“Entirely
satisfied Detective, it sounds like we’re in for a good night. ‘Toner set you
up with all that gear or did you head down to Belfast?” the rasping voice chuckled.
“Aye
Shorty, ‘Toner’s going away for a while so he gave me a fair whack of his
stash. Can we go to your place? Mine’s a tip.”
Detective
Inspector James Short contemplated the request. Would he rather spend his night
in a cesspit of debauchery or turn his lovely home into a den of inequity? The
decision was difficult but inevitable.
“Sure
we’ll start off at yours. We’ll hardly know where we are come half nine, who
gives a shit what your gaff is like!”
“All right but I’m warning ya, it’s been a
state since Lyndsey left ma. Cant be arsed to do anything round here anymore.”
“Not to worry, you can tidy it up before I
get round. I’m leaving the office in 30 minutes so I’ll be with you before
eight!”
“Nice one.”
Terminating the call, Inspector Short began
to punch a new set of digits into his phone. He had just over an hour before he
needed to arrive at O’Callaghan’s, “plenty
of time”, to do his business and get another smash down well and truly underway.
“Straight
to voicemail again? Fuckin’ gip!”
Shorty had been trying to phone the number
for the best part of and hour with no success. As the latest in a series of
failed attempts came to an end he decided that enough was enough and a house
call was in order. He had been a patient man and, in his own humble opinion,
unquestionably more compassionate than his reputation suggested. Respect was
given where due, status earned, and in order to preserve his own he must now
act accordingly.
Locking his office door, and taking five
flights of sullen graffiti flecked stairs, with the intention of avoiding hoards
plebs and drooling imbeciles, took little to no time. This was undeniably a
chore he had endured many times before, always necessary, always vindicated,
always exhausting for a man of considerable size. In fairness, who actually knew
what anally retentive moron potentially lay in wait, desperately waiting for
the opportunity to strike with a budget update or pig swill designed in a
similar vein. Created and nurtured it
seemed with the sole intention of sucking the life and soul straight from his already
saturated body and replacing it with numbers, figures, charts and horseshit.
The fire escape, disarmed in advance,
resisted until a swift boot to the bottom left corner of one door allowed the
hinges to unleash their full potential and swing the blue streaked metal into
submission. Eyeing vigilantly the most direct route to a delightfully lustrous
Z4, James Short reached for his mobile once more. This time, however, he would
not so much as grace the plastic with his finger tips. Overwhelmed from the
rear, DI Short’s knees could only submit under the demand of skillfully applied
pressure from a claret stained baseball bat.
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