Councillor Michelle Fowler was not having a good afternoon.
“Guys? Can you forget about the horses for a minute? It’s just that I’ve got a lot to do today, and if I have to help with your investigation, I’d rather we get this done now. Plus I don’t like being handcuffed.”
“Not what I’ve heard,” whispered Steve, under his breath.
Pigshit picked up Fowler’s pad of Post-It notes and scribbled down his bets.
“Right,” he said, turning to Steve. “Get on the phone to Fat Jim. Tell him I want fucking good prices for that lot.”
“You’ve gone for Wanted: Monty Mole in the 5.50?”
“That one’s only got three legs,” said Andy.
“He’s a good runner on soft ground,” argued Pigshit. “And he’s got Clive Gibbons on board. That guy only rides good horses. He doesn’t fuck about with donkeys.”
“I still prefer Saint and Greavsie,” said Steve.
“Your money,” huffed Pigshit. He turned to Fowler. “You putting on a bet, love?”
“No,” huffed Fowler.
Pigshit was about to call her a grumpy lezzer, but – remembering his diversity training – stopped himself from causing unnecessary offence. He tried to recall one of the politically-correct labels that they were allowed to use.
“All right, keep your knickers on, you annoying rug-muncher.” He turned to Andy. “Is there a coffee machine round here? I’m parched. Here’s 20p. Milk and sugar. Fuck off and get me a cup.”