Chapter 9

When he was a student, and before he joined the police, Inspector Pigshit had toyed with the idea of becoming a vegetarian. It was partly because he didn’t like the flavour or texture of lamb, and partly because being a ‘veggie’ might help him score with the type of girls who were into bands like the Smiths and the Cure. It wasn’t that he was specifically targeting girls who were into bands like the Smiths and the Cure, but he felt it didn’t make sense to narrow the field, either. And so he considered vegetarianism. Briefly. He realised – very quickly – that he would miss bacon. That just wouldn’t do. He wondered if he could claim some sort of exemption, like those so-called vegetarians who eat fish, but it became apparent that there is no part of the great Venn diagram of vegetarianism representing people who don’t eat meat apart from bacon. So he abandoned the idea.

Sitting in the squad car with Steve and Jim as the rain once again lashed down, Pigshit savoured the last remnants of his bacon roll, a simple, yet exquisitely crafted piece of culinary genius. A good quality white bap, butter that had been spread with a trowel, crispy rashers of prime Danish bacon cooked to absolute perfection, all covered in a generous splurge of brown sauce. Not your cheap, derivative catering industry ‘brown sauce’, either, but your actual HP Sauce. The good stuff. Pigshit could taste it. The taste of heaven. Ali from the Bridge Street Café was, it had to be said, a genuine artist. King of the kitchen. Thank fuck he chose to open his greasy spoon here in Edinburgh, and not some place back in Turkey. Pigshit wasn’t a political man by any means, but whenever anyone had a go at ‘the immigrants’, he would, as a matter of course, point out that they were talking complete bollocks. Ali was an immigrant and he was a bloody top bloke. Anyone who’d ever had one of his all-day breakfasts would testify to that.

“Good man, Steve,” said Pigshit, wiping his mouth with a Bridge Street Café napkin. (Ali didn’t charge for little extras like that.) “The rolls were still quite warm, too.”

“I dinnae mess about, boss,” replied Steve proudly.

The rain continued to pour down. Outside, the forensics team were still faffing about putting stuff into little Ziploc bags.

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