Death of an Outsider (Hamish Macbeth, Book 3) by M. C. Beaton
By M. C. Beaton
Unique booklet: 1988
The so much hated guy within the such a lot dour city in Scotland is snoozing with the fishes, or-more accurately-dumped right into a tank packed with crustaceans. All that stay of the murdered sufferer are his bones. yet after the lobsters are shipped off to Britain's top eating places, the full affair quick lands at the plate of Constable Hamish Macbeth. Exiled along with his puppy, Towser, to the dreary outpost of Cnothan, Macbeth sorely misses his loved Lochdubh, his previously cherished Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, and his days of doing not anything yet gazing the sheep grazing in a close-by croft. Now the lawman has to deal with a detective leader inspector who desires the modus operandi hushed up, a dark-haired lass who has an ulterior reason to seduce him, and a killer who has made mincemeat of his victim-and surely will strike back . . .
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Extra resources for Death of an Outsider (Hamish Macbeth, Book 3)
Tomas always answered his phone. It didn’t matter if he was in bed or at a funeral, he never left a call unanswered if his mobile was in reach. Many times Arturas had phoned his brother only to hear hard panting and moaning on the other end as he rutted with one of the whores. Once, Tomas hospitalized a cinemagoer for complaining about the disturbance caused by his taking a call during a screening of some romantic comedy. It had taken several days, and some expense, to convince the victim they were mistaken in their identification of the attacker.
Sam approached, hands up. “Easy, love. ” Galya slashed at him, almost caught his forearm. ” Sam retreated. Darius pushed him back. ” The Lithuanian cursed and bulled his way past. Galya swiped the glass blade through the air in front of him, but he caught her wrist in one easy movement. He twisted once, hard, and the blade dropped to the floor. His thick arm snaked around her throat, and she smelled leather and cheap aftershave with her last breath before everything fell away into darkness. She dreamed of Mama’s coarse hands, and warm bread, and a time when she only knew Belfast as that wretched place they sometimes talked about on the radio.
Galya knew this was the essence of running. Balance and rhythm granted speed and minimized fatigue. If she lost those, she would lose ground to them. If she lost ground, she would die. Breathe. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four … She heard the ragged stabs of Darius’s breathing. He was not a sprinter, but had no endurance either. Not like Galya. If she could keep ahead of him long enough, keep out of his reach, his legs would give up, the muscles’ craving for oxygen too great to carry him any further.