Ways to Die in Glasgow
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A violent drunk with a broken heart, Mackie looks for love in all the wrong places. When two hit men catch him with his pants down, he barely makes it out alive. Worse still, his ex-gangster uncle, Rab, has vanished, leaving him an empty house and a dead dog.
Reluctant PI Sam Ireland is hired by hotshot lawyers to track Rab but is getting nothing except blank stares and slammed doors. As she scours the dive bars, the dregs of Glasgow start to take notice.
DI Andy Lambert is a cop in the middle of an endless shift. A body washes up, and the city seems to shiver in fear; looks like it’s up to Lambert to clean up after the lowlifes again.
As a rampaging Mackie hunts his uncle, the scum of the city come out to play. And they play dirty. It seems that everyone has either a dark secret or a death wish. In Mackie’s case, it might just be both.
hurting, and talking about the blood supply and nerve endings. Then I remember that I’m naked and try to cover myself up before things get real embarrassing. ‘Nothing I’ve not seen before,’ she laughs, then stands up and fetches a vial of pills from her bag in the doorway. ‘You didn’t take your pills yesterday, did you?’ These English birds, they have some silly ideas. ‘I hate them.’ ‘I know, but you need them.’ She hands a couple of pills to me, and I slip them into my mouth, beneath my
second time. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, sir. You have a nice day.’ ‘Uh, yes.’ The door closed. Footsteps came back towards the stairs, then climbed them. I held my breath and waited. The cleaner stopped outside the bathroom door. Had he heard something? Could he see me? He didn’t move. I realised holding my breath had been a stupid idea, because I would make noise when I drew in another. I kept my mouth closed and held in what little air I had. There was a soft laugh. ‘Zombie
remembered the name of the law firm, but not the address. He hadn’t been able to look at the documents for long before handing them back to Sam. It only took a quick Internet search on his phone to find the location. He left the car where it was and walked. Driving into the city could be hell, especially once you were locked into the one-way system at the heart of the grid, and it was only twenty minutes on foot. The firm was in one of the large grey stone buildings that never went out of
time already?’ I plucked two envelopes out of my bag as I sat down, and passed them both to him. ‘Double trouble,’ I said. ‘The Boswell thing and the Johnny Shaw case.’ He laughed and typed something into the computer on his desk, loading up the files. ‘Shaw, the guy with the paint tins?’ ‘Art installations, I think he called them.’ ‘Aye, that’ll be that modern art that people talk about.’ ‘I don’t know.’ I leant into the chair, getting comfortable. ‘I thought there was something timeless,
and then, eventually, simply the Pit. It said a lot about the people who drank in there that they wore the name like a badge of honour. It was a Rangers pub and, this close to the 12 July Orange March, it had Union flags hanging in the windows. Even so many years after the smoking ban, I was still hit with the smell of tobacco as I walked in. It was a full daytime crowd, dole monkeys and old men. Each had the glassy eyes that told me he was already past his first drink of the day, and most were