“Uh-huh. We’re about … five minutes away? Maybe less? … Still can’t believe it: a real murder!” — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“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… — Stuart MacBride Copy Share Image
“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
