The April Dead Read online

  ALSO BY

  ALAN PARKS

  Bloody January

  February’s Son

  Bobby March Will Live Forever

  Europa Editions

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  New York, N.Y. 10019

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  www.europaeditions.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2021 by Alan Parks

  First publication 2021 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Excerpt from “Fortunate Son.” Words and Music by John Fogerty,

  copyright © 1969 Jondora Music c/o Concord Music Publishing.

  Copyright Renewed. All Rights Reserved.

  Used by Permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover photo: Shutterstock

  ISBN 9781609456887

  Alan Parks

  THE APRIL DEAD

  THE APRIL DEAD

  In memory of Jean Parks 1933–2020

  “Will you bleed for me?”

  —JAMES KING AND THE LONE WOLVES

  “I let him run on, this papier-mâché Mephistopheles,

  and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke

  my forefinger through him, and would find nothing

  inside but a little loose dirt, maybe.”

  —JOSEPH CONRAD

  12TH APRIL 1974

  ONE

  Who on earth is going to set off a bomb in Woodlands?” asked McCoy. “It’s the back arse of Glasgow.”

  “The IRA?” asked Wattie.

  “Maybe,” said McCoy. “It’s Easter Friday I suppose. Not sure blowing up a shitey rented flat in Glasgow is the best way of striking at the British Establishment, not exactly the Houses of Parliament, is it?”

  They were standing in the middle of West Princes Street looking up at the blown-out windows and scorched sandstone of what had been the flat at number 43. The flats around had suffered too: cracked windows, torn curtains hanging out, a window box filled with daffodils sitting face down in the middle of the road. McCoy got his fags out and lit one, waved the match out, and dropped it on the wet street.

  “How come you know it’s rented anyway?” asked Wattie.

  “They all are around here, rented or sublet, no rent book, no contract. Half of Glasgow’s waifs and strays live in the flats around here.”

  “You think that’s it started? Here I mean?” asked Wattie. “Bombings?”

  McCoy shrugged. “Hope not but you know what they say. Glasgow is just Belfast without the bombs.”

  “Until now that is,” said Wattie.

  A shout from one of the firemen and they stepped back onto the pavement as a fire engine attempted a three-point turn in the narrow road. The whole street was a mess of fire engines, hoses, ambulances, police cars, uniforms trying to set up ropes to cordon the area off. The flats around 43 had been evacuated, residents standing in the street looking shocked, dressed in an assortment of different clothes from pyjamas and blanket-covered underwear to a man in a pinstripe suit and socks holding a cat in his arms.

  A burly fireman emerged from the close and took his helmet off, sandy hair stuck to his head with sweat. He spat on the ground a couple of times and wandered over.

  “It’s safe,” he said. “You can go up now.”

  McCoy nodded. “Any bodies?”

  “One,” he said. “Half of him’s all over the walls, other half’s burnt to a bloody crisp.”

  McCoy’s stomach turned over at the thought.

  “All yours,” said the fireman and headed off to the reversing fire engine.

  “Shite,” said McCoy. “We’re going to have to go up there, aren’t we?”

  “Yep,” said Wattie. “You want to throw up now and get it over with?”

  “Smartarse,” said McCoy, feeling like that was exactly what he wanted to do. “Maybe we should wait for Faulds? He’s on his way.”

  “Any other excuses you can think of?” asked Wattie. “Or is that it?”

  McCoy sighed. “Let’s go.”

  They ducked past the firemen rolling the hose back onto the wheel and headed into the close. Streams of water running down the stairs, stink of smoke and burnt wood in the air. They trudged up the stairs, making for the top-floor flat and the inevitable gruesome scene.

  “You remembering about tonight?” asked Wattie.

  “How could I forget it?” said McCoy. “You keep reminding me every five minutes. I’ll be at your dad’s at six as instructed.”

  “He’s booked a Chinese,” said Wattie. “Down in the town. It’s cheap.”

  “Great,” said McCoy, making a mental note to eat before he went. A Chinese restaurant in Greenock whose selling point was that it was cheap sounded like a recipe for indigestion at best, food poisoning at worst.

  They were at the top landing now. Front door of the flat had been burst open by the firemen, was hanging half on-half off its hinges. McCoy gave it one more go.

  “Maybe we should wait for Phyllis Gilroy?” he asked. “What do we know about bomb casualties? She’s the medical examiner after all, she’s going to be much more use than you or me.”

  Wattie sighed, looked at him. “Look, if you don’t want to go in, it’s fine. I’ll go.”

  “Really?” asked McCoy. “That would be brill—”

  “Aye, and I’ll make sure and tell Murray when we get back to the station all about my commanding officer who was too scared to look at a crime scene.”

  “You really are becoming a bit of a smartarse, Watson,” said McCoy.

  “Learnt from the best. Ready?” asked Wattie and pushed the door aside.

  The flat was half normal and half a wet, blackened mess. Smell of smoke was stronger inside, hit them as soon as they went in, catching in the back of their throats. There was another smell under it, something a bit like a Sunday roast. McCoy got a hanky out his pocket, held it over his nose and mouth, didn’t do much good. They walked through the hall and into the living room, feet squelching on the sticky mud of ash and water that now covered the carpet.

  The living room must have been where the bomb had gone off. The tattered curtains were flapping in the breeze, blowing in and out the missing window frames. The mud was thicker in here as well, covering their shoes. McCoy was following Wattie in, trying to keep behind him so he blocked out the view—he was a good few inches taller than McCoy and a lot broader too. His plan was working fine until Wattie squatted down to pick up a half-melted LP out the mud and suddenly McCoy could see everything.

  The bamboo-effect wallpaper by the fireplace looked like someone had splattered red paint all over it. He caught sight of hair and a tooth stuck into it before he managed to look away. On the floor, by what was left of the couch, there was what looked like a pile of burnt clothes. McCoy looked a bit closer, saw the white of a bone sticking out the pile and stepped back, familiar dizziness hitting him.

  “Paul McCartney. Ram,” said Wattie peering at the label of the warped LP. “Bloody awful.” He sat it back in the mud. “Just like that album you made me buy. What was it? Inside Outside? Christ, you all right?” he asked.

  McCoy was backed against the far wall, counting his breaths, trying not to pass out. He managed a nod, held his hanky up to his nose again, trying to block the roast beef smell. He looked around the flat, studiously avoiding looking down at the remains of the inhabitant. It looked like every other flat in Woodlands. Faded wa
llpaper, wee gas burner to cook on, an armchair that was sinking into itself, damp patches on the ceiling and walls. Why would anyone want to blow up a dump like this?

  “I’ll just go over by the window, get some fresh air,” he said, edging along the wall. Got to the big hole where the window had been and stuck his head out.

  “What a mess,” said Wattie. “There’s a bit of his skull embedded in the plaster above the fireplace.”

  “That right?” said McCoy, keeping his eyes firmly on the crowd in the street below and trying not to imagine what a bit of skull embedded in a wall looked like.

  “I thought you were over all this shite?” said Wattie.

  “I thought I was too,” said McCoy. “Tell you what, I’ll have a look around and see if I can find anything with his name on it, eh?”

  He caught Wattie shaking his head as he edged back towards the hallway and made his way into the bedroom. It was still intact, bomb next door hadn’t made too much difference. Looked like the door had caught fire and been doused, that was about it. An unmade single bed, sleeping bag opened out over it. Wee set of drawers with an ashtray and a copy of Melody Maker on it. There was a poster of Black Sabbath on the wall, a couple of pictures of Ferraris above the bed. A young guy living here then.

  He opened the drawers, usual array of pants and socks, scud book under a pile of T-shirts. Not many clues, couldn’t find anything with a name on it. Opened another drawer. A jumper, pair of 747 jeans. Couple of folded shirts. He closed it and walked over to the window. Glass was gone, took some breaths of fresh air. Down below, a panda car was weaving through the crowd and the parked fire engines. It pulled over as close to the flat as it could get and Hughie Faulds stepped out the back seat. He smoothed himself down, stretched. McCoy didn’t blame him, not easy to squash a six-foot-four frame into the back of a Viva. Faulds looked up at the flat, saw McCoy and waved.

  McCoy shouted through, “Faulds is here!”

  He sat down on the bed for a minute. Smelt stale, pillowcase was shiny with hair grease. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. Just looked like any other rented flat. Noticed there was a suitcase at the side of the drawers. He hauled it onto the bed and opened it up. Just more clothes—three button-down shirts, a tie, pair of baseball boots. He closed it, put it back, walked back through to the living room, took up his position by the window.

  “You think they’ll be able to get his wallet?” asked McCoy.

  Wattie looked at the burnt body, breathed in through his teeth. “Doubt it. If it was hot enough to do that to him, it’ll have been hot enough to burn his wallet into nothing.”

  “Probably right,” said McCoy. “Think we’ll leave it to Gilroy to try and find it.”

  Broad Belfast accent boomed in: “How’d you manage to get him up here?”

  They turned and Hughie Faulds was standing there, size of him filling up the doorway.

  “Wasn’t easy,” said Wattie. “Believe me.”

  Faulds grinned, “Sure it’s just a bit of blood and guts, Harry. You must be used to it by now?”

  “Getting there,” said McCoy, purposely keeping his eyes on the flats across the road. Old man in a cardigan staring back at him. “This look familiar?” he asked.

  “That’s why I’m here, is it?” asked Faulds. “Bloody bomb expert now, am I?”

  “Yep,” said McCoy. “Don’t think anyone else on the force has ever seen a bomb site never mind knowing anything about it.”

  Faulds barely glanced over at the damage then nodded. “Seen this scenario more than a few times back in Belfast. This place hasn’t been bombed at all.”

  “What?” asked McCoy.

  Faulds pointed at the pile of clothes by the couch. “This stupid bugger’s blown himself up trying to make one.” He moved closer to the burnt mess, sniffed. “Almonds? Smell it?”

  McCoy shook his head, wasn’t taking the hanky off his nose again for anyone.

  “A wee bit,” said Wattie. “Why’s that?”

  “Means he was using Co-op mix,” said Faulds.

  “What?” asked McCoy, getting increasingly lost.

  “Called Co-op mix because you can get most of the ingredients for it in your local Co-op. Simple to make and pretty effective. Standard UDA and IRA stuff.”

  “You sure?” asked McCoy. “If one of them is involved we’ll be off the hook. It’ll go straight to the Special Branch boys. They’ll be taking this one over.”

  Faulds nodded over at what was left of the body. “It happens more often than you’d think,” he said. “Just ’cause it’s easy to buy the ingredients they think that’s all there is to it, that anyone can do it. Believe me, it’s not as easy to make a bomb as these clowns think.”

  “You sure that’s what it is?” asked Wattie.

  Faulds nodded. “Textbook.” He looked around. “And besides, why else would a bomb go off in a flat like this? Not exactly a legitimate target, is it?”

  McCoy stayed at the wall and watched as Faulds wandered round examining the scene properly. Doing what McCoy should really be doing. Faulds pulled his suit trousers up to his calves and squatted down in front of the body to get a better look.

  “Nasty,” he said. “The bloke must have been right over it when it went off, probably trying to get the detonator connected.” He nodded over at the wall. “Not sure you’re going to get a dental identification either, all looks too fragmented. Half his jaw and teeth are sticking in that wall.”

  He stood up, picked up a book that was floating in the sludge by the fireplace. Tried to shake some of the wet mud off, peered at the cover. “The Life and Death of St. Kilda. You read it?”

  McCoy shook his head.

  Faulds peeled the front cover back, squinted at the faded ballpoint pen message. “To Paul. Happy Birthday from Henry.”

  “Shite,” said McCoy, “Paul. Could be either side. Protestant or Catholic.”

  “What were you hoping for?” asked Faulds. “Finbar?”

  “That would have been good,” said McCoy. “That or Gary. Don’t get many Catholics called Gary.”

  Wattie appeared from the hallway, sodden pile of bills and junk mail in his hand. “They’re all different,” he said. Started reading them out. “Miss E. Fletcher, Thomas Wright, The Occupier, Mr. S.A. Bowen, C. Smith. Just goes on and on.”

  “Any Pauls?” asked McCoy.

  Wattie looked through the pile again. “A Peter, but no Paul.”

  “You done, Faulds?” asked McCoy.

  Faulds nodded. “Can’t see anything out the ordinary. Just what you’d expect when a daft bugger doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “So if it’s Co-op mix, chances are it’s paramilitary. You heard much about that in Glasgow?” asked McCoy.

  Faulds shook his head. “Not much. A few lads pretending they’re in with the boys, showing off in the pubs. Mostly just fundraising here, maybe somebody hiding out that had to get out of Ireland. I can ask someone back home. See what the story is. Can I get back to Tobago Street now? Do my proper job?”

  McCoy nodded. “We’ll come with you,” he said. “Last thing I want is to be here when Special Branch turn up.”

  “Or to spend any more time looking at blood splatters,” said Wattie.

  “You, Watson,” said McCoy, “need to shut your trap.”

  Faulds grinned. “He’s not wrong though, is he? Must be a bit of a drawback for a detective, being scared of the sight of blood.”

  “Not as bad as being a big Irish arsehole. Let’s go.”

  TWO

  Results are back.”

  McCoy looked at the doctor. Hadn’t really thought that much about it but he was suddenly a bit worried. He’d come in a few weeks ago, sore stomach had finally got the better of him. Was finding it hard to eat, was in pain most of the time. The doctor had sent him to the hospital where he’d
drank a pint of chalky stuff then got an X-ray.

  “Right,” he said.

  The doctor, a miserable-faced Dundonian with a handlebar moustache, took the leg of his glasses out his mouth, put the X-ray down, and looked at him. Smiled.

  “It appears, Mr. McCoy, that you have a peptic ulcer.”

  “A what?” he asked.

  “An ulcer in the lining of your stomach. That’s what’s been causing the pain.”

  “Christ,” said McCoy.

  “I’d rather you didn’t blaspheme,” said the doctor.

  “Sorry,” said McCoy, although he wasn’t. “So what do I do now?”

  “You stop drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, you eat plain food, white mainly. Boiled fish, porridge, milk, rice, bread not toast. That sort of thing. If the pain gets bad drink some Pepto-Bismol.”

  McCoy was about to say Christ again, managed to stop himself.

  “If you stick to that regime the pain should lessen,” said the doctor. “As a policeman, I imagine you have a stressful occupation, irregular hours, none of that helps. Try and look after yourself. That’s the best advice I have. I’m afraid we have no treatment that cures it or really helps very much. All down to you, I’m afraid.”

  McCoy stood in the street outside the surgery and lit up. Could still smell the smoke from the flat on his clothes. He was only thirty-two, how had he ended up with a bloody ulcer? Thought that was something fat old men got. He watched as a man came out the off-sales across the street with a clinking plastic bag in his arms, started running for the bus. There was one thing he was sure of though—there was no way he was giving up smoking and drinking, wasn’t even a possibility. If that left him with a diet of white food and Pepto-Bismol then so be it. He looked at his watch. Better get going if he was going to get to Greenock. Walked across the street to where he’d parked his car. At least the diagnosis had one upside—it was a perfect excuse not to have to eat rotten Chinese food tonight.