us.
Equal Opportunities
It took me ages to get ready this morning because I couldnae think what to wear. It’s Carole’s fault; if she was going to shoot off, she could at least have arranged a fuckin laundry service before she went. I came close to just wrapping it and leaving it till the afternoon to go in. However, I discover a black pair of flannels which aren’t too bad once I’ve shaken out some of the dead skin cells.
I’m glad I made the effort though, because my wee girlfriends are in for questioning. I could fuckin well love this wee yin right doon tae her pores. Thir’s nothing better than a bird wi these wee lips that curl outwards, highlighted by plenty lip gloss. The classiest young fanny realise this: you can never overdo it on the lipstick and the mascara.
There’s a twitching in my flannel troosers and I take a deep breath in order to compose myself. Thank fuck I’m a professional and can rise above any other agenda. – So you didn’t see anyone behaving what might be termed suspiciously at the nightclub? I ask her. She’s a fuckin wee shag this lassie. Estelle, her name is.
– Nuht, she says distractedly. The wee cow’s mind’s on something else. Gus has her mate next door, I’d like to see how he gets on. I’m about to turn up the heat on this cocky wee slag when I remember that Amanda Drummond’s in the same room as us. She’s looking at me, and her nose is twitching. I ignore her. Then she says, – D.S. Robertson, can I have a word?
I leave the room, followed by Drummond. This fuckin case. We’re making no fucking headway. I’ve spent most of the morning interviewing some of the punters who were in the club, but very few people will admit to remember seeing Wurie leave. The doorman, that Mark Wilson fucker, I recognised that cunt straight away, and he must have minded of the boy but he’s no letting on. As wide as Leith Walk, that cunt. Those two lassies, Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson, I got a vibe off, but that was probably just because they were shags rather than because of any information they had. I’ll haul them in again later on. That wee Estelle. Phoah. Mind you, that Sylvia n aw. They can come back. They will come back. When Drummond’s oot the fuckin road.
We’re out in the corridor and there’s a couple of painters splashing cheap institution emulsion on the walls. One of them, I note, is eyeing Drummond’s shapeless, bony arse. – We should finish up here now Bruce. There’s this afternoon’s course, she reminds me. I avert my gaze from the painter to her. One thing I do like about her though: those protruding front teeth which could provide serious fun if they got under your foreskin. No that Drummond would have ever learned how to make best use of them.
– I was trying to forget about that, I tell her. Drummond turns her head away and focuses at some crack on the tiled floor. She’s developing a certain expertise in editing out bad news from the airwaves. Well, there will be fuckin plenty tae edit, I kid you not.
This fuckin daft course. As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss. But I have to comply and we dismiss the slags and head down the cannie with Gus for a shorter than usual lunch. The blonde piece is at the table opposite with another couple of civvy shags. I think about going over to say hello, but I see Drummond flapping around like a pelican and Gus and I decide that we won’t get any peace until we go up to her fuckin course.
– Ah dinnae see the point ay they modules. Waste ay fuckin time if ye ask me. Somebody’s probably murdering some poor cunt doon in Pilton, and we’re poncing aroond here wi some silly wee lassies, I say, during the coffee and enrolment.
– Gie them a chance Robbo, we’ve no even started yet, Clelland says. Clelland says.
Clell’s a wind-up merchant of the first degree. He’s a leathery alcoholic guy with short grey hair and a red face. Jowls like piss-flaps. There’s the desperate incubating stink of stale
Equal Opportunities
It took me ages to get ready this morning because I couldnae think what to wear. It’s Carole’s fault; if she was going to shoot off, she could at least have arranged a fuckin laundry service before she went. I came close to just wrapping it and leaving it till the afternoon to go in. However, I discover a black pair of flannels which aren’t too bad once I’ve shaken out some of the dead skin cells.
I’m glad I made the effort though, because my wee girlfriends are in for questioning. I could fuckin well love this wee yin right doon tae her pores. Thir’s nothing better than a bird wi these wee lips that curl outwards, highlighted by plenty lip gloss. The classiest young fanny realise this: you can never overdo it on the lipstick and the mascara.
There’s a twitching in my flannel troosers and I take a deep breath in order to compose myself. Thank fuck I’m a professional and can rise above any other agenda. – So you didn’t see anyone behaving what might be termed suspiciously at the nightclub? I ask her. She’s a fuckin wee shag this lassie. Estelle, her name is.
– Nuht, she says distractedly. The wee cow’s mind’s on something else. Gus has her mate next door, I’d like to see how he gets on. I’m about to turn up the heat on this cocky wee slag when I remember that Amanda Drummond’s in the same room as us. She’s looking at me, and her nose is twitching. I ignore her. Then she says, – D.S. Robertson, can I have a word?
I leave the room, followed by Drummond. This fuckin case. We’re making no fucking headway. I’ve spent most of the morning interviewing some of the punters who were in the club, but very few people will admit to remember seeing Wurie leave. The doorman, that Mark Wilson fucker, I recognised that cunt straight away, and he must have minded of the boy but he’s no letting on. As wide as Leith Walk, that cunt. Those two lassies, Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson, I got a vibe off, but that was probably just because they were shags rather than because of any information they had. I’ll haul them in again later on. That wee Estelle. Phoah. Mind you, that Sylvia n aw. They can come back. They will come back. When Drummond’s oot the fuckin road.
We’re out in the corridor and there’s a couple of painters splashing cheap institution emulsion on the walls. One of them, I note, is eyeing Drummond’s shapeless, bony arse. – We should finish up here now Bruce. There’s this afternoon’s course, she reminds me. I avert my gaze from the painter to her. One thing I do like about her though: those protruding front teeth which could provide serious fun if they got under your foreskin. No that Drummond would have ever learned how to make best use of them.
– I was trying to forget about that, I tell her. Drummond turns her head away and focuses at some crack on the tiled floor. She’s developing a certain expertise in editing out bad news from the airwaves. Well, there will be fuckin plenty tae edit, I kid you not.
This fuckin daft course. As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss. But I have to comply and we dismiss the slags and head down the cannie with Gus for a shorter than usual lunch. The blonde piece is at the table opposite with another couple of civvy shags. I think about going over to say hello, but I see Drummond flapping around like a pelican and Gus and I decide that we won’t get any peace until we go up to her fuckin course.
– Ah dinnae see the point ay they modules. Waste ay fuckin time if ye ask me. Somebody’s probably murdering some poor cunt doon in Pilton, and we’re poncing aroond here wi some silly wee lassies, I say, during the coffee and enrolment.
– Gie them a chance Robbo, we’ve no even started yet, Clelland says. Clelland says.
Clell’s a wind-up merchant of the first degree. He’s a leathery alcoholic guy with short grey hair and a red face. Jowls like piss-flaps. There’s the desperate incubating stink of stale
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