The self-indulgent cunt’s on one of his trips the day alright. Thinks that we’re a bunch of fuckin bairns tae be spooked by his bedtime stories.

– Now that twisting staircase which is the city’s umbilical cord connecting the Old Town with the New Town is one such place, he says, pausing dramatically.

Umbilical fuckin cord! It’s a fuckin stair you fucking clown. S-T-A-I-R. I know that spazwit’s crack; the bastard wants tae be a fuckin scriptwriter. I ken this because I got a sketch of what he had up on his VDU when he went to answer a private phone-call in the quiet anteroom from his office. He was trying to write a telly or film script or some shite. In police time as well. Lazy cunt’s got nowt better tae dae, and on his salary too. That shit-bag leads a charmed life, I kid you not.

– 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!