“I’m away for a slash.”
It wasn’t even eleven o’clock and already Morrison had to go for a Jimmy Riddle.
“Don’t be all bloody day in there,” barked Inspector Pigshit.
He decided to wait in the foyer rather than go straight out to the car. Apart from anything else, Morrison had the keys.
There wasn’t much in the foyer: the bit where the receptionist sat, a few uncomfortable-looking chairs for visitors to sit in, a coffee machine and a display rack containing various pamphlets and leaflets. Pigshit wandered over towards the coffee machine. All drinks were £1. Fucking hell, he thought, when did vending machine coffee go up to a quid? He ought to have been thankful that the machine at work still only charged 20p, but he was more outraged that some bandit must be coining it in, charging £1 for the kind of piss-poor coffee you get from a vending machine.
Then the display rack caught his eye: stuff about Edinburgh castle, the National Museum, the zoo, the botanic gardens, the Royal fucking Yacht. Some yacht. Massive great ocean liner, more like. He didn’t care for the castle, either. In all his years in the city, Pigshit had never once been to the castle. It just didn’t interest him, all that historical shit. Dudes in kilts and tartan bunnets slicing each other up with swords because of one king or another. Fucking stupid. Pigshit took pride in the fact he’d never visited the castle. It showed he was a free thinker, someone who didn’t have to follow the crowd if he didn’t want to.
Suddenly, the door leading to the gents swung open up and Morrison came out.
“All right, boss?”
“Yeah,” replied Pigshit. “Got a pound coin on you? I want a coffee.”