– Did I do anything . . . eh . . .
– Tell ye in Blazer Bladesey. Must nash.
– Yes . . .
– Tro Bladesey, I slam the phone down. Hurley’s right. The big problem with being polis is that you can’t help but see people as either potential criminals or potential victims. That way you feel either a loathing or a contempt for anyone who isn’t like you, i.e.: polis. All my mates are polis, all except Bladesey and Tom Stronach, the fitba guy next door, who I suppose is a mate of sorts. But it’s mainly Bladesey. And I have to work hard not to let my contempt for Bladesey show.
I look at page three. Cathleen Myers today. A ride and a half. Great tits and a fantastic erse, which the photographer spastic hasn’t given us a sight of with that shot. Still, she’s got those come-to-bed-Bruce-Robertson eyes on. I dial Bladesey’s home number. Thank fuck that 1471 call-back facility hasn’t been installed here yet. It’ll soon mean that you’ll have to be polis, just to be able to play simple games like this one.
– Hello, three-three-six-two-nine-four-six.
It’s Bunty’s voice. I’ve never met her. I let the silence hang a bit.
– Hello? Who’s there?
I try to picture Bunty. I think of Bladesey. He reminds me of Frank Sidebottom, the comedian with the big false head. A Manchester accent: you can do it by holding your nose. – Hello.
– Who’s this?
– I got your noom-bih from a friend.
– Who are you? What do you want?
– Let’s joost say, I’ve erd all about yaw, and them services that yaw provide.
– Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong number . . .
– This is three-three-six-two-nine-four-six?
– Yes . . .
– Then I aven’t got the wrong number then, ave I?
– Who gave you this number?
– Someone who spoke very highly of you. He told me all about you. Said you were a brilliant fook . . .
My cock stiffens at Cathleen’s face and Bunty’s silence as the line clicks dead.
The problem with my game is that we’re not great thinkers. We do. You have to keep doing, to find things to do.
We’re the law enforcers of this society. I think of what that means. It means we are paid to do a job we can’t fucking well do because of all these snidey little cunts: the politicians, lawyers, judges, journalists, social workers and their ilk. Take the City of Edinburgh. Arm me and I would delve into the little black address book I keep at hame in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. I’d pay a few housecalls, leave a little lead and you just watch the crime figures drop over the following few months. The Robertson solution. Real Zero Tolerance.
It’s an internal call and it’s Toalie. – Come up here straight away Robbo, he says, not waiting for a reply before hanging up. Cunt. Does he think I’m just at his beck and call when I’ve got fuckin work tae dae? Real fuckin work, work of the kind that spazwit would never understand. He’s taken root in that fuckin chair. He probably wants another muthafuckin progress report. I hope we don’t go on for too long as I’ve arranged to do other things. You can kiss my bacon-flavoured po-leese ass, muthafuckah.
I head up the stairs, cruising past central admin to see if I can get a glimpse of the big cock-teasing blonde civvy piece, but no fuckin joy. Lennox was sniffing around it in the canteen earlier, the dirty cunt.
Toalie looks stressed as I sit down beside him. You can tell. He’s never very animated but Brother Toal’s give-away gesture is the bending of his lips over his teeth. You could put a headsquare on the cunt and he’d look like your auld mother.
– We need to get our heads together Robbo, he tells me with urgency charged through his squat frame. – The hammer’s been found. It was buried under a hedge at the top end of Princes Street Gardens. Forensic’s managed to trace micro-particles of blood and tissue in the grain of the metal which match the victim’s. Just found it there, under the bushes.
Bushes. Thick black bushes. Chewed lips from Amsterdam. If I had a hammer. Hammer house of horror.
– I don’t suppose there’s any prints? I ask mechanically.
– Naw . . . it’s been wiped clean, that’s if the killer wisnae using gloves in the first place. As you know, this man’s a diplomat’s son, he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyes, as if I’m supposed to go: Wow! Barry!
I couldn’t give an Aylesbury Duck.
– I see, I see. What kind of a hammer was it?
– Oh, it’s a steel-headed claw hammer with tempered shaft and rubber handle. Standard issue, you can get them at any B&Q or Texas hardware store. The serial number of the hammer was filed off. This boy meant business.
– Right, I’ll get some lucky bastard checking all the sales of hammers from hardware stores over the last few months.
It fuckin well wouldnae be ma joab anyway. Some uniformed spastics and a clerical can go through that one.
I’m thinking to myself that a couple of neds in this city have topped this coon who’s no business, as far as I can see, being here in the first place, so, fuck it. Who gives a toss? The answer is me. This reorganisation post comes up soon. I want that job, so I’m going to ferret out that murdering schemie bastard who topped our innocent coloured cousin. It’s called, in a word, professionalism, and I’m a total fucking pro, something that the spastics around here wouldn’t understand. Same rules apply in each and every case.
But Toal though, he’s slavering on at me. – This is a bloody strange one Robbo. Nothing’s turning up. We’ve been through all the revellers.
That wee Sylvia and Estelle, I’d go through them in a minute.
– Probably some young racist thugs out on the town, I tell him. Fitba guys or BNP members or something. Might need to get in about them. I’d like to lean a bit heavier on some of these young lassies that were there. They shield these guys, it’s their boyfriends and what have you.
– I’m not so sure Robbo. I’m a wee bit fed up of having some silly wee laddies used as a dustbin for every crime in this city. It’s lazy poliswork, that’s what it is.
Him accusing me of lazy poliswork. Him, that’s never been oot fae behind that fuckin desk in yonks. – Aye, awright. But I know they guys. Some of them arnae that wee now, and they’re moving intae other areas besides fighting at the fitba. When these guys start tae believe their ain propaganda, then you have tae watch out. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not convinced that those spastics are blameless.
Toal raises his eyebrows. – Just keep me informed, he says.
Toal either kens fuck all aboot poliswork, or he’s holding something back, something about this coon case. Which is it? Fuckin both, that’s obvious. Whatever he says, these cunts are a good starting point. It’s time some of these fuckers went down; whether or not they did this one is immaterial, they are bad bastards and banging some of them up will make the streets safer. It’s time to lean on some cunt, I’m bored sitting here shuffling papers. It has tae be Ocky. The weakest of weak links in the chain. An E-riddled fanny merchant who hangs out with some of the top boys because they like the cunt’s devastating wit. Ha. He’s been feeding us stuff on them for years. Of course, we still let them go about their business. Their antics mean newspaper headlines, which means big-time OT and a cry out for extra polis resources. That’s the way it works. Let them knock fuck out of each other, but always be ready to pounce when they threaten commerce.
I go back past the central admin unit, but there’s still nae sign of thon blonde piece. At the downstairs bogs I weigh myself on the metric scales. My weight is still going down. I hope I’ve not got Aids or something, from some fucking hoor. I must eat more. I can’t put on weight, I never could. Fast metabolism, not like some of the blobs in this place. If it was up tae me, I’d weigh every cunt on the force annually and whoever didn’t make the required weight would be out on their fat arses. Weightist? You fuckin well bet your sweet ass!