It was a long night. A hard night. A long, hard night.
Inspector Gascoigne turned up his collar against the biting July Newcastle winds and stared into the middle distance. This Raoul Moat business was a bad one. Very bad.
Gascoigne hated violence — especially against women.
Whey aye, kiddo, he addressed his colleague, Det. Sgt Shearer. Gis a bagga chips an’ chicken nuggets an’ a deep-fried Mars Bar.
Aye, boss, muttered Shearer, darkly.
Oh, an’ a bottle o’ Brown, man.
We’ll gan up and gie the kid a call.
When Det Sgt Shearer returned with the supplies, Inspector Gascoigne waved his fishing rod at the police cordon. Haway, lad. We’ll hae a canny pint an’ talk to tha gadgie. Maybe he’ll gan yem.
A policeman stepped from behind the cordon. His tunic was Kevlar and his eyes had the thousand-yard stare. SSS. Special Sniper Service. A man who could kill with one finger.
Inspector Gascoigne, he said, thank God you’ve come.
Nae bother, man kid, Gascoigne reassured him. Here. Have a chicken nugget and a droppa Toon broon. A fuckin hate domestic violence, me.
Indeed, agreed the SSS officer. Now, if you’d care to examine the map here. We have units at the following coordinates —
What did this gadgie do, anyway? Gascoigne interjected.
Well, Inspector, it seems he was aggrieved as a result of a liaison involving his long-term partner and another gentleman.
What? Some punter was bangin his lass?
It would appear so, Inspector.
Fuck that. Ah’d shoot the fucker maself. Here, Shearer, gimme them chicken nuggets and a dozen Toon Broon. Ahm gannin talk tae this punter. Ah’ll fettle this here an’ noo.
I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Inspector, said the SSS officer. As a matter of fact, it’s all taken care of.