Bokelskere.no

This is because nothing builds character like being abused, spat at and vomited on by members of the public.

When I'm considering this I find it helpful to quote the wisdom of my father, who once told me, 'Who knows why the fuck anything happens?'

'How do you want to do this?' asked Nightingale.
'You're the expert, sir,' I said.
'I looked into the literature on this,' said Nightingale, 'and it wasn't very helpful.'
'There's a literature about this?'
'You'd be amazed, Constable, about what there's a literature on.'

Officially I belong to ESC9, which stands for Economic and Specialist Crime Unit 9. Otherwise known as "The Folly", also known as the unit that nice, well-brought-up coppers don't talk about in polite company.

My dad always said that a trumpet player likes to aim his weapon at the audience, but a sax man likes to cut a good profile and that they always had a favourite side. It being an article of faith with my dad that you don’t even pick up a reed instrument unless you’re vain about the shape your face makes when you’re blowing down it.

'Can you prove you're dead?' I asked.
'Whatever you say, squire,' said Nicholas, and stepped forward into the light.
He was transparent, the way holograms in films are transparent. Three-dimensional, definitely really there and fucking transparent. I could see right through him to the white tent the forensic team had set up to protect the area around the body.
Right, I thought, just because you've gone mad doesn't mean you should stop acting like a policeman.
'Can you tell me what you saw?' I asked.