you?’
He shrugged and the professor shook his head in mock despair.
‘Let me tell you something. My father was an engineer at Barr & Strouds, a stalwart of the union, free with his opinions on everything bar sex. He only gave me one piece of advice in that area. A woman you don’t have to chase is a woman not worth having.’
Murray softened his voice with the respect due to dead fathers.
‘I’m sure he was a clever man, but that particular counsel is as out of date as mass industrialisation. Anyway, I want to interview her about a troubled episode in her past, not marry her.’
‘What if she’s simply playing hard to get?’
‘Why should she?’
‘I don’t know. Habit? She set herself against talk of Archie for sound reasons, but time has passed and times have changed. Maybe she needs to be reminded of that.’ James put his hand on Murray’s arm. ‘You’re a bright lad. I’m sure you’ll manage if you set your mind to it.’
Chapter Nine
MURRAY SHOVED THE carrier bag of books into his rucksack, hefted it onto his shoulder and stepped out of the second-hand bookshop into Edinburgh’s West Port. He hadn’t found any reference to Lunan in the poetry journals the book dealer had phoned him about, but the bubbled capitals and monochrome type of the adverts for now defunct magazines and readings long past had provided a quick spark of connectivity to the poet’s era. Time travel through typeface. The thought made him smile.
He waited at the traffic lights then crossed the road, his mind turning towards lunch; maybe a bowl of soup somewhere in the Grassmarket where he could jot down a couple of points that had occurred to him while browsing the bookshelves. He remembered a quiet café where the service was slow and customers could linger. Perhaps he’d allow himself to continue perusing the journals he’d bought, before returning to the library. He might yet justify the leaden purchase by finding some passing reference to Lunan or his associates. The day was taking shape.
He was trying to remember where the nearest ATM was when he saw his brother’s girlfriend turning the corner. Lyn was wearing her work clothes: flat shoes, loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt topped by a long-sleeved blouse. Murray recalled her joking that she would wear a burka to work if she could get away with it.
‘Except the filthy buggers would imagine I was wearing head-to-toe Ann Summers underneath.’
Jack had asked if Ann Summers stocked head-to-toe outfits and she’d given him a wink.
‘You’d be amazed.’
Lyn was too intent on talking to the scruffy man in an electric wheelchair who was rolling along beside her to have seen Murray yet. The bookshop was three streets since, the nearest turning a block ahead, but he was almost level with a pub. Murray stepped up his pace and slipped smartly through its door.
His first impression was of darkness and music cut through with the scent of stale beer and something else, a sharp tang that was close to sweat. The couches that lined the room were empty and only a couple of the bar stools were taken. But either the pub’s clientele favoured late lunches, or the management were simply optimistic business would pick up, because they had laid on entertainment.
On a stage in the far corner a tall woman in a G-string lazily circled a silver pole. The dancer’s face remained blank, but Murray’s entrance seemed to be the cue for her to up-tempo. She gripped the pole with both hands and launched herself into a spin that lifted both feet from the air and twirled her into a kaleidoscope of
Breasts
Bottom
Breasts
Bottom
Breasts
Bottom
She hooked a leg around the prop, slowing her progress again and slid into the splits. Murray restrained a polite urge to clap. No one else seemed impressed. The barman glanced at Murray over the newspaper he’d leant against the beer taps, and the men on the bar stools kept their eyes on their pints, all except for a compact man in a grey
He shrugged and the professor shook his head in mock despair.
‘Let me tell you something. My father was an engineer at Barr & Strouds, a stalwart of the union, free with his opinions on everything bar sex. He only gave me one piece of advice in that area. A woman you don’t have to chase is a woman not worth having.’
Murray softened his voice with the respect due to dead fathers.
‘I’m sure he was a clever man, but that particular counsel is as out of date as mass industrialisation. Anyway, I want to interview her about a troubled episode in her past, not marry her.’
‘What if she’s simply playing hard to get?’
‘Why should she?’
‘I don’t know. Habit? She set herself against talk of Archie for sound reasons, but time has passed and times have changed. Maybe she needs to be reminded of that.’ James put his hand on Murray’s arm. ‘You’re a bright lad. I’m sure you’ll manage if you set your mind to it.’
Chapter Nine
MURRAY SHOVED THE carrier bag of books into his rucksack, hefted it onto his shoulder and stepped out of the second-hand bookshop into Edinburgh’s West Port. He hadn’t found any reference to Lunan in the poetry journals the book dealer had phoned him about, but the bubbled capitals and monochrome type of the adverts for now defunct magazines and readings long past had provided a quick spark of connectivity to the poet’s era. Time travel through typeface. The thought made him smile.
He waited at the traffic lights then crossed the road, his mind turning towards lunch; maybe a bowl of soup somewhere in the Grassmarket where he could jot down a couple of points that had occurred to him while browsing the bookshelves. He remembered a quiet café where the service was slow and customers could linger. Perhaps he’d allow himself to continue perusing the journals he’d bought, before returning to the library. He might yet justify the leaden purchase by finding some passing reference to Lunan or his associates. The day was taking shape.
He was trying to remember where the nearest ATM was when he saw his brother’s girlfriend turning the corner. Lyn was wearing her work clothes: flat shoes, loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt topped by a long-sleeved blouse. Murray recalled her joking that she would wear a burka to work if she could get away with it.
‘Except the filthy buggers would imagine I was wearing head-to-toe Ann Summers underneath.’
Jack had asked if Ann Summers stocked head-to-toe outfits and she’d given him a wink.
‘You’d be amazed.’
Lyn was too intent on talking to the scruffy man in an electric wheelchair who was rolling along beside her to have seen Murray yet. The bookshop was three streets since, the nearest turning a block ahead, but he was almost level with a pub. Murray stepped up his pace and slipped smartly through its door.
His first impression was of darkness and music cut through with the scent of stale beer and something else, a sharp tang that was close to sweat. The couches that lined the room were empty and only a couple of the bar stools were taken. But either the pub’s clientele favoured late lunches, or the management were simply optimistic business would pick up, because they had laid on entertainment.
On a stage in the far corner a tall woman in a G-string lazily circled a silver pole. The dancer’s face remained blank, but Murray’s entrance seemed to be the cue for her to up-tempo. She gripped the pole with both hands and launched herself into a spin that lifted both feet from the air and twirled her into a kaleidoscope of
Breasts
Bottom
Breasts
Bottom
Breasts
Bottom
She hooked a leg around the prop, slowing her progress again and slid into the splits. Murray restrained a polite urge to clap. No one else seemed impressed. The barman glanced at Murray over the newspaper he’d leant against the beer taps, and the men on the bar stools kept their eyes on their pints, all except for a compact man in a grey
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