Sentence The Fourhundredandfortyfifth

Martin Elginbrod QC replaced the handset of his telephone and scowled: what on earth, he wondered, is going on? seeing Duncan Doubleday's face on CrimeWatch had been one shock, but it had been followed by others, as the blurred images of George Gill, Ranulph Ochan'toshan, Knickers Lauderdale and Christiane, had followed, all identified by name – then the other two he recognised from their portraits in his possession: Sir Parlane MacFarlane and Dominic Doubleday, both of whom had been murdered by person or persons unknown in Melrose Abbey in 1265, but now apparently alive and well in the foothills of The Eildons, close to Melrose; and then an official Police Scotland ID photograph of PC Caber Lauderdale (of course they didn't call him Caber, for they had probably never seen, let alone handled, his legendary penis, but Elginbrod had, indeed he'd been fucked by it and that in itself had been a legendary experience) either kidnapped, coerced or involved in the disappearance of the others, with the exception of poor old Ralphy, who was, the narrator said, “helping Police with their enquiries,” as were the seven children who had also been at Hill House; poor old Ralphy, he didn't have the constitution to withstand an intensive bout of “helping Police with their enquiries!” he'd spill the beans, of that Elginbrod was sure, which was why he'd begun monitoring the Police – with the technical assistance of The Economic Migrant, though he was sure that particular individual was probably triple-crossing him; he'd never met the chappie himself, they had only communicated in the Dark Web, but he had paid well for the advice and technology he was now using and was persuaded that the mysterious Mr Migrant wasn't in cahoots – as his Old Man used to say – with the Rozzers; Public Service certainly never paid as well as the Private Sector, which was why bribery and corruption – or again, as his Old Man termed them, Incentive Bonuses – were always welcomed by Public Servants; now Caber was certainly a case in point: he'd never been a Full Member of The Ring of Gold, because there was something inherently shady about him; that is, Shady in a different way from the Full Members – Elginbrod had always felt that even when being fucked by Caber's prodigious cock (which should have been a Full member in it's own right) the policeman was wearing a wire, although in truth there would have been nowhere to hide it, unless a transceiver had been inserted in his rectum, which wasn't quite as far-fetched as it sounded, nowadays, when the Forces of Laura Norder (named after the Home Secretary now running for leadership of the Unionist Party and simultaneously the office of Prime Minister) and the very thought gave him a Hard On – she was a Fine Woman (the term his Father had used about a particular kind of Dominatrix, as, for instance Saint Maggie Thatcher) and the thought of shagging her made Elginbrod's head swim – were snooping around his Business and Pleasure interests; it was enough to turn a Wise Man to drink, but at least he now knew that the elopers (as he had referred to them even on a secure line, routed through North Korea and The Vatican – it always intrigued him that States with so few obvious common interests, were usually such good working partners and he supposed, though Elginbrods were all Calvinists, that the Roman Catholic Church and more extreme Communist Parties, were actually so far apart on the spectrum of belief that they met round the back of the circle, rather like Red and Violet on the colour spectrum which was really a continuum, not so very unlike Life and Death and Sex and Taxes) were safe and well in that sweet little Shepherd's

Cottage he had purchased when the Estate was going through a difficult patch and badly in need of some small capital, with a bonus for keeping the transaction strictly cash and off the books; the company based in the Cayman Islands who were now the owners could only be contacted through a Letter Box in Aberdeen and none of the Directors were presently alive, let alone well and living anywhere the Police could reach them; he was only sorry that poor old Ranulph had been taken and held for questioning – he was a venerable elderly gentleman, not at all interested in shackles and restraints (for himself) and the infamous Third-Degree would reduce him to the consistency of a liquified jelly, but what could he, Elginbrod, do for him? certainly not act as his Brief, no, that would be to invite far too many questions – if they were not already being asked, don't bring them on – so he probably needed a Solicitor so far away in practice and person from himself as possible, which was where his thoughts were when the name of Peter Boo popped into his head and he actually laughed out loud and slapped the surface of his desk, just where the knar glowed darkly, with his open palm, causing it to sting and redden; “Rankine!” he called and, just moments later, his Chief Clerk, Riddle Rankine, entered the chamber: “I have a brief for Peter Boo,” said Elginbrod, so casually that he never noticed Rankine spotting that his employer's trousers were open at the fly and his penis, still semi-aroused, hung fully out, but Rankine, as is the way with Chief Clerk's, never missed a beat, and simply replied, “yes, sir, Peter Boo – the Writer Peter Boo?” although Elginbrod had never heard of another Peter Boo than the WS – Writer to the Signet, then turned on his heel and walked back to the Clerks' Office and ordered one of his Juniors to trace the Solicitor; which was when Elginbrod just chanced to glance down and see that he had been visible; “oh, fuck,” was all he said, and quickly replaced the errant member in it's own chamber! and that was when a call came through from Peter Boo WS, who seemed rather surprised to have been contacted by Elginbrod's office, and even more surprised when Elginbrod said that he wanted to give him a brief to represent Ranulph Ochan'toshan: “is he not the person (said with considerable distaste, as befitted the utterance from a son of The Manse, who's father had been Moderator of the Free Kirk some years ago) apprehended by the Police today when they raided a gathering of Sodom and Gomorrah in Bowden?” and Elginbrod responded, smooth as silk: “poor old Mr Ochan'toshan had been to the BGH for his radiotherapy, he has a rare

cancer of the part of the brain responsible for a sense of responsibility, so of course is not quite himself, and when he and his nurse, Sister Christiane Lauderdale returned to his home (deliberately chosen rather than house, for it carried an image of hearth and family) he found that Christiane's husband, a Police Sergeant, and several other experienced theatre directors and stage managers were putting some of the children they have cast for a forthcoming production of Peter Pan through their paces; the director is an exponent of Konstantin Stanislavski's Method School and they were coaching the children in building individual characters, when suddenly! Mr Ochan'toshan's home was invaded by a group of what they took to be Terrorists, armed with automatic weapons and wearing Balaclavas, like one might see on television, but never dream of encountering in Bowden! and they shoted commands made unintelligible by their Balaclavas and poor old Mr Auchan'toshan almost had a relapse, so terrified was he, and now he sits in the cells in Hawick and is in desperate need of representation, and who was the first person I thought of, when he called me? why, Peter Boo WS – the best solicitor in the South of Scotland,” and after taking a single breath, the gullible and easily flattered solicitor said, “thankyou, Mr Elginbrod, of course I will accept the Brief and, even though it is Eid al-Fitr, and my wife, the mother of my chiuldren, is Muslim, and we observe the Festivals, Feasts and Fasts of both Religions, I will travel immediately to Hawick to act for Mr Ochan'toshan and, I have every hope, negotiate his release from custody – actually, at school, I played Wendy in a

production of the play; it was, of course a Boys' School, although I am sure I need hardly tell you that,” and Elginbrod, perfectly satisfied, murmured, “no, indeed, Mr Boo, you do not,” but Boo felt impelled to continue, “our Drama Teacher was also the Religious Studies Master, and I suspect was a rather hidden Roman Catholic, he had a penchant for candles and incense and I felt at the time that Wendy's night-dress in the opening scene was adapted from a Priest's surplice, but like Mr Ochan'toshan's friend, Mr MacQueen was also influenced by Stanislavski, and spent a lot of time helping me to believe myself to be a rather pretty girl, and some of his dedication rubbed off on me, but perhaps you are not interested to hear all this skerrick?” and Elginbrod smiled to himslef and made a note in Peter Boo's file, open on his desk: Closet Queen!