Bombshells erupt in a Glasgow brewery. A cathedral explodes. An anonymous call rings into a police station. An investigator scribbles what he hears on a scrap of paper. “We will free Scotland from the grip of drink and from the sway of outsiders. With our help, Scotland will rise again. Today marks the first day of a liberation war.” The city sees more drinkers collapse than anywhere else. A modest property, once sold for coins that the Britons tossed into the beggar’s bowl, becomes a symbol of other people’s fortune—and the appetite for mischief. And the truth behind it all invites a bit of mischief of its own for the reader.
At the start of Death in April (Tusquets, 2023), a standout crime novel often listed among 2021’s best by The Times, a homemade bomb detonates in a Sheffield-like Glasgow apartment block in the Woodlands slums. It is Good Friday in April 1974. The bomber’s creator is found dead in the wreckage. McCoy suspects the IRA. The question lingers: is this a Belfast-like nightmare, or something distinctly Glasgow in its politics and rot? If the first trio of Harry McCoy installments sketched a haunted detective and anchored him in a resolutely particular era, Death in April becomes a portrait of a city steeped in decadence that seems to spoil everything. The author explains that his books are inseparable from Glasgow in the early 1970s and that the setting is essential to both the characters and the plot. It is a social and political compass that guides the decisions the players make—ignoring that would dull the storytelling edge.
rough reality
The novel threads through a Glasgow underworld where alcoholics, shattered families, and guarded truths intersect with hidden police operations and a dirty war against the IRA. Prostitution, gypsy-run fairgrounds, and a Hollywood-born actress who starts a neo-rural commune all surface in the mix, each territory tugging at McCoy as he pursues answers. A wealthy American named Andrew Stewart enters the frame, aiming to locate the son of the sea. His presence nudges the conspiracy toward a dangerous convergence with the Sons of the 51 terrorists. The story makes the point that alcohol sits at the center of social escape, a potent sedative that masks a failing society. A veteran of the forces, McCoy faces a moral pressure that tests his resolve while a dogged shadow of secrets swirls around him.
The tension escalates as a figure known as Cavendish—a self-assured British secret operative—drops into the scene, pressing McCoy to betray the IRA or to bend the law for a larger, murkier cause. References to the broader legacy of British intelligence, including past uses of harsh methods in distant theaters, color the dialogue with a chilling realism. The author does not dodge the discomfort of those echoes; instead, he uses them to illuminate the climate that shapes McCoy and the city he loves. The dialogue hints at what the military and security services once learned about coercion and control in other colonies, and how those lessons echo back into Northern Ireland. The result is a climate of strain that tests the nerves and sanity of its characters.
With the city under a rolling shadow of unexplained blasts, McCoy seeks refuge in bars named The Stab, places that become a quiet counterpoint to the moral turmoil he faces. He drinks heavily even when a doctor prescribes rest and cautions him about stomach ulcers on the opening pages. His body bears the weight of the Glasgow Effect—a real phenomenon tied to social deprivation—and this strain manifests in a relentless cycle of late-night bars, stomach troubles, and a desperate search for relief. The detective’s life becomes a brutal visual shorthand for the city’s toll: poor diet, drug use, a traumatic childhood, strained fatherhood, and a stubborn refusal to abandon his post despite outcomes that would break a lesser person.
Good and bad
Parks’s expansive narration maps McCoy with sharp contrasts: stubborn, aggressive, and fiercely loyal to friends; scarred by a father’s alcoholism and a fractured family history. Cooper, an old acquaintance who resurfaces during McCoy’s investigations, becomes a pivotal force. McCoy’s attempt to pull Cooper out of trouble quickly reminds him that loyalty in this world is fragile and often costly. Cooper has long valued McCoy, yet demands it in return; he is the person McCoy leans on when things spiral, a complicated mix of ally, friend, and partner in crime. The author notes that McCoy’s bond with Cooper—sharing humor, fears, and intimate strains—grounds the story in a moral gray zone where those who bend the law sit close to the line of complicity. It’s a central theme: the “Glasgow effect” treats people as collateral in a system that’s always a few steps away from breaking.
Influences that shape the Harry McCoy series range from James Ellroy’s stark noir to Philip Kerr’s historically anchored thrillers, with echoes of Don DeLillo’s atmospheric daring and Stephen King’s tension-centric craft. When asked about fiction’s role in defining reality, the author is clear: fiction can illuminate a time and a place with vivid punch, helping readers understand the world more deeply. It invites readers to invest in a setting that becomes as much a character as the people who inhabit it, and to crave the next chapter in a time and place that feel dangerously immediate.