A Death in Glasgow is an addictive new addition to the Glasgow crime fiction canon. This extract sets the scene for our detective, the tormented Sergeant May Mackay.

A Death in Glasgow
By Eva MacRae
Published by Century

Holly knows she’s being followed. The baseball cap pulled down, hood up, face shadowed, but she knows. She keeps craning back over her shoulder, pretending to be on the phone. Maybe that’ll make them back off. But there’s no one she can call. Nobody will believe her; else they’ll say it’s her own fault.

Along Union Street, the pubs are emptying into the cold neon night. Shapes come barrelling into her, forcing her off the icy pavement into the path of buses and Deliveroo bikes.

Haw, hen, watch where you’re going.

The temperature’s plummeted. With her big coat on and her legs pumping like pistons, her hair’s sticking to the back of her neck while the beads of sweat freeze on her face. That last vodka, or three, is climbing up her throat. She can’t stop to chuck up. She’ll be caught and then what? I only want to talk.

I only want to give you a wee cuddle. I only want to . . . When she gets to Central station, there’ll be plenty folk around. A public place. Safe.

Suddenly, the station entrance looms on her right like an escape hatch and Holly bolts towards it, elbowing through the drinkers, tripping on some homeless guy huddled on the floor. The steps up are mountainous but she’s taking them two at a time in her platform boots. At the top, she risks a wee keek back. Nobody. Her guts unclench a fraction. Was she wrong? Was it just someone who’d been behind her for ages, going the same way? Dark clothes and a hoodie. Could’ve been anyone. What happened in the pub was a shock, made her think she was being followed again. She just panicked. Deep breaths, her therapist said. She tries now, but the cold and the vodka are getting in the way.

On the concourse, Holly is hoping for calm and bright, but the station shops are all shut. No families or commuters, only gangs of drunk lads. The high glazed roof that floods the station with light in the daytime now feels like it’s coming down to trap her like she’s a bug under a glass.

There’s a big bunch of lassies out on a hen night, and maybe she can stand with them for a bit till her heart isn’t thumping and the floor stops tilting. She staggers forward, her arm brushing a handbag. One of them turns and snarls at her – she’s after robbing me, get the fuck away you – and Holly body-swerves the group in case the mad cow and her pals decide to jump her.

The heels on her boots looked great when she was getting ready to go out to the pub, but now they’re a liability. The floor’s shiny white, slippy- wet. Like a cloud. Holly can’t see where to land her feet. She slides, arms cartwheeling like a one-woman flash mob starting a performance. The lads all start laughing – fancy a wee dance, darling – and shout how they could give her the horizontal boogie of her life.

Holly spins back, looking for the way she came in, getting her bearings.

This time, she’s sure. Their eyes lock. The choking sensation is back, she can hardly breathe.

Instead of coming straight for her, they’re moving round the edge of the concourse, cutting off her escape to the taxi rank at the other exit. She searches desperately for any station staff in their hi-vis – not the police, the bastards’d have her in the cells. But what’ll happen when they finally catch up with her? They’ll tell the staff she’s drunk (not a lie) and that they’re looking after her (aye, right) and they’ll get her home safe. The polis will always believe them over her.

Then it hits her through the fog in her head. None of her mates from college live on the southside. She was never planning on sharing a cab. The illuminated sign for platform 9 swings across her vision like a beacon. It’s on the other side of the concourse, further than she remembers. Always platform 9 to get home. Holly fumbles in her bag for her ticket, pulling it out in triumph. Can’t follow her through the barriers.

Holly sets off with her Bambi-on-ice totter and sees the gate coming towards her, and oh my God, it’s even open. Go. Quick. Get away. Too late she realises her mistake. If she didn’t need to swipe through the barrier, then neither will anyone else. She stuffs the ticket like a betrayal into her coat pocket and runs.

The surface is gritty and there’s a better grip, but the flares of her trousers are flapping against her legs like broken wings. Her bag slips off her shoulder, a weight pulling her backwards.

On one side of the platform is a forest of big green pillars studded with rivets like the stumps of broken-off branches. If she can’t run, she can hide. In the distance, out across the river, she can see the train snaking towards the station.

The end of the platform is in darkness. Holly dodges behind a pillar, telltale breath pumping out of her like a steam engine. She puts a gloved hand over her mouth, tastes the wool, breath hot in her palm.

The train is coming; big blocks of light speeding towards her.

She peeks out. There’s no sign of anyone. She’s done it.

The train will take her home. Relief floods through her and an intense bubble of laughter expands the tightness in her lungs as she steps out from her hiding place.

Suddenly, she feels someone behind her, like a panting beast.

Holly sprints for the train, hand out like it’s a bus and it’ll stop. If she can just make it stop, she can get on.

Holly! Holly! She turns before she can prevent herself and sees a face, twisted and angry. Over the screeching of the train, she hears her own screaming. A bright palm is coming through the dark to grab her. She’s caught and there’s nowhere left to run. Any second, the fingers will curl like claws, and it’ll be all over. She was daft to think she could escape. The train is close, but it’s too late. She’s shaking her head. Knowing what she says, what she is, doesn’t matter.

The hand keeps coming. But when it reaches the front of her coat, it’s not a grab. It’s a push.

A Death in Glasgow by Eva MacRae is published by Century, priced £16.99.