Blah, blah, blah, regret to inform you that DI Gray has tendered his resignation; blah, blah, blah; opportunity to reward performance; blah, blah, blah; suggestions by next Wednesday.
McPherson had scribbled, "BEATTIE?" in the margin in red biro.
Idiot.
Logan stuck the memo back in the drawer. Detective Sergeant Beattie couldn't arrest his own backside with three patrol cars and a search warrant.
Finnie kicked a packet of washing powder. "Why am I surrounded by morons? Did I tick the wrong bloody box for room service? I wanted scrambled eggs on toast, but they delivered a family-sized bag of idiots!
Stuart MacBrideLogan 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 on his Airwave handset as DI Bell got his firearms team into place.
Stuart MacBrideStichwörter: hot-beverages-in-crime-fiction
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 MacBrideStichwörter: hot-beverages-in-crime-fiction
The day was dark as a lawyer's soul.
Stuart MacBrideSeite 1 von 1.
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