The Shortlist

THE SHORTLIST A DCI LOMOND THRILLER ANDREW RAYMOND Copyright © 2023 by Andrew Raymond All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. andrewraymondbooks.com CONTENTS Join the Andrew Raymond VIP club Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Acknowledgments Also by Andrew Raymond JOIN THE ANDREW RAYMOND VIP CLUB All members receive a free pack with the opening chapters of the first Novak and Mitchell thriller, Official Secrets, as well as exclusive bonus features. You’ll also get first access to news about my upcoming books, and VIP perks such as members-only video Q&As, and behind-the-scenes access to my writing life. If you would like to find out more about the mailing list, head over to: https://andrewraymondbooks.com/join-vip-club/ CHAPTER ONE William MacRae took up his usual spot on the bench at Kelvingrove Park, crying gently for the man he had killed the night before. No one paid much attention to the sixty-four-year-old, oblivious to his silent tears as he sat back, admiring the view of the city he loved so much. He took out a silver hip flask and took a long swig. ‘Well, Billy…I guess it’s over.’ The man MacRae had killed had been his best friend, DCI Bob Roxburgh. In many ways, other than his ex-wife Claire, Roxburgh had been MacRae’s only friend for the last thirty-seven years. The fact that Roxburgh was fictional didn’t make any difference to MacRae’s grief. After writing twenty-four books in the million-selling Roxburgh crime thrillers, the maverick Glaswegian detective was as real to MacRae as anyone else walking around the park on that freezing January afternoon. After a night of hard frost, the west end of Glasgow was a postcard image. The trees and grass and surrounding hillside all covered in the purest twinkling white. The sort of weather that makes you hug yourself as you walk. Hot air from chimneys and factories and industry curled gently into the air like smoke or steam, reminding MacRae of a JMW Turner oil painting. There was a steady hum in the air. Glasgow was always moving, always working. But the only ones that saw it all were the crows, the pigeons, and the seagulls who circled and swirled above the tenements and office blocks. The ones who perched on chimneys and slated roofs were the lighthouse masters of the city. Keeping an ever-watchful eye. From MacRae’s bench at the Lord Roberts Monument, he had a panoramic view of the city with crystal clear visibility. Out past Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and Glasgow University, their rooftops thick with frost. Beyond the old Yorkhill Hospital he could see as far afield as Glennifer Braes on the outskirts of Paisley. And farther west, along the River Clyde, he could even make out the outline of Dumbarton Rock. It was two in the afternoon, and it seemed that the sun had barely risen. Its light weak behind the grey clouds covering the city. Snow wasn’t far off. MacRae had spent many idle hours on that bench, constructing plot lines and thinking up ways to kill people. He had killed so many people on the page over the years, it was automatic now. Darkness, death, and murder had been at the forefront of his mind for so long. Yet all it took to penetrate MacRae’s gloomy, grieving heart that day was the sound of a little child’s laughter as they frolicked on the freezing grass far below his elevated position. MacRae wiped his tears away with a gloved hand, rising from the bench and craning his neck to see the child, shielded from the cold in their thermal snowsuit. MacRae remembered playing with his daughter Liz at that same spot. It reminded him that, much as it pained him to kill off Roxburgh, he had done it for his daughter Liz. Soon, everyone would understand that. In the short term, there would be hell to pay. Not least from his publisher Hathaway. Then there was his editor Seth Knox, who had been reading MacRae’s final draft since dawn. MacRae looked down at his phone screen as it lit up yet again. SETH KNOX CALLING. He had now called nine times in the last hour alone. Had MacRae really been sitting there in the freezing cold that long? Although now he thought of it, he hadn’t really been aware of his arse cheeks for quite some time. On the evidence of his phone call history, Seth had recently become the second person in the world after MacRae to find out he was killing off DCI Roxburgh. And if Seth knew that Roxburgh was dead, then it wouldn’t be long before Seth made arrangements to see him. Such drastic changes to