– As he began his ascent, perhaps the victim pondered this. Did he know the city? Possibly, otherwise he might not have known of this short-cut. But surely, had he known about it, alone, and at that time in the morning, he’d have thought twice about climbing it.That staircase, too dangerous and urine-soaked for even the most desperate jakeys to crash in. The guy must have felt fear. He didn’t act on that fear. Is fear not the way of telling you that something’s wrong? Like pain? Toal speculates. People shuffle around nervously, and even Amanda Drummond has the good grace to look embarrassed at this. Andy Clelland stifles a laugh by coughing. Dougie Gillman’s eyes are on Karen Fulton’s erse, which is not a bad place for them to be.
Toal’s so intae his ain shit though, he’s totally oblivious tae all this. The ring is his and he doesnae want tae spoil his own fun by going for a knockout punch so early. – Maybe he felt it was all paranoia, distortion of emotion. Then the voices. He must have heard them coming, at that time of night you’d be bound to hear people on these steps.
No, he wants us to throw in the towel. Sorry Toalie, but it’s not the Bruce Robertson style. Let’s joust. – Nae eye witnesses? I ask, glad that I omitted that term ‘gaffer’. That fucker’s my boss in name only.
– Not as yet Bruce, he says curtly, upset at having his flow interrupted. That’s Toal; have a wank in our faces, never mind those wee practical details that might actually help get whoever topped this coon banged up.
– Then they were on him and they kicked him down to a recess in the stairs where a savage beating took place. One of the assailants, only one, went further than the others and struck the man with an implement. Forensic already say that the injuries left are consistent with those that would be made by a hammer wielded at force. This assailant did this repeatedly, caving in the man’s skull and driving the implement into his brain. As I said earlier, our friends in the council cleansing department found the body.
Your friends in the council cleansing department Toal. I have no scaffy friends.
– Left him lying like rubbish, Gus shakes his head.
– Maybe he wis rubbish.
Fuck. That slipped out. I shouldnae have said that. They’re all looking at me. – Tae the scumbag that did him, like, I add.
– Are you postulating that it was a racially motivated attack Bruce? Drummond quizzes, her mouth twisting downwards in a slow, agonised movement. Karen Fulton looks encouragingly at her, then at me.
– Eh, aye, I say. That starts them chattering, too loudly for them to notice that my teeth are doing the same. This fuckin hangover. This fuckin place. This fuckin job.
The Crimes
I’m trying to shake off the bad taste in my mouth caused by the hangover and the presence of a certain Mr Toal so early in the day. Aye, it can still be salvaged, but this necessitates getting the fuck out of HQ for a while. Ray Lennox is thinking along similar lines. Toalie’s getting the hots about this topped silvery so it’s best we keep oot the road. I’ve more than enough to do at the moment, my paperwork’s in a shocking state and that needs rectified before I go off on my winter’s week holly-bags. Lennox is officially on drug squad duty but he knows that high visibility is not an option today. It means that Toal’s likely to press-gang him on to the murder investigation team.
So Ray and I are out in my Volvo on a roving commission. There’s a bit of a ground frost and the air feels raw and sharp. Winter’s digging in alright, and it’s going to be a bad one. The car heater’s warming up nicely when this spastic from control comes on the radio and asks us for our location. Ray tells them that we’re proceeding west in the direction of Craigleith. Control then inform us that some auld crone up in Ravelston Dykes has reported a burglary.
– You want tae check it? I ask him.
– Yeah, keep oot ay Toalie’s wey a wee bit longer.
Ray knows the score. – That’s the wey Ray, mind what I telt you aboot that cunt. He’s got the attention span ay a goldfish, so if you can keep out of his sight for a while . . .
– . . . the cunt forgets all aboot ye! Ray grins. Ray Lennox is a good young guy. About six-foot tall, brown hair in a side parting, a moustache that’s a tiny bit too long and unkempt and makes him look a wee bit daft, and a large hooked nose and shifty eyes. Sound polisman, and he’s now starting tae take a mair active role in the craft.
This was really a common-or-garden uniformed spastics job, but we were in the area and it wasted time. One of my mottoes aboot the job is: better you wasting some cunt else’s time than some cunt wasting your time.
– Calling Foxtrot, come in Foxtrot, this is Z Victor two BR, over.
– Foxtrot . . . the radio crackles.
– Proceeding to address in Ravelston Dykes. D.S. Robertson and Lennox, over.
– Roger BR. Over.
We pull up outside the driveway of this big hoose. There’s an old Escort parked in the street. It looks a bit run-down for Ravvy Dykes.
An old cow with a faraway look lets us in. I get a bit of a whiff from her. Age makes you smell, rich fucker or schemie, it makes nae odds. I shudder in the hallway: it’s none too warm in here. This is a big hoose tae heat and I get a scent of old money. The place is crammed full of bric-à-brac, a good lifetime, at least, of memories here. Loads of pictures in silver frames: lined up on the tables, sideboards and the mantelpiece like an army of tin sodjirs. Overkill. This is telling me that loads of little birdies have flown the nest and they’ve flown pretty far. All sorts of hooses, cars and clathes in those pictures; they fairly glint of the new world. The old bat should cash in, sell this asset and coast out her days in a plush centrally heated and roond-the-clock warden-attended sheltered housing complex. But naw; that twisted pride again. All it equals is a faster and more ragged route tae the grave, but there’s nae telling that tae some fuckers.
That old coal fire looks comfortable. The coal is placed in a nice brass bucket. One lump or two, or twenty hundred thousand falling around you? The filthy, dirty coal and the minging cunts that dig it. You dig it baby? You dig that coal brother?
I don’t fuckin well dig it or dig the filthy cunts that do.
I leave Ray with the old bat in order to have a better nose around. Some nice auld mahogany furniture here. Some wee opportunistic spazwit’s done the brek-in, through a french door at the back, which is a total waste. An organised firm wi a big van could have cleaned up with some bent antiques dealer. The old dear goes away to make some tea and when she comes back she goes aw stroppy on us.
– It’s my paperweight! she says, pointing to a sideboard. – It’s gone now . . . it was here a minute ago.
It wisnae as if it was any of my fuckin business. We just came here to waste a bit of time. The dopey auld cow; her wizened face glaikit with shock. That bemused look, the great fucking British public; it makes me want to smash the wearer’s teeth in with a baton. No much teeth left in this auld cunt tae smash, mind you. The vandalism time perpetuates on the human body. Fuck me, I’m sounding like that arsehole Toal!
– I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you, Ray says.
Fuckin auld spasticworks. You’ve got to give it to Ray Lennox though; ice cool in such situ’s, an auld heid on young shoulders.
– But it was here. It was here! she’s asserting. Ravelston Dykes. Money talks. Tick tock tick tock. Used to getting their own way. Those tones I know so well. But I’m a servant of the state. I’m in the business of law enforcement. Same rules apply.
I take a deep breath and look her in the eye. She’s feeble, frightened and isolated in spite of her wealth. The dominant photo of the husband on the marble fireplace. Top tin sodjir. A wee bit rusty though, aw the more set off by the splendour of the frame. You can see cancer written all over him. A recent photo. She’s still in shock, still vulnerable. – I want you to fully understand what you are saying to me here Mrs Dornan.
She looks like a cow being herded into an abattoir. Just at that point where they know that something is up and that it’s not good ne
ws. Ten-ti-ten-ten . . . ten-ti-ten-ten-ten . . .
– You’re telling me that the paperweight was here after the appointed burglary, but has subsequently appeared to be missing, this coinciding with the appearance of the investigating officers, namely ourselves. I want you to be crystal clear about this.
– Well . . . yes . . . I mean . . .
I move over to the window and look out into the garden. I notice that the Escort I clocked is still there. The one which looked semi-abandoned. Semi-abandoned? What the fuck in the name of Jesus Christ almighty is that? Some cunt’s Jackie Trent here and nae mistake. I clear my throat and turn back to the ancient cow. – I want you to concentrate Mrs Dornan. I want you to be absolutely sure about what you’re saying and the implications of it. Now you’ve had a bad shock, I lecture her. – Having an intruder in your home: not very pleasant. I want you to be sure about what you mean before I consider the ramifications. This means initiating a second tier of the investigation, implicating the officers who came here to investigate this burglary. I nod towards Ray and then glance down at my own chest. – The same rules have to apply in each and every case. What I’m saying to you is: are you sure that the paperweight was not taken in the original burglary?
Ray comes over at this point, for a bit of back up. – I think we’re jumping the gun a bit here D.S. Robertson.
– Well D.S. Lennox, the lady seems to be concerned about this paperweight and perhaps a little confused about what was actually taken during the burglary.
– Yes . . . I mean . . . she stammers.
– She seems to feel it vanished during our investigation, I give a slightly rueful expression. Ray still plays it deadpan.
– I didn’t say . . . the old cow whines.
– I think the best thing would be if we turned out our pockets, D.S. Robertson, Ray laughs in mild impatience.
– No! I didn’t mean . . . I don’t think that you took it, not for a minute . . . she bleats, all embarrassed. That was the mistake you silly old fucker.
Ray gives a practised, tired shake of the head. – What I’d like to suggest . . .
I cut in. This cow’s irritated me. I want sport. – I don’t think you quite understand what the lady’s saying D.S. Lennox. She’s claiming that the paperweight vanished after the investigating officers arrived, I point at myself and then at him. – The inference is that the investigating officers have expropriated this property.
I curse inwardly, that was a mistake using the term expropriated. Stolen would have been better, for obvious reasons.
– I didn’t mean that . . . the dopey cow apologises. She’s buckling inwards, shrinking like a crisp packet flung into a pub fire, diminishing before it combusts. She’ll be offering us financial compensation for upsetting us soon. Keep backpedalling you old spazwit. I’m savouring this.
– If I could proceed with my suggestion, Ray says, his tone practical, – I think that you should go through the inventory again. List the lot, make sure that nothing’s left out.
My pager goes. It’s control. Fuck me, Toal wants me. – Excuse me, I smile. I point to the phone. – May I? I dial his direct line. I’m only half listening to him, I’m half turned in to Ray’s performance, which I’m enjoying very much.
– Total speaking . . . – Are you asking me or telling me?
– It’s D.S. Robertson. – Well, I . . .
– Bruce, good. I’m needing you on this murder case. Busby’s put another note in long-term sick. We’re stretched to our limit. – I want to be clear about this Mrs Dornan; are you asking me or telling me?
– I see. – It’s just that . . .
Toal is getting uppity. The bastard’s always resented my pull with the lads; my status as Federation rep, but also the fact that I’m more prominent in the craft than he’ll ever be. That’s what cuts the ice with the boys in the canteen, not fucking name, rank or serial number. The basic fact of it is that nobody tells me what to do. I’m listening to Toal rabbiting on about this wog being topped and I’m thinking: fucking great! Another one bites the dust, and then I’m thinking of my forthcoming winter’s week’s holiday in Amsterdam and my favourite hoors d’oeuvres and I’m thinking of two vibrators, one up her arse and one up her cunt. The technology of love, deployed on a massive scale. I’ve got a semi; I’ve got a semi and I’m talking to Toal!
– The last thing we need now’s a stiff, Toal sniffs.
– Evening News got it yet?
Right up her fuckin hole.
– Not so far.
– So why the hassle? It’s just a nigger. Not exactly a shortage of them, is there? I joke.
– Listen, I don’t want any canteen culture bullshit on this investigation. I want you briefed properly by Lennox, he snaps. Toal is known for having no sense of humour. He’s taking this equal opps bullshit too far.
– What about Lennox doing it? I whisper,
– He was first on the scene.
– I understand how terrible this is, Mrs Dornan. Especially with something so valuable to you.
– I was sure it was there though. I could have sworn!
– That’s what I always find, Mrs Dornan. Sometimes when the thing that you want most to be there is away, you can’t believe it, so you do actually visualise it there in your mind’s eye. A classic shock reaction. Burglary can be very traumatic. It might be an idea to call your GP. Shall I do that now?
– Oh no, I’m sorry, I’m making such a fuss . . .
– Make out the inventory Mrs Dornan. I think that’s the best move . . .
– I can’t take Ray off DS, he’s close to busting these suppliers at that Sunrise Community. Besides, he doesn’t have your homicide experience
– I think you’re forgetting something. I’m on my winter’s week brek in just over one week’s time.
– Yes . . . I’ll do that . . . I’m so sorry officer . . . eh . . .
– Lennox ma’am, D.S. Lennox.
There’s a short silence on the other end of the phone. My heart misses a beat. I feel as if I’m listening for the first time.
– All leave is suspended for Serious Crimes personnel, there’s a memo coming round today, Toal says.
All leave is suspended.
I can’t think straight here. What did he say?
– Look Robbo, Toalie continues, it’s ‘Robbo’ now, – this victim, we don’t have a positive ID yet, but it seems he’s connected. The Chief Super’s got me by the bollocks. We’re stretched and the budget is almost exhausted. We’ve cut back on the OT as much as we can. You’re the first one to complain if there are overtime restrictions . . .
I keep silent.
– . . . This fucking stupid departmental reorganisation . . . Anyway, Personnel will be sending round a memo. We’re out on a limb here, then this murder happens . . . it’s the wrong time for everyone Robbo. We’ve all got to make sacrifices, to pull out the stops.
– I’m on leave in nine days’ time Brother Toal, I tell him.
– Look Bruce, it’s Bruce now, is it – . . . don’t you be bloody difficult . . . Niddrie’s got my nuts in a sling, his voice breaks into a pedantic squeak as if to emphasise what he’s saying. – Give me a break!
– My leave is booked, Brother Toal, I reiterate, putting the phone down.
Ray has the dopey cow making up an inventory. I finger the paperweight in my pocket. He nods to the door and we depart.
As we go the old boot screeches miserably, – It wasn’t as if the paperweight was worth anything. It looks expensive but it’s only a low carat gold. It’s just the sentimental value. Jim brought me it back from Italy after the war. We were as poor as church-mice then.
Ya fuckin dirty fanny-flapped faced auld hoor! A fuss over fuckin nowt!
– We’ll do our best to recover all the goods Mrs Dornan, Ray nods sincerely as I turn away from the decomposing auld bag of fetid garbage soas that she doesn’t catch me snorting in exasperation. Fucking auld spastic.
You can kiss ma bacon-flav
oured po-leese ass muthafuckah.
Her problem is that she’s been too long without a good fuckin knobbin. That always distorts a woman’s perspective. Social Services should pay some ay they bored young studs oan the dole a wee allowance tae go roond and gie these auld cunts a good fuckin seein tae. Then they wouldnae be such a drain on resources wi thir phoney illnesses. Every time I go to see my doctor about my rash and my anxiety attacks, there’s always loads of the auld cunts holding me back with their trivial complaints.
In the car I produce the paperweight. – Worth fuck all, totally u.s.
– Tight auld cunt, Ray sneers, taking the wheel, then he shouts at a guy who pulls out in front of us, – Fuckin spastic!
– Cunts on the road these days . . . I muse, still looking at the dotty old boot’s useless paperweight.
– I should follow that cunt . . . get his fuckin number, run a check on him . . . Ray spits, then he suddenly laughs and says: – Fuck his erse. All set for the Dam? You were saying you had booked up.
– Too right I am. Me and my mate Bladesey. You ken Bladesey? Wee cunt fae the craft. Civil Servant. Registrar General for Scotland’s Office. Took pity oan the wee fucker cause he’s no goat any mates.
– I think so. Wee joker wi specs? Really thick lenses?
– That’s the boy.
– I had a good crack wi that cunt once. No a bad wee guy . . . for an English cunt.
– Aye, we’re booked up: now Toalie’s trying to play the fuckin toss-bag. He’s got the shits about this coon that’s been topped. Trying to suspend all leave. Personnel are sticking a note round today.
– Fuckin spastics.