Chapter 34

“Right,” began Pigshit. “I really can’t be arsed reciting all that stuff about what you say being used as evidence, so I’ll just—”

He stopped mid-sentence to turn around and glare at Andy, who had just got off the couch.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Just want to get a pen,” replied Andy, indicating he wanted to scribble on his Daily Record.

“If you’re doing your fucking Sudoku, just sit still and do it quietly,” barked Pigshit.

“No, I’m just jotting down my accumulator.”

“Horses?”

“Aye.”

Inspector Pigshit’s mood lifted.

“Anything good?”

“Well, I quite fancy Swedish Meatballs in the 3.30 at Kempton.”

“Good horse, that.”

“It’s firm ground, so he should be capable of a good finish. The only other one I’d consider in that race is Glue Factory, but he prefers softer ground.”

“Starts well, but he can’t keep the pace,” noted Steve.

“Did all right at Newmarket last time,” said Pigshit.

“Aye, but the other runners were all shite,” replied Andy. “Two were Clydesdales more suited to pulling milk carts, one was a donkey from Blackpool beach and the rest of them didn’t know the fucking way round.”

Pigshit and Steve laughed. Councillor Fowler sat fuming in her chair; handcuffed, and unable to reach her cup of green tea.

“What else we got?” asked Pigshit, leaning over to study the runners and riders.

“Harold Bishop’s riding Jizzy Duvet in the 4.10 at Kelso.”

“I hate Harold Bishop,” said Steve. “I’m no’ putting money on that shorted-arsed wee gobshite.”

“Not a bad price, though, Steve,” said Pigshit. “Decent horse, 8-1.”

“I’m having some of that,” beamed Andy.

“Actually,” said Pigshit, “I like the look of Vulva Mourinho in the 4.40.”

“That’s a bastard of a horse,” said Steve. “They must put something in the hay, surely. Runs like they’ve stuck a rocket up its arse.”

They all laughed.

“Excuse me,” said Councillor Fowler, “but can you guys forget about the horses for now? I’ve got things to be getting on with.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Pigshit, carefully weighing up an ambitious six-horse accumulator. He was still a little uncertain of Wulf Sternhammer in the 5.30 at Doncaster …

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Chapter 33

The heavy wooden mahogany door landed on the floor with a resounding splintery crash. The last time Pigshit kicked in a politician’s door (see page 195 of the 2011 Inspector Pigshit novel, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go for details) he caught a prominent MSP and his secretary at it like knives on the desk. It was a horrible image. (Indeed, some nights Pigshit will wake up in cold terror at the memory of the man’s fat, spotty arse thrusting back and forth, back and forth.) This time, however, Councillor Michelle Fowler was sitting back in her chair with a cup of tea or something, while some bloke was lying on the couch with his feet up, reading the Daily Record.

“What the fucking hell are you doing?”, screamed Fowler, almost spilling her tea. “Don’t you guys knock?”

“We did,” said Pigshit. “That’s why your door fell in.”

He turned to the bloke on the couch.

“Now who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Andy O’Brien. Councillor Fowler’s political advisor.”

“Right, well sit there and keep your fucking mouth shut. We’re doing a murder investigation here.”

“No worries,” replied Andy. “I’ll just read my paper.”

“Shall I ’cuff her up, boss?” asked Steve.

“Do that,” said Pigshit.

“What?” exclaimed Fowler as Steve handcuffed her. “Again, what the fucking hell are you doing?”

“Handcuffs, love,” smiled Pigshit. “I expect you quite enjoy handcuffs in certain situations, but this is police work, so don’t get too excited. Standard procedure.”

Inspector Pigshit sat down on a swivel chair and reached into his pocket to take out his new notebook. He was ready to begin the interview.