, of course, you will; I would expect nothing less of you, Rog), is thirty-seven documents short of the initial haul. These consisted of twenty-two Christmas cards (from four original sources, all of which contained only the most perfunctory of messages), nine responses to a private advert in the local press about a foolproof, non-invasive remedy for unreliable erectile function (it’s an ageing population, Rog), three applications to take part in a government-funded solar water-heating scheme (environmentalist poppycock), a £212 cheque bound for an Egyptian donkey sanctuary near Cairo (raised by Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak during the village’s monthly bridge night), another of £425 (bound for a clock repair specialist from Harrogate), and a third of £2,838 (heading for the Burley Cross Auction of Promises account at the Cooperative Bank, Ilkley), all of which I have duly returned to Wincey, by hand, on Tuesday (on the understanding that she may well have cancelled them during the intervening period).
I took the difficult decision to dispose of the remaining thirty-four documents as I saw fit (i.e. got Mary on the Front Desk to reseal them with Sellotape last Friday and bang them back into the post), because they couldn’t be crammed inside the Jiffy bag (this was the only bag in the building, Rog, and it’s my bag. There’s been a bust-up with Supplies. The wife of the tiny dick in charge recently delivered twins — one in breech — and word on the street is that a whole twelve weeks later, she’s still staunchly refusing to put out. So now we’re all paying the price, Rog; it’s well over a fortnight since I’ve so much as laid eyes on a paperclip).
Don’t be overly concerned by the green staining on the bag — it formerly contained my monthly delivery of organic kelp powder (amazing stuff — absolutely amazing. It’s worked wonders for my lazy bowel. I’m now regular as a station-clock, chiming twice daily: once at ten, and once at eight, on the dot).