The One Punch Killer

This is another true story from my time on the murder squad. As always, reader discretion advised...

Croydon. A place of broken dreams, a barren heartland to the south. A place to get proper pissed. Our victim had taken a bucket load of drugs, which he’d blended with a lovely selection of seasonal wines, beers and spirits. The lab are still analysing his blood samples some fifteen years later. The initial scientist on the case was driven to madness and became a hermit living in a cave. In Birmingham.

Our man had been asked to remove himself forthwith from a licensed establishment by large gentlemen in formal wear after spitting at the chap who tries to spray you with aftershave when you're urinating. Offering unparalleled service, they carried him from the bar to save fatigue on his legs. 

As one does when properly bingoed, he sought out the hardest man in Croydon to have a roll around with. He met Big Geordie. Big Geordie was a big Geordie who sought to improve his physique and mental health through the use of steroids. He was a man on edge, and in no mood to debate with our victim when offered out.

 Rather than taking a chance on love and going for a kebab and maybe a glass of wine together, Big Geordie punched our unfortunate victim, knocking him off his feet. He feel to the floor, his skull crashing onto a kerb leading to his untimely death. A man was dead as our Detective Inspector, Robin the Destroyer of Worlds,  was keen on saying, 

The hunt was on. We gave Big Geordie a ring, but he wasn’t having any of it. He hung up straight away, even though we called him Mr Big Geordie out of courtesy. His real name was Adrian le Coq. 

A surveillance team were mustered, but we couldn’t find them, so that was a non starter. Our Detective Chief Inspector, Mr Snugglepants, had taken the day off to go to the seaside, so Detective Inspector Uncle Scrooge was in charge. He came over to Croydon and pulled at his penis for the local press. It was one of his odd habits. His face twitched as well. When he got really excited, his face became a blur. 

Norman was a Detective Sergeant who was in charge of the incident room. He arranged a seance. DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds ended up pinned to the ceiling speaking in tongues. He told us that Big Geordie was working in a gym in some place called Newcastle, and wasn't from Geordie after all. After that he kept insisting he wasn’t Regan, and said ego te absolvo a lot. His head started to spin round, which was yucky, so we all slipped out, except Norman who had been glued to his chair, so he just pretended that nothing was going on and read the paper.

I was chosen to travel to Newcastle. The DS who’s girlfriend looked like a man came as well. His name was Victor Willis, which unfortunately was the name of the policeman in the Village People, so he used the nickname Winnie the Pooh. We took the Crime Scene Manager Larry Mullen Jnr with us because he was an ace dancer and had been outside the M25 once. 

Norman had seen a documentary about Newcastle on the Discovery Channel, and made the excellent suggestion that we took an interpreter. Uncle Scrooge instructed the office Glaswegian to travel with us in that capacity. His name was DC Liberace as his mum was a big fan. He took many beatings growing up, but was a fabulous pianist. He often played in the office while Mr Snugglepants sat on the piano and Larry Mullen Jnr did some body-popping. 

As we were murder squad detectives, we got to fly EasyJet. The colour scheme matched Larry Mullen Jnr’s face. Uncle Scrooge told us not to buy peanuts or aftershave, and no jokes about hostage taking or explosives. 

We arrived in Newcastle and collected our hire car. It was a purple Lamborghini. Winnie the Pooh insisted on driving, and went nuts when Liberace sat in the driver’s seat when he was inside paying for petrol. We found the hotel, and settled into the honeymoon suite. I wanted to go to the petting zoo, but Winnie the Pooh punched me in the neck and said he wanted to go to fucking Jungle Jacks. We discussed getting recommendations from the bloke on reception, but he talked like Jimmy Nail on speed, so we gave up on that idea.

Mr Snugglepants phoned up, and we put him on speakerphone. He got really cross when nobody would admit to making the farting noises, so he shouted at us making Larry Mullen Jnr cry. We were told to go to the local police station and give it the billy big bollocks to the Geordie police. We all put on our sharpest suits and practised our Cockney wanker accents. Larry Mullen Jnr was in a Star Wars onesie as he was police staff, not a police officer.

We found the police station, and were met by an enormously fat man who claimed to be the Detective Inspector. We went inside, walking like proper geezers to impress everyone. The language was strange, almost sing song. We saw some people in grass skirts peek out from doorways. One of them had a huge plate in his mouth. He was hiding from Sting. There was a dead DS glued to a chair in one of the corridors.

The DI took us to his office, and passed round the Newcastle Brown ale. We gave him some Prince Charles deely boppers and a pair of Chelsea Pensioner pants. Liberace tried to communicate with him, but it turned out they spoke a different dialect, so all we heard was 'whey hey!', with Liberace saying ‘I dinnae ken’ a lot. Luckily, Norman had called ahead, and arranged for the only English speaking officer in Northumbria Police to be attached to us for the duration of the stay. 

We told the English speaking officer that we were looking for a large white bloke with a shaven head called Big Geordie. It turned out that this name was much more common than we’d suspected, and that being white with a shaven head was a craze sweeping the north east at that time. We were taken to meet the police Sergeant that dealt with informants. Unusually, he worked in full uniform, making him what I believe to be the only high visibility informant handler in England and Wales. 

We were given the name and address of an informant to visit, which again was unusual. We fired up the wheels and headed off to see him. It turned out the informant was one of the hardest men in Britain, and didn’t give a flying fuck who knew he gave information to the police for money. 

He told us to take our shoes off which we did. He then lobbed them into the neighbour’s garden to test our resolve. We all pretended we hadn’t noticed and just talked about the weather. He told us to take off all our clothes and slip into Teletubbies  outfits. We had no choice - we needed his help. He took photos of us kissing. He said it was for insurance purposes.

Despite the language barrier, we persevered. He kept talking about ‘Le Coq’, which got Larry Mullen Jnr really worried as he was Tinky Winky and the photos on the wall showed that he was our host’s favourite. It turned out that he was talking about Adrian Le Coq and wasn't intending to have his way with us.

We drove back to the police station and found the English speaking officer who was having a cup of tea with the bloke with a plate in his mouth. It was going everywhere. Some local uniformed officers were taking the piss out of our Teletubbies outfits, so Winnie the Pooh had a proper stand up with them. We told the English speaker what we'd learned, and he promised to do all our work for us so we could get on the piss. 

The next day, the Geordie police arrested our suspect. He was found walking his dog on the green outside the police station. He responded straight away when they shouted 'Big Geordie!', so we were happy we had our man. He was given a skin full of steroids to keep him going, and we were escorted to the airport. 

Uncle Scrooge phoned up and was really excited. I was told he nearly pulled his penis off. We told a little white lie and said we’d worked really hard. He said that he’d send up a couple of dull detectives to escort our man back to London, and that we could have a night out on him. We kept Big Geordie calm until the dullards arrived, then yelled out something about steroid users having small cocks as he was walking up the steps to the plane. The dullards went mental, as did Big Geordie, but they managed to bundle him onto the plane. They ended up having to make an emergency landing in Nottingham, but everyone was alright. 

Big Geordie was sentenced to a long stretch in prison. He is in segregation because of his silly name. 


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