To Die In June

Alan Parks worked in the music industry for over twenty years before turning to crime writing. His debut novel Bloody January was shortlisted for the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, February’s Son was nominated for an Edgar Award, Bobby March Will Live Forever was picked as a Times Best Book of the Year, won a Prix Mystère de la Critique Award and won an Edgar Award. The April Dead was shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Book of the Year and May God Forgive won the McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Book of the Year 2022. He lives and works in Glasgow. To Die In June is the sixth Harry McCoy thriller. @AlanJParks Also by Alan ParksBloody JanuaryFebruary’s SonBobby March Will Live ForeverThe April DeadMay God Forgive First published in Great Britain and Canada in 2023by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TEDistributed in Canada by Publishers Group Canadacanongate.co.ukThis digital edition first published in 2023 by Canongate BooksCopyright © Alan Parks, 2023The right of Alan Parks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British LibraryISBN 978 1 80530 078 6eISBN 978 1 80530 079 3 In memory of Agnes Leonard ‘Wisdom comes through suffering.’– Aeschylus ContentsHe rolled over …Wednesday: 28th May 1975OneWednesday: 11th June 1975: Two weeks laterTwoThreeThursday: 12th June 1975FourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenFriday: 13th June 1975TwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenSaturday: 14th June 1975EighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-OneSunday: 15th June 1975Twenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixMonday: 16th June 1975Twenty-SevenTwenty-EightTwenty-NineThirtyThirty-OneThirty-TwoThirty-ThreeThirty-FourTuesday: 17th June 1975Thirty-FiveThirty-SixThirty-SevenThirty-EightThirty-NineFortyForty-OneWednesday: 18th June 1975Forty-TwoForty-ThreeForty-FourForty-FiveForty-SixForty-SevenForty-EightForty-NineFiftyFifty-OneThursday: 19th June 1975Fifty-TwoFifty-ThreeFifty-FourFifty-FiveFifty-SixFifty-SevenFifty-EightFifty-NineFriday: 20th June 1975SixtySixty-OneSixty-TwoSixty-ThreeSixty-FourSixty-FiveSaturday: 21st June 1975Sixty-SixSixty-SevenSixty-EightSixty-NineWednesday: 25th June 1975SeventySeventy-OneSeventy-TwoSaturday: 28th June 1975Seventy-ThreeSeventy-FourSeventy-FiveA Week LaterSeventy-SixAcknowledgements He rolled over, yawned, got his cigarettes and matches off the night table and lit up. Lay back on the pillow and blew the smoke up into the air, traced the familiar cracks on the ceiling with his finger. Someone was up already; he could hear them in the kitchen, whistle of a boiled kettle quickly cut short. Between the other residents and the rumble of the underground trains in the tunnel below the building it was hard to sleep late. He’d been there for a couple of months. A bedsit in Govan. Five other lonely souls in five other bedrooms. A shared kitchen and toilet. Home. For now, anyway.He looked at his watch, was getting on for half six. Time to get up. Today was the big day, after all. His freshly pressed uniform was hanging from the handle of the wardrobe. Could see himself in the mirror on the front of it. Twenty-two years old. Handsome as they come. Muscles in his shoulders moved as he sat up; the training was working. He was supposed to be there at eight. Couldn’t be late on his first day, needed to make a good impression. Swung his legs over the side of the bed. The plan was going fine so far. Phase two, as he liked to call it, began today. He stubbed the cigarette out in the McEwan’s Pale Ale ashtray. Looked down at his hands, imagined what they would be doing soon if it all worked out. Something wicked this way comes. WEDNESDAY28th May 1975 ONEMcCoy was leaving the station for the night. He was trying to carry two boxes of stuff he thought he might need at the new place and an Agnew’s carrier bag with four cans and a bottle of whisky in it. He’d successfully made it to the front office without dropping anything when the desk sergeant put the phone down and held out a chit.‘My hands are full, Ross. What does it say?’‘A request to attend a crime scene from Detective Watson. It’s on your way home,’ he said. ‘Sort of.’McCoy sighed, put the boxes down on the desk and read the chit. Was nowhere near his way home. ‘I live in Partick, Ross, not the bloody Calton.’Ross shrugged, went back to his paper.‘Is there no one else here?’No response.McCoy cursed, picked up the boxes and headed for his car. It was one of those perfect summer nights that don’t happen very often in Glasgow. Still some warmth in the air, sky just starting to go pink. Streets full of sunburnt kids and couples hand in hand making their way home. Even the drinkers outside the back of Buchanan Street Bus Station looked happy. Down to vests, faces red from lying in the park all day, passing a bottle back and forth.‘You just got me. I was almost clocked off,’ said McCoy, stepping out of the car. ‘Five more minutes and I would have been gone.’‘Glad I caught you, then,’ said Wattie. ‘Thought you might be interested in this one.’ ‘Just wanted the company, more like,’ said McCoy. ‘You no got enough people here already?’ He nodded over at the crowd on the other side of the road. Four or five uniforms unspooling a rope to seal off the site, two ambulancemen unfolding a stretcher, the police photographer under a black cloak winding a new film through his camera. All of them gathered around something lying on the ground. Something McCoy knew was going to be a body.They were on a muddy square of dumped rubbish, crumbling masonry and broken bottles. The space between two buildings waiting to be demolished. Even though it was only five minutes from the bustle of Argyle Street, you would never know it; the area around the waste ground was deserted, a backwater in the heart of the city. A place for people who didn’t want to be seen.‘I’m trying to get it all done before it gets dark,’ said Wattie. ‘Save us bringing in the lights and all that stuff.’McCoy looked up at the sky. Sun was already low, buildings casting long shadows. ‘Better hurry up, then. Now you’ve dragged me here, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’‘Even better,’ said Wattie. ‘I’ll show you.’They started walking towards the other side of the waste