Hand for a Hand (A DCI Andy Gilchrist Investigation) [NOOK Book]

Overview

The first book in a taut, action-packed new series set in St. Andrews, Scotland.
 
Murder. It’s the only word in a note clutched by the dismembered hand found on the lush green of a golf course in St. Andrews, Scotland. When DCI Andy Gilchrist learns the note is addressed to him, he realizes the thing he feared most has come to pass: a killer is deliberately targeting him. Though Gilchrist is no new hand at solving murders, this time he is...
See more details below
Hand for a Hand (A DCI Andy Gilchrist Investigation)

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$10.49
BN.com price
(Save 29%)$14.95 List Price

Overview

The first book in a taut, action-packed new series set in St. Andrews, Scotland.
 
Murder. It’s the only word in a note clutched by the dismembered hand found on the lush green of a golf course in St. Andrews, Scotland. When DCI Andy Gilchrist learns the note is addressed to him, he realizes the thing he feared most has come to pass: a killer is deliberately targeting him. Though Gilchrist is no new hand at solving murders, this time he is overwhelmed by the flood of seemingly unconnected crises—the note clutched in the hand, his son’s missing girlfriend, his ex-wife’s failing health, and his boss’s decision to pair Gilchrist up with a scumbag detective from his past, who in turn is hiding evidence. Worse, the hand turns out to be just the beginning, and soon he’s faced with relentless parade of body parts.


From the Hardcover edition.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Praise for Hand for a Hand

"Gilchrist is no shining knight but a complex and troubled man struggling with his own shortcomings. Readers should look forward to seeing more of this earnest detective."
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

“Muir's imagery is characteristic of the hard-boiled but his subtexts are Calvinism laid bare. I'm looking forward to the rest of this series.”
—Carol E. Barrowman, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

“Every golfer’s nightmares include water hazards and sand traps, but none can compare with what lies in the Road Hole bunker at the revered St. Andrews course in Scotland: a severed human hand clutching a note.... Fans of police-procedural thrillers can hope that more will be available soon.”
Richmond Times-Dispatch

"This new series snaps to life on the first page and refuses to let up until the end. T. Frank Muir is all about breakneck narrative thrills and he’s skilled at it."
—Mystery Scene Magazine

"Hand For A Hand” gives a whole new meaning to wicked slice."
—Dennis McCann, Wisconsin Golfer Magazine

"The story is thrilling. It is easy to get your heart caught in your throat as you read this mystery."
—I Love a Mystery

“Muir has a knack for twists and turns.... The combination of tension, emotional distress, and gore make this a great introduction [to the Andy Gilchrist series].”
—Out of the Gutter

“If you're a fan of British police procedurals, I recommend that you read Hand for a Hand.”
—Kittling Books

"Hand for Hand is a worthy introduction to a promising series."
—Book Chase

Praise for the Andy Gilchrist Series

“Everything I look for in a crime novel.”
—Louise Welsh
 
“A tense, fast-paced crime novel."
Scottish Review of Books

"The completely unexpected plot twists and the simple humanity of the characters have you hooked."
Scots Magazine

"The suspense never wavers."
—Clarissa Dickson Wright

"An edgy, emotive thriller that winds up the tension to an edge-of-the-cliff climax."
—Caro Ramsay

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781616951825
  • Publisher: Soho Press, Incorporated
  • Publication date: 11/13/2012
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 401,737
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Born in Glasgow, Frank Muir was plagued from a young age with the urge to see more of the world than the rain sodden slopes of the Campsie Fells. Thirty-plus years of living and working overseas helped him appreciate the raw beauty of his home country. Now a dual US/UK citizen, Frank makes his home in the outskirts of Glasgow, Scotland, from where he visits St. Andrews regularly to research in the town’s many pubs and restaurants.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1
Seventeenth Hole, Old Course
St. Andrews, Scotland

   Tam Dunn watched the golf ball take a hard kick left and slip
into the infamous Road Hole Bunker, a sandy-bottomed pothole
that fronted the seventeenth green.
   Bud Amherst, one of an American four-ball that teed off at
7:00 that morning, first on the ballot, threw his five-iron to the
ground. “Goddammit,” he shouted, turning to Tam. “Course’s
nuthin but sand traps. Why didn’t you tell me it was there?”
The way Bud played golf it would have made no difference if
Tam had first led him by the hand and stood him in the bunker.
But Tam the caddy, always hopeful of an American-sized tip, bit
his tongue. “My mistake, sir.”
   Close to the green, the bunker looked more like a hole in the
ground, its face a vertical wall of divot bricks that even the pros
struggled to overcome.                                                          
   “Whaddaya think?” Bud asked Tam.
   “Sand-iron, sir.”
   “I know that, goddammit. Which way’s it gonna break?”
   “About three feet from the left.”
   “As much as that?”
   “At least, sir.”
   Tam kept tight-lipped as Bud took a few clumsy practice
swings. The only way Bud was going to get the ball onto
that green, he thought, was to lift it and place it. Bud turned
to the bunker, prepared to step down into it, then stumbled
backwards.
   “Aw God, aw God.”
   “Sir?”
   Bud slumped to his knees. The sand-iron slipped from his
grip.
   One of the Americans, the tall one called JD, trotted across the
green. “Hey, Bud, you okay?”
   Bud stretched an arm out and flapped it at the bunker.
Tam stepped to its lip and stared down at the hand, at skin as
white as porcelain, bony fingers clawed like talons. Even from
where he stood he could tell it was a woman’s hand, a fine hand,
he thought, except the wrist looked butchered and bloodied, like
a cut of meat hacked, not sliced, the bone glistening like a white
disc smeared with blood.
   And all of Tam’s hopes for an American-sized tip evaporated
in the cold Scottish air.
   “You’d better get down here, Andy.”
   “Where’s here, Nance?”
   “Seventeenth green on the Old Course. Next to the Jigger.”
   Gilchrist drew his Mercedes SLK Roadster to the side of the
road and pressed his mobile to his ear. It had been a while since
he had heard DS Nancy Wilson as breathless. Not since they had
run the length of the West Sands chasing what’s-his-name. Blake.
That was it. Murray Blake. Rapist, serial shagger, petty thief.
How some people thought they could get away with it never
failed to amaze him.
   “What’s got you fired up?” he tried.
   “Severed hand in a bunker. Victim’s in her early twenties, late
teens—”
   “Her early twenties?”
   “Sorry. Yes. It’s a woman’s hand.”
   Gilchrist tugged the steering wheel, felt the tail-end throw out
as the Merc spun in a tight circle. “Any rings?” he asked. “Moles?
Scars?”
   “Nothing obvious. Fingernails are short. Not varnished. Skin’s
a bit rough.”
   “As in manual labour?”
   “As in someone who doesn’t use hand lotion.”
   “Or couldn’t afford to.”
   “Maybe.”
   “It couldn’t have come from the mortuary or been cut from—?”
   “Not a chance, Andy. She’s been murdered.”

Chapter 2


   “Get on to the University. Find out if any students have gone
missing, called in sick, not turned up, whatever.”
   “Got it.”
   “Has Mackie seen it yet?”
   “Just arrived. Along with the SOCOs.”
   “Make sure they take fingerprints and run them through the
AFR system.”
   “Got it.”
   If the victim had no criminal record, the Automatic
Fingerprint Registration System would draw a blank. But it was
worth a shot. “Estimated time of. . . .” He wanted to say, death,
then chose, “. . . amputation?”
   “Couldn’t say.”
   “How about the other bunkers?”
   “We’ve got a team walking the course. Nothing back from
them yet.”
   “Any thoughts?” he asked.
   “Nothing definite. The sand was smooth, which might suggest
the hand was placed in the bunker.”
   “As opposed to thrown in?”
   “Odd, don’t you think?”
   “Maybe.” Gilchrist was again struck by the undercurrent of
excitement in Nance’s voice. He thought back to her statement—
Not a chance. She’s been murdered—and knew from the firmness of
her response that there had to be more. “What’re you not telling
me, Nance?”
   “She, I mean . . . the hand was holding a note. Addressed to
you.”
   A frisson of ice touched his neck. He booted the Merc to seventy.
   “What’s it say?”
   “Murder.”
   Murder? “So whoever severed the hand is sending me a message.”
   “Looks that way.”
   “How was the note addressed?”
   “On the envelope. Your name. DCI Andrew Gilchrist.”
   Andrew. Not Andy. Was that significant? “Typed? Or handprinted?”
   “Looks like a computer printer. Ink hasn’t run. Maybe a laser
printer.”
   Something tugged at his mind. “I thought you said note.”
   “I did.”
   “Inside the envelope?”
   “Yes.”
   “Someone opened the envelope?”
   “It wasn’t sealed.”
   Although the envelope was addressed to him, found in the
clutches of a severed hand, it niggled him that it had been opened
and read. “Why use an envelope to put a note inside?” he asked.
   “Why not just the note? Why the envelope, then the note?”
   “To keep the note dry?”
   “Maybe.”
   “Greaves wants to assign you as SIO.”
   Senior Investigating Officer. Gilchrist laughed. “I would have
thought a severed hand clutching a note addressed to me would
make it obvious that I should be SIO.”
   Hearing his own words made something slump to the pit of
his stomach. He had always dreaded this moment, the day when
he would be targeted by some sick pervert. And the pervert who
severed the hand had asked for Gilchrist to be involved. No,
more than that, wanted Gilchrist to be involved. But why? Was
the woman someone he knew? At that thought, a surge of panic
jolted his system.
   “Describe the hand again, Nance.”
   “Left hand. Skin’s flawless, except for the fingernails. They’re
cracked.”
   “Not bitten?”
   “No.”
   Relief powered through him. It was every policeman’s fear
that their family would be the victim of revenge, their lives
threatened by some criminal bent on getting even for some
long-forgotten score. The thought that the hand could have
been his daughter’s had hit him with the force of a kick to the
gut. Maureen lived seventy miles away in Glasgow, but bit her
nails and picked the skin. Despite the gruesome task ahead he
almost smiled.
   “Fingernails look as if they’ve been trimmed,” Nance went on.
   “But the cracks still show.”
   “Meaning?”
   “Not sure. But it might help ID her.”
   Gilchrist was fast approaching traffic. He eased his foot off
the pedal. “I’ll be with you in ten minutes,” he said, and hung up.
Dear God. Now this. A young woman’s hand. What had happened?
Had her hand been severed in the course of torture? Was
she still alive? No, he thought. She was already dead. But where
was the rest of the body?
   He floored the pedal, overtook three cars.
   And why a hand? Why leave it where it was sure to be found?
Simple. Because the perpetrator of this crime wanted the hand
to be found.
   Hence the note. For him.
   But who was this young woman?
   Being forty-seven, Gilchrist did not know too many young
women. His daughter, Maureen, of course. But she had never
invited him to meet her flatmates or friends. Not that she hid
them from him, but she lived away from home, ever since Gail
left him. And then there was Chloe, his son’s girlfriend. And that
was about it as far as young women were concerned.
   Still, he needed to put his mind at rest.
   He located Maureen’s number and felt a flush of irritation as
her answering machine cut in. Leaving messages seemed to be
his way of communicating with her these days. He kept this one
short, ordered her to give him a call, then he called Jack. It was a
wild thought. But better to be sure.
   “Hello?” Jack’s voice sounded tired, heavy.
   “Did I wake you up?”
   “What time’s it?”
   “Almost eleven. The day’s nearly done.”
   Jack coughed, a harsh sound that seemed to come from his
chest, which made Gilchrist think he had started smoking again.
   “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
   “Isn’t a father allowed to call his son and ask how he is?”
   “Come on, Andy. First thing in the morning?”
   Gilchrist let out a laugh. Jack was a freelance artist whose creative
side seemed to flourish only on the other side of midnight
and sobriety. Midday could be an early start.
   “How’s Chloe?” Gilchrist asked.
   “Fine why?”
   Gilchrist thought Jack’s answer was too quick. “I’d like to talk
to her,” he said.
   “Why? What’s up?”
   Because we’ve found a severed hand and I’m scared to death it might
be Chloe’s.
   “Might be interested in buying one of her paintings,” he said.
   “Can I talk to her?”
   “Sure. I’ll get her to call when she gets back.”
   “Out shopping, is she?”
   “Something like that.”
   Gilchrist pressed the mobile to his ear. Jack had a cavalier
attitude about most things, but his voice sounded lifeless.
   “Everything all right?” he tried.
   A sniff, then, “We had a lover’s tiff.”
   “And?”
   “And she’s stomped off to cool down.”
   “Sounds serious.”
   “She’ll get over it.”
   “Good.” And Gilchrist meant it. Chloe was the best thing
that had happened to Jack. An artist too, she had a calming effect
on his wild son, even assuring him that Jack no longer smoked
cigarettes or any other substances. He almost hated to say it, but
he trusted Chloe more than he did his own son. He held on,
expecting Jack to continue, but it seemed as if the topic of Chloe
was over.
   Gilchrist decided to change tack and felt a flicker of annoyance
that he had to bring the subject up. But he needed to know.
   “How’s Mum?” he asked, and grimaced as he waited for the
answer.
   “Not good, Andy. Not good at all.”
   “How long?”
   “Couple of months. Maybe less.”
   “Jesus.”
   “They’ve got her on morphine.”
   “Is she still at home?”
   “You know Mum.”
   Gilchrist pulled to a halt behind a traffic jam. Ahead, the grey
silhouette of St. Salvator’s spire and the Abbey ruins lined the
dark skyline. By the University buildings, black rocks fell to a
blacker sea. He closed his eyes, dug in his thumb and forefinger.
Gail. Sometimes he felt as if he still loved her. Other times he
was not sure if it was being betrayed that had given him the right
to wallow in self-pity. He never understood why he still cared for
her. Was it hurt over her infidelity? Or her utter rejection of him
once she left? Or jealousy at her having found someone else? And
now she was dying and—
   “Andy?”
   Gilchrist looked up. “Sorry, Jack. Stuck in traffic. Is Maureen
still helping out?”
   “I guess.”
   “You heard from her?”
   “About a week ago.”
   “I’ve left umpteen messages on her answering machine.”
   “That’s Mo for you.”
   “It runs in the family.”
   “Hey, we’re talking. Right?”
   Gilchrist chuckled. “If you talk to her, Jack, tell her to check
her messages and give me a call.” Jack grunted, which he took to
mean yes. The Citroën in front lurched forward with a burst of
exhaust. Gilchrist followed. “Thanks, Jack. Catch you later.”
   Gilchrist thought it odd how different his children had
become. Maureen and Jack were growing apart, had grown apart,
professionally, politically, socially and, even though he hated
to say it, financially. Where Mo was self-reliant and careful
with money, taking part-time jobs for extra cash, Jack could go
months without selling a sculpture or painting, and no commissioned
work in sight. He often wondered how Jack survived, then
ditched that thought for fear of the answer.
   But Mo was different. A young woman with definite views on
how to run her life, with no sympathy for those who struggled. If
Gilchrist struggled with his relationship with his daughter, what
chance did Jack have of getting through to her?
   He pulled onto the road that led to the Driving Range, then
powered towards the Old Course Hotel. He found a parking
spot close to the Jigger Inn. Beyond the stone dyke that bounded
the course, a white Transit van spilled Scenes of Crime Officers
in white hooded coveralls—six in total. The putting green was
encircled with yellow tape that trailed to the walls at the side of
the road for which the Old Course’s Road Hole was infamous.
Nance caught his eye as he cleared the dyke. Behind her, the
stooped figure of Bert Mackie, the police pathologist, was slipping
into the bunker, his assistant, Dougie Banks, helping him
down. Nance signalled to Gilchrist as she walked across the
green, away from the bunker and the SOCOs.
   Puzzled, he followed her.
   When she stopped, he said, “You look worried.”
   “Ronnie’s here.”
   “Ronnie?” Then the name slotted into the tumblers of his
mind with a surge of disbelief. “Ronnie Watt?” He eyed the
green, settling on the back of a broad-shouldered man in a dark
blue suit, felt his legs move as if of their own accord—
   Something clamped his arm.
   “He’s not worth it.” Nance tightened her grip. “He’s Crime
Scene Manager.”
   “Not on my shift, he’s not. Alan can take over.”
   “No he can’t. Greaves has assigned Ronnie.”
   Gilchrist shook his arm free. “Is Greaves out of his bloody
mind?”
   “Andy. Don’t. It’s in the past.”
   But Gilchrist was already striding away.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 5 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(1)

4 Star

(3)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(1)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted January 24, 2014

    Would reccommend it, especially if one wanted a decent mystery written from a msn's point of view.

    Contains some splashes of crude language (why I said written from a man's point of view).
    Kidnapping, torture and murder and the culprit is connected to the main character (a Scottish police detective). Pace moves quickly and fairly good character developement of the more prominant characters. I bought this book becsuse the reviewer (newspaper) gave it a good review
    and it takes place in Scotland (a big interest for me)

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 4, 2014

    Good read!

    Good mystery.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2013

    Typial connelly

    Poor ending

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 1, 2012

    Intense psycological thriller

    A Scots detective is finding a young woman's body parts on the venerated grounds of St Andrews golf course. And the worst part is they may belong to someone in his family, payback for doing his job!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)