The April Dead, by Alan Parks. Bloody Scotland extract

‘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 sand- stone 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 indiges- tion 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 wallpaper, 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, pillow- case 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.’

Alan Parks is appearing at the Bloody Scotland International Crime Festival, which will take place in Stirling and online 17-19 September. For tickets and further information go to www.bloodyscotland.com 

The April Dead by Alan Parks is published by Canongate (£14.99)