Sentence The Twohundredandtwentythird
Later, after the luxurious WPC Isa Urquhart had accompanied Dr Frangible Arbuthnot AKA The Gadfly to The Cowgate and Grassmarket Community Policing Hub, where he was cautioned again,
this time by Sergeant Goldy Brevity, photographed and fingerprinted for elimination purposes and had signed the statement containing the key quodlibetal 'cows or no cows' which he had given voluntarily to the gallant WPC, and was wrapped in a towelling robe while his hand took the shape
of a poculiform as he held a steaming mug of Grassmarket Tea and his diaphanous pink tutu was despatched to Professor Carolina Moonbeam's Forensic Science Department for analysis and comparison with that found in the boot of the inconnu's car, which was proving difficult to identify as all serial numbers, chassis, vin and engine block had been professionally filed off to slow down the hunt for where and when it had been purloined, the plates were quickly ascertained to be a match with those of a Bentley currently residing in the Morningside garage of a multi-millionaire Russian 'Oilygarch' (in the Edinburgh patois) named Boris Goodenuv who was believed to have a penchant for pre-teen girls dating back some 30 or more years of his residence in the UK (first as a KGB Handler and latterly as the Chairman and CEO of a batch of Blue Chip companies, a number of which were currently engaged in people trafficking of several distinct sorts: viz under-age girls from Eastern Europe for buyers in every major city of the land; and refugees fleeing from the many and varied wars in the Middle East and north of the Indian sub-continent, whose smugglers lost all interest in their cargo once every drop of cash or disposables had been squeezed out of them and were especially satisfied if they perished in containers or in the Mediterranean, on the principle that 'dead men tell no tales') who hobnobbed with D-List Celebrities of dubious taste and limited intelligence; but they were unable to source the plates, aside from stating that they were professionally manufactured, and despite Arbuthnot's claim that the driver had been bleeding, no sample had been procured from the car, the mobile phone, Dr Arbuthnot's pants, where he had carried the phone, in the absence of pockets in his tutu; and as for the phone itself, strenuous efforts were being made by every member of the investigating team to identify what calls had been made and received and to plot it's location every step of the way back from that field just beyond the City Bypass at Fairmilehead, indeed, almost directly below the Ski Slope - which was what gave that undisputed tyro of a WPC Isa Urquhart the germ of an idea which had her grab Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle from the tea
urn and race with her to their Panda and shoot out of the Hub's Parking Bay in the direction of Lothianburn - Blues and Twos!
Later, after the luxurious WPC Isa Urquhart had accompanied Dr Frangible Arbuthnot AKA The Gadfly to The Cowgate and Grassmarket Community Policing Hub, where he was cautioned again,
this time by Sergeant Goldy Brevity, photographed and fingerprinted for elimination purposes and had signed the statement containing the key quodlibetal 'cows or no cows' which he had given voluntarily to the gallant WPC, and was wrapped in a towelling robe while his hand took the shape
of a poculiform as he held a steaming mug of Grassmarket Tea and his diaphanous pink tutu was despatched to Professor Carolina Moonbeam's Forensic Science Department for analysis and comparison with that found in the boot of the inconnu's car, which was proving difficult to identify as all serial numbers, chassis, vin and engine block had been professionally filed off to slow down the hunt for where and when it had been purloined, the plates were quickly ascertained to be a match with those of a Bentley currently residing in the Morningside garage of a multi-millionaire Russian 'Oilygarch' (in the Edinburgh patois) named Boris Goodenuv who was believed to have a penchant for pre-teen girls dating back some 30 or more years of his residence in the UK (first as a KGB Handler and latterly as the Chairman and CEO of a batch of Blue Chip companies, a number of which were currently engaged in people trafficking of several distinct sorts: viz under-age girls from Eastern Europe for buyers in every major city of the land; and refugees fleeing from the many and varied wars in the Middle East and north of the Indian sub-continent, whose smugglers lost all interest in their cargo once every drop of cash or disposables had been squeezed out of them and were especially satisfied if they perished in containers or in the Mediterranean, on the principle that 'dead men tell no tales') who hobnobbed with D-List Celebrities of dubious taste and limited intelligence; but they were unable to source the plates, aside from stating that they were professionally manufactured, and despite Arbuthnot's claim that the driver had been bleeding, no sample had been procured from the car, the mobile phone, Dr Arbuthnot's pants, where he had carried the phone, in the absence of pockets in his tutu; and as for the phone itself, strenuous efforts were being made by every member of the investigating team to identify what calls had been made and received and to plot it's location every step of the way back from that field just beyond the City Bypass at Fairmilehead, indeed, almost directly below the Ski Slope - which was what gave that undisputed tyro of a WPC Isa Urquhart the germ of an idea which had her grab Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle from the tea
urn and race with her to their Panda and shoot out of the Hub's Parking Bay in the direction of Lothianburn - Blues and Twos!
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