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ENGLISH
Language
512
Pages
9780007344208
ISBN
3 mm
Width
13 mm
Height
363 gram
Weight
PAPERBACK
Binding
30 AUGUST 2012
Publish Date
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The Number One bestselling crime thriller from the award-winning Stuart MacBride. A bloody, brilliant and brutal story of murder, kidnap and revenge. Detective Constable Ash Henderson has a dark secret Five years ago his daughter, Rebecca, went missing on the eve of her thirteenth birthday. A year later the first card arrived: home-made, with a Polaroid picture stuck to the The Number One bestselling crime thriller from the award-winning Stuart MacBride. A bloody, brilliant and brutal story of murder, kidnap and revenge. Detective Constable Ash Henderson has a dark secret Five years ago his daughter, Rebecca, went missing on the... Read More
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The life and times of a bearded write-ist.
Stuart MacBride (thats me) was born in Dumbarton -- which is Glasgow as far as Im concerned -- moving up to Aberdeen at the tender age of two, when fashions were questionable. Nothing much happened for years and years and years: learned to play the recorder, then forgot how when they changed from little coloured dots to proper musical notes (why the hell couldnt they have taught us the notes in the first bloody place? I could have been performing my earth-shattering rendition of Three Blind Mice at the Albert Hall by now!); appeared in some bizarre World War Two musical production; did my best to avoid eating haggis and generally ran about the place a lot.
Next up was an elongated spell in Westhill -- a small suburb seven miles west of Aberdeen -- where I embarked upon a mediocre academic career, hindered by a complete inability to spell and an attention span the length of a gnats doodad.
And so to UNIVERSITY, far too young, naive and stupid to be away from the family home, sharing a subterranean flat in one of the seedier bits of Edinburgh with a mad Irishman, and four other bizarre individuals. The highlight of walking to the art school in the mornings (yes: we were students, but we still did mornings) was trying not to tread in the fresh bloodstains outside our front door, and dodging the undercover CID officers trying to buy drugs. Lovely place.
But university and I did not see eye to eye, so off I went to work offshore. Like many all-male environments, working offshore was the intellectual equivalent of Animal House, only without the clever bits. Swearing, smoking, eating, more swearing, pornography, swearing, drinking endless plastic cups of tea... and did I mention the swearing? But it was more money than Id seen in my life! Theres something about being handed a wadge of cash as you clamber off the minibus from the heliport, having spent the last two weeks offshore and the las
Khaled Hosseini
Amish Tripathi
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