‘There’s no such thing as the perfect crime,’ I insisted.
‘Oh really?’ he replied, his expression bordering on exasperation.
We had met in the kind of place to which men flock to have a pint or three, usually alone, though never in pursuit of the fairer sex. If that’s their objective, they pick a different spot. Ninety-nine per cent of the clientele around us were men, and those women present were either lost tourists who had stumbled in, unaware of the nature of their surroundings, or the odd escort, watched as keenly as a hawk eyes up a homeless hen. This was a place men came to in order to talk to other men about the kind of things that men talk about together…
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