Rant (22 page)

Inspector Mallefant is a happy man.

It has taken him some little while to realise this, as the feeling is so unfamiliar to him. He has brought a case to a conclusion, even though it is a conclusion that the public cannot get its grubby little paws on.

He sits behind his clean, sweet-smelling desk, where he spends most of his days now, and smiles to himself. He can choose the jobs he undertakes. He can set his own agenda. He is one of the invisible, sparkling, well-oiled cogs, which keeps the great machine of this country running.

He does occasionally take on outside work. He does sometimes even leave his office. But only for nice jobs. Clean jobs. A high-profile gala dinner for the glitterati, perhaps. Providing security at movie previews. Seeing a wealthy foreign diplomat safely onto his plane.

No one questions this, nobody complains. Hardly anyone even knows. Inspector Mallefant is his own man now, left to himself and largely ignored, which is just the way he likes it. Because Inspector Mallefant had had a chance to review the contents of the discs before they were hurriedly removed to some top secret bunker in a far-flung corner of Chingford or Hammersmith.

What he saw appalled him, shocked him and disgusted him. Especially the ones revealing the secret lives and fantasies of the Commanders and Chiefs of the British Constabulary. Almost every rank seemed to have been represented, but it was the top brass that saddened him most. And it was with a heavy heart that he made several copies and secreted them in places that even dirt could not penetrate. It was with a feeling of deep remorse that he wrote to all of those represented and advised them of their moral waywardness. And it was with regret that he accepted their fawning, wheedling and cajoling – and became the policeman he had always wished to be.

Little by little, hour by hour, day by day, Inspector Mallefant has begun to learn to love filth.

Look at him now.

A gathering of the great and the good from the media world, gathering to pat each other's back in the beautiful environs of Edinburgh's Plaza Hotel. Not the most morally enlightened people in the world, but their organisers have good taste. Beautiful food, beautiful surroundings, beautiful people – to the naked eye, anyway.

The problems he must surmount are small a price to pay for the peace, financial rewards and sanitary conditions he now enjoys.

Take this moment, for instance. There is a kerfuffle in the lobby; someone has probably imbibed a little too much champagne with lunch. He wanders over to have a quiet word. If this does not work, then a simple nod will bring security down on them like the hand of God.

He is beginning to step through the crowd when he hears a familiar voice that chills him to the bone.

An excited voice.

A Northern voice.

He fights the urge to run away as the voice intones:

‘Will you please for fuck's sake just let me explain!'

Writing a novel is a strange and drawn out undertaking. It can be a solitary and lonely journey, but also one full of joy and sharing. Over the years, many people get sucked in, used and abused, and very rarely properly thanked. Just like in Mike's world, I suppose. The following is far from an exhaustive list, but if I have missed you off, then I will say thank you, wholeheartedly. I'm sure you know who you are. Thanks to all of those who have read and suffered through various drafts of Rant with me, most especially Jeff Price and Lynda Price, Jacqui Wood (who'd have thought after all these years...?) and Andrew Wood. And to all of those who have made supportive noises about a hidden talent and kept me on the somewhat winding and convoluted track that led to there from here. Not least Linda Fitzsimmons. If anyone is likely to recognise Mike Rant, then she is. Thanks to all at Moth Publishing and New Writing North, especially Sarah Porter, Andrea Murphy, Claire Malcolm and Olivia Chapman for guiding me through the final stages and selecting me as one of the writers from the Northern Crime Competition. If I miss anyone off here, it is only because I don't know your name yet. Thanks also to you, gentle reader. Without you... And of course, last but definitely most, much love and thanks to my wife Kate Fox, who has shared her amber room with me for the last five years. Her reading, critiquing and laughter has helped and supported me through the difficult gestation and labour that has given birth to this somewhat strange and ugly child. I know that she would rather have had a puppy. If you want to keep up to date with Mike Rant, then you can Friend him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter, or read his on-going blog at rantability.blogspot.com Bye for now.