Chapter 5

They were now on track five, Of Crime and Passion, and they still weren’t much nearer the crime scene. Thanks in part to roads in the city centre being dug up for the new, exciting and very, very popular tram project, the Monday morning traffic seemed worse than ever. Despite putting on the sirens and the flashing blue lights to get past a few cars and buses, Pigshit and Morrison were now well and truly stuck. They hadn’t moved for about three or four minutes. Ahead of them they could see two bin lorries, several cars and a couple of double-decker buses. Pigshit felt the need to go out and bust a few noses so people would get the hell out the way, but it was raining and he’d get soaked.

It was obvious Sergeant Jim Morrison didn’t really like Of Crime and Passion, but eventually it faded out and Union of the Snake came on.

“This got to number 3 in the UK charts,” said Pigshit proudly.

“Did it?” replied Jim, doubtful of whether reaching number 3 in the charts in the early 1980s was any guarantee of quality.

The hard, unforgiving autumn rain danced off the windscreen in big wet droplets like they were in that film, Se7en.

“At least all this will be sorted out after your #indyref.”

“What’s that, boss?”

“Congestion. All this bloody traffic! Once Scotland becomes independent, all this shit will be a thing of the past. We’ll all be able to drive wherever we like, when we like, without worrying about hold-ups, or one-way streets, or rain. And we’ll have as much free haggis and shortbread as we can eat! It’ll be ace, won’t it?”

Pigshit knew Morrison was a bit of a nationalist and he liked to wind him up about it.

“It’ll be a positive change, I’m sure,” murmured Morrison diplomatically.

“Sounds like a bunch of arse, if you ask me. All these politicians. Fucking hell. Get on with your work and stop poncing around.”

Pigshit felt his pocket buzz. He could just about make out the muffled sound of Shout by Tears for Fears. It was his mobile. He took it out of his pocket and answered it.

“Steve, what’s happening? … Uh huh … It’s all snarled up here, too … No, don’t fucking go to Roy’s! … I don’t care if it’s closer, you know what that guy’s like. One fucking rasher of bacon, and it’s usually all rind … And he doesn’t butter the rolls … Look, just stick on the sirens and the flashing blue lights, and get your arse over to Bridge Street like you’re supposed to. And tell Ali I want more sauce this time!”

He hung up. The car still hadn’t moved.

“What was that about?”

That was our esteemed colleague, Sergeant Steven Norman, informing me he’s stuck in traffic, and asking if it would be better to get the bacon rolls from Roy’s instead of Ali’s, because Roy’s is closer and he didn’t know how long it would take to get to Bridge Street.”

“I don’t like Roy’s,” said Jim unenthusiastically. “His rolls are always a bit doughy.”

“I ought to shut that place down,” mused Pigshit. “One rasher of bacon, indeed. I’m sure I could get that fucker locked up for something.”

The car crawled forward about three metres.

Pigshit dealt with his frustration by hitting the back button on the CD player several times until he got back to The Reflex.


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