What do you mean I’ve got to go to Scotland?” “There’s a warrant,” the desk sergeant said, “and it’s our responsibility to hand you over to the Scottish authorities.” “When?” I asked. “Soon as they’ve dealt with you in court tomorrow-assuming they don’t send you to prison.” He laughed. “We’ve contacted the officers in charge of your case up there. They’ll be flying down to pick you up as soon as we give them the nod.”
Great. I had been trying to avoid this journey north for two and a half years. Through a combination of computer malfunction, lack of cross-border communication and good fortune, I had succeeded so far. Now the sergeant explained my plight. “It was a Scotland-only warrant-until last Tuesday. It’s just been extended to cover the whole of the UK.”
I nodded meekly, bowing to the inevitable. But however lenient the magistrate might be tomorrow, I wasn’t going to be at liberty to replenish my heroin supply within the next 24 hours. The two bags I had under my foreskin might see me through the night, but only if I could acquire a box of matches or a lighter-unlikely in this security-conscious place.
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