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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