Filth

Wheels Of Steel

Back doon at HQ everyone in the canteen’s gaun fuckin spare about the holiday memo. I say nothing. Best to play it cool and let their anger ferment for a bit. Of course, they’re all looking to me, as Fed rep, for a bit of leadership but I’ve got to keep my nose clean as there’s the new D.I. post which is coming up soon in the departmental reorganisation. No way would I put my neck on the line for any spastic in this place, although I obviously keep them thinking otherwise.

Toal’s shiting it about this departmental reorganisation. I don’t know why, he should be well used to it by now. They have one here every six months, and every one they undertake fucks things up even worse than before. So they set up a working party and they go away for ages and when they come back they recommend yet another departmental reorganisation. The best thing aboot this yin is that it puts our good friend Mister Toal on shaky ground as when I get this promotion I’ll be on the same grade as him. It’s a promotion I should have had long ago but for their stupid fucking rules and Carole’s idiocy.

But he’s on a wee run right now, is Toalie. He’s got us all in for another fuckin briefing, and this new civvy blonde piece is handing oot the notes. I get a waft of her perfume. I give Clell the eye and he nods back in shared acknowledgement of the fact that the blonde piece looks some ride. Ah’d say mid-thirties, body still firm, but jist startin tae git that heavier wey that I like. Well worth one.

Toal’s slavering on about this journalist coon that got topped and his diplomat father, but I can’t hear a fuckin word of it cause the blonde piece is standing in a light which makes her top look almost see-through and these jugs are fuckin well prominent. Ya cunt ye. Gie ye a fuckin migraine, thon. Thankfully Toal’s briefing is short, so I get downstairs for a coffee and a sausage roll.

I force myself to look through the copies of the file that Toal’s opened up on the topped silvery. They now have a positive identification: a Mister Efan Wurie. His father is the ambassador for Ghana. He was staying at the Kilmuir Hotel on the South Side. He only checked in a couple of days ago.

A couple of days ago . . .

That means

Shouldnae fuckin well be here.

He should not

A journalist. A diplomat’s son and a journalist. That wisnae

Shouldnae have been here in the first place

What sort of a journalist was he?

Only on some commie nigger mag that no cunt reads. Fitba fuckin fanzine journalism.

There’s little of note in the file otherwise, so I place a call to the Lothian Forum on Coon Rights, or whatever they call them. Maybe he was up here to meet an Edinburgh darkie. It’s engaged. I’m absolutely Aylesbury’ed, so I decide to knock off early, taking the motor out to my pal Hector The Farmer’s, who’s got some good video tapes.

I’m tearing out of town in the Volvo, the Michael Schenker Band giving it big licks. I’m always indebted to them for saving a crap Reading Festival I once went to. Before we know it, there it stands in front of me: Hector’s House.

Hector crushes my hand in a masonic grip, his alcohol-flushed face beaming at me. –Got time to come for a dram, he asks.

– Sorry mate, I’m on a murder investigation. Some daft nigger’s only gone and got himself topped. Still, there’s big OT possibilities. Got the goods?

– Aye, Hector smiles and produces a Tesco’s bag with two VHS format video tapes in it.

We arrange to meet at the Lodge later that week and I speed off homewards, a strong jab in my shiny flannels every time I pass a piece of quality fanny.

That night I’m home, home alone, although that’s my business, not Ray Lennox’s or any cunt else’s. I’ve got a large slice of gala pie for my tea. I put it into the microwave and watch the movie I got from Hector. Two hoors are having a good licking and frigging session and the black studs are just about to come and join them . . . no . . . I switch it off. I don’t want any black studs. I put on another tape featuring two lesbians and a milkman.

I bite into the gala pie and my teeth ache and send a spasm through my body. The fuckin thing’s still frozen in the middle. I eat it anyway. The video is okay but I start to feel uneasy as a fluttering rises and intensifies in my chest. The room looks gaudy with too many rough edges. I go to the kitchen and pour out a large measure of reassuring whisky. I take the bottle with me into the front room. Another glass and the unease passes. I’m not thinking about work. I’m here, at home.

I stay up and sleep in the rocking chair after having had a few nippy sweeties. I’m half-dozing and half-awake, thinking of Carole. She’ll be back soon. She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.

After a while my guts really begin to ache badly and I’m sweating. I sit writhing in the chair as it rocks in a sickening rhythm but I can’t go to bed, not until it gets light. I think I’m going to throw up. I keep it down, trying to breathe in slowly. The thick, stagnant alcohol sweat. My fuckin guts. It’ll be from that gala pie. I’ve a good mind to report the deli spastics to the environmental health, no that those fuckers are any use.

After a bit it thankfully eases off as sleep takes me away.

with my guts rumbling away. It’s darkness and I’m in bed. I don’t remember going to bed. This is unusual for me. I sense the space beside me and I grab at her dressing gown and hold it tightly. It still has her smell. I’d let it go in the night and I had the bad dreams as a result. I’ve also been inadvertently clawing at my balls because they are nipping something terrible.

My head feels broken and weak, like it’s been smashed open and its contents spilt all over the pillow. Despite this, the tendons of my neck feel yanked to their tensile limit, seemingly unable to support its dead weight. The first sunlight is filtering insipidly through the blinds making the room look washed out and blurry.

With some effort, I get up and wash and go to have a close shave but I’ve ran out of blades and scratch the worn one over my face. I decide against the car and head for the bus stop with a strange mixture of liberation and despair, realising that it’s only ten-twenty a.m. and I’ve already decided I’m going to be out drinking tonight.

My stomach is still upset and the stink of bodies on the bus seems overpowering. Too many schemies. Can they not have a bus which runs from Colinton into the city centre without having to pass through Oxgangs? When I alight a jakey holds out a hopeful grubby hand. I shake it and tell the cunt that Jesus loves him. He looks bemused as I move away and I’m doon the road by the time the growls start. If it wasn’t coming up to the season of goodwill I’d’ve gone back and had the cunt pinched.

I go to the newsagent and buy a Sun. I also look at the pornographic magazines on the top shelf. I make no apologies for this; the job is one in which it’s dangerous to think too much, so the best thing is to channel your energy into something that’s the easiest to think about but which does you no harm. For most of us sex fits the bill nicely.

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!

I switch that shite off and put in a tape, Saxon’s debut album Wheels of Steel, and for many their best. I’m more into Denim and Leather though. I watch Gus’s rubber puppet-face twist in distaste as the boys crank up.

– What a din Bruce! Dinnae ken how ye can listen to that!

– It’s white man’s soul music Gus. We came, conquered and enslaved, I explain.

We get back about an hour later when who should come down into the office but Toal. We agreed two hours; he’s fucking up my crossword time, the helium-filled wank-bag. Toal doonstairs. Toal, here! We are privileged! Normally that spastic never leaves his desk. I never knew the cunt had legs until I saw him one night in the foyer of the King’s Theatre when I was taking the wee yin tae the panto. There’s that cunt Toal just standing there, and he fuckin cold-shouldered me. I mind the bairn asking who he was and me saying, that’s one of the bad men I put away once doll. She frowned at the shit-bag after that!

– Robbo . . . in here, he points to the interview room and shuts the door behind us. – Listen, keep this under your hat, but as you know things are pretty stretched around here, particularly until we get the new D.I. post filled in the reorganisation in the New Year.

My post. But listen tae Toal; making out that he wants one of us on the same grade as him, when he does nothing. Anyway, as things stand I should be on a much higher grade than that imbecile. I would have as well if Carole hadn’t made us fuck off to go to Australia for six bastarding years.

– What I want you to do, in effect, is to lead up the team on the Wurie case. I’ll be around to oversee, but I’m pretty much tied up with this reorganisation bollocks. I got a note from Busby, he’s going to be off for some time yet. I don’t know how they expect me to run this division with an inspector short. Anyway, mind and keep me posted. I want this cracked sharpish.

The toss is trying to butter me up because he thinks that if he makes me responsible for this case then I won’t want to take my break in the Dam. Fuck his memo; I’ll kick up a stink through the Federation and the craft if I have to. Same rules apply. I then have to listen to his smarm about how good an officer I am, and I suppose it’s true.

I want that fuckin promo awright, that inspectorship. It’s mine, my entitlement, in terms of experience. Any cunt in the service’ll tell you that. Fuck me, I couldn’t be any worse than the last waster they made up; nobody could. Busby, suffering from so-called stress. He’s never away fae the fuckin gowf course. No bad for some, he’s goat the welfare spastics twisted roond his finger. I’d gie the useless farting cunt his jotters, then we’d have two inspectorships up for grabs in the division, and it wouldnae cause as much of an atmosphere wi the boys in the cannie. But me: eight wasted years. What did they think I was daein in Sydney aw that time? Playin fuckin tiddly-winks? Counts for nowt, overseas service, under their stupid rules. And cause of her, her that doesn’t know her own mind. Edinburgh Carole: ah want tae be oot thair beside ma mother. Sydney Carole: ah cannae settle, ah miss ma sister. Her sister: the only thing I missed aboot her sister was gettin my hole off her.

– I decided that with your homicide experience, Toal confirms, – you were the man to lead the team. Effectively then, you’ll be acting inspector. We can’t do anything about the remuneration, but if you get a result here it’ll stand you in good stead, for eh . . . the future. You’ll have Inglis, Bain and Drummond on the team, with uniformed officer support.

I detest Toal, but he knows his job. You have to give the cunt that. He slaps me on the arm and I just nod. We leave the room. – It’s settled then Bruce, he smiles.

In the short time it takes to exit thon interview room and stick on the kettle, I realise that the cunt’s almost got away with his flattery bullshit. Toal kens fuck all aboot the job. Promotion or no promotion, I’m offski tae the Dam.

I note that Amanda Drummond’s been hanging around, making out she’s talking to Gus, but really waiting to pounce on Toal. She comes over. – Excuse me Bob, can I have a quick word?

Bob, is it now?

– Sure, Toal says, then turns back to me, – Mind Bruce, what I said.

– Aye, I mumble. I move across to Gus, watching Toal’s chunky frame and Drummond’s matchstick body recede down the corridor. Fuckin Laurel n Hardy right enough. – If he thinks I’m busting a gut about solving this case, he’s fuckin mad, I tell Gus.

– The way I see it, this is aw politics, Gus shakes his heid wearily. I like Gus. He looks like a Jim Henson puppet and he’s yesterday’s man, but I like him. I can afford tae like the cunt. He’s in for the promo as well though. The odds against him? Too high to calculate.

– Damn fuckin right it is. I give up my winter’s week in the Dam, which the cunt knows I have every year at this time, just soas I can find out who topped this coon and get brownie points for a certain Mister Toal? I do look sweet. I look very fucking sweet indeed. No thank you Mr Toal. No thank you Mr Niddrie.

– He’s goat us ower a barrel though Bruce. That inspector’s post fae the reorganisation.

– That’s nowt tae dae wi it! I snap too loudly at Gus, who looks fretful. I’ll have to watch this temper. I backpedal, – He’s goat fuck all tae dae wi whae gits that. You think Niddrie or any ay the cunts on the promotion board’ll listen tae that tube? What does he ken? He kens fuckin nowt! Sum total: the big fuckin zero, I tap my head.

I leave Gus to think about that. The auld cunt really thinks that he’s gaunny get the job. Wrong! Saw-ree! He got too soon old and too late smart. I get on with my crossword in the Sun.

ACROSS DOWN 1Spider’s trap (6) 1Happen (4,5) 4Recontinue (6) 2Trifle, pinball (9) 7Three Wise Men (4) 3Muscle (5) 8Obvious (8) 4Cables (5) 9Stain (7) 5Certain (4) 12Shilling (3) 6Troplcal fruit (5) 14Lubrication applier (6) 10Respond (5) 15Shut (6) 11Greeting (5) 16Definite article (3) 12Onlooker (9) 18Lottery (7) 13Gradually (2,7) 22Dark-haired girl (8) 17Crowd (5) 23Inactive (4) 19In the ascendancy (2,3) 24Made fun of (4,2) 20Sheep cry (5) 25Zodiac sign, the Bull (6) 21Fastening (4)

Nope, it’s not coming today. I turn back to page three.

– Hi Bruce, Gus says, passing over a bag of Crawford’s chips to Peter Inglis, – want tae hear yir stars?

– Aye, awright then. He’s distracted me from Alicia from Hull. Fuckin built, that yin.

– What are you?

– Taurus.

– Right: ‘You’ve bitten off more than you can chew and you are having to muddle through as a result . . .’

– That’s fuckin right enough! And we all know whose fault that is! I point at the ceiling.

–‘. . . Not to worry – this week’s solar eclipse should have cleared away some of the uncertainty surrounding your future . . .’

Ray Lennox has just come in: – Sounds like promotion Bruce, he laughs.

– ‘. . . After that, you’re more inclined to relax and enjoy yourself.’ Whoah-ho! The winter’s week, Peter takes over.

– That must be Amsterdam they’re talkin about! I rub my hands together, just as the big blonde piece comes in. She’s passing roond some notes.

The mild elation doesnae last long. A fuckin memo fae Niddrie.

INTERNAL MEMO From : Chief Superintendent James Niddrie To : All Divisional Inspectors (see attached mailing list) Re : Racism Awareness Training Modules As you will be aware, concern has been expressed regarding the handling of racial issues within the Department. Senior Management has been aware of this for some time, but following on from recent criticisms it has been decided that all staff will undertake Racism Awareness Training modules, run by our Personnel and Equal Opportunities staff. Priority will be given initially to senior staff and all officers involved in cases deemed to be racially sensitive. This course will be run by Amanda Drummond and Marianne San Yung.

I can’t believe this. Toal and Drummond. I was up there this morning and fuck all was said to me. Me, who’s supposed to be the number two man on this investigation, which, as Toal’s formally heading it, means number one. This is back-of-a-fag-packet thinking. She went behind my fuckin back wi another one ay her coon erse-licking Girl Guide projects.

– Waste ay fuckin time! Peter Inglis moans, looking over at me.

– See who’s fuckin runnin it n aw, I say, – that fuckin silly wee lassie! What the fuck does she ken aboot polis work? I look at Ray Lennox. He’s been sniffin aroond that daft wee tart. He looks a bit guilty and tries to change the subject. – Dinnae ken how we’re gaunny solve this murder case if we’re aw gaunny be oan a course, he shrugs.

– Bloody nonsense, Gus agrees. The boys are not amused about this. They’re looking to me as Fed rep to take the lead. – What dae ye reckon Bruce?

– I think we should just go along with it. As you said Ray, I turn to Lennox, – we’re no gaunny solve this case sitting talking tae silly wee lassies, but that’s their decision, I shrug.

– Toal just wants tae look good wi aw they cunts on the police board, aw they forum bastards, Peter Inglis complains. Too thin for a polisman over thirty is Inglis. Fuckin Aids victim if ye ask me.

– I’d play it cool, just gie the cunts enough rope tae hing thirsels wi, I nod.

Later on I bell my wee Civil Service mate Bladesey and tell him to meet us later up at the Lodge. Then I nip out to Crawford’s for an egg roll. It’s fucking well freezing out here, although the cold can’t block out the acrid Dame Judi Dench which rises up from my flannels. I’ll have to get them dry-cleaned. I open my overcoat and flap it to see if the ming is as steadily rancid as I imagine it to be, but it only comes in the odd wafting wave. Those flannels are good for a couple of days yet.

I see a dog-eared envelope protruding from the top inside pocket of my coat. It’s the letter to Tony from Chelmsford that I’ve had in my pocket for a month. Could do wi getting doon there again for a bit of rumpy-pumpy, maybe in the New Year. I’m thinking about that Diana cow and her big bare arse sticking in my face and my flannels again stretch and that familiar bulge is once more in evidence. I button up my overcoat as some women come past. Sorry girls, you don’t get a flash of quality meat like this without putting the readies on the table. That Diana, she’s fuckin well getting it again though; I can’t wait to get back down there. It’s those wee breks that keep ye going. Without them all you have is the job. And the games.

At Crawford’s they’ve ran out of scrambled egg. It’s probably been nicked by the hard-hatted schemies who should be daein their fuckin jobs rather than fartin aboot in takeaways all day. A waste of fucking police time.