Sentence The Onehundredandsixtyeighth
And yes, it was indeed true, that that exemplary WPC Isa Urquhart had been very excited on being given the scrap of paper found by Venetia Vixen, the alluring and touchingly vulnerable upper-crust Doyenne of Daytime TV (I promise, that's the last time – I've already given enough clues to my daytime pastimes) with, not only a hint of an address which Isa was sure she would be able to identify, but also, on its reverse, the imprint of a heel – an imprint in which, in even Miss Vixen's untrained perusal, could be seen the edge of a 5p coin, firmly embedded in the vulcanised rubber with the tackets the owner had hammered in to give him that steady snare-drum rhythm as he walked his
beat, or had, for Isa knew from conversations which had been cut off as she entered a room unexpectedly, or silences left trailing when she passed someone holding a telephone to their ear and uttering not a word while their eyes trailed Isa's shapely bottom around and out of earshot, that it
could well be a former officer who wore that size 13 Standard Police Issue Beat Boot – or even a serving officer – hush do not voice the thought – who had retained his Boots when promoted to a senior role in Uniform, or even, oh God Forbid, to CID or even Higher; but the very hint of an idea was giddying and her mind gave a little capriole at the idea which, though doubtless held by many, was unmentioned by any; so Isa simply passed the scrap into the dainty hands of Professor Carolina Moonbeam, Head of the Forensic Science Department, just letting their fingertips touch and eyes lock for an instant and turned her own attentions back to her trawl of the City's CCTV; she realised that, with the Royal Infirmary being so close to it's Southern Boundary and the City Bypass, there was no need for anyone to suppose that the missing Bernie Westwater and her lover, Tammy Shanter, were still within the City's expanse, so she had begun to extend her search into the neighbouring Counties: East, Mid and West Lothian – former Mining Villages were scattered like snowdrops across the rolling landscape, with lots of disused mines and mineshafts offering a great number of possible hiding places – some even directly beneath houses: Isa herself, had been involved when a young couple, having just moved into a Council House in a former pit village, noticing a smell and calling in the Environmental Health Department of the Council, saw their floor boards lifted and an air-shaft exposed (it's cap having been partially moved, probably knocked by the workmen building the house, but lost to view as soon as the floorboards were laid across the joists – a dead dog, probably fallen while in search of rabbits, had somehow gained access, many years ago, as only its skeleton, complete with collar identifying it as Rover, remained; Isa went back to the records which, whenever re-organisation had been forced on ancient counties and burghs, became displaced and were housed in a giant warehouse in Midlothian; she knew that a task-force had been set to digitise these records, but it was a slow and painful exercise, particularly in a period of Austerity, when anything which did not earn money was frowned upon by Westminster, while anything which did make a return was quickly identified as ripe for Privatisation and sold to a hand-picked crony, just as Isa had learned by engaging Polish workers in conversation in one of the many Public Houses she frequented - when
working 'Undercover' - was the case in their Homeland, where a corrupt Prime Minister and a Government which had adopted the most rapacious form of Timocracy, which makes a Virtue out of amassing fortunes, rather than that which extols Virtue as it's own reward, had been engaged in a rapid selling-off of the 'family silver' apart from the plum pieces he had kept for his own soon-to-be-enforced retirement, and when the extent of his graft was exposed by a young journalist who, for her pains, had 'committed suicide' by jumping from her high-rise balcony (the night before she was to give evidence before a Judge) – “well,” said the PM, “she must have had a guilty conscience after vilifying me in the Press, clearly deluded and deranged, it is very sad when a promising career is derailed and comes to an untimely end – we must pray for her soul, for her family, and for her colleagues, who, I am sure, will heed the lessons of this tragedy!” but, alas, she did not find that of which she sought, and it niggled at the back of her head, niggled and niggled and was fain to drive her crazy had it not been for one sudden brainwave: she dialled a number and was pleased, after only two rings, to hear a young, boyish voice: Isa explained what she was looking for, what she hoped to find, wondered if her listener would be able to help, was gratified when he agreed, confirmed that in addition to a donation to a Charity of his choice – and which Isa fully supported anyway – a case of
Irn Bru and a gross of Mars Bars (he did have hungry weans to support in the ways to which they had become accustomed) he promised to get everything he found to her electronic dump by 8am tomorrow (when The Economic Migrant and his siblings would start their school day: Isa punched the air – she knew he would come through – but she didn't know that he had already begun the trawl for his other clients: The O'Hooligan Twins.
And yes, it was indeed true, that that exemplary WPC Isa Urquhart had been very excited on being given the scrap of paper found by Venetia Vixen, the alluring and touchingly vulnerable upper-crust Doyenne of Daytime TV (I promise, that's the last time – I've already given enough clues to my daytime pastimes) with, not only a hint of an address which Isa was sure she would be able to identify, but also, on its reverse, the imprint of a heel – an imprint in which, in even Miss Vixen's untrained perusal, could be seen the edge of a 5p coin, firmly embedded in the vulcanised rubber with the tackets the owner had hammered in to give him that steady snare-drum rhythm as he walked his
beat, or had, for Isa knew from conversations which had been cut off as she entered a room unexpectedly, or silences left trailing when she passed someone holding a telephone to their ear and uttering not a word while their eyes trailed Isa's shapely bottom around and out of earshot, that it
could well be a former officer who wore that size 13 Standard Police Issue Beat Boot – or even a serving officer – hush do not voice the thought – who had retained his Boots when promoted to a senior role in Uniform, or even, oh God Forbid, to CID or even Higher; but the very hint of an idea was giddying and her mind gave a little capriole at the idea which, though doubtless held by many, was unmentioned by any; so Isa simply passed the scrap into the dainty hands of Professor Carolina Moonbeam, Head of the Forensic Science Department, just letting their fingertips touch and eyes lock for an instant and turned her own attentions back to her trawl of the City's CCTV; she realised that, with the Royal Infirmary being so close to it's Southern Boundary and the City Bypass, there was no need for anyone to suppose that the missing Bernie Westwater and her lover, Tammy Shanter, were still within the City's expanse, so she had begun to extend her search into the neighbouring Counties: East, Mid and West Lothian – former Mining Villages were scattered like snowdrops across the rolling landscape, with lots of disused mines and mineshafts offering a great number of possible hiding places – some even directly beneath houses: Isa herself, had been involved when a young couple, having just moved into a Council House in a former pit village, noticing a smell and calling in the Environmental Health Department of the Council, saw their floor boards lifted and an air-shaft exposed (it's cap having been partially moved, probably knocked by the workmen building the house, but lost to view as soon as the floorboards were laid across the joists – a dead dog, probably fallen while in search of rabbits, had somehow gained access, many years ago, as only its skeleton, complete with collar identifying it as Rover, remained; Isa went back to the records which, whenever re-organisation had been forced on ancient counties and burghs, became displaced and were housed in a giant warehouse in Midlothian; she knew that a task-force had been set to digitise these records, but it was a slow and painful exercise, particularly in a period of Austerity, when anything which did not earn money was frowned upon by Westminster, while anything which did make a return was quickly identified as ripe for Privatisation and sold to a hand-picked crony, just as Isa had learned by engaging Polish workers in conversation in one of the many Public Houses she frequented - when
working 'Undercover' - was the case in their Homeland, where a corrupt Prime Minister and a Government which had adopted the most rapacious form of Timocracy, which makes a Virtue out of amassing fortunes, rather than that which extols Virtue as it's own reward, had been engaged in a rapid selling-off of the 'family silver' apart from the plum pieces he had kept for his own soon-to-be-enforced retirement, and when the extent of his graft was exposed by a young journalist who, for her pains, had 'committed suicide' by jumping from her high-rise balcony (the night before she was to give evidence before a Judge) – “well,” said the PM, “she must have had a guilty conscience after vilifying me in the Press, clearly deluded and deranged, it is very sad when a promising career is derailed and comes to an untimely end – we must pray for her soul, for her family, and for her colleagues, who, I am sure, will heed the lessons of this tragedy!” but, alas, she did not find that of which she sought, and it niggled at the back of her head, niggled and niggled and was fain to drive her crazy had it not been for one sudden brainwave: she dialled a number and was pleased, after only two rings, to hear a young, boyish voice: Isa explained what she was looking for, what she hoped to find, wondered if her listener would be able to help, was gratified when he agreed, confirmed that in addition to a donation to a Charity of his choice – and which Isa fully supported anyway – a case of
Irn Bru and a gross of Mars Bars (he did have hungry weans to support in the ways to which they had become accustomed) he promised to get everything he found to her electronic dump by 8am tomorrow (when The Economic Migrant and his siblings would start their school day: Isa punched the air – she knew he would come through – but she didn't know that he had already begun the trawl for his other clients: The O'Hooligan Twins.
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