The April Dead
By Alan Parks
Extract/Excerpt

Today is a chance to see a little bit of what is inside The April Dead by Alan Parks and it sounds thrilling!!! This dark and grimy crime novel is the fourth in the Detective Harry McCoy series which has sold over 40,000 copies acrossall editions. This instalment sees McCoy battling corruption on an
international scale, investigating a kidnapping from a US baseand bombings in Glasgow.
The April Dead will appeal to fans of Ian Rankin, Denise Mina,Peter May, William McIlvanney and Val McDermid, as well as TV series such as Idris Elba’s Luther. Listen out for radio broadcasts and the book featuring in crime podcasts. Look out for a UK-wide bookshop tour and festival appearances.

Follow down to find out more about the author, see some fabulous media graphics, the blurb and a few paragraphs that are within the book. Thank you to Random Things Tours for inviting me to the blog tour and to Black Thorn Books publishers for providing an extract from the book.

About the Author

Alan Parks has worked in the music industry for over twenty years. His debut novel Bloody January was shortlisted for the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière. He lives and works in Glasgow.

Bobby March Will Live Forever is the third Harry McCoy thriller

Blurb

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.
On top of that, McCoy thinks he’s doing an old friend a favour when he passes on a warning, but instead he’s pulled into a vicious gang feud. And in the meantime, there’s word another bigger explosion is coming Glasgow’s way – so if the city is to survive, it’ll take everything McCoy’s got . . .

Extract/Excerpt

‘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 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.

Praise for The Harry McCoy Series

Fascinating and dangerous . . . Parks has clearly studied the masters of tartan noir but has his own voice. He shows how, among the welter of violence, a spontaneous act of kindness can have just as great an impact’ – The Times, Book of the Month
‘An old-school cop novel written with wit and economy . . . Think McIlvanney or Get Carter’ – IAN RANKIN
‘1970s Glasgow hewn from flesh and drawn in blood’ – PETER MAY
‘Bloody and brilliant. This smasher from Alan Parks is a reminder of how dark Glasgow used to be’
– LOUISE WELSH
‘Gripping and violent, dark and satisfying. I flew through it’ – BRET EASTON ELLIS