Ways to Die in Glasgow
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.
were directing traffic and turning away the pedestrians. One of them leant over to open Lambert’s car door, like a real suck-up. Lambert nodded and smiled, pretended to have noticed the guy’s face. They were sucking up to the wrong person. Lambert was not in a position to do them any favours. But, hell, if someone wanted to think you’d remember them, fine; you might get something out of it. Lambert sat down in the driver’s seat and felt the mistake straight away; he’d been awake for over
Uncle Rab lives a mile away. Can I walk that far on this leg? One way to find out. Things keep getting blurry, and the world comes back to me in flashes. I’m lying in a doorway, trying to stand up again. Then I’m being licked in the face by a cat as I rest on the grass outside Ibrox Library. Then I’m banging on the doorway to Rab’s building before I remember he keeps spare keys under a slab in the front yard, for the nights he gets pished and loses his own set. I let meself in and turn his
trying to run a little faster. Now I was mixed up in an epic-old grudge match that felt like a greater threat with every passing minute. Best form of defence is to attack. That’s what my dad told me once, when he took me to a game at Parkhead, trying to get me into football. Go on the attack, and they can’t score. One day involved in this, and I was already reaching for a sporting metaphor. Still, it held. Get it done. Get them out of the way. My dad’s files were in the spare room, the
him. The Co-op building? Him. Property deals going back twenty or thirty years have involved his matchbook. But he’s just a small part of it, and when the other people got wind that he was going to write about his arson habit in his new book—’ ‘He became a problem. Names. Come on. Who was in this with him?’ ‘Well, Gilbert Neil tried to talk to him. Tried to find out what was going to be in the book and to get Rab to agree to cancel it and write some other pish instead. But he came away from
it. I got within an arm’s length, but again she started to put distance between us. At the junction with Jamaica Street, there was a whole load of people waiting at the pedestrian crossing. Fiona barged straight through them, in a mass of flailing arms and shouting, and jumped out into the traffic. She dodged a taxi and a double-decker bus. It looked like it had clipped her for a second as she sprawled forward onto the road, but it could have just been the wind as it passed her. While she climbed