Chapter 35

Inspector Pigshit found himself lost in the racing pages of the Daily Record. He completely forgot where he was for a while. With a start, he glanced up and looked around. That’s right: he was in Councillor Fowler’s office, on a murder investigation. Steve and that other bloke – Andy? – were also there. Unlike Councillor Fowler, they weren’t handcuffed.

“You all right, guv?” asked Steve.

“Fine, bro’,” replied Pigshit.

He glanced over at Andy. There was a small badge on his lapel. It said ‘SCROTUM’.

“Why the fuck does that badge say ‘SCROTUM’?”

“It’s the name of a shadowy international crime organisation. Like Spectre, or those THRUSH bastards from The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”


“No. Just kidding. It’s an acronym for the Standing Committee on the Rights of Trades Union Members.”

“But it says ‘SCROTUM’!” said Steve.

“What? Oh … aye,” said Andy, hesitantly, slowly realising the word on his badge meant a part of a man’s todger.

He took off the badge.

“Hey, look!” said Pigshit, pointing to the runners and riders for the 4.10 at Catterick.

“There’s a horse called Raw Scrotum!”

“Fuck yeah,” said Steve. “I reckon we should stick a fiver on that.”

They all laughed. Apart from Councillor Fowler, who was still handcuffed to the radiator, and still very pissed off.


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.”



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 …