Donny smiled suggestively. ‘The first is always the best. You never forget the first time.’             

Kyle stared at his partner, who was almost forty, round faced and balding, and pretty average-looking – you wouldn’t look at him twice in the street – but there was something lurking beneath his exterior that was electric, aggressive and fiery – but at the same time, congenial. Like an attractive reptile, poisonous but spellbinding.             ‘Do you mean….’ Kyle began hesitatingly.             

Donny snapped with sudden irritation, ‘What I said was what I meant. It’s easy enough to understand. Even for a half-caste like you.’             

Shamefaced, and without realizing what he was doing, Kyle wiped a hand across his boyish face, and spoke in a strangled voice. ‘I’m not a half-caste.’             

‘What are you then?’             

‘Mixed race.’             

Donny laughed cruelly. ‘That’s just semantics.’ 

Kyle’s brows contracted into a confused frown. He hated his partner using big words, the words he’d learnt trying to better himself in prison. But Donny was now on a roll, and loved tormenting Kyle, his loveable but vulnerable hooligan. Half-teasing, but also intentionally heartless, he added, ‘Boils down to the same thing in the end. The son of a black whore and white trash.’ 

 ‘At least if I was going to kill someone, I’d do it properly.’ 

 This was Kyle’s ultimate defence, knowing it was his partner’s Achilles heel. In a moment of weakness, Donny had confided in Kyle, telling him the truth about why he was banged up for eight years at the age of twenty. A pensioner he tried to rob in her home fought back, and when he pushed her forcefully, she fell, cracked her head on a coffee table and died. It was more accident than murder and of this he was ashamed. It was pathetic. Not even a proper murder. Ignominious. Which was another addition to his vocabulary courtesy of HM Prison.

CARELESS TALK - extract
Ted glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock. Only another hour to go until he had to meet Donald. And still there was no indication that the chipolatas had worked. He stared across the kitchen table at Marjorie, who was reading Woman’s Realm and noisily slurping tea. Suddenly she winced painfully and a low animal moan came from the depths of her stomach.            

‘Marjorie!’ exclaimed Ted with exaggerated concern. ‘What’s wrong?’             Marjorie ran from the room and just about made it to the downstairs cloakroom before throwing up in the small hand basin.             

As Ted listened to the revolting sound of her retching, a grin spread across his face. Eureka! he thought. It worked.

Flashback extract

We also found a great way to entertain everyone in the studio canteen. If any of the studio floor managers needed someone paged to the studio, they would use an internal phone, and there was one situated between the two heavy doors leading into the studios. We began to put in some false calls. Sitting in the canteen, you might hear an announcement along the lines of:

“Could Mr Albert Bridge go to studio three in five minutes, please?”

None of the telephonists seemed to twig. We got away with all kinds of names, everyone from Joe Stalin to Bill Shakespeare. Then one day I picked up the internal phone and put in a call for Miss Connie Lingus to go to Studio Three. 

The telephonist demanded, “Who’s that? This isn’t a proper call, is it?  Are you mucking about?”

Clearly there was nothing wrong with the telephonist’s sex education.

 

 

Lambert stared pointedly at a portrait of a primary schoolgirl in a blue-gingham blouse, smiling sweetly to camera. 

‘You’re a family man, I see.’             

Dyson scowled with suspicion as he wondered what Lambert was driving at. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’             

‘I just think it’s commendable to love one’s children. There’s something spiritual about that sort of love.’             

Dyson’s scowl uncoiled and he nodded his agreement. ‘Although the missus and I split up about eighteen years ago, and the children are grown up now, I still see them regularly. I’ve got a good relationship with them.’             

‘And what about DS Lennon? Was he a family man, too?’             

‘He was devoted to his kiddies. Do anything for them.’             

‘So when he suspected O’Sullivan was seriously abusing young Con, he didn’t look too hard for evidence linking the son to his father’s murder.’             

Dyson’s face darkened and he lumbered to his feet. ‘I think I can safely say this interview’s over.’             

Lambert also stood up. ‘That’s okay, Martin. You’ve told me everything I need to know.’             

Dyson moved a step forward, his chin jutting forward confrontationally. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something else for nothing: if it turns out that Con O’Sullivan’s been killing those paedophiles in South Wales, I hope he finishes the job and gets away with it.’             Lambert smiled thinly. ‘How did you know?’             

‘You don’t have to be Einstein to work that one out. It’s still in the news, and you sound like a taff.’ Dyson glanced at his watch. ‘Now if you don’t mind – it’s pub quiz night.’             

As he swung open the flat door, Lambert thanked him and started to exit.             ‘Me an’ a mate went on holiday to Wales a couple of years back,’ Dyson said, and Lambert noticed a malicious glint in his eye as he turned to face him. ‘Would have been all right if it weren’t for all them taffs. Fucking sheep shaggers the lot of them.’             ‘I’ve never heard that before,’ Lambert said, but the door had already slammed in his face.