The Apocryfan (18)
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Detective Sgt. Gus Hogg stared at his hands. They were the hands of a wonderful human being. Short, squat fingers like teats but sporting elsewhere life-lines a student of palmistry would likely kill for. He then stared up at the slinky hot ‘blancmange’ of the portakabin’s temporary canopy rippling in a rare breeze: temporary prior to someone building a less temporary, yet still temporary, roof. He always thought portakabins were meant to come complete at outset!
“This is a fucking hellhole!” he shouted into his over-sized walkie talkie.
The heat was not filtered out by the ‘blancmange’ (if that was what it was): a cooling gel steeped into the canopy’s weave with a process of overnight marinade by cold storage. But nothing could cope with this particular August’s sweltering.
“And the town’s full of crones and creeps and tattooed bleeders on the beach and fucking sea-gulls! How am I supposed to pin anything on anybody when half the population doesn’t even live here and have come just to see the shitty sea! Beats me why anyone would want to come as near as twenty thousand fucking miles of this place!”
Whoever was at the other end of this conversation was squeaking inarticulately – as heard by Constable Milly Mauve when she arrived with a sheaf of papers from another part of the huge complex that constituted the ‘portakabin’.
“A list of the suspects here, sir,” she said, pinching her own bum in an absent-minded attempt to ward off the same sexual harrassment from anyone else. A lesson in psychological policing. She was horrified by Hogg’s nasal cavities and residual contents following a recent sneeze.
CONTINUED HERE: http://newdfl.bloghorn.com/124
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