: Callum McSorley
: Paperboy
: Pushkin Vertigo
: 9781805335467
: 1
: CHF 10.80
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 384
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
The dark, rawly comic follow-up to the winner of the McIlvanney Prize for best Scottish crime book of the year. 'A serious talent' Kevin Bridges 'Inventive and witty, with a nerve-shredding finale' Chris Brookmyre 'An outstanding new writer who is destined to become a very big name' Peter James DCI Alison McCoist is back: newly promoted and even less popular. Chuck Gardner is the proud owner of both a confidential paper-shredding business and a serious betting habit. When Chuck finds some scandalous paperwork and McCoist investigates a rat-nibbled corpse under a flyover, they are both sucked into a deadly stramash of gangland wars and police corruption. Can Chuck solve his gambling and gangster problems before some head-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...

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. Paperboy is the second Ally McCoist thriller. It follows the reputationally-challenged detective as she investigates a murder linked to a confidential paper-shredding business and stumbles across evidence of police corruption - the sort of evidence that could get her killed if she doesn't handle it carefully...

Everybody called him Chuck though his name wasn’t Charles. He had curly ginger hair and wore corrective NHS specs throughout his school years, and his pals were wee pricks. Despite him now having a shaved, balding dome and favouring contacts, the nickname had stuck. He didn’t hate it any more though. He was nearly thirty now. He was at peace with it. It was a fact of life. It was his name. Secretly, he liked it better than “Stuart” and its attendant nicknames: Stu, Stewie, Stu Pot, Stupac Shakur. When anyone asked his name he said, “Evrybdy caws me Chuck.”

“Because that’s your name?” replied the old boy with a quizzical eyebrow tick.

“Because aeRugrats. Ye mind that? Chucki