Burley Cross Postbox Theft. Nicola Barker

ceramic tiles – QUICK, ROG! QUICK! TUCK IN YOUR SHIRT!

      She is shouting something at you, Rog, as she cracks her whip – instructions of some kind, demands of some kind, but because of the blood pumping in your ears (tinnitus still a problem, Rog?) you can’t actually make them out…

      What’s she saying, Rog? What’s she…?

       OW!

      That hurt!

       OW!

      That hurt!

      My God – just look at her, Rog, look at her! What an astonishing spectacle she creates! What Babylonian splendour! What brilliancy! What brazenness! What filth! What grandeur!

      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,