Chapter 36

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?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“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.”


Chapter 35

Inspector Pigshit found himself lost in the racing pages of the Daily Record. He completely forgot where he was for a while. With a start, he glanced up and looked around. That’s right: he was in Councillor Fowler’s office, on a murder investigation. Steve and that other bloke – Andy? – were also there. Unlike Councillor Fowler, they weren’t handcuffed.

“You all right, guv?” asked Steve.

“Fine, bro’,” replied Pigshit.

He glanced over at Andy. There was a small badge on his lapel. It said ‘SCROTUM’.

“Why the fuck does that badge say ‘SCROTUM’?”

“It’s the name of a shadowy international crime organisation. Like Spectre, or those THRUSH bastards from The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”


“No. Just kidding. It’s an acronym for the Standing Committee on the Rights of Trades Union Members.”

“But it says ‘SCROTUM’!” said Steve.

“What? Oh … aye,” said Andy, hesitantly, slowly realising the word on his badge meant a part of a man’s todger.

He took off the badge.

“Hey, look!” said Pigshit, pointing to the runners and riders for the 4.10 at Catterick.

“There’s a horse called Raw Scrotum!”

“Fuck yeah,” said Steve. “I reckon we should stick a fiver on that.”

They all laughed. Apart from Councillor Fowler, who was still handcuffed to the radiator, and still very pissed off.

Chapter 34

“Right,” began Pigshit. “I really can’t be arsed reciting all that stuff about what you say being used as evidence, so I’ll just—”

He stopped mid-sentence to turn around and glare at Andy, who had just got off the couch.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Just want to get a pen,” replied Andy, indicating he wanted to scribble on his Daily Record.

“If you’re doing your fucking Sudoku, just sit still and do it quietly,” barked Pigshit.

“No, I’m just jotting down my accumulator.”



Inspector Pigshit’s mood lifted.

“Anything good?”

“Well, I quite fancy Swedish Meatballs in the 3.30 at Kempton.”

“Good horse, that.”

“It’s firm ground, so he should be capable of a good finish. The only other one I’d consider in that race is Glue Factory, but he prefers softer ground.”

“Starts well, but he can’t keep the pace,” noted Steve.

“Did all right at Newmarket last time,” said Pigshit.

“Aye, but the other runners were all shite,” replied Andy. “Two were Clydesdales more suited to pulling milk carts, one was a donkey from Blackpool beach and the rest of them didn’t know the fucking way round.”

Pigshit and Steve laughed. Councillor Fowler sat fuming in her chair; handcuffed, and unable to reach her cup of green tea.

“What else we got?” asked Pigshit, leaning over to study the runners and riders.

“Harold Bishop’s riding Jizzy Duvet in the 4.10 at Kelso.”

“I hate Harold Bishop,” said Steve. “I’m no’ putting money on that shorted-arsed wee gobshite.”

“Not a bad price, though, Steve,” said Pigshit. “Decent horse, 8-1.”

“I’m having some of that,” beamed Andy.

“Actually,” said Pigshit, “I like the look of Vulva Mourinho in the 4.40.”

“That’s a bastard of a horse,” said Steve. “They must put something in the hay, surely. Runs like they’ve stuck a rocket up its arse.”

They all laughed.

“Excuse me,” said Councillor Fowler, “but can you guys forget about the horses for now? I’ve got things to be getting on with.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Pigshit, carefully weighing up an ambitious six-horse accumulator. He was still a little uncertain of Wulf Sternhammer in the 5.30 at Doncaster …

Chapter 33

The heavy wooden mahogany door landed on the floor with a resounding splintery crash. The last time Pigshit kicked in a politician’s door (see page 195 of the 2011 Inspector Pigshit novel, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go for details) he caught a prominent MSP and his secretary at it like knives on the desk. It was a horrible image. (Indeed, some nights Pigshit will wake up in cold terror at the memory of the man’s fat, spotty arse thrusting back and forth, back and forth.) This time, however, Councillor Michelle Fowler was sitting back in her chair with a cup of tea or something, while some bloke was lying on the couch with his feet up, reading the Daily Record.

“What the fucking hell are you doing?”, screamed Fowler, almost spilling her tea. “Don’t you guys knock?”

“We did,” said Pigshit. “That’s why your door fell in.”

He turned to the bloke on the couch.

“Now who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Andy O’Brien. Councillor Fowler’s political advisor.”

“Right, well sit there and keep your fucking mouth shut. We’re doing a murder investigation here.”

“No worries,” replied Andy. “I’ll just read my paper.”

“Shall I ’cuff her up, boss?” asked Steve.

“Do that,” said Pigshit.

“What?” exclaimed Fowler as Steve handcuffed her. “Again, what the fucking hell are you doing?”

“Handcuffs, love,” smiled Pigshit. “I expect you quite enjoy handcuffs in certain situations, but this is police work, so don’t get too excited. Standard procedure.”

Inspector Pigshit sat down on a swivel chair and reached into his pocket to take out his new notebook. He was ready to begin the interview.

Chapter 32

Inspector Pigshit was not a man for writing letters. Only once in the last 10 years had he bothered to write a letter, and even then, he got Mrs Pigshit to sort out envelopes and stamps and stuff. In actual fact, it wasn’t just one letter, but twenty copies, addressed to different people. The letter concerned potholes in the road just along from Pigshit’s house. The road was in such shite condition and had been left in such disrepair for so long, he felt he could stand it no longer, and so he wrote a letter demanding the road be resurfaced “as soon as fucking possible”.

In the course of his investigations vis-à-vis the potholes and who could do something about it, he found he had not only an MP, but three local councillors, an MSP, several regional MSPs, and about six MEPs. He sent them each a copy of the letter. He also discovered he was represented by a community council, so he wrote to them, too. For good measure, he also sent copies to the Sunday Post and the BBC One consumer affairs programme, Watchdog.

Unfortunately, all the responses from his elected representatives proved to be profoundly useless. Essentially, they all thanked him for his correspondence, acknowledged the problem with the potholes, then made some crappy excuse about how repairs to that particular road either wasn’t in their remit, or wasn’t a priority at this moment in time. The best reply he got was from Watchdog presenter Nicky Campbell, who sent him a signed photograph. The Sunday Post never published or answered his letter, so he stopped buying the paper, even though he liked reading The Broons.

Following this experience, Pigshit had little respect for politicians. They were all vain, self-serving tossers who knew nothing about anything. And the rest were just bullshitters.

Pigshit and Sergeant Steve Norman marched purposefully along the corridor towards Councillor Fowler’s office.

“Better knock, I suppose,” said Pigshit.

He kicked the door in, busting it off of its hinges. There were splinters everywhere.

To be continued …

Chapter 31

Inspector Pigshit marched purposefully through the doors of Edinburgh City Council, waving his Police Scotland ID as he brushed past the girl in reception.

“Hey!” yelled a jobsworth security guy who worked for whatever company it was these days who had the contract for security at council HQ. “You can’t park there!”

“I already have, sunshine,” said Pigshit. “Look.”

“No, I mean, you’re not allowed to. You have to use the car park.”

“Bollocks to your car park,” said Pigshit. “I am a police officer on a very important case. If I wanted to use a car park, I’d bloody well use the Park & Ride and come in on a bus.”

“Aye, but you can’t leave your vehicle at the top of the steps.”

“Says who? Listen, mush: I am the fucking law. Any more lip from you, whether it’s about where I choose to park or not, and I’ll have you banged up for obstructing police work. You’re looking at five years, minimum.”

“But …”

“Five years of breaking rocks and sewing mail bags in Saughton. Think about it.”

Pigshit and Steve brushed past the guard and walked over towards the lifts. Steve silently mouthed ‘wanker’ at the guard. Pigshit asked a bloke in a suit where Fowler’s office was. They got in the lift. Inspector Pigshit pressed 3 so that the lift would take them up to the third floor. The doors closed slowly.

The bloke in the suit, who had also entered the lift, stood in stoic silence.

“Small fucking Tardis this,” noted Pigshit.

“I know what you mean, Doctor,” replied Steve. “I blame the Daleks, actually.”

“Yeah,” huffed Pigshit. “Those fuckers.”

The lift gave a big grunt and lurched to a halt at the second floor. The bloke in the suit grinned nervously and got out.

The door closed again and Pigshit and Steve pissed themselves laughing.

Chapter 30

Sirens a-flashing, Inspector Pigshit’s unmarked squad car thundered towards the headquarters of Edinburgh City Council. It was still pissing it down outside with cold, wet rain.

“Looks like the car park’s full,” said Steve.

“Forget the car park,” replied Pigshit. “There’s plenty of space outside the main door. Take the fucker up the stairs.”

“Right-oh, boss.”

Steve hit the accelerator and drove the car up the large flight of stone steps before pulling a smooth handbrake turn and bringing the car to a stylish halt right outside the door.

Pigshit switched off the CD player. They were already on track 10 of Pelican West, the wonderfully catchy Love’s Got Me in Triangles. Pigshit thought about his favourite triangles: Dairylea cheese triangles. He got out of the car and glanced over at some smokers huddled outside the door of the building. They were looking at him funny.

“What are you fuckwits staring at?” he asked.

No-one said anything.

“You lot want to stop smoking. Didn’t you get the memo about how it’s bad for you? And that it makes you stink?”

“Not that easy,” mumbled one of the smokers, shivering in the damp autumn wind.

“Course it’s fucking easy,” said Pigshit. “You take your packet of fags and throw them in the fucking bin. Then you don’t buy any more, ever. Simple.”

“Ye cannae give up just like that,” said another.

“Away and shite,” replied Pigshit. “Use a bit of fucking willpower.”

“Do you want me to arrest these guys?” asked Steve. “We can get them banged up for smoking outwith a designated area.”

Pigshit looked down and saw that two of the group were indeed standing on the wrong side of a line painted on the paving stones indicating where people were allowed to smoke.

“No, it’s cool,” said Pigshit. “A warning will be sufficient this time.”

And with that, he kicked and punched the smokers until they were safely over the line. And then he went inside to continue the investigation.