The McDead

Who shot TL?

The suspects were:

Brant

Roberts

Tina Logan

gang rival(s).

Brant and Roberts had received a bollocking from the Super and he let them know they were high on the suspect list. Now, over coffee, Brant said, ‘Well, guv, I know I didn’t shoot him, did you?’

‘No … but I’m shedding no tears.’

‘Who do you think?’

‘I strongly suspect you.’

Brant laughed. ‘What about Tina, his wife?’

‘She could have got somebody to do it. Who’d blame her. He sure needed shooting.’

Brant stretched, said, ‘It was a great party, I really enjoyed it.’

‘God forbid you shouldn’t be happy.’

The desk sergeant appeared, said, ‘Brant, there’s a call for you, a Paul Johnson.’

‘I’m not here.’

‘He says it’s urgent.’

‘Tough.’

The sergeant went away muttering.

Roberts asked, ‘Who’s Paul Johnson?’

‘My ex-wife’s husband.’

‘Oh!’

‘Oh is bloody right.’

McDonald was in the Super’s office. No Masonic hand-shit this trip. It was ball-busting and vehement.

The Super said, ‘For heaven’s sake, you were on the door and you didn’t see the shooter?’

‘It was pandemonium, sir. People were panicked and stampeding. Plus, there’s a fire escape leading from the projection booth to the street.’

‘The papers are having a field day. We’ve got to find the shooter and fast.’

McDonald had thought it over and decided to go for broke, said, ‘I think I know who it is.’

‘What? Spit it out man.’

‘DS Brant, sir.’

The Super’s eyes bulged.

‘Are you mad?’

‘Sir, he’d do anything for DI Roberts. He was there and he is without conscience. It has to be him.’

‘Can you prove it.’

‘I will, sir. I guarantee it.’

Now he was way out on a limb. If he was wrong, he’d be out on his ass.

The Super said, ‘OK, keep it under your hat. I don’t need to spell it out if you’re right or if Brant gets wind of your claim.’

‘I’ll be discreet, sir.’

‘You better be.’

Outside the office, McDonald wiped his brow. Sarah was coming along the corridor, asked, ‘Are we set for this evening?’

‘What?’

‘My place, I’m cooking dinner for you.’

‘Oh yeah … right … sure.’

He thought ‘a leg over’ was exactly what he needed. Calm him down and let him focus on frying Brant’s ass.

Falls was in the canteen, listening to the various stories on the party. People were poring over the tabloids. Falls asked, ‘Can I see the paper?’

One came sailing over to land on the table. The front page had a large photo of Tommy Logan, stretched on the stage. A man was bending over him and there was something about the tilt of his head. She muttered, ‘Oh no.’

She got up, ran from the canteen, the paper in her hand. Near collided with Roberts who said, ‘Whoa, where’s the fire?’

She pushed the paper at Roberts, cried, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Tommy Logan-the late Tommy Logan.’ She tried to control her hysteria, said, ‘Not him, the other one.’

‘That’s Mick Ryan, his lieutenant, the next in line.’

‘Ryan?’

‘Yes, do you know him.’

She gazed at the paper before answering, ‘No, no, I don’t know him at all.’

When McDonald knocked on Sarah’s door, he was carrying flowers and chocolates. On heat, he was anticipating the ride of his life. That she was a snotty little cow only fuelled his excitement. She opened the door, wearing a white silk kimono. Her breasts were tantalisingly on display. He moved inside, pushed her against the wall, began to grope. A few minutes and he’d have popped.

Pushing him away, she said, ‘Let’s whet our appetites.’

A glass of whiskey was already poured. She asked, ‘Is Glenfiddich OK?’

‘Aye, lass.’

Truth to tell, he’d never had it. So if it tasted a tad off, he wouldn’t know. Put mustiness down to quality.

‘You sit here.’ And she manoeuvred him into an armchair.

‘More?’ she asked, coming with the bottle. As he held out his glass, he had to loosen his shirt, said, ‘Jeez, it’s hot in here.’

She smiled, poured, said, ‘Animal heat.’

The room was tilting and he thought, ‘I’m legless, how can I be so pissed.’

As he sank back into the armchair, he tried to focus on Sarah but he was seeing double. Odd thing was, he could have sworn that half of Sarah was Falls. What? He closed his eyes.

The doctor said, ‘I don’t quite know how you managed it but your penis is super-glued to your testicles.’

McDonald didn’t know what to say. He wanted to howl. He’d come to in his car with a bastard of a headache. Nothing of the evening could he remember. Bursting for a piss, he found his dick wouldn’t budge. Thus the doctor and his absolute mortification.

He strongly suspected the doctor was smirking. Worse, he had a nurse who was outright laughing. The doctor said, ‘Here’s what we’ll do to … ahm … release you, but I won’t lie, it’s going to be painful.’

It was.

McDonald howled for all he was worth.