When I get home I take some sleeping pills and within what seemed like half an hour of unconsciousness it was Monday morning again.
Monday again. The phone drags me out of a stupefying sleep. It’s Gus. He wants to make an early start. Yes, he likes to keep the credits rolling during the winter so that he’s flush when the weather breaks and the gowf becomes a possibility.
There’s a few messages on the machine, from people who read the piece in the Mail. – It’s Chrissie. Congratulations Bruce, if you know what I mean. Phone me. Chrissie. – Well done Bruce . . . it must have been harrowing. Bladesey. – Bruce. Bob Toal. I’m sorry, but well done anyway. Toal. – I’m proud of you. Call me. Shirley. – Whatever happened to, all of the heroes, all the Shakespearoes . . . a coked-up Lennox sings.
I go to the toilet and give my hands another good wash and scrub in the sink. It’s hard to get all the shit off them. I give the black flannels a chance to air, and put on a fawn pair. There’s an old curry stain on them, but I manage to get most of it off, using Stacey’s facecloth.
Then I head outside, taking the ice-scraper to the Volvo’s windscreen. Julie Stronach’s visible in her front window, straining to put a bauble on the Christmas tree she’s just erected. Just erected? She can come next door and see if she can get mines up! I’m getting a good decko of those full tits in that tight, white t-shirt. She catches me staring so I give a neighbourly wave, and hold up the can of windscreen defroster in one hand and the scraper in the other and let my shoulders rise. Julie smiles with cautious empathy. I get in the motor, sticking on Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy, and head for HQ to rendezvous with Gus who’s just getting out of his own motor in the car park. I wave and he gets into my passenger seat. His nose is red with the cauld. – Well done Bruce. That must have been pretty terrible, Saturday likes, he says.
– Worse for the boy, I say.
We’re off down to Leith, sitting in the motor outside yon wee Estelle’s flower shop and who should come in but Gorman. It gets us off the subject of the boy that died. – I spy strangers, I smile at Gus.
Gus decides to nick into Crawford’s while I keep shoatie. – Two sausage rolls Gus, one buttered roll, a portion ay chips and a vanilla slice plus coffee.
I start thinking about that graffiti in the bogs last week.
He returns with the goodies and we sit waiting for Gorman to depart. – Thing is Gus, that Karen Fulton, she wis a game cow at the start. The force bike she wis called, doon at the South Side. These fuckin hoors are ey on aboot equality. How the fuck did she git oot ay uniform? Ah’ll tell ye how: shaggin fuckin Toal. Now she’s above aw that, in wi that lesbo crew in Personnel. Every time they drop thir drawers they git a promotion, every time we do, it’s a disciplinary. What fuckin equality is thir in that?
Gus laughs and goes, – Right enough Bruce.
This cunt’ll never get a promotion. You have to spell things oot tae him. – Ah’m no saying that ah’d like tae shag Toal mind you, some price tae pey for a promo that, I grin, – but the principle’s the same. Fulton now though, just look at her: snooty fuckin cow, willnae mix it wi the likes ay us. Senior cock only. Thir wis a time when ye only hud tae paint three stripes oan yir willie and she wis desperate tae pack it between her thighs.
– Yir an awfay man Bruce, Gus coughs in laughter. A good old boy, even if a bit slow. I suddenly get an uneasy feeling. That was a mistake mentioning both Fulton and Toal to Gus. He’s probably seen the graffiti in the bogs as well. I’ll be fuckin prime suspect now. Luckily Gus’s mind isnae sharp enough, even in the narrow, proscribed, polis wey.
I’ll hand it tae that cunt Ghostie Gorman. The fuckin evil little albino twat has the good grace tae leave twenty minutes later, after we’ve had our scran, and without any flooirs. – Never reckoned that cunt tae be the romantic type, I smile at Gus.
– Bingo, Gus says softly, veteran polis instincts tuned tae alertness. Aye, the auld boy might be slow, but he can smell prey. You never lose that.
This is what makes the job worthwhile, the scent of spastic schemie blood, even better if it comes in the shape of quality fanny. It’s like two comes with one stroke.
I wait for Gorman to get out of sight and then I go in and have a look at the flowers, the prettiest one of all the one behind the counter. – Hello Estelle, I smile at her. There’s an auld wifie in the shop as well. She looks challengingly at Estelle who’s lost some of her hard cow composure, the juice draining from the hoor’s tank slightly. The auld wifie raises her eyebrows and goes into the backshop.
– How’s business?
– Sawright, she says, brushing her hair back in a nervous gesture.
– Funny, jist saw a guy come oot the shoap empty-handed. Did ye no huv nowt in his line?
– Nuht . . . she says doubtfully, avoiding my eyes and making out that she’s tidying up.
– Whae wis eh?
– Dinnae ken, eh wis jist eftir a bouquet . . . changed ehs mind bit . . .
At this point, right oan cue, the wifie comes out and says, – If you’re gaunny spend ay day talkin tae yir boyfriends, dae it ootside the shop n ah’ll take it oaf’yir pey!
Estelle gets a beamer at this one. – Listen, I think we should have a wee blether. Crawford’s? Either that or ah haul ye doon the station now. Whit’s it tae be?
– Awright, she says, coming out with me and making a big thing of shivering in her overalls.
We head for Crawford’s, and I wink at Gus who’s still in the car. We sit down with coffee. I have another vanilla slice. – Can I treat you to one of these? I ask.
– Nuht, she says dismissively.
She sits down and lights a fag. – I’ve done nowt wrong, she tells me.
Aye, right.
– Wasting police time, withholding information, possibly harbouring a suspect. You fuckin well listen, I point at her, – It’s tell aye what ye ken, or you’re gaunny be up in court. It’s up tae you. If ye dinnae want tae be making soft toys in Cornton Vale fir the next year ah’d find that tongue if ah wis you hen, and ah widnae be takin ma time aboot daein it.
She’s bending a bit here. I can tell. She lowers her heid.
– You gaunny co-operate?
– Look, ah ken that guy, fae the clubs n that. They call um Ghostie. Eh wis one ay the guys youse showed ays the photae ay that time. Eh jist comes in sometimes, tae talk aboot the clubs n music n that.
– Jist a wee two-person musical appreciation society. That’s nice.
She lifts her head up and focuses on me in a tough stare. – It’s no like that. Thir’s loads ay people ah ken and half-ken that come in tae blether aboot what they’ve been up tae, in the clubs n that.
– So how often does this boy come in and see ye?
– Maybe once a fortnight . . . depends.
She’s a fuckin hard nut awright. – And he was at Jammy Joe’s oan the night of Mr Wurie’s murder?
– Ah dinnae ken . . . look, ah’m oot nearly every night. Ah dinnae mind who’s oot everywhaire and who isnae.
– Busy social life. They must pey ye well in that flooir shoap.
– That’s ma business, she says. This cow has recovered her composure quickly. A real hard case, but what a fuckin little doll n aw. She’s looking at me intently. – Ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhere . . . she says, almost accusingly.
– Ye soon will, ah’ll tell ye that for nothing. We’ll be watching you Estelle, you and your boyfriend.
– Ehs no ma boyfriend, she snaps.
– Hope no for your sake. Gaun, git back tae yir shop, ah nod to the door. She gets up and casts another glance at me before she leaves. This wide wee cow needs fuckin well sorted oot. Sorted oot good and proper. Nice erse on it, even through the overalls.
My genitals are hot and tingling, so I head to the café bog with my Sun and thrash off to Tara from Portsmouth, the image of Estelle’s receding arse complementing Tara’s smallish but solid tits. I spurt in double-quick time. I then give my sweaty hole a good rubbing with the bog paper and my arse a good clawing. I’m seeing Rossi in a bit, as no progress has been made with the fool’s creams.