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666 Great Junction Street

Part 20

Sergeant Sturgeon had never known the place so busy. Just as he toyed with the idea of putting up a closed sign on the doors of the police station, he noticed the Wankine brothers approaching with their latest catch.

The parents of PCs Ian and Iain Wankine had liked the name so much, they used it twice. Although the younger brother resented the older sibling’s extra ‘I’, and had long tired of his nickname of Cyclops, they were natural work colleagues and their understanding of each others’ foibles made them a positive boon for the Leith police.

Their latest catch was Clint McMurdo, Michael Cade and his injured daschund, Rudy, who Michael clasped under his arm as it marked the path of their entrance through dripping spots of blood.

‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Sgt Sturgeon.

‘They were cauthing a fracas on Great Junction Thtreet, tharge,’ explained Ian as he jerked Clint forward to the desk.

Iain shoved Michael and Rudy forward. Sergeant Sturgeon recognised Clint as a regular client and seasoned overnight guest in the Queen Charlotte Street hotel.

Clint rolled out his fingers for a customary ‘Pcheeew!’ in the sergeant’s direction.

The Sarge quipped: ‘We’ll have to confiscate that weapon, Clint.’ He slapped Clint’s hand onto the counter, retrieved a gleaming meat cleaver from behind the desk and, raising it high above his head, brought it crashing it down onto Clint’s wrist.

In his mind, that is. In reality, he merely unfurled Clint’s fingers to check for any hidden objects.

As the sergeant continued to inspect his latest visitors, another consignment arrived in the shape of Jock McConnell, Guy Pistov and a couple of embarrassed looking women. The officer handing them over clarified their offence:

‘Suspicion of dogging, sarge. We caught them on Calton Hill. Broad daylight. Bold as you like.’

The sergeant often found it hard to keep up with the myriad of new offences introduced since the dawn of the interweb. ‘Dogging? Is this the one where they do it with dogs?’

‘No, sarge. Humans. Humans at it like Billy-O. In cars.’

To Sergeant Sturgeon this hardly sounded like a hanging matter. However, he affected a look of knowingness and nodded sagely.

‘Perhaps you would like me to elaborate as to positions, length of alleged incident, offensive weaponry, sarge.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you. Send them through.’ He indicated the already teeming incident room, still buzzing with aggrieved tourists, bus passengers and the like.

As Jock and Guy sheepishly shuffled past, the sergeant suddenly recognized the Hibs star striker.

‘It’s Guy Pistov, isn’t it? I thought you’d already been charged with this dogging business.’

‘He can’t get enough of it, sarge. There’s no stopping him,’ explained the officer.

‘Keep your mind on the football, son. Keep your mind on the football,’ advised the sergeant.

As the sergeant’s pearls of ineffable wisdom rolled from his blubbery chops, Jakey Rolling came hurtling through the front doors, yelling: ‘There’s been a murder in Memory Lane!’

Next week: Crumbs, more crims.




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