Capital Offence

Chapter 19

The hard-bodied man drinking alone in Mather’s bar hastily put his bottle of Miller on the table and pressed the answer button on his mobile. He hated the bloody thing bleeping like that in public, making people look at him as if he was a yuppie wanker. He’d have to work out how to make the vibrate thing work. S’pose half the tossers who used mobiles preferred to be looked at, and the half who could make the phone vibrate would just stuff them down their pants and leave the phone ringing...

The man’s voice on the other end was terse and clipped. God, him again. What made him think that every phone conversation was being intercepted and recorded? I mean, stop and think - how many fucking phone calls were being made all over the country every second of the day? Millions, most like! What makes you think you’re so special, twat?

“Yup.”

“It’s me. Just taking the dog for a walk. Maybe see you...?”

Fucking Royal Command Performance. That meant a taxi to the other side of town, up to the Braid Hill Observatory. It would take half an hour to get there, and the chances of getting a cab in Edinburgh, in the rain, at half past six in the evening, were not great. Bastard. Just cos it was handy for him, the pig. He zipped up his bomber jacket, and stepped outside, scowling at the rain-streaked reflections on the cobble stones.

*      *      *

Donald Murray sat gazing at the space between two impressively large breasts. He was unsure quite where to focus. One of them was six inches to the right of his nose, on average, the other six inches to the left. Around him, some forty pairs of eyes watched his discomfort, waiting for him to make a complete arse of himself. Just what the hell was the protocol here? He made a decision, and looked to his right. Then just to be fair, he looked to his left. There was a ragged cheer from around the room.

The owner of the breasts, who at this point was standing astride Donald’s legs as he sat in an uncomfortable straight backed seat, suddenly grasped him by the back of the neck and resolved his dilemma by burying his head between the objects of his confusion.

Bloody hell. I can’t breathe! God, I’m too sober for this. Last time I sit anywhere within reach.

The music on the soundtrack faded inexpertly - clearly a cassette put together on the girl’s own hi-fi - and the pub volunteered a sporadic round of applause. The girl, an implausibly proportioned lass with streaked blonde hair and dark roots, snatched her bra from the head of the elderly toothless gentleman sitting at the front who had been wearing it like a pair of ear muffs. She gave a perfunctory smile to one or two of her regulars, then rapidly strode towards the safety of a curtained doorway beside the bar.

Donald swallowed the remaining two thirds of a pint down in a couple of gulps, and headed back up to the bar. He honestly believed he’d seen enough jiggling silicone to last a lifetime, but there was still three quarters of an hour to go before chucking out time, and he reminded himself he was there for a reason. All the same, he was buggered if he was going to sit there nursing a single pint all night. He wasn’t exactly on duty, so he might as well sink a few more.

As he squeezed his way back to his seat, a pint of Deuchar’s in one hand and a belt of Jack Daniels in the other, the sounds of Free came hammering out of the wall-mounted loudspeakers - a classic from way back:

All right nowow

Baybe I’ma all right now

Da-da da da da dah-dah

Dah Dah Dah Dah