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. 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 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. 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