Chapter 22

As the cold autumn rain cannoned off the pub windows, Inspector Pigshit tucked into his ploughman’s lunch. He wasn’t entirely sure what qualified the bread as being ‘artisan’ or ‘rustic’, but it was good. It had bits in it, but not too many. The cheese was fresh and solid, with an agreeable, slightly crumbly texture. The pickle was commendable, and he appreciated the extra little flourishes like the chopped apple slices and the hard-boiled egg. He had three pickled onions on his plate. Neither too many nor too few. Optimum. Sitting opposite, Steve was busy filling his face with his burger. He had already polished off the potato wedges with great gusto, even though they were basically nothing more than thick chips. Morrison was still complaining about burning his mouth with molten goat’s cheese. Pigshit laughed.

He briefly thought about the murder investigation, but quickly put it out of his mind. It was lunchtime, after all, and Madonna was singing about getting into the groove, imploring her boyfriend to get up on his feet and step to the beat. He thought how much better life would be if people were all just nice to each other, if there wasn’t all these killings and murders and bad stuff involving surgical saws. Forget all this nasty shit and just get into the groove.

Morrison then started talking about his fucking squash league, as if anyone cared.

Pigshit ate a pickled onion and considered getting another pint.

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