"Brookmyre, Christopher - Bampot Central" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

hostages.

"Sheer fuckin' genius," Parlabane muttered to the crusty, who wouldn't meet his gaze.

Tommy backed away, eyes flitting back and forth between the growing pile of wallets and purses and the front doors, outside which a crowd had gathered.

"Oh, I just knew something like this was going to happen," muttered one of the Morningsiders to her companion. "I just knew it."

"Me too Morag, me too."

Parlabane had suffered enough.

"Well it's a pity neither of you fucking clairvoyants thought to tip anyone off, then, isn't it?" he observed.

"Now, son, there's no need for that."

He looked away. This was the quintessence of British "respectability". There were two brainless arseholes holding them prisoner with shotguns, but they
could still get upset about the "language" you used.

Jyzer's initially quiet dialogue with the remaining teller was beginning to gain in volume. Parlabane hadn't caught what Jyzer was asking for, but he wished
to hell the stupid lassie would hurry up and give him it, especially as there were now two uniformed plods peering in the doors and hustling the onlookers
back. He looked at his watch, figuring the Balaclava Brothers had a few more minutes before an armed response unit showed up to raise the stakes.

"Look, I ken ye're lyin', awright? We've had information. We ken they're in there. Insurance Bonds, fae Scottish Widows. They come through here the last
Monday o' every month. So fuckin' get them or I'll fuckin' blow ye away."

The girl had tears in her eyes and was struggling to keep her voice steady.

"I swear to God, I've never heard of any . . . Insurance Bonds coming through here. In fact I don't think I've ever heard of Insurance Bonds full stop."

"Look, don't gie's it. Last Monday o' every month. Scottish Widows. It should say it on the parcel."

"But this isn't a sorting office. The only parcels coming through here are the ones folk are sending. They go straight in the slots over there, or in the
basket through-by. Please, I'm not lying. You can come through and look."

"I fuckin' will an' aw," he said, walking around to the counter's access door. "An' if ye're lyin' I'll fuckin' mark ye, hen. I'll no be a minute, Tommy,"
he assured.

"Insurance Bonds?" one of the tellers asked of a colleague.

"Naw, I've never heard of them either."

"Wouldnae come through here anyway, would they?" queried another.

"D'you think they've got the right place?"

"Fuckin' shut it yous," Tommy ordered again. "We've had information. We ken whit we're daein' so sit nice an' it'll aw be by wi' soon, right?"

Parlabane sighed again. Insurance Bonds. Jesus Christ almighty. It just got better and better.