McVicar
remembered one wedding particularly well.
It was the one at which he had arrested Steven
Briggs. Not that Briggs had been the groom.
Only the best man.
McVicar had wanted to lift Briggs before the
service.Or during the service.He would have had no compunction about
putting the arm on Briggs even while the happy
couple were exchanging their vows.He had been afraid that someone would tip Briggs off, that he
would somehow get wind of his impending arrest
and slip away.
But McVicar was eventually persuaded to wait
until the service was over and the wedding party
had emerged into the hotel grounds for the
endless taking of photographs.
In the sunlit garden, long tables had been set
with tablecloths of dazzling white.
They bore platters of food and bottles of
champagne.
It was early summer, and the women were dressed
in light colours.
They wore feathered hats and pretty shoes. Skirts fluttered in the breeze.High heels sank into soft turf.
Most of the men wore highland dress, jackets of
green or black over kilts and sporrans.On their legs were thick socks with toy
daggers thrust down the side.
Some wore black shoes with criss-cross lacing,
like dancing pumps.
Many seemed to have acquired an odd splay-footed
waddle along with their hired kilts.Even the skinny ones walked as if they were men of girth and
bulk, as if they had been out tossing cabers.
