by T F Muir
He leaned forward and pecked her cheek, then walked from her flat. ‘Does she have a boyfriend?’ he asked Jessie.
‘A wanker of the first order. He’s got form. And he lives in Inverness.’
Gilchrist skipped down the steps, pushed through the street door into the cold night. ‘He could get the train from Inverness to Leuchars,’ he said. ‘In and out of St Andrews in a matter of hours. Has anyone spoken with him yet?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Jessie said. ‘He’s missing, too.’
‘Tell me everything you know,’ he said, his mind firing alive as he breathed in the damp night. He pulled his jacket collar tight to his neck and walked towards his car. Mo was right, he thought. Retirement could wait for a little bit longer. Then he would draft his letter of resignation next week.
Or maybe the week after that.
Maybe …
He strode into the cold night air, Jessie’s voice chirping in his ear.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing is often a lonely affair, but this book could not have been published without help from the following: Jon Miller, formerly of Tayside Police; Kenny Cameron (retired), Police Scotland; Gayle Cameron, formerly of Police Scotland; and Alan Gall, retired Chief Superintendent, Strathclyde Police, for police procedure; Peggy Boulos Smith and Al Zuckerman of Writers House for advice and encouragement when it was needed most; Howard Watson, for professional copyediting of the highest standard and for accepting my commas or lack thereof in dialogue throughout; Rebecca Sheppard, Desk Editor; Sean Garrehy, Cover Designer; Amy Donegan, Marketing Assistant; and John Fairweather, Production Controller – for beavering away behind the scenes in Little, Brown to give this novel the best possible start; and in particular Krystyna Green, Publishing Director, for once again placing her trust in me. And finally Anna, for putting up with me, believing in me, and loving me all the way.
