“Bob shook his head and retired behind his whisky like a drawbridge. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Not interested. I don’t even understand that stuff. The bit I’ve looked at reads like a cerebral haemorrhage. So the boy’s head burst. I don’t have to poke among the pieces. I get enough of that.’ They were downstairs in the Top Spot. They were a wake of three but seemed unable to agree on the identity of the corpse. Bob was utterly and finally in dismay with Laidlaw, wondered if he was contemplating a de...ad friendship. Harkness wasn’t sure how much of his respect for Laidlaw could survive this. Laidlaw seemed to be mourning the still-birth of some understanding he had almost achieved. Even their appearances suggested different events. Bob and Harkness were spruce. Bob looked healthy and dependable in his checked shirt, neat tie and hacking jacket. Harkness wouldn’t have been out of place at a disco. Laidlaw looked hellish, his face raw with sleeplessness, his eyes strained, as if he’d spent the night trying to decipher Tony Veitch’s garbled message.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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