Outside, the wind and the cold Edinburgh rain battered the window. Inspector Pigshit sat at his desk thinking about the coffee he’d just bought from the coffee machine out in the corridor. It was horrible and sweet and just a bit too hot. It wasn’t proper coffee – or proper milk or proper sugar, either – but he drank several plastic cupfuls a day. It cost 20 pence each time, most of that, he assumed, was to cover the cost of the disposable plastic cups. He hated the coffee, but at the same time, he needed it to get him through the day. In any case, it was a good way of getting rid of 20p pieces. Inspector Pigshit hated 20p pieces. Whoever thought it was a good idea to have another fucking seven-sided coin? The fifties were bad enough, but the twenties were smaller and, of course, worth 30 pence less.
He took a tentative sip of the scalding hot liquid and switched on his laptop. Monday morning again. A quiet Monday, hopefully. He hoped there wouldn’t be another murder to investigate.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. It was Sergeant Morrison. Jim, to his friends and the guys he played squash with. Sergeant Jim Morrison, not Jim Morrison out of the Doors, obviously.
“Boss, there’s been a murder.”