“Guthrie handed him the mug, a wee pout pulling his pale face out of shape. With his semi-skimmed skin, faint ginger hair, and blond eyebrows he looked like a ghost that had been at the pies. "Milk, two sugars.” — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Logan glanced at the clock on the cooker: nearly five minutes fast. The room was bathed in the pale orange glow of the overcast sky, the back garden a jungle of silhouettes and shadows through the window. He filled the… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share
“Finnie kicked a packet of washing powder. "Why am I surrounded by morons? Did I tick the wrong bloody box for room service? I… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Ah … politics, Sergeant. When the top brass hand you a turd, you polish it and say, “my, what a lovely jobbie!” That way… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Guthrie handed him the mug, a wee pout pulling his pale face out of shape. With his semi-skimmed skin, faint ginger hair, and blond… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Logan glanced at the clock on the cooker: nearly five minutes fast. The room was bathed in the pale orange glow of the overcast sky, the back garden a jungle of silhouettes and shadows through the window. He filled the kettle, then poured half of it out, before sticking it on to boil. The growing rumble drowned out the babble… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share
“Must be nice to be a seagull. You eat, you sleep, you shag, and if you’re having a bad day you can shite on… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Ina stood and shuffled over to the urn on the fireplace. Stroked it with a twisted finger. "How are we supposed to get more… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“What about Ding-Dong?" "Detective Inspector Bell couldn't find his arse with both hands if you duct-taped them to it. Come on.” — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Blah, blah, blah, regret to inform you that DI Gray has tendered his resignation; blah, blah, blah; opportunity to reward performance; blah, blah, blah;… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“The real me died years ago. I died and I went to hell. This is hell.” — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Uh-huh. We’re about … five minutes away? Maybe less? … Still can’t believe it: a real murder!” — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“Steel squared her shoulders. "Ladies, and gentlemen, are are no' at home to Mr Fuckup today. Who are we no' at home to?" The… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
