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“I’ve never been out of Scotland before…I’d never been out of Glasgow except for Gairloch.”
Judith laughed. “You’re not scared of flying are you?”
Da
“Weren’t you going to follow Ingrid to Italy that time, only there was no one to look after your mother?”
“Not finding anyone to look after my ma was only half the story. Truth is I was as petrified of being sneered at as a hypocrite then as I am now. That’s the real reason I never followed her to Italy.”
This impossible mind-set was draining Judith, so she left before he could depress her any further and concentrated on Iceland.
CHAPTER: 17
Iceland’s mountains, glaciers and near twenty-four hour daylight erased all things Da
CITY ARTIST’S FUNERAL
Friends of Glasgow painter, Da
Numbed, Judith remembered nothing more about the journey, or even how she’d acquired her luggage at Glasgow airport. Somehow she’d managed to find her way to Katy’s parent’s tenement, where, over a bottle of vodka, the youngster explained the gruesome details.
On Wednesday morning, the week before, a warden at the Great Eastern Hotel had discovered Da
Da
St Teresa’s was a rectangular, redbrick church with a lead-spired bell tower, set back from the road beyond green lawns. Much to Judith and Katy’s relief, there were a good fifty people waiting outside in watery sunshine when they arrived, including all twenty-five students who’d ever attended Gairloch College. The turnout should have been much bigger, but, sadly, most people kept away because of a rumour going round that Da
Throughout the service, rain lashed so heavily against the church roof it threatened to thwart the actual burial. But by the time everybody reached the sprawling Lambhill cemetery, on the city’s northern fringe, shafts of sunlight had penetrated the clouds, making the sky look like a translucent big top. As Da
During the wake at The Brothers Bar, Judith was accosted by Ingrid, who looked solemn in full-length, black funeral dress. After a specious display of grief she began snooping to find out what money Da
“What is it with that family of morons?” Ingrid wailed. “That picture’s probably worth at least fifty grand…possibly more now that Da
Over the coming months, Judith would grieve profoundly and struggle to accept she’d never see Da
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
The Dirty Rouge
Book One of The Dirty Rouge Series.
D.C.I Patrick Curzon is the ‘Dirty Rouge’.
A thief, a blackmailer, a ruthless politician, this tough, misanthropic Scotsman is one of the vilest cops to have ever graced the page. That said, he’s also one of the most dedicated.
While investigating the death of a young ‘schemie’, Curzon paces the streets of his beloved Glasgow, conversing with junkies, small time coke dealers, a millionairess and even a premier league footballer. The case also brings him back into conflict with his sworn enemy, Fergus Baxter, a highly vaunted though particularly sleazy defence lawyer who acts on behalf of the city’s most lucrative violent psychopaths and any celebrities who happen to fall through the cracks into criminality.