Pigshit sat down with his second pint of the day. It cost £3.50. Rebus and his entourage of wankers were on their way out. They spent fat too long faffing about with coats and jackets and scarves, then they held the door open too long, letting all the cold air in. Bastards.
Morrison was still talking about squash.
“Steve,” said Pigshit, interrupting Morrison’s long monologue. “Do you play squash yourself?”
“No, I don’t,” said Steve.
“All right, Jimbo. Steve doesn’t play squash and neither do I. Change the fucking subject.”
Morrison looked hurt. He was just about to get to the good bit.
Suddenly, Pigshit felt his pocket buzz. He could just about make out the muffled sound of Shout by Tears for Fears. It was his mobile. He took it out of his pocket and answered it.
“Inspector Pigshit. Who are you? … Uh huh … No … No … No, you listen, you stupid arsepipe. I’m conducting a major fucking murder investigation. If I were to put all the things I had to deal with in a big list starting with the most important thing at number 1, the second most important at number 2 and so on, you and your fucking bowling alley would be down at number 927, just below ‘Make an appointment to have my hair permed at some poofy hair salon’ and ‘Check today’s fucking horoscope’. Do I make myself clear? … I am so glad to be of service. In fact, why don’t you place yourself under arrest? Hand yourself in at the nearest station. Tell them I sent you.”
Pigshit pressed the little red bit on his phone and hung up.
“Who was that, boss?” asked Morrison.
“Stupid twat who runs the bowling alley,” said Pigshit. “Wanted to know if he could reopen this afternoon.”
“At least he asked before doing anything,” said Steve.
“Wasting my fucking time. I’ll have ’em throw away the key.”
Pigshit downed the rest of his pint. It was bloody good.
“Right, lads. Finish up. It’s time to get back to work.”