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sister-in-law again, eh Ray! I laugh. Ray looks embarrassed. He hates tae be reminded of the time we both rode that cow. Every cunt has their Achilles’ heel, and I always make a point of remembering my associates’ ones. Something that crushes their self-image to a pulp. Yes, it’s all stored for future reference.

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