This had to be the eighth day of some deformed week, a kind of thirty-first of June. It didn’t fit. Maybe the moon had blown a fuse. They weren’t in the office. They weren’t preparing for a court case. They weren’t on surveillance. They weren’t on the streets soliciting information. They were in Pollokshields. It was a part of Glasgow Harkness didn’t know too well, a place on the South Side to drive through sometimes on his way to work, trying not to let the houses bother him. All fur coats and no knickers, he had often told himself as an antidote to the envy that hit him here like lack of oxygen. But it wasn’t true. The wealth was more real than apparent. Some of the huge yellow sandstone houses had been converted into flats, it was true. A few had become self-contained Pakistani villages. But the infiltration of some of the merely well off or even the poor was hardly enough to change the basic impression this part of Pollokshields gave. The house they were visiting confirmed it.
What do You think about The Papers Of Tony Veitch?
