Filth (12 page)

– Aye, I’m sure I’ve seen ye, she repeats.

– Well as you were in here the other day being questioned by me, that’s highly likely, I sniff.

– Naw, before but, she says.

– I’m sure I’d’ve remembered, a lovely young lady like yourself.

I hear Drummond’s front teeth smacking off her lips. Spotted! Imitation Toal gesture! Her fuckin mentor. No wonder she’s such a fuck-up! She puts some pictures in front of the lassies, two puss-bags known as Setterington and Gorman amongst them. – Did you see any of those men at the club?

They look fazed, especially Sylvia. I’d gie her one in a minute as well. Looks a natural blonde. Talk to Brucie baby.

– Naw, she says, too quickly. Even Drummond notices this.

– Do you know these men? she asks.

They’re too intelligent to lie. – Know of them, seen them aboot, Estelle replies.

– Who are they?

– Dunno, just guys that hing about the clubs n that, Estelle says. She’s much tougher, that one. A seasoned casual moll if ever there wis one. Those lipstick marks around that fag . . .

– So you don’t know their names? Drummond probes. Ah’ll fuckin probe awright: probe wi some prime Scottish beef.

– Nuht.

– Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about that night? Drummond’s asking.

Estelle looks at Sylvia, then at Drummond. I’m being ignored here, ignored by slags, and I do not like it one little bit. I drum at the desk, but I still might as well be invisible. Estelle starts mouthing: – There was a funny woman in the club. It’s probably nowt, but she just looked a bit weird. She was talking to the coloured boy for a bit, but he pulled away fae her, like they were having an argument. I mind because I saw her earlier in the toilets, she was putting on her make-up next to me.

– What was strange about her, Drummond’s asking. I don’t fuckin well like those fluorescent lights. All that seventies shite. Can we no get a fuckin decent office . . .

. . . the Met . . .

. . . Sydney polis . . . a decent office . . .

But that wis New South Wales.

– I dunno . . .

No you fuckin well don’t know, that’s the fuckin problem you daft wee schemie trollope, you know fuckin nothing, nothing at all . . .

– Was she young, old, big, small, dark, fair . . .

Ma heid’s fuckin well splitting and I’m gonnae start shaking here . . .

– She was a bit of a dog, Estelle says.

I’m wasting my fuckin time with those slags. They ken nowt. That silly wee Roger Moore Drummond should realise that. Same rules apply. Polis? Her? That will be the day. I rise and leave.

Drummond follows me out of the interview room. – Bruce, we need . . .

– Yes, I raise my voice to silence her, – we need to follow this up but I’ve something
I
need to follow up and I’m running late . . .

– Is there something I should know? Drummond’s irritated look is chilling me out. She’s as fucked off as I am. The only thing I can think of that
she
should know is the obvious one: she’s never fuckin polis.

Moving backwards I point at her and smile, – We do need to talk Mandy my darling. Later though. I’ll give you a thorough briefing. Ciao.

I leave the flustered dyke farting and shiting in the corridor and head up to Ray’s office in the D.S.

When I get up to D.S., Clell’s there with a bottle of champagne and he’s pouring it into paper cups. He hands me one.

– What’s the celebration?

– I got my best ever Christmas present Bruce, a transfer from Serious Crimes to Traffic.

Anticipating what I’m going to say he carries on, –Yes, I’ll be a pen-pusher in a dull, no-risk, no-fun job . . . and I can’t wait! I’ve had it Bruce. I’ll leave the Sweeney-type stuff to you cowboys! I’m hanging up my baton and cuffs and getting to know the simple beauty of this little felly here, he smiles, holding up a pen.

– If that’s what you want, nice one, I say, raising my cup and loathing the smugness of the spastic. I drain it, and turn to Lennox. – Ready Ray?

– Cool, Lennox says.

I get a raging anxiety attack. I’ve got to get out of this place now. I’m bounding downstairs and out towards the car park and Ray has to get a bend on to keep up.

I Get A Little Sentimental Over You

I’m happier by the time we’ve started up the motor. Just getting out of that shithoose restores your perspective. We take a slow drive down Leith Walk. I’ve got the radio on, as I’m reluctant to start an argument with Ray over rock. He’s a pedantic fucker when it comes to music and he kens nowt about it. Lyn Paul, formerly of the New Seekers is singing ‘I Get A Little Sentimental Over You’. Lyn’s solo career never really took off. I think about mentioning this to Ray but decide that it would be pointless. I mean, why bother? I’m feeling better though, more focused. My anxiety attack has abated, as it tends to do when the scent of the hunt takes over.

We pull up outside Ocky’s flat and I get out and ring the bell. No reply. I hope we’ve no missed him with Drummond and her dykey casual moll pals wasting our time. We go back into the car and wait for a bit. There’s a baker’s on the corner, so Ray nips over and comes back with some sausage rolls with vanilla slices for dessert, washed down by strong coffee in a styrofoam cup. It gets rid of the taste of Clell’s cheap champers which merged with the bi-carb of Lennox’s pills to form a corrosive, acrid bilge in my gut. I burp.

– Looks like we’ve got those jakeys in that new age crowd bang to rights Robbo. That fucking Sunrise Community, or whatever they call themselves, Ray’s telling me.

– Fuckin well time n aw Ray. These things are springing up everywhere. It’s a threat to the great British way of life and it has to be stopped before it gets a toehold. Cunts think they can live just by looking after each other and dancing to fuckin music. They just want to hypnotise the young cunts with these free parties and get them on drugs. They havenae even got a fuckin telly in that farmhoose. They can afford a huge fuckin sound system, but they cannae afford a telly!

– Scumbags, Lennox shakes his head.

– Mind you, I admit, – they made a good job of doing it up. It was derelict before they got it. I’ll need tae git the cunts roond tae dae up ma hoose!

– It’ll be fuckin well derelict again soon. One of the guys that lives there, that Colin Moss, white, male, six-one, thin, filthy brown-blonde dreads, bad skin, green combat jacket, ripped jeans and boots; he’s been seen coming in and out the flats in Leith. Where Allan and Richards live. We’ll do the cunts. Turn over the flat, then the farmhoose. If there isnae any collies there when we arrive, there will be when we turn the place over.

– Tip me off when the action takes place Ray, I tell him. – I’d like to be in on that one.

The job
can
be satisfying.

I’ve just downed the last of my coffee when I clock Ocky in the rear mirror, he’s coming towards the flat with a wee bird. They’re wrapped up in each other. Dirty wee cunt. Mister Ockenden is sporting a fur-lined, dark blue corduroy jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He’s about five-ten, five-eleven with striking blond hair and slightly girlish features. His girlfriend is a cracker, slim, five-sixish and exactly the same sort of blonde as him. You could take them for brother and sister. In fact ah widnae put it past that dirty wee cunt tae be shagging his sister!

– Tidy wee piece, Ray says, noting the scene. All that posh he does still hasn’t strung him out or blunted his edge. Yet.

– Wee being the operative word. This is a stoat-the-baw situ. Ye reckon?

Ray looks at her, narrowing his eyes and curling his lip outwards. – Always hard tae tell. Curvy wee erse . . . he observes as they pass us.

– Never mind the fuckin erse, did ye clock her coupon? A wee fuckin bairn!

– Possible, Ray agrees, – A borderline case. There or thereaboots.

– Nae question. Forty sheets at five tae one, I’d gie ye.

Lennox shrugs and starts tae crap his breeks.

– C’mon Ray, double score. Five tae one, I urge.

– Naw, mibbee yir right, he concedes.

Too right I am. When it comes tae money doon, he’s no bottle. Doesn’t trust his instincts, that’s why, as smart as he may be, the Lennoxes of this world will never oust the Robertsons.

– What dae ye want tae dae? he asks.

– Steam in Ray, I tell him. – Just what these cunts dae. Only nae cunt steams in like the polis. We’re the hardest firm in this toon, and it’s time these scumbags realised it.

– We have to watch here Robbo . . . Ray’s bricking it.

– Baws. Same rules apply. C’mon. We use The Beast routine, that’ll spook the cunt.

I know The Beast routine off by heart. I should fuckin know it.

– Aye . . . Ray raises his eyebrows doubtfully but he’s getting out of the car with me, and by the time he hits the stair, he’s aw fired up, bouncing with adrenalin, taking these steps three at a time, almost squashing a stunned cat which jumps out from under his feet. It’s knocking on this old cat, getting slow. The stair fairly reeks of its pish.

We halt outside the door to get our puff back. – Reckon he’ll be giving it one by now? I ask.

– I would think so. They were practically gaun for it gaun intae the fuckin stair. Lennox looks at me and then hesitates: – . . . Want a line?

– Right, I nod, looking around as Ray puts some posh on the corner of his credit card and takes a rough hit up that hooter.

I look a bit doubtful, not wanting my nose cavities fucked by roughage. – It’s okay, this is good. It’s as fine as fuck, Ray says, his eyes watering as he sniffs and sniffs.

I take a whack, and it is good stuff; that sweet smell in my head, my face numbing, a surge of power flowing through me. Time for action.

I rap heavily on the door. Once, twice, three times. I hear a whingy voice, – Awright, awright! Ah’m comin.

Ocky, aka Brian Ockenden, aka soft little twat with a gob who got in too deep, opens the door in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. His mouth and eyes widen in shock.

– Mister Ockenden. Hello, I smile pushing past him into the hallway.

– You cannae come in . . .

– SHUT THE FUCK UP! Ray screams in his face, causing him to recoil. Lennox’s puffed himself up and he’s standing right over Ocky who’s aw cowed and bent. – You fuckin well speak when you are spoken to or I’ll fuckin well have you right now! Get it!

This wretched wee cunt looks at him, trying to summon up a bit of defiance.

– I ASKED DO YOU FUCKIN GET IT! Ray roars, and Ocky buckles a little bit more.

– Aye . . . cool it man, ah’ve no done nowt . . . he whimpers.

– You’re in serious bother mate, Ray says, closing the door and shaking his head in disgust.

– Cool it Ray, I say, putting a protective arm around Ocky’s shoulder. – Stay here a minute. Where’s the bedroom? I whisper.

– It’s . . . he looks sideways, – . . . but thir’s somebody in thair . . .

– It’s awright, I tell him with a matey grin. I open the bedroom door, and the lassie’s sitting up in the bed with her t-shirt on. I go in, shutting the door behind me.

– What’s this? she asks. – Who are you?

– Police, I say, whipping out my ID – Do not attempt to leave this room. Do you understand? What is your name?

– I don’t have to say anything to you . . .

She’s a wee honey. Still got those fetching freckles. – Make it easy on yourself hen, I advise, then with urgency ask, – How old are you?

– Sixteen, she says, lying.

– Any ID? I look towards a shoulder bag on the bedside locker.

Her cool’s blown. Her eyes are like the satellite dishes on Tom Stronach’s ootside wall. – Fifteen . . . but I’ll be sixteen in September, she says hastily. Too hastily. Too quick to admit it. I wonder why she doesnae want me in that bag.

– Your boyfriend’s broken the law if he’s had intercourse with you. Has he? I ask, moving closer to get a wee scan of those titties under that T. Not large, but certainly firm enough. Yo ho ho and a barrel full of fun.

She moves back against the headboard a little and pulls the duvet up over her chest. The colour fairly drains from her face though, as I reach over and grab the bag, pouring its contents out on to the bed. This unearths a small plastic bag with what is obviously Ecstasy tablets in them.

– I . . . I didn’t . . . she’s stammering. She’s lost it now.

– D.S. Lennox! I shout, and Ray comes through. I hold the bag of pills up to him. – Looks like MDMA tablets to me. Note that they were found on this girl’s person. At least six hundred milligrams. Please also note that this girl is under the legal age of consent.

– Check, Ray says, exiting.

– You stay here, I say pocketing the pills. – You’re in very serious trouble. What did you say your name was?

– Stephanie . . . she says sheepishly, hugging her knees up into her chest and letting her chin rest on them. Her hair tumbles forward. She pulls one side back and secures it behind her ear.