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By Stuart MacBride
Copyright
About the Publisher
Without Whom
One of the best parts of writing a book is doing the research, getting out into the real world and speaking to the people who live and work in it. Anything I’ve got wrong in this book is my fault, anything I’ve got right is due to the generosity of some very clever people. So I want to thank: Dr Lorna Dawson, Professor Dave Barclay and Dr James Grieve; David Miller, Jane Lund, Margaret, Barrie, Gareth, Stephen, and all the forensic gurus at the Macaulay Institute; Mark McHardy, Del Henderson, David Francis, John Angus, and everybody at Aberdeen’s Trading Standards Service; DS Alan Findlay, Sergeant Midge Mackay and everyone at Grampian Police who gave generously of their time and experience; my agent Phil Patterson, my terrific editor Sarah Hodgson, Damon Greeney, Fiona McIntosh, Joy Chamberlain, Marie Goldie, Karen-Maree Griffiths, Lucy Vanderbilt, Tara Hiatt, Lucy Upton, the entire Sales team, and everyone at HarperCollins.
I’ve been out and about a lot this year, and I have to thank Tony Fisk, Michael Moynahan, Frederika van Traa, Al and Donna Buchan, Adrian Hyland, and Michael Robotham for their hospitality; Russell Kirkpatrick for tour guide excellence; Jordan Weaver, Lise Taylor, Sylvia May, Christine Farmer, Amy Neilson, Chris Kooi, and Elsemiek Ariens for looking after me on my travels; and Jennifer Howard and the crew at Talking Issues for putting up with all the strange noises.
More thanks to: Aleksander Bogunia, Anna Maria Bojes, Tomasz Zygula, Piotr Kufel; Alex Clark, Erica Morris, Zoe Sharp, Laura Wilson, Malcolm Mackay, Spenser Tait, James Oswald and my brother Christopher; Graeme Danby, Julie Bultitude, Dave Goulding, Fiona Martin, and Susanna Frayn; and to Allan Guthrie for all the feedback.
And saving the best for last—as always—Fiona and Grendel.
1
Run. Don’t stop. Keep moving…
The big, fat moon makes everything black and white. Frost and shadow. Life and death.
Steve stumbles. The churned-up mud’s solid—up and down like a roller-coaster. One foot catches the edge of a rock-hard peak, and he goes sprawling across the icy ground. Tries not to cry out as his arm screams sharp-edged pain.
Somewhere in the darkness a dog barks. Big dog. Fucking scary big dog. You know? Rottweiler, Doberman: some bastard like that. Big and black, with thousands of teeth. Coming after him.
‘Fuck…’ The word disappears into the night sky on a cloud of white breath.
Big dog.
He scrambles upright; stands there, trying to get his balance. Feeling sick. Far too much whisky. Makes everything blurry and warm, even though it’s so cold out here his fingers ache with it. Makes the world smell like it’s burning.
Steve lurches forward, arm clutched to his chest, hugging the shadows along the edge of the building site. Trees blocking the searchlight moon.
With any luck no one’ll see the trail of blood he’s leaving…
The dog barks again. Closer.
But then his luck’s always been for shit.
Steve speeds up. Lurch, stumble, struggle.
His left foot cracks through an ice-topped puddle, and he stops. Holding his breath.
Steve turns, looking back towards the site office. Torches sweep the muddy ground, muffled voices coming this way. That fucking dog yammering and yowling, leading them on.
