“The Chief Inspector says if anyone calls in sick today they will be officially failed,” Crabbie said.
“Officially failed? I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life!” I said. “I’m going to go see him. CID shouldn’t have to do this. We don’t do foot patrols or go round chasing criminals over the rooftops. We’re the brains of the outfit around here.”
“I don’t mind doing a fitness test,” Lawson said.
“Yeah, look at you. But what about McCrabban and me?”
“Don’t include me, Sean. I’m fine. I’ve got the farm to keep me fit. Bringing the sheep in from the high bog that’ll get your blood pumping and—” Crabbie began, but I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, lads, I’ll sort this one out. Fitness tests are for ordinary coppers.”
The Chief Inspector was in conference with Chief Superintendent Strong, the HR goons, Inspector Dalziel and Dr Havercamp, who was one of the RUC’s medical officers. I knew Kevin Havercamp well because he’d repeatedly refused to give me opiates, sick leave and methaqualone on pretty much every occasion on which I’d asked for them over the last few years. He and Strong, however, did give me pleasant enough welcoming smiles, as opposed to Dalziel, who positively grimaced when he saw it was me.
“Ah Duffy, I’ve been looking for you,” CS Strong said in his low, pleasant Glaswegian burr.
“I’ve been looking for you too, sir. I just want to offer you my hearty congratulations on your promotion, sir. Thoroughly deserved. Assistant Chief Constable. It brings credit to us all, sir.”
“Why thank you, Duffy, that’s very good of you to say so. It’s not quite official yet though, but when all the t’s are crossed I’ll have a wee celebration at the police club,” he said, his close-cropped ginger beard bristling with pleasure.
“I’ll buy the first round, sir. We’re all very proud to be in your command, sir.”
Strong was positively blushing now.
“Now about this fitness test, sir, I—”
“You’re not getting out of it, Sean,” Strong said quickly. “Out of your entire CID team only Lawson showed up to do the fitness test last year.”
“CID team? There’s only the three of us.”
“Well all three of you will be doing the test this morning. Every man in the station and every man in every other station. This is coming direct from the Chief Constable.”
“But sir—”
Strong leaned close and lowered his voice to convey a clandestine atmosphere: “An internal civil service report arrives on Mrs Thatcher’s desk that says that the RUC is ‘the fattest and least fit’ police force in the entire British Isles. Not for publication of course but Mrs T sees red. She calls Jack. Jack calls all the divisional officers and he lays down the law to all of us. OK? This is coming from Number 10. You’re going to bloody do your run, Duffy, and your bloody push ups and you’re not getting out of it.”
“OK, sir,” I said meekly. “But we have quite a busy morning this morning. We have a crime victim to console and to interrogate. We’ve got a translator coming from—”
“You better hop to it then, Duffy. Inspector Dalziel here is leading the men out together. You’re all going as a group for security reasons. I’ll talk to you in a bit about your case if you want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Five minutes, Duffy. Have your men meet me in the car park. Don’t worry. It’s only a little jog to the castle and back,” Dalziel said with an incredibly smug look on his face, as if he’d already seen the future too, a future where I give up halfway wheezing …
“Five minutes, no problem, see you down there,” I said casually.
Back into CID.
“OK, lads, we’re not getting out of it, apparently. Yeah I know it’s bollocks but what can you do. Is that Bulgarian here yet?”
“He is. I’ve sent him downstairs to the cells to be with Mrs Deauville,” Crabbie said.
“Put both of them in Interview Room #1 and give them tea and biscuits while I try to find some gutties.”
I changed into my old PT kit of shorts and a T-shirt and an ancient pair of Adidas gutties I found in my locker. Crabbie followed me downstairs and got changed into a similarly unused kit. I’d never seen him in shorts before.
“My God I need sunglasses to cope with the white glare coming off your legs, mate,” I said.
“You can talk, look at you! Skin and bones, seen healthier corpses fished out of the Lagan,” he protested, with more defensive sarcasm that he normally mustered of a morning.
But in truth I did look pretty pale and unappetising in the light of day. And in the reverse of what was supposed to happen I had in fact lost weight and muscle definition since cutting down on the smokes. What Beth saw in me I had no idea.
Lawson looked like a young Adonis in his shorts.
“Look at him, Crabbie, he’s like a young Adonis in those shorts,” I said.
“Adonis would have been naked, sir,” Lawson replied.
“Yeah well, I wouldn’t try that with Kenny Dalziel. He’ll have you up on a charge. Now listen to me Lawson, I expect you to win the race, for the honour of CID,” I said.