Chapter 29

They were now on track three of Pelican West, the tragically underrated Lemon Firebrigade. Steve drove the car down narrow side streets like he was Lewis Hamilton. They knocked over cardboard boxes and sent pigeons flapping upwards in bird-brained panic.

Pigshit was still looking at his phone, reading about Councillor Fowler.

“It says here,” he noted with a fair measure of surprise, “she’s only 28.”

“Born in 1985, then,” said Steve, demonstrating his impressive talent for mental arithmetic.

“I didn’t think you could get councillors as young as that,” said Pigshit. “I thought they were all old farts in their fifties and sixties who played golf and were in the Masons.”

“Guess not.”

“I’m going to see if she’s on Twitter.”

“You on Twitter, boss?”

“What do you fucking think? Like I’ve got time to waste writing 140 words about what I’m having for dinner. I’m not Stephen Fry, you know.”

Steve put pedal to the metal as the unmarked Ford Focus RS 2.0-litre turbocharged squad car (with all-wheel drive) zoomed along a busy pavement towards Edinburgh City Council headquarters. Pigshit had told one of his team back at the station to phone Fowler to make sure she’d be there, so he and Steve wouldn’t be wasting their fucking time.

“She is on Twitter,” said Pigshit. “But it’s just political stuff. Retweets of something some wanker said about independence … Some shit about a jumble sale next weekend … A link to another YouTube video by that publicity-seeking astronaut … No clues regarding the murder at all. Fucking useless.”

“Shame,” said Steve.

Pigshit fiddled with the CD player controls.

“It’s time for this,” he said, turning up the volume.

The car shook to the sound of Haircut One Hundred’s 1982 top ten hit, Fantastic Day.

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