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Wednesday 13th November 1985: 08.30 – 10.00
Jack Hampshire glared at the third bottle of breakfast swimming in front of him like some demented mermaid, and wondered which of the six it’d suddenly transformed itself into he should open next. He reached for one of the left-hand ones, and was non-plussed to find that the right-hand one of his two right hands went right through it.
Left through it, not right. ‘Cause it passed through on the opposite side to what had passed through it. Bloody thing!
He tried again. There was a slight clunk this time when his right hands went through one of the bottles.
No. Not the bottles. His glass. His glass was on the floor.
Now, where had that come from? He hadn’t had a glass there. Not on the floor.
He gave up and lay back in his armchair, trying not to think of drink. Not that he had any objection to drink, of course. Drink was — Well, drink was what you drank, wasn’t it? If you drank anything but drink you got thirsty. Stood to reason.
He tried to stand to reason, and fell back into the chair. Maybe he’d sit to reason instead. Yeah — that was what he’d do.
Now — what had he been thinking before he started thinking? Oh, yeah. The bloody robbering. Murdery. Killery.
It was that black bloke. Makbimbo. Had to be. Only one with a bloody motor. Bloody motive. Bloody motive. Yeah. No. Bloody mo— Oh, no, he’d already said it. Bloody motive.
What was the bloody motive again? Wasn’t it something to do with a bloody motive?
Yeah — that was it. ’Cause he was black. That was the bloody motive. Like that bloody bastard that had run off with his bloody missus.
His bloody missus.
God, he missed his bloody missus.
No! He wasn’t going to think about his bloody missus. He was going to think about —
Oh. There was some whisky there. Drink. That was what he was going to think about. Drink.
He reached for one of the bottles. For some reason, it moved out of the way of all four of his hands and ended up where it’d started. Bloody odd.
Anyways. No, it wasn’t drink he was going to think about. It was — It was —
Bloody Meredith. That was what it was. Bloody Meredith, the CDI.
IDC. CID. DI—
Whatever it was. He’d show bloody Meredith. Bloody Meredith was only bloody sore at him because he was a better bloody cop than bloody Meredith would ever be. Bloody Meredith should never have got a bloody CDIship. CIDship. DCIship. Never in a mippion — milipon —
A load of years. He, Jack Hamton — Hample — would make a far better ICD than Meredic. Even with a house that kept going round in circles.
Why was his house going round in circles? It never usually did that. It never had when —
No! He wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to think about —
A piss. He was definitely going to think about going and having a piss.
He thought about it. And was surprised to find himself in the bathroom having a piss.
Why was his armchair behind him? His armchair wasn’t normally in the bathroom.
Oh well. He finished, and sat back down.
Now, why was he on the floor? That wasn’t where his armchair normally was either.
Never mind. It was more comfortirrel down here anyways. Comfor—
It was alright down here. Now — what had he been thinking of?
The murgle. That was right. In fact — the two murgles.
Murgle one was straightforward. That was Makbimbo. Defidently.
So that meant the second murgle was Makbimbo as well. Stood to reason.
No — sat to reason. Sat on the floor to reason.
His arse was wet.
Never mind that. What about the murgle? The second murgle?
The second murgle was Makbimbo as well. That was right, he’d already sorted that one out. So — how could he prove it, and get to rub it in bloody Meredic’s bloody facehole?
Questions! That was what he needed to ask. Questions.
Good thing to ask, questions. No good asking answers — answers never got you any answers, did they?
So — ask some questions, then. Like —
Like why was his arse wet?
No. Not that. Not the right question at all.
Who saw Makbimbo kill the Fosdyke woman?
Yeah. That was the question to ask.
Why not ask who’d seen Makbimbo kill the other bloody woman?
’Cause — ’Cause —
’Cause nobody did see Makbimbo kill the other bloody woman, that was why not.
But somebody musta seen Makbimbo kill the Fosdyke woman. Stood to — oh no, he’d done all that.
So — who was there when the Makbimbo woman was killed by —
No, that was wrong.
Who was there when Makbimbo killed the Fosdyke woman? There — that was better.
Everybody. Everybody was there when Makbimbo — and so on.
Who was everybody?
Well — in this case, everybody was…
Bugger it! Who was bloody everybody?
That bloody vicar and his bloody wife, that’s who everybody was! That bloody vicar and his bloody wife.
He stood. And was astonished to find he’d succeeded in doing so.
Right agin. Again. He was off to see the bloody vicar bloke and his bloody wife — and God help them if they didn’t tell him right out that they’d seen bloody Makbimbo kill bloody Fosdyke!
Where was the hallway? He needed his cat and hoat.
And when he’d got the proof that proved that what was what was what, that’d show bloody Meredic who the bloody IDC should be, and whose office who should be sitting in lording it over who, that was what!
Where was that bloody hallway?