{"product_id":"the-goldenacre-isbn-9781641294607","title":"The Goldenacre","description":"\u003cb\u003eA bitter journalist and troubled art expert risk their lives to find the connection between a legendary painting and a series of rash murders in this “riveting, brutal journey into the high-stakes world of legacy art and inherited wealth” (Denise Mina, author of \u003ci\u003eConviction\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThomas Tallis, inspector of provenance, has just arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland, to authenticate \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e, a masterpiece by iconic Scottish architect and painter Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Still dealing with a miserable divorce and the fallout from a disastrous job in London, Tallis is eager to sign off on the painting and leave. It should be simple, as the painting has been owned by one noble family since the ’20s. But then a horrifying parcel arrives on Tallis’s desk, and the threatening message is clear: someone doesn’t want him inspecting the painting. Now that Tallis sees lives are in danger, he has no choice but to stay until the investigation is complete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, gruesome murders are plaguing Edinburgh. First, a Scottish painter of great renown. Next, an Edinburgh City Counsellor.  Battle-hardened newspaper reporter Shona Sandison is on the case, even as her beloved industry shrinks around her. Shona doesn’t care who she steps on to get the best story, and she soon uncovers a link between \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e and the murders. As Tallis’s personal crises reach a fever pitch, Shona struggles to enlist his help in understanding how the painting is mixed up in all this violence before either one of them becomes the next victim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePensive, lush, and tragic, \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre \u003c\/i\u003eis a heartbroken love letter to Edinburgh, and an unpredictable, gorgeously plotted mystery to savor.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Shamus Award for Best First P.I. Novel\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eFree Lance-Star\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn Air Mail Best Mystery Book of 2022\u003cbr\u003eNominated for the Beltie Mystery Prize\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA CrimeReads Most Anticipated Crime Book of Summer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e features a dense cast of vivid characters, not least Tallis, a tortured pilgrim worthy of a Graham Greene tale. The book—which explores through prose the interplay between light and darkness in the physical and moral worlds—is an ambitious and wonderfully realized work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tom Nolan, \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This terrific art mystery is as twisty and dark (even a wee bit gruesome in places) as the ‘crooked medieval lanes’ and the ‘brooding bulk’ of St. Giles’ Cathedral in Edinburgh, where this exceptional novel is set.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Carole E. Barrowman, \u003ci\u003eStar Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of a kind and loaded with original plotting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Toronto Star\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A literary masterpiece. So many layers to peel back in this mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Mystery \u0026amp; Suspense\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A literary thriller in the tradition of \u003ci\u003eThe Goldfinch\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eAll the Light We Cannot See\u003c\/i\u003e, but better! In \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e, the suspense is real, the stakes are high, and the mystery actually gets resolved . . . [An] enjoyable thriller that is part cerebral and part noir.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A moving meditation on beauty, loss, and the bonds of family. John le Carré would have sympathized with its doomed hero, art expert Thomas Tallis, and the noble futility of his effort.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Air Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It is the magic way oddly juxtaposed words manage to convey the essence of a scene, the feelings of a character, or the ugliness of an act, more vividly than any dictionary-precise language, that makes \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e a thoroughly worthwhile read.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Portland Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unputdownable.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As a novelist, he [Philip Miller] constructs an intricate and intelligent plot and peoples it with richly imagined and deeply realized characters. As a poet, he composes strikingly crafted descriptions . . . And as an experienced journalist, he captures the continuing diminution of print newspapers as they pursue ‘digital transformation.’ An authoritative work on art and an accomplished work of art, The Goldenacre also represents a shrewd study of family dynamics and a splendid sample of literary crime fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—The Free Lance-Star\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e] is mesmerizing in its use of atmosphere, poetic language, and ingenious plot construction . . . Overall, this fine example of Scottish noir was atmospheric and gloomy yet at times sardonic and droll.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Santa Fe New Mexican\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e is infused with the grey atmosphere and stylish lingo of its Edinburgh setting . . . [A] complex art thriller.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eCrimeReads\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tartan noir hobnobs with the art world in \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e, Philip Miller's clever, complex and improbably touching thriller set in Edinburgh, a city whose reputation for quiet elegance and relative calm gets quite a workout.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e is many things at once: a thriller complete with a cunning plot and a twist at the end...; a terrific sense of place, a compelling cast of characters whose motives are not always obvious, and finally, writing that absolutely soars.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Books to the Ceiling\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e is] undeniably a powerful and enjoyable read, and places Miller among the must-read authors who bind the tragedy of their crimes to Scotland's cities and feudal history.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Kingdom Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A first-class thriller.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Its vivid sense of location is one of this engaging mystery’s great strengths.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Herald\u003c\/i\u003e (Scotland)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Like its namesake, \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e occupies its own unclassifiable space, as much a meditation on beauty and loss as it is crime fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Air Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fans of Scottish-Grit crime writer Ian Rankin will love this twisty mystery . . . [The] plot is ingenious, and the atmosphere—both sinister Edinburgh and the embattled newsroom—is brilliantly evoked.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Outstanding . . . In a style recalling the brutal dreariness of le Carré, Miller describes a pivotal character as ‘sharp and severe as a snapped bone.’ It’s also an apt description of this biting tale of society in decline. Noir fans won’t want to miss it.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Superb . . . A prime example of Scottish noir.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Gumshoe Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unusual and elegant, Philip Miller’s third novel [\u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre\u003c\/i\u003e] takes the Tartan Noir genre in some new and unexpected directions.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Scotsman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“This excellent well-plotted noir thriller pits unique characters against the hard-edges of modern life.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Stop, You're Killing Me!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A riveting, brutal journey into the high-stakes world of legacy art and inherited wealth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Denise Mina, author of \u003ci\u003eConviction \u003c\/i\u003eand the \u003ci\u003eGarnethill \u003c\/i\u003etrilogy\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A pacy tale of crime and deception set in the world of fine art. beautifully written, with a brilliantly vivid sense of place and a killer twist, \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre \u003c\/i\u003eis one to savor.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Liam McIlvanney, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Quaker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Art, music, politics and murder, set against a backdrop of one of the most beautiful cities in the world—what’s not to love? A complex and compelling plot, with intriguing characters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lesley Kelly, author of the \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eHealth of Strangers\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003enovels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gritty, propulsive and moving thriller that makes important points about art, wealth and class.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kirstin Innes, author of \u003ci\u003eScabby Queen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Phil Miller’s Edinburgh is a city of secrets, an introverted place filled with characters so real in their humanity and yet somehow askew, imbued with the touch of supernatural shadows but also unshakeable goodness. Elegiac, moving, but always richly humane, \u003ci\u003eThe Goldenacre \u003c\/i\u003eis a welcome addition to Scottish noir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jackie Copleton, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Dictionary of Mutual Understanding,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e longlisted for the 2016 Women's Prize for Fiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Philip Miller’s latest novel is a triumph of plot and character, a whirligig of twists, connections, and secrets written in an engaging and confident style. In the crowded world of Scottish crime writing Miller has carved a unique, thrilling niche for himself by blending hard-boiled journalism and the smiling treachery of the art world. Miller puts the art in Tartan Noir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Iain Maloney, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Only Gaijin in the Village\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intriguing plot . . . Miller is an excellent wordsmith.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A promising, tear-stained debut.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePhilip Miller\u003c\/b\u003e lives in Edinburgh and grew up in County Durham. He was a journalist for twenty years, including being Arts Correspondent for the \u003ci\u003eScotsman\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e in Scotland, and the \u003ci\u003eHerald\u003c\/i\u003e; he was twice named Arts Writer of the Year at the Scottish Press Awards. His previous novels include \u003ci\u003eThe Blue Horse \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eAll the Galaxies, \u003c\/i\u003eand his poetry has been published in One Hand Clapping, \u003ci\u003eThe North\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePoetry Birmingham Literary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eGutter Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Ned Silver was being banged out.\u003cbr\u003e      Across the \u003ci\u003eEdinburgh Post\u003c\/i\u003e newsroom, journalists were slapping their hands hard on the tabletops. It was a rhythmic racket—some were banging their feet on the floor, others tapping the sides of their grey, flickering monitors. One or two rang peals from their chipped coffee cups, using stained old spoons. The sound rebounded from the worn brown carpet to the stained white ceiling tiles, and out of the open windows to the chilly street outside. \u003cbr\u003e      Years ago, typewriters would have been banged, and maybe even print presses clanged, and then, after the tumult of industrial percussion, there would have been a long session of hard drinking in the pub. These days it was only tired hands sounding on dust-smeared laptops, with little time to party, commiserate and celebrate afterwards. \u003cbr\u003e      Shona Sandison, senior reporter, watched it all. She had seen many journalists leave in recent months. Unlike most, Ned had been a friend, once. Now he was just a speech and a night in a sodden pub away from being another memory. She watched, unsmiling, as Silver looked out over the newsroom and took a piece of paper from his rumpled corduroys. Colm, the news editor, had already handed Ned a bottle of whisky in a pale cardboard case, an envelope of money gathered from the office, and a fake front page, announcing his departure.\u003cbr\u003e      “Speech!” someone yelled.\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t encourage him,” Shona said. She was working, holding a telephone receiver close to her ear, cupping her hand over it to muffle the noise of the newsroom. The phone was ringing and ringing. She was waiting for a police contact to answer his mobile. \u003cbr\u003e      Opposite her, swivelling on his seat, the crime reporter, Hector Stricken, grinned. “He’ll love this,” he said. “He’s been waiting years. It’s his grand exit. It might be funny. It probably rhymes or something. Give him a listen, Shona.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’d rather set myself on fire,” she said, lolling back in her chair. Her walking stick, which she had hooked on her armrest, fell to the floor with a clunk. She had a new story to investigate. It was probably a murder, and she was gathering information—an old man in Stockbridge had been found dead in his ground-floor flat. \u003cbr\u003e      Shona nodded over to the office of the \u003ci\u003ePost\u003c\/i\u003e’s new editor, Ron Ingleton, who appeared to be hiding. “Where’s that wee prick, Ingleton?” she whispered loudly to Stricken. “Squatting in his Führer bunker?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Shona,” Stricken said, shaking his head.\u003cbr\u003e      “The man’s a fuckwit,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e      Colm was saying some words about Ned’s long tenure as arts correspondent at the \u003ci\u003ePost\u003c\/i\u003e . . . broken many stories over the years . . . how he had been an important asset.\u003cbr\u003e      “Ass-et,” Shona snorted. Some people looked around. “Near enough,” she muttered. The phone was still ringing, somewhere.\u003cbr\u003e      Shona looked over at Silver, his hair thinning, his nose redder that it used to be. When they had been friends, he had not worn his glasses, and now he wore better clothes. Back in those days, he had been floppy-haired, and thin, and funny. This was before she had been stabbed. Then, sometime after that, he had married and didn’t seem to want her company anymore, with no more drinks after work, or coffees at lunchtime. Now he was going to London for some communications job, and that was that. She doubted they would speak again.\u003cbr\u003e      She tilted her head and turned away from the hubbub in the room, as the phone was finally picked up with a click. \u003cbr\u003e      Detective Reculver answered. “Ah, Shona Sandison,” he said. “The impossible pencil.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Ya what?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Both blunt and sharp. Go on.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I hear a man’s dead,” she said. \u003cbr\u003e      “What’s that racket?” \u003cbr\u003e      “An old timer is leaving,” she said. “Doing a speech. Anyway, I heard it’s a murder.”\u003cbr\u003e      “You might have heard right,” he rumbled. “But I can’t say more at the moment. You’ll get the news release like everyone else. No exclusives, this time.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Whatever. Was it a robbery? Who was he?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Yes, maybe, and a suspicious death. The name was Love. An artist.” Reculver lowered his voice. “Nasty business—a bloody mess. Look, meet me tomorrow, eleven a.m., normal place.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Give me an address for this fella?”\u003cbr\u003e      “How about a ‘please’?”\u003cbr\u003e      “You can have my ‘thank you’ tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e      “No. But look near the bookshop on the main road—there’s polis everywhere. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”\u003cbr\u003e      “A Mr. Love?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Aye. Do one of your internet searches—you’ll find him right enough.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Okay, see you tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e      Shona put the phone down and checked her email, but there was nothing from the police communications department yet.\u003cbr\u003e      Silver was speaking. “I saw us all at this wee newspaper not as friends or rivals or colleagues, but more a kind of a gestalt . . .”\u003cbr\u003e      “Jesus H. Christ,” Shona said. She picked up her walking stick and got out of her seat. Limping on her left-hand side, stick tapping on the thin carpet, she moved through the rows of standing newspaper staff who were nodding, murmuring and chuckling at Silver’s speech. Shona needed some fresh air: to see the silken clouds weaving over the city, casting pale rivers of shadow over the stones and statues. Another good journalist was leaving the \u003ci\u003ePost\u003c\/i\u003e. Every one that left the paper was like the gasp of a dying man. There were only so many breaths left that it could take before it breathed its last. \u003cbr\u003e      She stood in the office block landing, waiting for the lift. Someone outside on Rose Street was playing a saxophone. Then her phone buzzed—a text from Reculver: \u003ci\u003eStatement with you now\u003c\/i\u003e, it shouted.\u003cbr\u003e      “Fucking hell,” she said, turning around and heading back to her desk. The staff had dispersed again, and the noise had fallen. Silver was in the editor’s glass-walled office, and Shona wondered what they were saying to each other. \u003cbr\u003e      Colm ghosted over to her desk.\u003cbr\u003e      “What do you want?” she said, as her computer screen blinked back to life.\u003cbr\u003e      “Six hundred words on the Stockbridge death, Shona,” he said, beginning to roll a short cigarette in his stumpy fingers.\u003cbr\u003e      “Fine. Has Silver found his balls in there?”\u003cbr\u003e      “What do you mean?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Is he lamping Ingleton with the whisky bottle?”\u003cbr\u003e      Colm smirked. “Exchanging platitudes, Shona,” he said. “The time for melodrama is over.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t I just know it.”\u003cbr\u003e      Colm nodded, looked as if he was going to say something, didn’t, and then stumped off again.\u003cbr\u003e      Stricken looked over his monitor and raised his eyebrows. “Another corpse for you, is it, Shona? You must be delighted.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Fuck off, Stricken.” \u003cbr\u003e      “You used to be nice, you know,” he said, rattling his fingers on his keyboard. “Charming, even.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Remember when you were quiet, before you decided to grow a character?” she said. “I preferred it that way. What are you working on?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He tapped his nose. “It could be the big one.”\u003cbr\u003e      “The big one?”\u003cbr\u003e      “The big one,” he repeated.\u003cbr\u003e      Shona shook her head. “Cock,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e      Stricken leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever thought, Shona, of living more in the moment, of being less annoyed by the past, and less worried about the future?” \u003cbr\u003e      “Like what . . . a whelk?”\u003cbr\u003e      He laughed and carried on typing.\u003cbr\u003e      Shona checked her email. The police press statement had come through. There it all was, in black-and-white, from the city police: a suspected murder. An ongoing investigation and an appeal for witnesses. She read the news release through again and then began, with a familiar and comforting sense of relief, to write.\u003cbr\u003e      Half an hour later, it was done.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe death of Scottish painter Robert Love, who was found in his Edinburgh home this morning, is being treated as suspicious by city cops, the \u003c\/i\u003ePost\u003ci\u003e understands. The body of acclaimed artist Love, 67, was discovered in his home studio in Stockbridge. Love, a graduate of Glasgow School of Art whose lauded work hangs in the Public Gallery and institutions across the UK, was well known in the arts world. He leaves a daughter.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThe story, completed with police quotes and more background about Love’s life and career, was barely edited before being laid out on the page. Colm was reading it over again as Shona prepared to leave the office.\u003cbr\u003e      She was about to ring her father. Shona lived with him, and she usually rang at this time to check he was back from the allotment, and what he wanted for dinner. Or whether he was cooking—which he usually was. Silver and some other colleagues had gone to a pub on the corner of the street, and she wondered whether she should join them. Through the open window, she thought she could hear their voices.\u003cbr\u003e      Colm walked over from the newsdesk, his shirt half out, a rolled cigarette behind one ear. He was squinting at a large piece of paper: a printout of page three, which he put down on her desk. Her story was the lead. There was no headline, just “headery-headeryheadery” typed in its place. There was also a large picture of Robert Love, taken in his pomp in the early 1980s: he had a drooping moustache, a wild frizz of dark hair and a velvet suit. Dark eyes and a smile.\u003cbr\u003e      “He has a daughter, then?” Colm said.\u003cbr\u003e      “That’s what it says,” Shona said.\u003cbr\u003e      “Have you spoken to her?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Not yet.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Have you tried?”\u003cbr\u003e      She hadn’t. “Of course, I have. Number rang out,” she said. She didn’t have a number. Shona was already planning to track her down for a second story, but she wanted to get home. She had no desire to knock on the door of a grieving woman and ask her how she felt. She had done enough death knocks for one lifetime.\u003cbr\u003e      Colm snorted. “Try her again tomorrow, and knock on her door,” he grunted. “And you got an idea for the headline?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Colm,” she said, standing up, grabbing her stick, “that’s your job. The most important three words are already there.”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eBy Shona Sandison\u003c\/i\u003e?” he said, his mouth twitching. They had exchanged these lines before.\u003cbr\u003e      “Exactly,” she said. “How about ‘Cops Probe Shock Artist Death’? Something like that.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Fine,” he said, tucking his shirt in. “Straightforward.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Why’s it not the splash?” she asked. She peered at him, and he sighed and rubbed his eye.\u003cbr\u003e      “There’s a drug story. A load of cocaine has been found in a boat from Whitby that shipped up in Pittenweem. Worth ten million, apparently. Stricken’s done it.”\u003cbr\u003e      Shona looked to Stricken’s seat, but he was gone—he had filed and fled. “Ten million? That’s a lot of coke. And my plans for the weekend ruined.”\u003cbr\u003e      Colm smiled. “I can’t imagine you ever doing that sort of thing, Shona, for some reason.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’ve had my moments. Since when is a drugs haul more important than a murder?”\u003cbr\u003e      Colm’s eye twitched again. “Since the editor decided that was the case,” he said, his voice low. He rolled up the page into a baton and gently beat the desk with it. The new editor was another angry white man from Glasgow, short and shaven-headed.\u003cbr\u003e      “Rightio,” she said, and slammed her notebook in her bag.\u003cbr\u003e      Colm’s voice changed to something softer. “The man is settling in. Give him time. Here—you going to Ned’s bash? I won’t be done here until late. Maybe see you there?”\u003cbr\u003e       “Not a chance.”\u003cbr\u003e       “Fine,” he said. “Why were you shouting at poor Hector about whelks earlier?”\u003cbr\u003e       “Mind your own business, Colm.”\u003cbr\u003e      There was a shout from the other end of the office. Colm’s deputy was standing up at the newsdesk, looking for him. He called to Colm and held up a telephone receiver in the air as if it was on fire.\u003cbr\u003e      “Westminster!” the deputy shouted.\u003cbr\u003e      “Great. Another clusterfuck to sort,” Colm said. He sighed and walked slowly back to the newsdesk, and Shona pulled on her coat. It was late now, and only editors and a few writers were left in the office. In the glass office in the corner of the newsroom, the editor was watching a football match. Green and blue flashed on the flickering walls.\u003cbr\u003e      Shona made her way to the street outside. The air was cool and the sky was still a cloudless blue over the Scott Monument and the rise of the Old Town to the Castle. The old city glittered under a vast sky. She passed the pub that Ned and half the newspaper were now inside. Another wake, she thought. The newspaper was dying, and Ned leaving was another blow to its life. She could not wish him well, or celebrate his exit: the paper needed journalists like him to stay. And she needed the newspaper for her life to stay as it was.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300893511909,"sku":"NP9781641294607","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641294607.jpg?v=1767739584","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-goldenacre-isbn-9781641294607","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}