As he marched purposefully back to his office, Inspector Pigshit considered the possibility of the people who make Tipp-Ex also doing some sort of correction fluid that covers up bad memories and allows you to clean your mind properly so you can start again with clear space rather than a mess of scribbles and horrible stuff. Certainly he could use such a product after his meeting with DCI Mitchell. He never had to put up with that sort of thing when Sneddon was in charge.
DCI Davie Sneddon was a great bloke. A good, solid, honest copper who could tell you everything about the rugby. In all the years Pigshit worked with him (about three, give or take a couple of months), he never once saw Sneddon doing a Saturday afternoon shift. He’d always be over at Meggetland, watching his beloved Boroughmuir. If the first XV were playing away from home – certainly anywhere further afield than, say, Currie – he’d still be there watching the seconds or even the youth team. And of course, he loved the big games at Murrayfield. He always said it was better when it was the Five Nations – Sneddon was unwavering in his conviction that the Italians were a bunch of overweight piss artists who had no place in the great game of rugby union. DCI Sneddon would never haul you into his office to talk about ways to trim his pubic hair. No way.
It was getting on for lunchtime, and in lieu of any Mind Tipp-Ex, Pigshit decided a visit to the pub was necessary. He entered his office, took his coat off the coat peg and called over to Morrison.
“Jimbo! Get your feet off the furniture. It’s lunchtime.”
“I’ve got sandwiches,” replied Morrison, holding up a sandwich with a big bite out of it.
Pigshit took one look at Morrison’s packed lunch. White fucking bread, 20p a loaf from Aldi or that other place. Nutritional value: fuck all.
“Put your sandwiches in the fucking bin. You’re coming with me down the pub. Where’s Steve?”
“He’s gone to the stationery cupboard to get some pens and a ruler.”
“Text him. Tell him to meet us across the road.”
It had been a crap morning, but, ever the optimist, Pigshit was convinced a pint and a ploughman’s would put everything right.