She is shouting something at you, Rog, as she cracks her whip instructions of some kind, demands of some kind, but because of the blood pumping in your ears (tinnitus still a problem, Rog?) you cant actually make them out
Whats she saying, Rog? Whats she?
OW!
That hurt!
OW!
That hurt!
My God just look at her, Rog, look at her! What an astonishing spectacle she creates! What Babylonian splendour! What brilliancy! What brazenness! What filth! What grandeur!
And what a figure she has, Rog! What curves! What lines! What definition! Check out those legs, Rog! Longer than Joey Bartons arrest record! And that stomach, Rog! That six-pack! Tight as the Popes prophylactic allowance! And lets not forget those buttocks, Rog; those fragrant buns! Harder than a pitbulls forehead!
Uh-oh
Hang on a second, Rog Somethings not quite right here. Somethings wrong. Just call it instinct, Rog, but somethings definitely amiss Whats that shes holding behind her back, Rog? What is it? A length of hose? A bat?! Well, whatever it is, one things for certain: this girl is VERY, VERY ANGRY, Rog! Shes absolutely LIVID! Shes SPITTING TACKS! She is FURIOUS, Rog! Her rage is absolute, its all-consuming, its DOWNRIGHT, BLOODY MAGNIFICENT! (No. No. Put your badge away, Rog! Youre embarrassing yourself, now. Get a grip on yourself, lad! That type of buttoned-up behaviour simply wont wash in this environment.)
Oh dear. Oh dear. Just a fraction too late, Rog. She saw the badge (worse still, she sensed the attitude) and she didnt like it, Rog. Not one bit. Her red lips are tangling into an ugly snarl. Her mean, green eyes are flashing and glinting like nasty slithers of candied angelica.
BEWARE, ROG!! NO SUDDEN MOVES, ROG! BACK OFF, ROG! TAKE CARE!!! Because this girl will eat you up and spit you out! Shell beat you to a pulp! Shell drip hot candle-wax into your nostrils and stamp her stiletto-heeled boot into your prodigious gut. Shell make you kneel and crawl and grovel, Rog. Shell make you fawn and cower and snivel. Shell make you ask nicely for every stupid little thing (Please, Miss, if you dont mind, Miss) and then refuse you, point-blank.
Shell make you wish you were never born, Rog! Shell make you bleat like a lamb! Shell dress you up in a nappy taunt you and tease you demand that you pee yourself, then slap you, red-raw, when you do. Shell make you greet and shudder and howl, Rog. I know she will, Rog, I know she will, because IVE ALREADY BEEN THERE, Rog! Ive bought the ticket, Rog! Ive taken the tour, Rog! Ive used all the facilities, Rog (and left them scrupulously clean, Rog, I can assure you)!
OH, ROG! HOW IVE SUFFERED AT HER HANDS! How Ive bucked and gasped and strained at her ungodly demands! Ive been her slave, Rog, her worm, her hack, her grub, her fag! Ive been her fool, Rog, her fool!
And how has she repaid me, Rog (for all my loyalty and patience, my stoicism and forbearance)? What has she deigned to give me in return, Rog? By way of fair exchange, Rog?
Nothing!
NOTHING, Rog!
Not a damn thing, Rog!
Look at me, Rog! Just look at me! My manhood is in shreds! My dignity is in tatters! My life is in chaos! My pride is in ruins! AND ALL FOR WHAT, ROG? FOR WHAT?!
Im no longer afraid to confess, Rog, that over the past few months this case this damnable case, this infernal case has pretty much taken all Ive had to give. Its squeezed me dry, Rog. Its drained me. Its very nearly had the best of me: fact.
Its been a heavy burden, Rog. Its been a heavier burden than at times it was possible for one, lone man (even a powerfully built man, well-preserved, with all his original features still intact) to bear. In truth (and in all humility, Rog), I sometimes thought this case might break me. At points I thought it had broken me. I was like a badly made, reproduction Staffordshire shepherdess (are you still collecting the Staffordshire figures, Rog?) after a bumpy ride down the A59 in the back of a stolen Ford Transit.
My paint once so pristine has been scuffed and chipped by this case, Rog. My shiny veneer has been irreparably clouded. At one point Ill openly admit I was even in imminent danger of losing my crook.
Oh yes, I was very nearly shattered by this case, Rog. I say again: very. nearly. shattered. by. this. case. Rog.
Thank heaven for Bostik.
My hands tremble a little as I write to you today, Rog I dont doubt that your well-trained eye has already detected the slight wobble (which is precisely why the force holds you in such high esteem, Rog, and a major reason why they decided to ship you lock, stock and barrel, at the very peak of your powers, without any kind of warning or consultation from the bustling, crime-ridden metropolis of Leeds, to the sedate, country town of Ilkley, where you now employ your prodigious portfolio of detective skills in overseeing school fetes, book fairs and minor traffic infractions, while maintaining a standard of service which no other qualified recruit on the modern force today would knowingly dare to replicate.
Youve got huge guts, Rog, huge guts. Let no man presume to tell you otherwise or any woman, either, if one ever gets within spitting distance).
But enough of my inconsequential witterings, Rog (For what do they matter now? I am yesterdays news, Rog. My battle with this case is over), lets just grasp the nettle, Rog, together, Rog, and press on, shall we? Because its all about you, now, Rog. This is your moment. So take it, Rog, grab it, Rog (the moment, Rog, not the nettle, you idiot), with those huge, flabby mitts of yours, and hold on fast, kid. Prepare yourself for the ride of your life! Its sure as hell going to be a bumpy one!
Buckle yourself in tightly, Rog (I took the precaution of asking them in advance to enlarge and reinforce the safety-belt. They were surprisingly cooperative, Rog, and they assured me after doing their sums that they were at least 37 per cent sure that the stitching would hold in the advent of a sudden stop. Eh voilà, Rog Les jeux sont faits!).
Because whatever happens, Rog (and which of us may know what the future holds?), its going to be a crazy, hazy cavalcade, Rog: a blur of light and speed and blood and lust and heat and spunk and fire (but no biscuits, Rog. No digestives or ginger snaps or HobNobs. Possibly an outside chance of the odd Garibaldi but then well possibly not).
Draw a deep breath and pinch yourself, Rog (more than an inch, Rog? Yeah. I thought as much), because what youre holding between your eight fat fingers (and two still fatter thumbs) is the Wacky Races of all cases. This is the Top Banana, Rog. This is THE BIG ONE! And its all yours, now, Rog. Its completely and utterly yours, now, Rog.
Blink back the tears, Rog, because this case this extraordinary case this astonishing case this case, which has foiled, baffled and dumbfounded some of the countrys greatest living detective minds Although actually no. On second thoughts, it was only my great, living, detective mind (as you are probably already aware, my faithful colleague, PC Hill, has been off sick for the past month after misaligning his spine and nobody else ever really gave a tinkers cuss A quick word to the wise, Rog, while were on the subject: never attempt to learn tai chi from a stuttering Bulgarian bricklayer with one ear).
So here it is, Rog, here it is. My stomach loops and contracts as I hand it over (dodgy prawn sandwich at lunch, perhaps?). I am full of relief and awe and gratitude a little humble, a little proud.
Here it is, Rog. It is yours. It was meant for you, Rog (and I say that with all sincerity). It was preordained, Rog. It was written in the stars, Rog. It was fated.
Its your destiny, Rog. It was always your destiny.
Because there have been other cases, Rog, and other officers, but there has never been this case, Rog, and this officer. There has never been PC Roger Topping and (my teeth tingle as I prepare to write these words) the case of THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT. Or does it sound better the other way around? THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT case? Im not entirely sure, Rog. Perhaps the second way is best. Or perhaps the first. Yes. The first. Perhaps the first has more punch, Rog, more attack, more gravitas.
Right. Good. Im glad weve sorted that out. So lets get down to business now, shall we?
The package, you will observe (if you double-check the contents back against the enclosed inventory which, of course, you will; I would expect nothing less of you, Rog), is thirty-seven documents short of the initial haul. These consisted of twenty-two Christmas cards (from four original sources, all of which contained only the most perfunctory of messages), nine responses to a private advert in the local press about a foolproof, non-invasive remedy for unreliable erectile function (its an ageing population, Rog), three applications to take part in a government-funded solar water-heating scheme (environmentalist poppycock), a £212 cheque bound for an Egyptian donkey sanctuary near Cairo (raised by Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak during the villages monthly bridge night), another of £425 (bound for a clock repair specialist from Harrogate), and a third of £2,838 (heading for the Burley Cross Auction of Promises account at the Cooperative Bank, Ilkley), all of which I have duly returned to Wincey, by hand, on Tuesday (on the understanding that she may well have cancelled them during the intervening period).
I took the difficult decision to dispose of the remaining thirty-four documents as I saw fit (i.e. got Mary on the Front Desk to reseal them with Sellotape last Friday and bang them back into the post), because they couldnt be crammed inside the Jiffy bag (this was the only bag in the building, Rog, and its my bag. Theres been a bust-up with Supplies. The wife of the tiny dick in charge recently delivered twins one in breech and word on the street is that a whole twelve weeks later, shes still staunchly refusing to put out. So now were all paying the price, Rog; its well over a fortnight since Ive so much as laid eyes on a paperclip).