As he washed his hands in the lukewarm water spluttering out of the hot tap, Inspector Pigshit glanced across at the johnny machine. Back in the day, vending machines in the gents were much more discreet. They’d only say things like “Sheaths 2x50p”. Nowadays, they came emblazoned with all sorts of suggestive imagery. “Fruity Flavour Variety Pack! Apple & Mango! Blackcurrant! Pink Grapefruit!”. Pigshit wondered if there was much of a difference between pink grapefruit and normal grapefruit. Mrs Pigshit was allergic to grapefruit and he wondered if that also meant pink grapefruit, or just the yellow ones.
“You broke my fucking nose,” whined the man handcuffed to the cistern pipe. “I’m going to put in a complaint about you.”
“Yeah? Well, you’ll be doing it on Saughton Prison headed notepaper,” replied Pigshit as he kicked the man hard in the testicles once again.
Pigshit dried his hands on a couple of paper towels. He didn’t like using hand dryers. You either get those wanky Dyson ones that sound like an aeroplane taking off, or an older model that’s about as effective as drying your hands in someone’s fart. The hand dryer in the gents was the latter type, but thankfully, paper towels were available, too. Pigshit used a third towel for good measure, scrunched it up and threw it at the man.
He marched purposefully back out to the main part of the pub.
“Steve. Call the station and get ’em to send a uniformed officer to pick up that guy in the gents. Criminal damage. Six months. Oh, and we’ll need someone round to fix the door, too.”
“No worries, boss.”
The pub jukebox was now playing Sowing the Seeds of Love by Tears for Fears. Good choice, thought Pigshit.
Just then, he noticed Sergeant Morrison wasn’t there.
“Here, where’s Jimbo?”
“Ah,” said Steve. “Bad news, I’m afraid …”