The April Dead

Alan Parks

• Publisher: Canongate Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN:
  9781786897237
  9781786897190
• eBook ISBN:
  9781786897213
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

SHORTLISTED FOR THE McILVANNEY PRIZE FOR SCOTTISH CRIME BOOK OF THE YEAR

'One of the great Scottish crime writers' The Times
'Brilliant' Sunday Times Crime Club

NO ONE WILL FORGET

In a grimy flat in Glasgow, a homemade bomb explodes, leaving few remains to identify its maker.

Detective Harry McCoy knows in his gut that there'll be more to follow. The hunt for a missing sailor from the local US naval base leads him to the secretive group behind the bomb, and their disturbing, dominating leader. If the city is to survive the next explosion, it'll take everything McCoy's got . . .

19th April 1974

FORTY

Dawn was just breaking as they drove through the deserted city. McCoy liked Glasgow like this, missed it from his beat days, feeling of being part of the city that most people never see. The occasional car on the streets. Empty pavements, seagulls on last night’s bins, miserable-looking people at bus stops waiting for the first bus of the morning. McCoy lit up, coughed for a couple of minutes, always did with the first of the morning. Tried to pretend the cigarette wasn’t hurting his stomach. Was still trying to get his head around what had happened.

‘That’s all you know?’ he asked as they drove through a George Square deserted but for starlings. ‘That’s it?’

Wattie nodded, looked exasperated. ‘Don’t blame me, that’s all I got told. Got a call from the night shift at half four. Seems two people got into Lindsay’s room last night, a nurse came to check on him and discovered them. They made a run for it. Left Lindsay half pulled out the bed, two black eyes, nose broken, poor bugger was in some state.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said McCoy. ‘Who would beat someone up in a hospital bed?’

‘Don’t ask me!’ said Wattie. ‘How am I supposed to know? You’re the one working this case while I fanny about getting nowhere with Jamsie Dixon.’ He pulled up at the lights at the High Street Station. ‘And by the way I got another roasting from Murray yesterday. Wanted to know what progress I’d made. Couldn’t really say fuck all, but that’s what it amounts to. Luckily he had to take a call from Pitt Street before he got into his stride.’

‘You tell him about Patsy and the money?’ asked McCoy.

Wattie nodded, grimaced as he pulled some toilet paper off his neck. Inspected the blood on it then threw it out the window.

‘He wants me to go back and interview him again, press him harder this time. You know Murray and showpeople. All of them are thieving bastards as far as he’s concerned. He was about to start his usual rant about gypsies stealing red diesel when the call came.’

They turned into the hospital car park and Wattie parked at the entrance, stopped the engine, took the key out. Looked at McCoy. Didn’t look happy. ‘I need to do well, Harry. I don’t think Murray’s got any faith in me. Got the feeling I’m in the last chance saloon.’

McCoy got out of the car without saying anything. Trouble was, he didn’t think Wattie was far wrong. He did need a result, and fast. No point in him telling him that though. Better to try and keep his spirits up.

‘C’mon, maybe you’ll solve the great hospital attack case of 1974. Murray’ll give you a medal.’

Wattie nodded, didn’t look convinced, or any happier.

*

Whoever they were, they had done quite a job on Lindsay. He looked terrible, really terrible. Two black eyes surrounded by yellow bruises, stitches on his nose. Bandage around his left hand. He was crumpled against his pillows, literally looked like a broken man. Even his skin had gone a sickly blueish-white colour. His eyes were closed, his breathing sounded difficult, scratchy.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said McCoy.

Lindsay’s less swollen eye opened, tongue licked at his lips.

‘Happy now?’ he said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

‘What?’ said McCoy. ‘Why would I be happy?’

Lindsay just lay there, kept staring at McCoy. Was a couple of minutes before he gathered enough strength to speak again. McCoy stepped closer to the bed to hear.

‘The thugs that did this kept asking me where Donny Stewart was. I presume you sent them? A little work off the books . . .’

He coughed and a watery red liquid ran down his chin.

McCoy went to speak and Lindsay lifted his hand to stop him.

‘I don’t have much time so I want you to listen to me.’

His body seemed to spasm and he cried out in pain. He pointed to a small glass jar with a straw coming out of the top sitting on the locker. Wattie picked it up, held it up to his mouth, and he took a couple of sips.

‘Mr Lindsay, I didn’t send any thugs, I promise you.’

McCoy wasn’t sure if it was him or the room that was very warm. Maybe they’d put the heating up because he was ill. He tugged at his tie, undid his top button. The feeling in his stomach was back, worse than ever. Dread.

‘Yes, you did,’ said Lindsay. ‘You’re the only person interested in Donny Stewart.’ He coughed again, wiped at the fluid on his chin with his pyjama sleeve, closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them they looked brighter, like he was more alive. Something had changed. Whatever he had sipped must have done the trick.

‘Mr Lindsay, I—’

‘It’s Colonel Lindsay,’ hissed Lindsay. ‘Have some fucking respect.’

McCoy nodded, was going to have to tread carefully. ‘Colonel Lindsay. I understand what has happened here is unacceptable but—’

Lindsay was smiling at him now, thin red lips stretched across his pale face. ‘That didn’t take long, did it? Gone from throwing your weight about like some sort of Glasgow hardman to a snivelling apologist.’ His head swivelled. ‘What about you?’ he asked, looking at Wattie. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

Wattie looked like a rabbit in the headlights. Didn’t say anything.

‘Just as well it’s all done,’ he said. ‘Even if you knew how, it’s too late to stop us now. You’ll see soon enough. A little entertainment before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Monday was only the beginning. It’s going to happen again and again until this country is rid of the pestilence that feeds on it like fleas on a rat.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked McCoy, starting to feel scared, very scared. ‘There’s going to be more bombs?’

Lindsay’s eyes were starting to lose their sparkle. His body seemed to be relaxing, sinking back into the bed.

Suddenly struck McCoy. ‘Where’s your son?’ he asked. ‘Where is he?’

‘What? Do you think Crawford is the only one? You underestimate me, McCoy. There’s an army out there primed and ready to go. My boys are going to light fires in the rotten cities of this godforsaken country. You have no idea . . .’

McCoy turned to Wattie. ‘Get a hold of Murray, tell him what’s happening. Quick!’

Wattie nodded, ran out of the room.

Lindsay watched him go. Smiled again. ‘Run, rabbit, run,’ he said. ‘I’d skin him like a deer.’

That was enough. Remembered the deer in the woods. Couldn’t stop the anger and the panic. McCoy moved in to the bed, face to face with Lindsay. ‘Listen to me, you—’

Stopped. Lindsay eyes were suddenly miles away. McCoy walked over to the locker, picked up the glass jar. Morphine. ‘Fucker.’

Lindsay’s eyes were closing now.

McCoy bent over him. Grabbed at the collar of his pyjamas, pulled Lindsay up to his face. Body weighed nothing.

‘Don’t you fucking black out on me now!’ he shouted. Slapped his face.

Lindsay’s head lolled.

‘Where’s Donny Stewart?’ asked McCoy. ‘Is he one of them? Is he?’

Lindsay laughed. ‘No, Donny was destined for better things. He was going to be one of the April Dead . . .’

‘He was what?’

Lindsay looked at him, managed to focus his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Twelve noon.’

‘What?’ asked McCoy. ‘What happens at twelve noon?’

Lindsay’s eyes closed over, wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘Boom!’

‘What? Where? Where do you mean?’ asked McCoy. ‘Tell me!’

No response. McCoy shook him but it was no use, he was out cold.

He dropped him back onto the pillows, sat down on the edge of the bed, put his head in his hands. Stomach was killing him. Another bomb, maybe more of them. He knew what the bad thing coming was. Mayhem. And it looked like he had helped bring it.

FORTY-ONE

McCoy stepped out Lindsay’s room, walked up to the nurses’ station. Mind was racing. Knew the bomb was coming and the only person who could tell him where was dead to the world. A nurse was filling out a form on a clipboard when he approached. Showed her his card.

‘Lindsay,’ he said. ‘I need to know the minute he wakes up. Call Stewart Street, ask for me, Detective McCoy. If I’m not there, Watson or Murray. Got it?’

The nurse nodded, looked scared.

‘Going to get two uniformed police up here as well. They’ll sit outside his door. Nobody goes in except medical staff. Anyone else turns up to see him, call me. Got it?’

She nodded again. ‘What has he done?’ she asked. ‘He’s just an old man.’

‘He’s much more than that, believe me. Who was on duty when he was attacked?’

‘Ellen Teirney,’ she said. ‘She’s down in the canteen.’

McCoy thanked her, started walking back towards the stairs.

*

The staff canteen was a long, windowless room in the basement, strip lights illuminating long tables crowded with nurses in uniform, doctors at a separate table, stethoscopes around their necks, burly porters at another. There was a hum of conversation, smell of frying bacon and toast, radio playing ‘Waterloo’. He asked one of the porters to point Ellen out and he pointed to a nurse sitting in one of the armchairs surrounding a wee coffee table by the back. She was young, blonde hair trying to escape from her cap. She was also fast asleep.

McCoy didn’t have the time to wait. He shook her arm gently and she woke with a start, blinked her eyes a couple of times, sat up.

‘Ellen?’ asked McCoy. ‘I’m Detective McCoy. Can I have a word about last night?’

She nodded, seemed a bit dazed. He sat down on the armchair next to her. Armchair stank so much of smoke you wouldn’t need to bother lighting up, you could just sit in it and inhale.

‘Sorry, must have fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘Was going to have a cup of tea then head home.’

‘Not surprised after last night,’ said McCoy. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

She picked up her mug of tea, sipped it and grimaced. ‘Stone cold,’ she said. ‘Must have slept longer than I thought.’

McCoy nodded, just wanting her to get on with it.

‘So I ...

Table of contents

• 12th April 1974
• 13th April 1974
• 14th April 1974
• 15th April 1974
• 16th April 1974
• 17th April 1974
• 18th April 1974
• 19th April 1974
• 20th April 1974
• 21st April 1974
• 22nd April 1974
• Sutherland
• Acknowledgements
• Extract from May God Forgive