Where the Bodies Are Buried - Christopher Brookmyre Detective Catherine McLeod was always taught that in Glasgow, they don’t do whodunit. They do score-settling. They do vendettas. They do petty revenge. They do can’t-miss-whodunit. It’s a lesson that has served her well, but Glasgow is also a dangerous place to make assumptions. Either way she looks at it, she recognises that the discovery of a dead drug-dealer in a back alley is merely a portent of further deaths to come.

Elsewhere in the city, aspiring actress Jasmine Sharp is reluctantly – and incompetently – earning a crust working for her Uncle Jim’s private investigation business. When Jim goes missing, Jasmine has to take on the investigator mantle for real and her only lead points to Glen Fallan, a gangland enforcer and professional assassin whose reputation is rendered only slightly less terrifying by having been dead for twenty years. Cautiously tracing an accomplished killer’s footsteps, Jasmine stumbles into a web of corruption and decades-hidden secrets that could tear apart an entire police force – if she can stay alive long enough to tell the tale.

Having not read any of Christopher/Chris Brookmyre previous novels so cannot comment on how this ‘off piste’ novel compares but I loved it!
The two female leads were especially well drawn, the contrast between middle aged, married, world weary Catherine and innocent, fragile teenager Jasmine. I love it when a male author ‘gets’ the female psyche .

The writing is fast paced with enough twists, turns and red herrings to satisfy the most demanding of crime readers. It is only as you finish the book that the reader can appreciate how tightly y the story was woven. The sardonic, dark wit is pitch-perfect and made me smile far too often considering the subject matter. This is very, very good crime fiction.

'This is Glesca.'... 'Any time you're confused, take a wee minute to remind yourself of that inescapable fact: this is Glesca. We don't do subtle, we don't do nuanced, we don't do conspiracy. We do pish-heid bampot bludgeoning his girlfriend to death in a fit of paranoid rage induced by forty-eight hours straight on the batter. We do coked-up neds jumping on a guy's heid outside a nightclub because he looked at them funny. We do drug-dealing gangster rockets shooting other drug-dealing gangster rockets as comeback for something almost identical a fortnight ago. We do bam-on-bam. We do tit-for-tat, score-settling, feuds, jealousy, petty revenge. We do straightforward. We do obvious. We do cannaemisswhodunit. When you hear hoofbeats on Sauchiehall Street, it's gaunny be a horse, no' a zebra...'..

"It didn't really seem like Glasgow at all. Apart from the guy lying on the deck in the advanced stages of a severe kicking. That was as authentically local as haggis suppers and lung cancer."