A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  ‘You OK?’ asked the boy.

  It was the first time she had seen him up close and she really liked what she saw. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, but that fucking cat scratched me.’

  The boy picked up the kitten. ‘This little bastard?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said.

  ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ he said. ‘They should have a law against scraggy cats scratching beautiful girls.’

  She smiled at the compliment and pushed her light brown hair away from her sea green eyes. ‘Yeah they should. They should fucking hang ’em,’ and laughed.

  ‘But you gotta have a trial first. It’s gotta be legal, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s your name?’

  ‘Andy Dewar.’

  ‘OK. Judge Dewar, I want that cat tried for scratching me.’

  ‘Did this kitten viciously attack you today and scar your hand for life?’

  ‘Yes, me Lud, it did.’

  Holding the cat level with his face, he asked, in a poor imitation of Michael Dennison’s posh accent in the TV series Boyd QC, ‘What have you got to say in your defence, pussycat?’ Then he looked at June. ‘It seems the accused has no defence. As the victim of this crime, what do you think should be done to this vicious wild animal?’

  June was smiling widely, a bright shiny look in her eyes. She placed her left index finger across her chin and started to chew on the second knuckle. All the time her eyes were locked on Andy’s face. Would he do it, really? He was just standing there. Confident. Gorgeous. ‘I want to see the fucker hang,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I dain’t hear that.’

  ‘I want you to hang the cat.’

  Looking at the kitten, Andy said, ‘Sentence has been passed. You will be hung by the neck until you are dead. Here, hold the mangy shit while I make a noose.’

  June took the cat and held it tight against her breast. It tried to squirm free, but she held it tighter. Her eyes locked on Andy as he fashioned a noose from the piece of string that moments earlier, she had been playing with. Her heart was beating fast and the blood was pulsing in her temples. Everything in the alley seemed clearer, sharper. The colours. The smells. Even the feel of the paving slab beneath her backside. For the first time since Andy had spoken to her she noticed a wetness between her legs. He’s going to do it.

  Noose complete, Andy slipped it over the kitten’s head and wrenched the kitten from Marie’s grasp. Holding the cat at arm’s length, he started to laugh as he watched the cat jerk and thrash about in the air.

  ‘Spin it round,’ said June.

  ‘Yes, me lady,’ he said and started to whirl the cat faster and faster around his head. After half a dozen revolutions he stopped. The cat hung lifeless from the string. ‘Sentence complete, milady,’ he said and spinning the cat again he let go of the string and sent the lifeless body crashing into the brick wall of number 14.

  June could hardly breathe or take her eyes off him. She licked her lips and waited.

  ‘A workman deserves to be paid don’t he, milady?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered and stood up. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You.’

  June felt a flood of hot liquid cascade through her body. Silent. Smiling. Still watching Andy, she undid her jeans and pulled down her white cotton knickers. Andy did not smile. He grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her round. ‘Put your hands on the wall and stick your arse out.’

  She did as she was told and cried out in pain and joy as without any foreplay, he thrust his penis into her. It took less than thirty seconds for both to come.

  Sunday 22nd September 1968

  Solihull, 11.10hrs

  Clark yawned loudly as he slipped into the passenger seat of Collins’ new two litre Ford Capri.

  ‘Late night?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Na. Little Mickey were kicking up a fuss. He can be a right sod at times. Don’t know where he gets it from.’

  ‘How come you call him Bram most of the time but Mickey when he’s a problem?’

  ‘His name is Michael Abraham. Now his grandfather Abraham dain’t never cause me a problem.’

  ‘That’s because he was dead when you met his daughter.’

  ‘That don’t make it any less true. But a certain guy called Mickey has caused me more problems in the last five and a bit years than any bloke I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Fair enough. As long as there’s a logical reason.’

  ‘Anyway, did yow get anything out of old man Robinson?’

  ‘No. They were waiting for him in the dining room and thumped him before he had turned the light on.’

  ‘Vicious little sods then. Ready to break someone’s head rather than be seen.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  Closing his eyes, Clark laid his head against the doorpost and was asleep before they drove past the Birmingham City ground and out towards Elmdom Airport, which saved Collins having to listen to Clark’s report on the nil-nil draw between Albion and Wolves the previous day. Or his explanation for about the twelfth time, as they passed St Andrews, as to why Birmingham City were a second-rate club that had never won anything in their history.

  In his six years in England Collins had begun to learn about Brum and how the people felt about it. Birmingham was never a city that the rich wanted to live in. No, Birmingham was where the rich made their money and the poor worked, lived and died under 30,000 factory chimneys. Agnes had told him that in Edwardian times the well-to-do lived in Handsworth and the Royal Town of Sutton Coldfield. By the end of the mid-1950s the middleclass had deserted Handsworth, and Sutton Coldfield had become the premier address for every executive in Birmingham. But by 1968 Solihull was coming up fast on the rails as the most desirable place to live in the Second City. As for the working classes, most of those still lived within a four-mile radius of the city centre.

  Martin Cunningham was one of the rich. He lived on Lady Byron Lane in a five-bedroom detached house that had been designed to his specification and boasted a snooker room, an indoor swimming pool and a triple garage.

  He had left Ireland in 1949 with five pounds in his pocket and caught the mail boat to Holyhead and the train to Birmingham. When he exited New Street station, he’d had a decision to make. Should he turn left, or right? He had enough self-awareness to realise that his entire future might depend on which direction he took. He decided to turn left and head for Sparkbrook. He was nineteen years old and did not have a single friend in this new and frightening country.

  For the next four years he lived in the cheapest room he could find. He worked over sixty hours a week on the rebuilding of Birmingham, said little, and observed everything that was going on and saved as much money as he could. By 1953, he was ready to make his move. His escape ark was ready and like the animals of old he asked two of the best brickies, chippies, sparks, plumbers and plasterers he knew to join him as his partners in Tricolour Construction. By 1964 the partnership was recognised as one of the top ten independent house builders in England and there it had remained. Tricolour had an unrivalled reputation for workmanship and civility and no one; not his workers, customers, suppliers, or even his competitors, had a bad word to say about Martin Cunningham.

  Clark rang the bell and a cheery, bright-eyed, bottle blonde in her late thirties answered the door, wearing a quilted blue house coat and slippers. She didn’t look like a millionaire’s wife. ‘Good day. Can I help ya?’ Her Dublin accent was strong and unmistakable.

  Collins decided to play the Irish card. ‘Good morning to yourself. Would you be Mrs Cunningham?’

  ‘I would. And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Collins and this is Detective Constable Clark. I’m sorry to disturb you on this fine Sunday morning but could we have a word with Mr Cunningham?’

  ‘Well you could. But he’s at Mass with the kids.’ Looking over her shoulder at the hall clock, she added, ‘But he’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. Do you want to come in and wait?’
/>   ‘That would be grand,’ said Collins.

  As Mrs Cunningham led them into the house, Clark leaned over and whispered in Collins ear, ‘That would be grand, Mrs Cunningham. Wanker!’ Collins grinned and said nothing.

  The lounge was large and expensively furnished, but it was a family room, not a showpiece. Kids’ toys were scattered on the floor. School books lay on the sideboard. Furniture from Lee Longlands which would have cost Collins six months’ salary was scratched and scuffed. It had a lived-in look and Collins immediately felt comfortable in it.

  ‘You’ll have a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be bostin,’ said Clark.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs Cunningham returned with an ebony tray on which were three mugs of strong, dark tea, side plates, some plain Irish soda bread, sweet soda bread with currents and raisins, a sliced brack, a selection of Jacob’s biscuits from Dublin and a full butter dish.

  As she placed the mugs on the table she said, ‘I didn’t think you’d want a cup. A mug keeps the tay warmer.’ Unbidden Collins remembered his mother asking if wanted a cup of tay after his first communion. ‘Help yourselves to a bit of me home-made soda bread. Now, tell me, what can I do for the Garda?’

  Collins filled his plate with two slices of sweet soda bread and a piece of brack. After spreading a large dollop of butter on each he sat back and said, ‘Well, I think it would be better if we spoke to Mr Cunningham. It’s about his work.’

  Mrs Cunningham sat up straight and looked at Collins, clearly appraising him. She took her time, but eventually said, ‘I was the first person Martin employed when he started up. I was his secretary and bookkeeper. I still keep an eye on things. These eejit Chartered Accountants, with all the letters after their name, know feck all about the business or building sites. They’ve never been on a site in their lives. But me, well there’s not much I don’t know about the business.’

  I bet there isn’t, thought Collins, as for the first time he saw behind the façade that Mrs Cunningham had created for herself. He decided to dive in. ‘We’re looking into possible corruption in Birmingham City Council …’

  ‘Well, I can assure you Martin has nothing to do with that rubbish.’

  ‘No, we’re not suggesting he has.’ Collins’ heavy Irish accent had disappeared. ‘But we think he can point us in the right direction.’

  ‘Others have tried and got nowhere. Some of them lost their jobs. Some had accidents. Why are you doing this now?’

  Both men exchanged looks. It was Clark who spoke. ‘Our boss, Superintendent Wallace, has been doing some digging for nearly two years. He ain’t got very far and asked us to take a look at it on the side.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he do it himself?’

  ‘Because he’s got about two weeks to live. Stomach cancer,’ said Clark.

  ‘God help the poor man,’ said Mrs Cunningham and made the sign of the cross. ‘That’s an awful way to go. Me Mammy went the same way. All right then. You might as well take your jackets off; you’ll be here for a bit. Martin and me have a lot to tell you.’ Before Mrs Cunningham could launch into her story, they heard a key in the front door and three young girls, ranging in age from six to twelve, rushed screaming into the hall pursued by the their father. Knees bent, knuckles dragging on the floor grunting like a gorilla, he chased them into the lounge. All four stopped and stood still at the sight of the two strangers.

  Standing up, Mrs Cunningham said, ‘Martin, girls, these men are from the police.’

  Collins stood up and introduced himself and Clark. After a round of handshakes, Mrs Cunningham shooed the girls upstairs and made a fresh mug of tea for her husband. Martin Cunningham was not tall, five foot ten at most, but his build resembled that of the gorilla he’d been imitating moments earlier. His legs were short and heavily muscled, straining the seams of his expensive suit. His arms looked like a series of coiled steel wires beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. His hands were big, calloused, hard, and looked like they could crush a coconut. Somewhere along the line he had picked up a broken nose. It should have made him look frightening but with his gentle brown eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth it just made his face look lived in.

  After a quick recap from Mrs Cunningham, her husband leaned forward, selected two Jacob’s biscuits, and said in a slow deliberate voice that gave him plenty of time to think, ‘So someone is finally doing something about the bastards.’

  ‘You’ll help?’

  ‘I will. But I’ll only go on the record after you get some evidence to back up what I say. And that’ll be hard to find.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Collins.

  ‘Have you ever heard of John Reece?’ Collins and Clark both nodded. ‘Well he owns Birmingham. I don’t know who he’s got in his pocket, but he gets about eighty per cent of all Council building work and wins most of the bids he puts in for Council land. Back in the late fifties anyone who bid against him would find they had a strike on their hands, or their yard would burn down or their suppliers would suddenly ask for cash up front. He put a lot of good men out of business. Ruthless bastard. Nowadays, if he’s bidding very few go up against him.’

  ‘Have yow had any run-ins with him?’ asked Clark.

  ‘A couple. But we don’t do much Council work.’

  ‘Had any recently?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it. Yolande and me were at this Council shindig for some fecking Arab or something back in May or June. Reece was there. He came waddling over, all friendly like, and asked me if I was bidding on a piece of land off the Birchfield Road. Well the bastard knew full well I was. Anyway, he wished me luck and wandered off grinning like a twenty stone evil leprechaun.

  ‘Now that made me suspicious. I’d spoken to Sir Charles Endbury, the chairman of the sub-committee earlier in the week and he as much as told me that my application was going to win. Well Endbury was over in the far corner talking to this bit of skirt. Nice looking woman. Just his type. Tall, long blonde hair, about thirty. We wandered over and I asked him if Reece had put a bid in. He didn’t say yes or no. But he did say, “Martin, we need cheap houses for newlyweds more than another office block and a few shops.” It’s not often that you get such a big nod and a wink from a councillor, so I thought that Reece was just trying to get a rise out of me. Anyway, we fecked off to The La Dolce Vita and had a cracking night. Dave Allen was on.’

  ‘He worked for us for a while in the fifties when he was still Dave Mahoney,’ said Yolande. ‘We went backstage after the show. He came home with us and the next morning I cooked him breakfast. He had the girls in fits with his vampire stories. They loved the one about the part-time vampire hunter who was a chef. His last words to Dracula were “How do you like your stake?” as he hammered it into his heart.’

  ‘What happened over the land?’

  ‘The sub-committee had a meeting the following Monday. Out of the fecking blue Endbury changed his vote and took three of his cronies with him.’

  ‘Yow think he were bribed?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Na.’ said Martin. ‘He’s always been fair and straight with me. He’s an old Tory. He believes in helping people get on. For feck sake, the houses were his idea in the first place. It was him who came to me. That’s why I bid.’

  At that moment there was a crash from upstairs and a series of shrieks and screams from the girls. Martin stood up and went to the bottom of the stairs and boomed, ‘Are you girls behaving yourselves? Or do I have to come up there and thump the lot of ya?’

  In response there was a chorus of laughter and giggles and a single voice said, ‘You and whose army?’

  ‘That’ll be Patricia. The middle one. Got a gob on her like a Moore Street trader. I don’t know where she gets it from,’ said Yolande.

  When Martin resumed his seat, he was smiling. Clark asked, ‘Did yow ever ask Endbury why he changed his vote?’

  ‘I did. But he wouldn’t say. That bastard Reece or more likely his pet gangster, Thorne, had scared
the poor bastard shitless.’

  ‘Thorne?’ asked Collins as if he had never heard the name before.

  ‘Yeah. A big Geordie gobshite of the first order,’ said Yolande.

  As if to emphasise the point Martin added, ‘A right vicious bastard.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of him,’ Collins asked Clark.

  ‘Na, strange that. I thought I knew all the muscle for hire in Brum.’

  ‘Ah, he’s muscle all right but not the sort you’d come across. Thorne runs his own business, Thorne Security. Has about twelve full–time blokes and a load of casual workers on the books. He says he specialises in personal and commercial security, but I wouldn’t want him to fit a burglar alarm in my house. My bet is that he spends most of his time sorting out problems for Reece,’ said Martin.

  ‘Problems, such as what?’ asked Collins.

  ‘An upstart of a union rep or worker on site, a slow paying customer, an overzealous planner or architect. The word is he will have a chat with them, make them an offer and settle things all friendly if he can. He doesn’t mind spending a bit of money if it makes him a new friend.’

  ‘And if that don’t work?’ asked Clark.

  ‘He, or more likely a couple of his lads, drop by and persuades them to change their mind. Rumour has it he starts slow and builds up. First, it’s threats, then your dog might get killed or your house burgled. Or maybe a strange man calls on your wife while you are at work or he’s seen talking to your kids or taking their picture. After that there might be an accident or a serious problem at work. If all that fails, you get a going over.’

  ‘Anyone ever been killed?’

  ‘Only rumours Sergeant, only rumours. No evidence. Just like the stories of blackmail?’

  ‘Blackmail?’ queried Clark.

  ‘Sure, you can’t go round beating up councillors or knights of the realm. It gets noticed. This isn’t America, oh no. Thorne finds a weakness and goes for it. Drink, gambling, a liking for the girls or boys, even drugs. Those drugs you know, they’re starting to become awful popular these days.’