– Ah didnae write anything aboot ye, it wis probably one ay yir fuckin boyfriends . . . Gillman sneers, his chin jutting out.
– Ya cunt . . . Inglis swings at Gillman who steps back and bangs him on the side of the face. I grab Inglis and I’m hoping that Gillman will let fly again and smash that queer coupon, but Ray and Gus have got a grip on him and are restraining him. Gillman’s tidy and Inglis knows this, his struggle becoming more pathetic and those startled eyes making him seem more wretched than ever.
– Look, lit’s git oot ay here. Wir aw a bit pished. Lit’s jist git doon tae the masonic, I urge.
We stagger outside into the blizzard and Inglis is already away, a lonely figure trudging through the snow up Leith Walk. – C’moan Peter! Gus shouts.
– Leave the fuckin poof, Gillman says.
– Fuckin arse-bandit! Ray shouts after him.
– BIG FUCKIN NANCY BOY! Gillman roars, cupping his hands round his mouth. The rest of the boys might pass this off as just a load of drunken nonsense tomorrow, but Gillman’s tasted fag blood and he won’t let go of this now. We bay mocking lynch-mob laughter at the broken figure of the sodomite Inglis as his hunched back recedes up the Walk.
Ray has another glass in his hand. He chucks it in Inglis’s direction, but it falls a good few yards short and breaks with a muffled thud in the road, its impact cushioned by the thick snow.
phone in sick, because we knew the cunt was sick anyway.
So Gillman was the perfect man to send to the Forum. That latent Nazi was the man tae gie it tight tae aw they fuckin smart bastards. Toal’s doing his nut at me. The spirit of Christmas my arse. I look out the window at the snow falling. Christmas Eve and I haven’t even had time to go Christmas shopping thanks to this dead wog case. The snow’s really falling though, and Toal has a tree in the corner of his office. It’s nice and warm, and his voice is oddly lulling. It raises up a level of sharpness though. – Why Dougie Gillman? Why did you send him?
I look intently at Toal, his ridiculous bouffant hair. Toal. Thinks he’s an intellectual. His first fantasy was that he was a manager, after they sent him on that MBA course. That was bad enough. His second, that he’s a screenwriter, is just fuckin stupid. These, however, pale into insignificance beside his greatest and most damaging conceit, namely that he’s fuckin polis. I feel like laughing in his face. Instead, I fire out the spiel. – As the responsible officer, I have to consider the development of all the officers in my charge. Dougie Gillman was weak in the community relations area. I made a supervisory decision that he could improve in this area by guided exposure to community relations activity, so I got him to liaise with the Forum.
– Well, I don’t know what guidance he got, because they’ve only gone and filed a complaint against him. A serious complaint. Even worse, it was initiated by the San Yung woman, the one who ran the EO’s course with Amanda Drummond. Niddrie’s insisting on a disciplinary. I’ve had to inform Gillman.
I’m not in the mood for this. It’s almost tempting to tell Toal that I knew those dykes would be trouble, but I bite my tongue. – Well, we have a conflict of interest here. As Fed rep . . .
– Don’t even think about representing Gillman! Toal shouts.
– We’ll see, I tell him, standing my ground.
Toal rolls his eyes. – Look Bruce, things are bloody difficult here. We’ve got Arnott on long-term sick, OT cut-backs, and this racism thing. On top of that there’s a bloody jessie-boy in the hat for the inspector’s post!
– Are you referring to Brother Peter Inglis?
– Yes I am Brother Robertson, Toal squeals, unawares that he’s falling into my trap. – Look Bruce, I’m as liberal as the next man on the force, but I understand how cops think. I understand canteen culture. How can we have someone of his disposition, policy or no policy, leading brother officers?
– What do you mean? I ask.
– How many officers could take orders from someone like that? It would be a recipe for disaster. No way. I’m going to have a chat with Inglis, talk him out of applying. And I don’t want any Fed rep or craft-led objections.
I say nothing.
– This is professional concern not personal prejudice, Toal spits as if through an ulcerated mouth, every utterance causing distress, – . . . I won’t pretend that I don’t find the idea of men doing that to each other absolutely disgusting . . . but that’s by the way.
I give Toal a look which I hope says that should be taken as given by all right-minded people and the fact you felt the need to state it indicates to me that you might be a latent puff as well.
He seems to get the drift and coughs nervously, – But I’m far more concerned about the professional implications . . .
– I still don’t see what you’re on about, I tell him.
– Come on Bruce! If he was to get the promo, what would that do for morale? How can you have respect for a . . . I mean, how can you have confidence in a man who’s going to be constantly undressing you with his eyes, masturbating over images of you! It’s going to compromise everyone!
– This is a bit caveman Bob. The force in some parts of the country advertise in the gay press. We’re meant to be hot on non-discrimination with regards to sexual orientation.
– This isnae some parts ay the country! This is Scotland! Toal bangs his fist off the desk, and then looks mildly embarrassed.
I shrug, – He’s a brother officer in the force and the craft.
He shakes his head and composes himself. – Look Bruce, I know that you feel that because he’s up for the same job as you, you don’t want to be seen to be gaining advantage by undermining him. I appreciate your integrity on this issue. But I’m telling you straight: Inglis is last Tuesday’s Daily Record as far as promotion is concerned.
Toal has swallowed the bait, but I still nod sternly. Best let him think I’m far from amused at this. Inglis may be a sad pansy, but I still object to the general principle that Toal tells me anything. Anyway, I take my leave.
I meet up with Gillman in the office and we go to the Rag Doll and shoot some pool. He needs friends in the Fed and the craft. Or to think that he has friends in the Fed and the craft. – Dinnae worry about an internal polis disciplinary. Nae cunt’s gaunny dae nowt. Guaranteed, we tell him.
– Hope no, eh, he shrugs. This cunt acts like he really doesn’t give a fuck. – For a few coons? Problem is ye canny call a fuckin spade a spade, or in ma case a fuckin wog, he says humourlessly.
– No way. Ah cannae mind ay the last fucker that got disciplined seriously on the force as a result of a complaint by a member of the public.
Gillman is a good old boy. I suspect that he knows that the best place for an instinctive man of violence is on the force, with total state back-up for when things get nasty. Most polis are just ordinary guys doing an extraordinary job, which makes it such a pleasure to come across a genuine psychopath like Dougie. I was impressed by the way he took out Inglis. Not the sort of man to let the belligerence of others deter him from his chosen course of action. All it means, of course, is that I have to do him. Gillman will be a worthy scalp. He’s in my sights. And maybe he’s just a wee bit more worried than I thought. – Ah do, he says, – Artie Hutton, for smashin that boy’s heid in in the cells. The boy nearly died. Emergency op saved him.
– But that was drugs, Artie had nae choice, I tell him.
– What, you mean the boy was under narcotic influence and was potentially dangerous? Gillman asks.
– New . . . I mean Artie. He had just come oot ay detox the week before for his coke problem. He had the heebeegeebees big-time and this spastic with a shrill voice started giein it loads aboot getting a fucking lawyer and making a fucking phone call when Artie was just trying to ask a few simple questions.