Bill and the UFO25

Inspector Murphy sat in the Panda car parked outside Hall Street and berated himself, which was a bit like talking to himself, only quieter and his ears turning red underneath his cap as a hobgoblin. The signs were all there. He was a Type 1 go-getter that got up early in the morning, never whistled, prepared for work and stressed himself the rest of the day working, or worrying about work. He tried smoking, with the window down, which didn’t help. He tried smoking more slowly, and imagined cheesy puffs of contentment escaping from his mouth, with the window up, with the same effect. He tried worrying, which seemed to work. The problem wasn’t with him. He was internalising what was in effect a Type 2 problem.

Type 2 were hippies. They lay about all day, not worrying about work and lived longer. Sergeant Cook was a Type 2. He made his life longer by always coming into work late and so made Inspector Murphy’s life shorter.

The radio crackled into life in front of him: ‘Over’.

Inspector Murphy slapped at it. The radio operators were asking his locations ‘Over,’ mocking him because they knew he was parked outside waiting for Sergeant Cook. That was the third time this week he’d covered for him, said that he was out in the car, with the engine running, when in fact he was 23 minutes late, 17 minutes late and 37 minutes late, unrsepectively. If he hadn’t covered for his inferior, asked to speak to Commander Doyle and stuck him in for lateness, he would have felt rotten, corrupt even, but the thing about the ‘buddy-system’ was that it was designed by and for Type 2 individuals and to make Type I leaders feel worse, because they were not like them. He tried to console himself with the thought that police officers should be good at waiting. He’d only another three years and four weeks until he got his pension. It was in all the crime novels, hanging about, waiting for the evil villain to strike. But Type 1 officers get stressed about waiting, get stressed about stress and the fact that, he looked at his watch; Sergeant Cook was now officially 11 minutes late.

Sergeant Cook blunderbussed around the corner, past Daisy’s The Florist, sweat dripping from his forehead, almost breaking into an unseasonable run past Clydebank Library, where the Panda was discreetly parked in full view.

‘Jesus.’ Sergeant Cook threw the car door open and flung himself into the seat next to Inspector Murphy. ‘I thought my heart was going to give out there.’

Inspector Murphy tapped his watch, as if it had stopped, and started the engine. He knew it was bad for him, an unnecessary added stressor, to resent the fact that Sergeant Cook should be driving because he was the superior officer and he didn’t want to belabour the fact about lateness being a form of theft because it made him sound like a Puritan, just off the Mayflower. Instead he drove down Dumbarton Road at the mandatory 29 miles per hour. Sergeant Cook had his window down and elbow was propped on the door like a tourist listening to the latest top 10 crime hits on the radio. They passed the plots where idle vagabonds, probably part Gypsy, or Irish, or both, grew their own potatoes, in mucky soil and what smelled like cowshit, that could be bought out of the Co-op for the price of a plastic bag. Inspector Murphy looked at Sergeant Cook out of the corner of his eyes. He didn’t want a Type 1 shrill sound to enter into his voice, but couldn’t help it.

‘Are you sleeping Sergeant Cook?’

‘No. I’m just resting my eyes.’

The engine idled at they waited at the traffic lights at the bottom of Duntocher Road. ‘Do you know that you were eleven minutes late this morning?’ hissed Inspector Murphy. ‘Eleven minutes.’ He couldn’t help repeating himself as the indicator clicked to turn right.

Sergeant Cook head lolled as they made the turn. He didn’t open his eyes, ‘That’s what minutes are for.’

Inspector Murphy parked the Panda outside the driveway of number 17 Stevenson Street. A curtain twitched as they walked up the driveway. It was a straightforward case. Two men supposedly from the Water Board had duped Mrs McCune.

‘Who is it?’ Mrs McCune asked from behind the first set of double-doors.

‘It’s the police.’ Inspector Murphy shoved his identification through the letterbox box for her to see.

Mrs McCune spent, what seemed ages of precious police time, fiddling with bolts and locks before flinging the door open.

There were the horrors of war and the horrors of old age. He knew the type, a humourless corpse, disguised as Mother Teresa that thought direct sunlight was a mortal sin. Inspector Murphy began to have a new found respect of the front line men of the criminal fraternity, allegedly from the Water Board. She had the kind of old fashioned stuck up nose that pierced through clouds, that the RAF at Lossiemouth flew manoeuvres around. Her expression was like a soor ploom, with a pickle for a mouth that hung open, waiting, for them to explain themselves, to explain the outrage of a crime in the better quality sort of housing, where even the cub-scouts’ ‘bob-a-job’ was discouraged. A silence as weighty as The Empire State Building with a big gorilla pulling it about like a paperweight made the two officers step backwards.

Her voice when she deigned to speak was surprisingly soft as candyfloss. ‘Have you caught them yet?

Her house, when they were finally let inside, had two types of flooring: dust and golden parquet. She had a grand piano and the rich man’s medley of rosewood sideboards, Persian rugs, ottomans and chaise longues designed to lie or sit in, which was what seemed like 6000 cats seemed to be doing. The cat litter trays that dotted the floors and had become deserts, rivers of urine, and different coloured low-grade shit ore. The stench of ammonia clung to Inspector Murphy’s uniform like prickly burrs and made him want to gag.

‘Tea?’ She addressed Inspector Murphy, perhaps because of his pallour, but she included Sergeant Cook in her invitation.

‘Regrettably Madam I’ve had another call.’ Inspector Murphy could see from her face she wasn’t happy, but if he had a face like hers he doubted whether he could be either.

‘But…’ she said.

He held up his hand. He knew where this was going. She had been schooled in the basics, meaning could only be found in moaning: too hot; too cold; too wet; too dry; too weathery. And he also figured that some Chief Inspector of the Glasgow Police would somehow be related to her. So he did what any Inspector would have done under the circumstances. He pulled rank. ‘I’m sure Sergeant Cook will be able to deal with your problem. And I know from working with him he’s got a sweet tooth and takes four sugars in his tea.’

Inspector Murphy sat in the Panda and smoked. One of the features of Type 1s were that they were unable to delegate. He’d disproved that notion and now felt relaxed enough to shut his own eyes.

Sergeant Cook looked drained when he came out of the house. He took a deep breath as he closed his notebook and sat in the driver’s seat. Inspector Murphy waited for him to start the engine. He turned the engine over. Then he stopped it and sniffed.

‘Do I smell?’

Inspector Murphy took his time answering. ‘Much the same as always, with maybe a little bit added.’

‘There’s been a sighting.’ Sergeant Cook started the engine. He knew he should have told him earlier, but hadn’t. The red chips caught on the back wheels as he reversed out. The gate somehow seemed smaller going backwards than it had been going forward and he almost clipped the gatepost.

Inspector Murphy sighed. ‘You mean some nutter has seen another UFO.’

‘No. Of the dog.’

‘There are millions of dogs. Some of them have got four legs and a tail.’ They were passing the chapel at St Stephen’s looping round back onto the main streets of Dalmuir, where all the most important decisions were made, like where to eat for lunch and who was paying, and whether it would be a freebie.

‘No. THE dog.’

‘What’s so different?’ They were stuck at the traffic lights at the bottom of the road. Inspector Murphy turned on the siren and waved Sergeant Cook on. He was betting he was as hungry as him, probably hungrier, given the size he was.

‘Haven’t you seen the pictures?’ Sergeant Cook’s voice was even. He knew Inspector Murphy was toying with him.

‘No need to say anything more Sergeant.’ Inspector Murphy put on a deadpan tone. ‘Even the strongest men have a weakness.’

‘But it’s a picture of THE dog.’ He parked in beside the high flats. There was a communal café, where they could get pie and chips, because they were in uniform payment was usually waived.

‘That’s how it all starts Sergeant, with a picture. But a picture never looks like the real thing. It’s like looking in the mirror and deciding how fat you are.'

Cook rushed towards the café. He could almost taste grub. He pulled out the photo of Bill and Todger with the dog circled in black pen. ‘There’s no mistaking him’

Inspector Murphy smiled back at the dog that seemed to be smiling in the photo. Apart from his teeth aching, he was in a good mood. ‘Where was the animal spotted?’ He almost had to put a leash of Cook as he broke into a trot towards the counter.