Burley Cross Postbox Theft (2 page)

And what a
figure
she has, Rog! What curves! What lines! What definition! Check out those legs, Rog! Longer than Joey Barton’s arrest record! And that stomach, Rog! That six-pack! Tight as the Pope’s prophylactic allowance! And let’s not forget those
buttocks
, Rog; those fragrant
buns!
Harder than a pitbull’s forehead!

Uh
-oh
…

Hang on a second, Rog… Something’s not quite right here. Something’s wrong. Just call it instinct, Rog, but something’s definitely amiss… What’s that she’s holding behind her back, Rog? What is it? A length of hose? A
bat?!
Well, whatever it is, one thing’s for certain: this girl is VERY, VERY
ANGRY
, Rog! She’s absolutely LIVID! She’s SPITTING TACKS! She is
FURIOUS
, Rog! Her rage is absolute, it’s all-consuming, it’s DOWNRIGHT, BLOODY
MAGNIFICENT!
(No.
No
. Put your
badge
away, Rog! You’re embarrassing yourself, now. Get a grip on yourself, lad! That type of buttoned-up behaviour simply won’t 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 didn’t
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! She’ll beat you to a pulp! She’ll drip hot candle-wax into your nostrils and stamp her stiletto-heeled boot into your prodigious gut. She’ll make you kneel and crawl and grovel, Rog. She’ll make you fawn and cower and snivel. She’ll make you ask nicely for every stupid little thing (‘Please, Miss, if you don’t mind, Miss…’) and then refuse you, point-blank.

She’ll make you wish you were never born, Rog! She’ll make you bleat like a lamb! She’ll dress you up in a nappy – taunt you and tease you – demand that you pee yourself, then slap you, red-raw, when you do. She’ll make you greet and shudder and
howl
, Rog. I
know
she will, Rog, I
know
she will, because I’VE ALREADY
BEEN
THERE, Rog! I’ve bought the ticket, Rog! I’ve taken the tour, Rog! I’ve used all the facilities, Rog (and left them scrupulously clean, Rog, I can assure you)!

OH, ROG! HOW I’VE
SUFFERED
AT HER HANDS! How I’ve bucked and gasped and
strained
at her ungodly demands! I’ve been her
slave
, Rog, her
worm
, her
hack
, her
grub
, her
fag!
I’ve 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?!

I’m 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 I’ve had to give. It’s squeezed me dry,
Rog. It’s drained me. It’s very nearly had the best of me:
fact
.

It’s been a heavy burden, Rog. It’s 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 – I’ll 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 don’t 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.

You’ve 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 yesterday’s news, Rog. My battle with this case is over), let’s just grasp the nettle, Rog,
together
,
Rog, and press on, shall we? Because it’s 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! It’s 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?), it’s 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 you’re 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 it’s all yours, now, Rog. It’s 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 country’s 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 tinker’s cuss… A quick word to the wise, Rog, while we’re on the subject: never attempt to learn t’ai 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.

It’s 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? I’m 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. I’m glad we’ve sorted that out. So let’s 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 (it’s 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 village’s 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 couldn’t be crammed inside the Jiffy bag (this was the only bag in the building, Rog, and it’s
my
bag. There’s 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, she’s still staunchly refusing to put out. So now we’re
all
paying the price, Rog; it’s well over a fortnight since I’ve so much as laid eyes on a paperclip).

Don’t be overly concerned by the green staining on the bag – it formerly contained my monthly delivery of organic kelp powder (amazing stuff – absolutely amazing. It’s worked wonders for my lazy bowel. I’m now regular as a station-clock, chiming twice daily: once at ten, and once at eight, on the dot).

Ever the consummate professional, I have seen fit to contact Messrs Thorndyke, Endive Jr, and Augustine personally (by email, at www.hystericaltosspots.com) to inform them of the fact that this case is now being passed on to the Ilkley Constabulary. I don’t doubt that you will be hearing from them very shortly. In fact you have probably heard from them already. In fact you are probably hearing from them right now, if the phone in your office is ringing…

Is it ringing, Rog? Thought so. Did you answer it, Rog? You did. And was it Mr Thorndyke’s solicitor, Rog, ‘keeping up to speed’ on things, while jabbering away, inanely, about heaven only knows what? Of course it was.

Since I have a few minutes to spare before tea-time (who tiptoes ever closer on her sweet, icing-sugared feet) and because I consider you ‘an old mucker’, Rog, I’ll give you a quick
précis
of my activities in relation to this case over the past six weeks
(although, if you prefer, there’s always the enclosed file: a whole 474 pages-worth of completely pointless paperwork, duplicated thricely, as regulations stipulate).

Credit where credit’s due, Rog: PC Hill actually did much of the early legwork. His initial visit to the crime scene was on the morning
after
the theft (on the evening of the 21st – the night of the crime – we were all somewhat preoccupied in Skipton, as I’m sure you will recall, by my televised appearance on the National Bravery Awards – live, from the Café de Paris in London – following those tragic incidents surrounding the blaze at Tilton Mill; the fascinating
denouement
of which has been closely followed – and faithfully recorded, with accompanying photos and lengthy panegyrics from a grateful public – in the local and national press. Although, as I said at the time, Rog, ‘The label of “hero” sits uncomfortably on me. I’m just a typical, northern copper doing an extremely difficult – and often dangerous – job to the very best of my
blah, blah, blah
…’).

We have reason to believe that the break-in took place at approximately 21.00 hrs. The local vicar assured PC Hill that he posted a letter (case letter 15) at about 20.55 that evening, when everything appeared ‘just as normal – in fact, if anything,
more
normal than normal’. (PC Hill comments in his accompanying notes that he found this
‘more
normal than normal’ statement, ‘slightly odd’, but that he didn’t press the reverend any further on the point because ‘he had just started a nose bleed and only had one tissue’.)

The crime was reported to us (with almost
indecent
alacrity, Rog) at 21.12, by Susan Trott – of Black Grouse Cottage – who had been, I quote: ‘out looking for hedgehogs when I was horrified to notice the postbox door had fallen off and was just lying there, on the ground’.

The report PC Hill submitted was, to put it generously, a tad perfunctory (you will notice that some of his ‘extra thoughts’ were jotted down on to torn shreds of chip paper – that fool in Supplies has so much to answer for!).

No serious attempt was made to dust the crime scene for fingerprints because – as you can read for yourself – it had been ‘bucketing down with rain all morning’.

His search for any kind of tool or instrument which might’ve been used to engineer the break-in was limited to ‘a quick peek in a nearby hedge’, where he was surprised to discover ‘a rusty, old biscuit-tin containing two slightly mildewed pornographic magazines:
Trumpet for Boys
(Issue 13, June 1998), and
Golden Horns
(Issue 4, December 2002)’. As you can probably detect from the titles, Rog, they were directed towards the specialist brass band enthusiast’s market, and aren’t currently included in the body of evidence because PC Hill took them home for ‘further detailed scrutiny’ (he plays a wind instrument himself; possibly the clarinet), and has yet to bring them back.