Chapter 17

One of Inspector Pigshit’s all-time favourite films was X-Men 2 (or X2, as some people called it). That was the one with the blue guy, Nightshade or whatever you call him, the chap who could do all the backflips and jumps and who could teleport around the place like a pointy-tailed demon. Pigshit’s favourite character was of course Wolverine, because – much like Pigshit himself – he was a double-hard bastard who came out with some truly great lines.

However, if Pigshit had to choose a superpower, he often thought he’d like to be able to do all that stuff that Jean Grey did – moving objects just by thinking about it. There’d be so much he could do with a superpower like that. Fetch drinks from the fridge without getting out of his chair. Open and close the window in his office through the power of thought (and without getting out of his chair). Sadly, during his meeting with DCI Mitchell, Pigshit concluded that he really didn’t have this superhuman ability. While Mitchell discussed with increasing candour the intimate details of her sex life, he stared at a paperweight on her desk in the vain hope of being able to tune her out. Turn his attention to something else less excruciating and just make it through to lunchtime. The paperweight – a cheap-looking Eiffel Tower souvenir brought back from Paris – just wouldn’t budge. As hard as he concentrated, he couldn’t shift it at all. Perhaps Mitchell talking about finding more arousing ways to style her pubic hair caused him to lose his focus. In any case, he wouldn’t be transferring to the X-Men any time soon.

In the end, he was saved by a text from Sergeant Steve Norman. Pigshit felt his pocket buzz. Thank fuck. He took out his phone and read the message. It was about the owner of the car. The same name Maggie Watson gave him.

“I’m going to have to go – there’s been a breakthrough in the case,” said Pigshit.

“Oh, excellent,” said Mitchell. “But before you go, what do think about this technique?”

She showed him another page of the sex manual. There was, again, a graphic illustration of the naked couple, along with what seemed like a highly complicated set of instructions.

“I mean, it’d be easy enough to find a pair of handcuffs,” laughed Mitchell. “But do you think it would help Mr Mitchell delay his ejaculation?”

Pigshit winced.

“Yeah. Probably.”

He made his excuses and left.


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