Something about the case was troubling Inspector Pigshit. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but then Morrison asked when Daniels would be back. Detective Inspector Helen Daniels was Pigshit’s regular partner. They were like Mulder and Scully, except Pigshit didn’t believe in space aliens, and Daniels wasn’t an attractive redhead who could do autopsies and stuff. Daniels was blonde and, quite often, a bit of a pain in the neck. She was thirty-something and one of the force’s ‘high-potential’ employees.
“So when’s Daniels back, boss?”
“Where is she anyway?”
“I believe she’s off on some watercolour painting holiday, somewhere in the south of France.”
“She any good?” asked Steve.
“At watercolours? How should I know?”
“We investigate crime. It’s not like she invites me round to her place after work to talk about art.”
“Not what I’ve heard, boss.”
“Fuck off back to Falkirk, you big tart.”
Pigshit wondered if it would be better to get the case wrapped up before Daniels came back, or leave the tricky stuff for her to sort out. On the one hand, catching the killer now would save everyone from Daniels and her meticulous obsession with regulations, procedure and always doing things the correct way. On the other hand, she was bloody good at searching dark buildings with a torch, and she’d handle all the paperwork afterwards. Pros and cons either way. Swings and roundabouts.
He glanced up at the rain cannoning off the windscreen.
“All right. Steve, chase up the owner of that motor. Try and find out why the fuck there was a dead body in the boot. Jim and I are going to pay a visit to Frank at the city mortuary.”
“Can I finish my bacon roll first?” asked Jim.
“You still not done?” Pigshit turned towards Steve. “How many did you get him?”
“He wanted two,” said Steve.
At this rate, he thought, Daniels will be back and we’ll have done sod all. Still, at least she’d handle all the paperwork.