Inspector Pigshit marched purposefully back through the station and straight into his office. He had a few things to figure out. First of all, he had to return Jim’s badge to HR. He told Steve to take it over, but Steve pointed out that the HR department had downsized itself and that personnel matters were now dealt with via a call centre based in Clackmannanshire. The part of the building that used to be occupied by HR now housed the Social Media department, but there was, apparently, an 0800 number you could phone, or a website with a form you could fill in. Pigshit couldn’t be arsed with that, so he delegated the whole business to one of his underlings.
In fact, the whole fucking procedure reminded him of the time he had to take a day off because of a bad curry he had from a place near the Cowgate. He woke up that morning to find he could shit through the eye of a needle, so he texted Daniels to say he wouldn’t be in. But then he received a text from someone higher up the food chain telling him he had to report his absence to some office somewhere, and when he phoned them, he had some stupid prick on the other end of the line asking him about his symptoms and the frequency of his bowel movements. Pigshit tried to explain that he had the splats – no more, no less – but the bloke was obviously reading from some flow chart, as if he would be able to reach a more knowledge-based diagnosis. After about a minute and a half, Pigshit hung up and texted Daniels again to say he wouldn’t be in. And then he switched his phone off.
Sergeant Steve Norman entered the office with two bad 20p cups of coffee.
“It’s a bit strange how Jim saw the light and went off to join the God-botherers,” he said.
“It’d be a lot more fucking strange if I’d joined them,” replied Pigshit.
They both laughed.
“So, what about this murder, then?” asked Steve.
“I didn’t do it,” said Pigshit.
“No, I mean, what do we do next?”
“Well,” began Pigshit, thinking about what Morse or that Swedish woman in the woolly jumper would do, “I think we ought to track down the fucker who owns that car.”
“Ace,” said Steve, finishing his coffee.
Pigshit poured the rest of his in the water tray of the geranium he had on his desk.