The clouds were reloading. Inspector Pigshit felt a few drops of rain. One hit his new B5 notebook with the 81.4 gsm paper, making a wet splatter mark covering the words ‘victim’ and ‘whip’. As well as making notes on the investigation, Pigshit had also been jotting down ideas for the book he was working on: a poignant semi-autobiographical tale of a mighty hero putting the world to rights by taking down the all bankers and politicians and bullshitters. It would be part Bravo Two Zero (minus the Iraq bits, obviously), part Fifty Shades of Grey, part Bare by George Michael. It would be bloody excellent, he thought. He couldn’t wait to see it in Waterstones. He’d go in to every branch in the city and make sure his book covered up the Dan Browns and the John Grishams and all those celebrity autobiographies.
Sergeant Jim Morrison approached.
“Good news, boss!”
“What’s that? Is Steve here with the bacon rolls?”
“He’s on his way. Five minutes. No, even better than that – some guy has confessed to the murder. He’s at the station now, giving a full confession and explaining how and why he did it.”
“Fucking champion!” said Pigshit, a big smile spreading across his face.
“No, only joking,” said Morrison.
“You utter bastard.”
“Actually, the bloke who runs the bowling alley is asking if he can reopen the car park.”
“He’s opening up.”
“Now?” Pigshit looked at his watched. “At quarter past ten on a fucking Monday morning? Who the fuck goes bowling at this time of day?”
“Shall I tell him ‘no’?”
“Tell him to piss off.”
Pigshit felt grumpy and irritable, and not just because it was starting to rain again. He felt like giving Morrison a good hard kick up the arse for raising his hopes like that. Instead, the sound of wailing sirens and flashing blue lights revived his spirits. A squad car roared into the car park, immaculately reversing into one of the disabled parking spaces with a neat handbrake turn.
The driver put his arm out the window and gave Pigshit the thumbs up. It was Steve, with the bacon rolls.