Ways to Die in Glasgow (Sam Ireland Mysteries, #1)

by Jay Stringer

I opened the drawer and found my electronic cigarette and sucked down the vapour, pretending it was the same.

The game was to guess at the start what level of shite the day would achieve.

An east coast accent that carried the fake hint of Englishness you could only get from expensive Edinburgh schools.

The waiting area was more comfortable than my flat,

She looked even more expensive in the flesh, and my clothes instantly felt jealous.

Philip was my younger brother. But he was built like an out-of-shape bouncer, so we agreed that he was my big brother.

No matter how impressive a feat it was, the fact that it wasn’t straight would forever leave people assuming the architect had been drunk, and the ‘squinty’ nickname was there to stay.

know the right handshakes and the right songs. It was a city of football, religion and Masons, in that order.

‘What scares me is that you’re starting to enjoy this.’

had to hold the family together in whatever broken form it took.

Air freshener and humidity covered the smell of old age, medicine and surrender.

You have to love Glasgow; once everyone figured we had enough people named Agnes, they just reversed the letters and started again.

That odd Glasgow summer chill was in the air, where you need a jacket but can still die of sunstroke if you fall asleep in the park.

Glasgow, for all its bravado, was a city that couldn’t handle its drink. It got loud, angry and sloppy.

City life always had ways of showing how little it cared about you. If you were a woman, Glasgow had a few extra.

She reminded me of the offer to go to her place for food and future,

Every surface was perfect, and every cushion and picture frame looked to be put in place using scientific instruments of precise measurement.