Burley Cross Postbox Theft Read Free

man presume to tell you otherwise – or any woman, either, if one ever gets within spitting distance).
    But enough of my inconsequential witterings, Rog (For what do they matter now? I am yesterday’s news, Rog. My battle with this case is over), let’s just grasp the nettle, Rog,
together
,Rog, and press on, shall we? Because it’s all about
you
, now, Rog. This is
your
moment. So
take
it, Rog,
grab
it, Rog (the
moment
, Rog, not the nettle, you idiot), with those huge, flabby mitts of yours, and hold on fast, kid. Prepare yourself for the ride of your life! It’s sure as hell going to be a bumpy one!
    Buckle yourself in tightly, Rog (I took the precaution of asking them – in advance – to enlarge and reinforce the safety-belt. They were surprisingly cooperative, Rog, and they assured me – after doing their sums – that they were at least 37 per cent sure that the stitching would hold in the advent of a sudden stop.
Eh voilà
, Rog –
Les jeux sont faits!)
.
    Because whatever happens, Rog (and which of us may know what the future holds?), it’s going to be a crazy, hazy cavalcade, Rog: a blur of light and speed and blood and lust and heat and spunk and fire (but no biscuits, Rog. No digestives or ginger snaps or HobNobs. Possibly an outside chance of the odd Garibaldi… but then… well… possibly not).
    Draw a deep breath and pinch yourself, Rog (more than an inch, Rog? Yeah. I thought as much), because what you’re holding between your eight fat fingers (and two still fatter thumbs) is the
Wacky Races
of all cases. This is the Top Banana, Rog. This is THE BIG ONE! And it’s all yours, now, Rog. It’s completely and utterly
yours
, now, Rog.
    Blink back the tears, Rog, because this case – this extraordinary case – this astonishing case – this case, which has foiled, baffled and dumbfounded some of the country’s greatest living detective minds… Although… actually… no. On second thoughts, it was only
my
great, living, detective mind (as you are probably already aware, my faithful colleague, PC Hill, has been off sick for the past month after misaligning his spine – and nobody else ever really gave a tinker’s cuss… A quick word to the wise, Rog, while we’re on the subject: never attempt to learn t’ai chi from a stuttering Bulgarian bricklayer with one ear).
    So here it is, Rog, here it is. My stomach loops and contractsas I hand it over (dodgy prawn sandwich at lunch, perhaps?). I am full of relief and awe and gratitude – a little humble, a little proud.
    Here it is, Rog. It is yours. It was
meant
for you, Rog (and I say that with all sincerity). It was preordained, Rog. It was written in the stars, Rog. It was fated.
    It’s your destiny, Rog. It was
always
your destiny.
    Because there have been other cases, Rog, and other officers, but there has never been
this
case, Rog, and
this
officer. There has never been PC Roger Topping and (my teeth tingle as I prepare to write these words) the case of THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT. Or does it sound better the other way around? THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT case? I’m not entirely sure, Rog. Perhaps the second way is best. Or perhaps the first. Yes. The first. Perhaps the first has more punch, Rog, more attack, more
gravitas
.
    Right. Good. I’m glad we’ve sorted that out. So let’s get down to business now, shall we?
    The package, you will observe (if you double-check the contents back against the enclosed inventory – which, of course, you will; I would expect nothing less of you, Rog), is thirty-seven documents short of the initial haul. These consisted of twenty-two Christmas cards (from four original sources, all of which contained only the most perfunctory of messages), nine responses to a private advert in the local press about a foolproof, non-invasive remedy for unreliable erectile function (it’s an ageing population, Rog), three applications to take part in a government-funded solar water-heating scheme (environmentalist