Filth

At Home With The Blades

Bunty might be a tough nut to crack on the blower, but Bladesey’s told me that it’s all been getting to her. This is as it should be. Right now there’s a lump in my flannels and I feel charged up with a sense of my own power over her. It’s time I met up with this big hoor, as I promised Bladesey.

The snow’ll be starting up again soon. It’s going to fall heavily. You can feel it in the air. The decorations are up in the city and the lights are on. They finally buried the Wurie guy in London. There was a piece about it on last night’s television news; as expected, it was critical of the investigation. Fuck it, the coon’s well out the way underneath the earth and frost. The most important thing is that the roads are clearer, and I get out to Carrick Knowe in no time.

Bladesey’s shiteing his pants. Possibly with good reason. Bunty’s looking pretty severe, and he got in three sheets last night. I saw to that. She’s a big woman, a hefty woman, but press the right buttons and that big hoor would go off like an alarm clock for all her superior ways. I know the type. Same rules apply. She’s as straight as they come though; no knock-off in this Habitat/John Lewis furnished gaff. No tick, and not a smidgen of dust. Make a good polisman’s wife. Or fuck. About five-five, but eleven stone plus, on the voluptuous side of fat, black hair curled and twisted into ringlets a younger woman would wear (Bunty must be mid-thirties) and quite a bit of flash jewellery; necklace, earrings, bracelets which giving a tarty hint which is out of synch with her haughty tones.

The sum total of the particular equation that is Bunty adds up to: far too much woman for Bro. Clifford Blades. He’s nearly stammering: – This is Bruce, my friend I told you about. Eh actually, he’s the one I’m going to Scarborough for the masons’ beano with.

I try to stifle a laugh. Scarborough. Huh. Catch me in a pleb resort like that? I think not my sweet, sweet friend. – Pleased to meet you Bunty, I smile, extending my hand and letting a full, wholesome grip linger.

She returns my smile. – Bruce, isn’t it?

Yes it is, you meaty-thighed, big-titted whore. – Yes . . . I begin.

– Cliff’s told me all about you, she says, a fraction teasingly.

– Oh, nothing defamatory I hope . . . I turn to Bladesey, – for your solicitor’s sake, that is, I quip.

– Not at all. On the contrary, says this big tart with the huge earrings. Grab a hud of these and yank and she’d have tae go doon oan ye, nae choice, although her fanny might be like Murray field Ice Rink the minute ye did. But perhaps not, because this cow respects power. I ken the type. I snap into professional mode. – I understand how unsettling this must be for you Bunty. However, try not to worry unduly. I’ve dealt with creeps like this one before. Most of them, if you’ll pardon the expression, are all mouth and no trousers. Slamming the phone down only goes to show them that you’re frightened. They feed off that fear. Stay as cool as you can, and talk to them. That’s when they start tripping themselves up. Getting careless, running off at the mouth.

– Your officer said not to get into it with them, she says, slightly quizzically.

– Yeah, we generally tell our younger, less-experienced officers that. And yes, I find that works if you want them to stop. If you actually want to catch these bastards though, if you’ll pardon my French, you have to use different tactics.

– Oh, I want him caught, don’t you worry about that, Bunty says in an almost low growl, – I want him to suffer.

I feel my cock stiffen at the emphasis this big hoor puts on the word ‘suffer’. Phoa! – Well Bunty, I say, it comes out in a soft wheeze, – Ehmm, excuse me, bit of a throat, I cough, – The best thing you can do is offer a bit of self-disclosure.

– What do you mean by self-disclosure? she asks challengingly, sitting forward in her seat, pushing her long dark fringe out of her eyes. Yes, this big hoor would take some satisfying right enough, and I’d fuckin relish the challenge. Fuckin relish it, I kid you not.

– Tell him something about yourself. Play along. Turn up the heat. Up the stakes. That’s the way to do it. Don’t make up any nonsense, he’d probably be able to work it out. Just draw him in. That way you have control. He becomes the victim. Force him to confront his own need. Let the hunter become the hunted, so to speak.

Bunty’s nodding with grim enthusiasm and our gaze is locked upon each other. I can feel the electricity flashing between us. I hold it for a second, just until she starts to look slightly concerned, then I turn to Bladesey: – We’ll nail this creepy bastard Cliff. No danger, then I swivel back to her: – We’ll get him Bunty. Cliff, I say, not looking at him, – I want you to take special care of this lady, this very, very brave lady. Our eyes lock again and there’s a connecting laser beam of sexual energy shooting out from both our pupils.

– Oh I will, he says dutifully, and as I turn to face him, I can sense Bunty’s look of contempt at his assurance, but I don’t want to collude with it. Not yet.

– I feel so much happier now. Thank you so much Bruce, she smiles. The big cow stands up to move to the kitchen, allowing me an inspection of the goods. There’s plenty of buttock-meat in those black leggings and a pair of tits you could lose yourself in.

– Not at all, thank your good hubby here, my pal Cliff. Low friends in high places, what would we do without them, eh Bladesey boy?

– Very true Bruce, Bladesey tries to come over all sage, but only sounds insipid. I look out of the windae behind this wearying, unsubstantial figure and sure enough, the snow’s starting to fall.

I make my excuses and leave. It’s Saturday, but Hearts are away today, so I elect to go into the station and get some more OT on the board. Time and a half. Can’t be sniffed at. In fact, looking at my diary I see that I told the investigating team to be there for a briefing. I don’t know why. I think it was because I overheard Drummond saying to Karen Fulton that she planned to do her Christmas shopping today. Think again dykeface!