The Intolerably Long Goodbye - an imagined extract from Nicola Sturgeon's crime novel - Euan McColm

Sure, she’d shone like the brightest star in the sky above Edinburgh for almost a decade but what good had come of all that brilliance? Nicky - a voracious reader of contemporary fiction and biography with a normal, relatable personality - had given everything to Scotland but that cruel mistress had used her up then dumped her cases on the sidewalk.

Maybe London was the answer. You could be anyone you wanted in the big smoke. A woman could leave Scotland as the greatest politician of her generation and pitch up in Kings Cross, just another private investigator, trawling the back streets with all the broken souls.

Maybe you fixed some things along the way, maybe you had to hurt some people, too. But you did what needed to be done and you did it on schedule and within budget as promised.

When he limped into her office, Nicky could tell he might be a man. The tone of his voice, his goatee beard, and the name, Alex Badman, all of these raised questions.

“Nicky Power, she/her, how can I help?”

Nicky, an excellent judge of character with a natural empathy for people and the challenges they face during this cost-of-living crisis, sat back in her chair as this loser sang his blues.

Badman - one of several hundred new teachers employed during Nicky’s First Ministership who just happened to be visiting London in case anyone thinks there’s anything wrong with Scotland which there is not - had got himself mixed up with a guy back home, name of Burrell.

Badman had met this cat at a campsite near Leuchars and next thing they’re sitting by the fire pit, drinking Lavazza Espresso from handmade mugs, and he’s hearing how he can make a cool 5000, easy.

All Badman’s got to do is take delivery of a few parcels.

“What kinda things we talking about, slim?” said Nicky.

“He says office stuff, you know, paper clips, staplers, a hole-punch, maybe a photocopier… look, I’m not a details guy and when this Burrell says there’s five large for taking in a few boxes, I’m not gonna tell him no.”

Nicky wondered whether this guy who’d just washed in off the streets knew he could arrange his affairs so he’d only have to pay corporation tax at the lower rate of 20 per cent on that sweet payday.

“So where’s the problem?”

“Listen, doll-face, there wasn’t one damned thing came through the post was meant for any office I ever seen. This guy’s spending like a buzzed-up slots winner on a Vegas Saturday. Jewellery, fancy clothes, cars… It just kept coming then one day these two hoods from the westside turn up asking about a referendum.”

“A referendum?” said Nicky.

“Yeah,” said Badman, his voice dropping to a whisper, “It’s an internationally-recognised, gold-standard constitutional mechanism that would allow Scotland to achieve its freedom.”

“That sounds very fair and the sort of thing Unionist politicians should want if they aren’t scared of democracy,” said Nicky.

Badman spilled about how Burrell had worked his way into one of the new teams, promised them a quick turnaround on some money needed washed, then blown the lot before vanishing.

“They’re coming after me for half a mill,” said Badman, “I need you to find Burrell.”

Nicky took the job. Two grand a day plus expenses, which was still less than a man would have got.

“Can I ask you something?” said Badman, standing to leave.

“Anything, slim.”

“Is that a real window behind you or is it painted on?”

****

The train journey North felt like an admission of defeat.

Nicky Power had given that damned country everything. She’d opened hospitals that hardly killed anyone, these days, she’d given parents a cardboard box they could put their babies in, and - maybe most important of all - she’d let a generation of teenage boys check out their female classmates in the showers. If you wanted to hear about delivery, pour yourself a glass, buddy.

As the train heaved on from Preston, the door of the First Class carriage, which Nicky used because it gave her space to work on behalf of her clients and not because she thought she was anything special even if other people kept saying she was, slid open.

She'd have recognised that silhouette at 50 paces. It was Jim Sweeney, a schmuck out of Perth who’d taken over after the last boss got popped by a couple of wacko students, high on Boba Tea and oestrogen.

Sweeney slid into the seat opposite.

“Been a while, Jim.”

“Planning a comeback?”

“One job, Jim. In and out. Worried about that? Do you think they’re missing me? How many selfies did you do last week? Five? 10? I was doing 370 a day, Jim, and I was still running the firm.”

Nicky could tell by the way Jim sat that he was a misogynist who’d had to work half has hard as her to get where he was. He’d got lucky because he was a man, the sort of man who couldn’t write an election manifesto if his life depended on it and didn’t hang out with Susie McCabe, Alan Cumming or, if they weren’t available, Val McDermid.

Sweeney leaned across the table and spoke, cold and slow.

“I’ve got three feminists waiting at Waverley Station to ask you what a woman is, Nicky.”

***

The wind whipped round the platform at Gretna Green station. Scotland was dead to Nicky Power. She opened her phone and checked the new Scotrail travel app.