I leave without making another purchase however, and I’m upset at the cheerfulness of the shopkeeper. – The Sun, he shouts loudly, – very good, thirty pence.
This disgusts me as I’m not like the rest of the festering plebs who read the Sun. I’m more like somebody who writes the thing, edits it even. Know the difference, you pleb, always know the fuckin difference.
The last thing I need first thing in the morning is yet another briefing from Toal about this Wurie murder. As it happens, it’s the first thing I get along with Gus Bain, Peter Inglis and three constable spastics, namely: Roy, whom I know through the Lodge, Muir, whom I worked with on Drug Squad and who’s acceptably Jackie Trent, and Considine who seems okay. So it looks like Toal’s heading up this team himself to work on the topped coon case.
I’m fucking burning inside though when I see that silly wee cow Amanda Drummond here. What the fuck is she daein on a murder team? Wouldnae trust her to pick the fucking curtains for the office.
Why doesn’t anybody tell that silly wee lassie that she is superfluous now that we’ve got that big blonde civvy piece wi the waxed legs and sunbed tan handing oot the paperwork? Yes, and she’s here now, coming right into my sights. Phoah! She passes me a briefing note.
– Thank you my darling, I smile at her and she gives me the unfazed measuring look of the game hoor who kens what she’s aboot.
– Fuckin doll, I hear a voice in my ear. It’s Ray Lennox.
– What the fuck are you daein here, I ask him, – I thought you were on D.S. duty.
I ken what the cunt’s daein here awright; he’s stalking that blonde piece, that’s what he’s daein here.
– I’m on my way. Just popped in to say good morning, he smiles, and departs. Lennox has trimmed his mouser, but he’s gone over the score. He looks like a fuckin pansy now.
I pucker my lips in the direction of the blonde piece’s arse, gift-wrapped perfectly as it is in that tight skirt, but the gesture which was meant for Ray’s matey complicity is picked up by the ice-hearted hanger-on Amanda Drummond.
I ignore The Thin White Puke’s distasteful scowl. I nudge Dougie Gillman next to me who clocks the blonde piece’s erse with an evaluating, approving nod.
Toal’s off on one, flapping with only semi-restrained excitement: – As you know, we now have a positive identification of our victim. He is one Efan Wurie and he is a freelance journalist from Ghana who was working in London. We are unaware of his business in Edinburgh and friends have said that he was here on holiday.
A funny time to come up here for a holiday. Up tae nae fuckin good ah’ll bet.
– Some holiday, perr boy, Peter Inglis nods.
Yes, vintage form is being displayed by a certain Inspector Robert Toal, or if you like, he’s spraffing the same auld fuckin shite as the bastard’s prone to do. – We’ve heard from the Met that our man was recently the victim of an attack in Haggerston, London. On the second of February, this year, he left a bar with two friends. He was set upon by some thugs who came out the back of a van with baseball bats. This was reported but no arrests were made.
– You think maybe one ay they racially biased mobs did the darkie-boy over? Gus asks.
Amanda Drummond winces. Toal looks tired. – We can’t say. It might be coincidence. However, this incident must have been in the man’s mind as he climbed the steps up to the North Bridge. That makes it even more surprising he wasn’t more careful. Toal looks at us for a reaction, but naebody’s saying a dicky bird. Then he turns and focuses on me. – Bruce, can I see you in an hour in my office?
I feel a shiver. I don’t want anything to do with this case. – Need to make it two hours gaffer. I couldn’t stop myself from saying that horrible word which I try never to use in connection with Toal. I hate myself for being so . . . subordinate. Fuck’um. – I’ve a meeting with the Lothian Forum on Racial Equality. I thought it best from a com rels perspective that we keep in touch, allay fears and what have you, this being a sensitive case and what not.
– Good thinking Bruce, that’s the ticket. Make it two hours then.
I feel a rising glow in my chest. I’ve been out of sorts lately but I’ve still more than enough gas in my tank to see off the likes of Toal. No way am I going to visit a bunch of jungle-bunnies and their nursemaids. I need two hours for my lunch, minimum requirement. I head out with Gus, but as we’re leaving I get pulled up by Amanda Drummond. – Bruce, can I have a word?
– You, my darling, can have a word any time, I smile at her. A waste of time that approach, with such a glacier-hearted dyke, but you have to remember that even glaciers thaw, just as long as you keep the heat turned up. And if there’s one thing that Bruce Robertson knows, it’s how to do exactly that.
She scowls at me, – It’s just that I was speaking to Alan Marshall at the Forum this morning, and he said nothing to me about a meeting with you.
– Hmmm, I rub my chin. I’ll need to get closer with that razor. A real close shave; that’s what’s required. – Must be some wires getting crossed somewhere. I’ll get back to you on that one later Mandy love, I say, winking and turning away.
– It’s Amanda, and it’s not love, she hisses, but I’ve already turned my back and I’m gesturing at Gus to head off, totally ignoring the silly wee trollop’s ineffectual bleatings.
You are dismissed, girlie.
We get into the car and head out to Crawford’s. In the queue we see two uniformed spastics whom we know but can’t place their names. Veteran P.C.s. Myself and Gus look down on them; going nowhere fast in the career structure of the force. When we’re in choosing our food, this cheeky auld cunt looks at the uniforms and says, –They’ll no be brekin intae this place anywey. Bakers n chippies, the safest places in Edinburgh!
The constables get a big red beamer up the side of their faces. I count my blessings on occasions like this that I’m in a plain-clothed job. The spastics blush and head off, while Gus and I get back into the motor.
– That Drummond lassie. Needs a good fuckin ride, that’s what she needs, I tell him, starting up the Volvo and feeling a testosterone rush as I shunt the beast up a gear. C’mon baby, take it.
Gus smiles. He’s a nice auld cunt. A bit churchy, but he doesnae push it doon yir throat. – Yir an awfay man Bruce, he says.
– Looks the type that’s been disappointed by a man. Probably frigid, I speculate, as we turn into Raeburn Place. I could go a pint and one of they steak pies from Bert’s Bar. Better than that Crawford’s shite. But on second thoughts one pint might lead to a dozen and I’m with that auld cunt Gus who won’t piss it up on duty. I’ll have to tough it out.
– Nice lassie though, says Gus, mildly challengingly.
– Oh aye, she’s a nice enough lassie, I agree. Best to back down at this stage. I’ll put Gus right about that hoor soon enough.
I switch on the radio. There’s some quiz programme on Radio Forth.
– SO MALCOLM, YOU HAVE THREE CHANCES TO WIN THE JACKPOT PRIZE. READY?
– THINK SO!
– RIGHT. WHAT CONTINENT IS PARAGUAY IN?
– EH . . . IS IT EUROPE?
– OOOHHHH . . . SORRY MALCOLM. IT IS, IN FACT, IN SOUTH AMERICA. NEVER MIND, TRY AGAIN. THE CAPITAL OF HUNGARY IS . . .?
– EH . . . OH . . . EHM . . . TRANSYLVANIA?
– OOOHHHH . . . I’M SOREE MAAL-CUM . . . IT IS IN FACT BUDAPEST! YOU’RE THINKING OF THE VAMPIRES AND ALL THAT SORT OF THING AREN’T YOU?
– YEAH BOBBY, AH WIS JUST THINKIN OF COUNT DRACULA AND ALL THAT STUFF.
– NOT TO WORRY. YOU STILL HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE TO WIN THE JACKPOT PRIZE. READY?
– EH . . . YEAH.
– OKAY. THE SEXY SINGER TONY FERRINO IS PLAYED BY WHICH COMEDIAN?
– AW . . . I SHOULD KNOW THIS . . . IS IT STEVE COOGAN?
– STEVE COOGAN IS CORRECT! MALCOLM WINTERS OF LARKHALL, YOU HAVE WON OUR JACKPOT PRIZE OF FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!