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A dark, raw, and comic Glaswegian detective thriller: the follow-up to Squeaky Clean, winner of the McIlvanney Prize for best Scottish crime book of the year.
"Energetic, inventive and witty, laying on the tension as it builds to a nerve-shredding finale." - Chris Brookmyre, author of The Cracked Mirror
DCI Alison McCoist is back in action, and her promotion hasn't earned her any friends. In fact, it's made her even more unpopular. Struggling to balance her new responsibilities with the growing pressure to prove herself, McCoist finds herself tangled in a web of crime and corruption.
Chuck Gardner owns a confidential paper-shredding business, but his addiction to gambling has left him deeply in debt. When he stumbles across some incriminating documents, Chuck becomes unwittingly caught in a deadly game of power and deceit.
Meanwhile, McCoist is called to the scene of a gruesome discovery – a rat-nibbled corpse under a flyover. As she investigates, both Chuck and McCoist are sucked into a deadly stramash of gangland wars and police corruption.
Can Chuck solve his gambling and gangster problems before some heed-banger feeds him into his own shredder? And can McCoist claw herself out of this latest shitemire without her own shady dealings coming to light? It might depend on how far she's prepared to go…
Paperboy is the darkly comic follow-up to the McIlvanney Prize winner, Squeaky Clean. The author, Callum McSorley, has been hailed as one of the most exciting new voices in crime writing, and has been praised by authors like Chris Brookmyre and Kevin Bridges. "Violent, profane, hilarious"
-Telegraph, The best new crime and thriller books to read this year
"Looking for something a little bit … filthy? Try Paperboy... This energetic novel from a rising star of crime is full of black comedy, gore, slapstick and street slang"
-The Times, Summer Reads Callum McSorley is a writer based in Glasgow whose short stories have appeared in Gutter Magazine, Monstrous Regiment and New Writing Scotland. Squeaky Clean was his debut novel, inspired by his years working at a car wash in Glasgow's East End. With it, Callum won the prestigious McIlvanney Prize for best Scottish crime novel of the year. PROLOGUE
The king is dead. Paul McGuinn, Paulo to his friends and enemies, his slave girls and lieutenants and errand boys. Fraudster, drug runner, people smuggler, murderer. His wife stood at the head of the stone in an expensive black dress, holding her daughters' hands. The crowd around them was thick with black suits and Rangers scarves.
Two polis in high-vis hovered near the cemetery gate, tense, as welcome as a fart in a sleeping bag. A woman in office drabs turned her nose up at the hearse parked at the kerb, appraising the floral tributes in the back which spelt out PAUL on one side and DAD on the other. "Tasteful," she said, as she passed the uniforms into the stone-lined path. One of them recognised her and murmured "Ma'am" with a slight bow of the head.
McCoist was attending because it was her duty-she was the DCI investigating the gangster's murder, and she was the one who'd put the cunt in the ground.
She could still feel the moment, the screaming rush, then the shocking silence following the thunderclap of the gunshot. Dead ears-a dentist-drill whine and a waterfall of white noise. Squeeze of the trigger, flash of the explosion, so fast it seemed to precede the movement, like it wasn't even her who did it. Inevitable. A slap in the face with warm blood spray. A black hole in the head, punching through hair gel, skin, bone and brain. In and out the other side. The Clyde Tunnel.
Case closed.
Not that McCoist could let anyone know it was that simple. She watched from a distance as the Rolls-Royce of a coffin was lowered into the earth. The reverend was saying something but she couldn't hear him. What do you say when you believe the deceased is going straight to
"Energetic, inventive and witty, laying on the tension as it builds to a nerve-shredding finale." - Chris Brookmyre, author of The Cracked Mirror
DCI Alison McCoist is back in action, and her promotion hasn't earned her any friends. In fact, it's made her even more unpopular. Struggling to balance her new responsibilities with the growing pressure to prove herself, McCoist finds herself tangled in a web of crime and corruption.
Chuck Gardner owns a confidential paper-shredding business, but his addiction to gambling has left him deeply in debt. When he stumbles across some incriminating documents, Chuck becomes unwittingly caught in a deadly game of power and deceit.
Meanwhile, McCoist is called to the scene of a gruesome discovery – a rat-nibbled corpse under a flyover. As she investigates, both Chuck and McCoist are sucked into a deadly stramash of gangland wars and police corruption.
Can Chuck solve his gambling and gangster problems before some heed-banger feeds him into his own shredder? And can McCoist claw herself out of this latest shitemire without her own shady dealings coming to light? It might depend on how far she's prepared to go…
Paperboy is the darkly comic follow-up to the McIlvanney Prize winner, Squeaky Clean. The author, Callum McSorley, has been hailed as one of the most exciting new voices in crime writing, and has been praised by authors like Chris Brookmyre and Kevin Bridges. "Violent, profane, hilarious"
-Telegraph, The best new crime and thriller books to read this year
"Looking for something a little bit … filthy? Try Paperboy... This energetic novel from a rising star of crime is full of black comedy, gore, slapstick and street slang"
-The Times, Summer Reads Callum McSorley is a writer based in Glasgow whose short stories have appeared in Gutter Magazine, Monstrous Regiment and New Writing Scotland. Squeaky Clean was his debut novel, inspired by his years working at a car wash in Glasgow's East End. With it, Callum won the prestigious McIlvanney Prize for best Scottish crime novel of the year. PROLOGUE
The king is dead. Paul McGuinn, Paulo to his friends and enemies, his slave girls and lieutenants and errand boys. Fraudster, drug runner, people smuggler, murderer. His wife stood at the head of the stone in an expensive black dress, holding her daughters' hands. The crowd around them was thick with black suits and Rangers scarves.
Two polis in high-vis hovered near the cemetery gate, tense, as welcome as a fart in a sleeping bag. A woman in office drabs turned her nose up at the hearse parked at the kerb, appraising the floral tributes in the back which spelt out PAUL on one side and DAD on the other. "Tasteful," she said, as she passed the uniforms into the stone-lined path. One of them recognised her and murmured "Ma'am" with a slight bow of the head.
McCoist was attending because it was her duty-she was the DCI investigating the gangster's murder, and she was the one who'd put the cunt in the ground.
She could still feel the moment, the screaming rush, then the shocking silence following the thunderclap of the gunshot. Dead ears-a dentist-drill whine and a waterfall of white noise. Squeeze of the trigger, flash of the explosion, so fast it seemed to precede the movement, like it wasn't even her who did it. Inevitable. A slap in the face with warm blood spray. A black hole in the head, punching through hair gel, skin, bone and brain. In and out the other side. The Clyde Tunnel.
Case closed.
Not that McCoist could let anyone know it was that simple. She watched from a distance as the Rolls-Royce of a coffin was lowered into the earth. The reverend was saying something but she couldn't hear him. What do you say when you believe the deceased is going straight to
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- SeriesPushkin Vertigo