by Jim McGrath
Five minutes later Collins and Clark were seated in Sir Endbury’s office, his secretary fussing around them with tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘That will be all, Sylvia, thank you,’ said Sir Charles, his voice tinged with irritation. He waited until his secretary had closed the door before asking, ‘So gentlemen, how can I help you?’
‘We’re investigating possible corruption in Birmingham City Council. We’re particularly interested in approval of land sales and planning permissions,’ said Collins.
‘Well you certainly don’t beat about the bush, Sergeant Collins. As the chairman of the Sub-Committee on land disposals am I to assume that I’m a suspect?’
‘Yow got nothing to worry about,’ said Clark. ‘Wem just here for background information.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear. What do you want to know?’
‘Has any architect or builder ever offered you or any of your fellow councillors an inducement to vote in a particular way?’
‘You mean a bribe? Money?’
‘It may not have been money. It might have involved gifts, holidays, entertainment, or a place on someone’s board. It could be a range of things,’ said Collins.
Sir Charles stroked his chin and took his time replying. ‘There are always rumours. Whispers. But I’ve never been presented with any evidence that suggests anything is amiss in Birmingham. I’m sure small-scale stuff goes on all the time but nothing like what’s going on in some places. Now take Newcastle for example…’
Collins cut off Endury’s digression, ‘So no-one has ever offered you a bribe, sir?’
‘No, never.’
‘Are yow sure?’ asked Clark.
Sir Charles gave Clark the stare he used when he wanted to put some upstart of an employee in their place. It had no effect on the small man, who held Sir Charles’ eyes and waited for an answer. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure.’
‘Of course, me old dad always used to say that if yow had a political scandal yow could bet your bottom dollar, that if it were a Labour politician it would be about money. But if it concerned a Conservative, it would be about sex. Any rumours about yowr mates on the Council shagging the hired help?’ asked Clark.
‘No!’ A blush of anger appeared on Sir Charles cheeks and his eyes narrowed.
‘What about yow?’
‘How dare you, Constable? I’m a respectable married man.’
‘So are most of the punters who visit prozzies.’
‘Really Sergeant, this is outrageous. Can’t you control your man?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. Normally I would but you see, he’s not my man. Were you at the council reception for a Saudi prince on Saturday, June the first?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘I believe that you spoke to a Mr Martin Cunningham and gave him the impression that you and your fellow Conservatives were going to approve his bid for a parcel of land on Birchfield Road. But when it came to the vote the following Monday you voted in favour of Mr Reece’s proposal. Why did you change your mind?’
‘Is that what this is all this is about? Has Martin Cunningham been throwing accusations about?’
‘If you could just answer the question, Sir,’ said Collins.
Sir Charles took a couple of breaths. When he spoke, his voice was low and he emphasised each word as if he was speaking to a particularly stupid child who was trying his patience. ‘I did not give Mr Cunningham any cause to think that I favoured his plan over Mr Reece’s. The truth is that I did favour building just houses on the site rather than the mixed development of houses, shops and offices. However, Cunningham’s plans were poorly prepared and presented. Reece’s proposals were simply more professional.’
‘But yow dain’t tell him that at the do?’ said Clark.
‘Of course I bloody didn’t. It would have been unethical, and besides, it was an important social event and I didn’t want a scene.’
‘And why did you think there would be a scene?’ asked Collins.
‘Because Cunningham is—.’
‘Irish and might blow his top. Would that be it, sir?’ suggested Collins.
Sir Charles did not reply.
‘Well, we won’t take up any more of your time, Sir Charles. Thank you for your hospitality,’ said Collins and rising he held out his hand. Sir Charles took it but remained seated.
Clark stood up but didn’t offer to shake hands. ‘Just one last question, Sir. What time did yow leave the council do that night?’
‘About ten fifteen. Why?’
‘No reason. Did yow leave with anyone?’
‘No.’
‘So yow dain’t leave with a good looking blonde woman that yow were seen talking to that night?’
Sir Charles wet his lips with the tip of his tongue before he replied. A slight tremor in his voice. ‘I left alone.’
‘I wonder why I don’t believe yow.’
Endbury’s face turned bright red with anger but he said nothing.
Outside on the pavement both men looked at each other and nodded. ‘He’s hiding sommut,’ said Clark.
‘Yep.’
‘Where to now? The nick or Reece’s?’
Collins looked at the sky, where heavy black rain clouds were moving slowly across the sky. They were in for another downpour. ‘The nick. Let’s see if Alf has turned up the info on those burglary suspects of yours.’
The rain was pouring down by the time Collins parked in the station yard and he and Clark made a dash for the door. ‘Yow get a couple of teas in, Mickey, and I’ll see what Alf’s got.’
After purchasing tea and doughnuts for two Collins slid into a chair by the canteen’s central window. The rain was now coming down in stair rods and bouncing off the concrete yard. But the wind was pushing the clouds along at a fair old lick and Collins knew it would soon clear. His reverie was broken by Clark dropping into the chair opposite.
‘Well, me three suspects are down to two.’
‘How so?’
‘The esteemed Mr Leggott of this parish popped his clogs six months ago. Heart attack. Which surprises me – I never thought the bastard had a heart.’
‘He’s not going to be much of a loss to the community. What about the other two?’
‘Peter Quine’s been out two years. No problems with him since release. And then the master himself, Sid Williams. Released from prison on health grounds three months ago.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Don’t know but if he can walk, I wouldn’t rule the git out.’
‘Who do you want to see first?’
‘Quine is nearest. Antrobus Road.’
‘OK.’
Antrobus Road was off Grove Lane and only yards from the bottom of Holly Road. Quine’s house was at the bottom of the dip, a big Victorian townhouse that had seen better days. With its peeling black and white paint and an untended front garden it looked forlorn and unloved, and was typical of most of the houses in the area. However, it still looked better than the monstrosity next door where the owner had decided to paint the bricks bright red and the mortar between the bricks white. It might have worked if he had had patience, a steady hand, and if the cheap paint hadn’t run. As it was it looked bad enough to reduce the value of every house in the road.
Clark used the heavy iron knocker and moments later a woman in her early forties opened the door. Despite the rose-decorated pinafore, the grey in her hair, and the worn look that women get when their men have served serious time, she was still a good-looking woman.
‘Hello Anne. Is he in?’ asked Clark.
‘Back room. He’s just got home from work. Whatever you think he’s done he ain’t. He’s been clean since he got out. Honest.’
Clark looked at Anne Quine. He’d known her for nearly fifteen years, and she’d never lied to him, which was unique in his experience. It was rare to find a crook married to such an honest woman. If Quine was doing jobs again, she didn’t know about it. Seeing the fear in her eyes, he said, ‘It’s just routine, love, honest.�
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She nodded and led the men down the hall. Peter Quine was at the table tucking into a couple of pork chops. His shirt off, it was clear to see he had been working all day His arms were covered in soot, with only his hands and face washed clean. He looked fit without an ounce of fat on his five-foot nine frame and his biceps and shoulders were well developed.
‘Yow put on a bit of muscle since I saw you last,’ said Clark.
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ said Quine.’
‘I ain’t told yow what it’s about yet.’
‘It don’t matter. I’ve been clean since I got out.’
‘How come yow’ve become a reformed character at yowr age?’
Quine put his knife and fork down. ‘After the last time I ain’t never going back to prison again. I’ll top meself first. So, help me God.’
‘What happened to change your mind?’ asked Collins.
‘I ain’t saying.’
‘OK. Where were yow last Friday night between about eleven o’clock and six in the morning on Saturday?’
A smile of relief spread across Anne’s face. Quine looked at her and returned the smile. ‘We was in London. Brother’s wedding in Tottenham. Went down Friday, came back Sunday. Dozens of witnesses. Do you want their names and addresses?’
‘Maybe later,’ said Clark. ‘We’ll get out of yowr hair and let yow eat your dinner in peace.’
As Anne walked them back to the front door Clark asked, ‘What happened to him?’
‘It weren’t him. It was his cell mate. Four or five queers grabbed him in one of the workshops and raped him. Pete tried to help but got beat up for his trouble. They threatened to come after him if he said anything.’
‘What happened to his mate?’ asked Clark.
‘Weeks in hospital. Pete knew that there were plenty of queers inside, but he’d never seen anything like that. Still has nightmares about it.’
As they walked back to the car Clark said, ‘I think wi can strike him off our list. Something got broken during his last stretch. His nerve’s gone.’
‘I agree. On to Williams, methinks.’
Sid Williams had lived on Radnor Road, just yards from Villa Road, for as long as Clark could remember. It was easy to judge how well he was doing as a professional burglar, as he had a weakness for large cars. He liked to buy a new one whenever he made a big score. Clark had recognised this early on and had kept a regular check on Sid’s cars. Whenever a real beauty appeared, he’d drop by for a few words. But this time was different – there was no car outside the house.
Clark rang the doorbell and it was answered almost immediately by a tall, well-built lad with blond hair.
‘Hi Mitch, is your Grandad in?’
‘He ain’t well. Can’t yow let him be?’
‘We just want a quick chat. That’s all.’
Knowing it was futile to argue, Mitch stepped back. ‘He’s in the front room,’ he said as he closed the door. The front room had been converted into a downstairs bedroom. Williams was sitting by the gas fire in his pyjamas with a blanket draped around his shoulders – a mere husk of the man Clark had once known.
Clark exchanged looks with Collins. Sid was not their man.
‘What do you fuckers want? Can’t you let a man die in peace?’ asked Williams, who had to take a deep breath after every couple of words.
‘We were just checking where you were last Friday night from eleven until six on Saturday morning?’
‘I ain’t moved out of this room since I was released from prison. I just moved from one cell to another and I’ll die in this ’un.’
‘What is it you’ve got?’ asked Collins.
‘Emphysema. I’ll be gone within three month.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I have to ask, do you know anything about the recent spate of burglaries in Handsworth and Handsworth Wood?’
‘Na. None of the old lads visit. I’ve heard nothing.’
‘How about you, Mitch? Have you heard anything?’
‘Na, sorry. I’m not into that caper. I got a job with the gas board. Is this about the old geezer who got hit on the head with the poker?’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Collins.
‘It were in the Sunday Mercury, I get it for the football reports.’
‘Yow don’t say. Who do yow support?’ asked Clark.
‘Villa.’
‘Not doing great, are they?’
Mitch didn’t reply.
‘What else do you like?’ asked Collins.
‘Rock and roll.’
‘You mean the Beatles and the Beach Boys?’
‘Fuck no. I’m a rocker.’
The rain had stopped but there was a strong wind blowing down Radnor Street which sent the fallen leaves into a swirl that piled them up against walls, fences and tree trunks and blocked the gratings on drains. ‘I take it yow picked up on that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Collins.
‘So, what wi going to do?’
‘Watch him. See if he’s got a skinny mate who likes the Beach Boys. I’ll have a word with Ridley tomorrow. I’ll come back tonight, around 10. Fancy joining me. You can sleep the whole time if you like. I promise not to start crying.’
‘OK, but I’m heading home now. See yow later.’
Collins settled down to read the crime reports from the weekend, when the phone broke the silence and he picked it up.
‘Mickey, it’s me, Ridley. I was wondering, can you help me out if you ain’t busy?’
‘I will if I can.’
‘I’ve got a woman on Broughton Road says she found a dead kitten nailed to her back gate this morning. It gave her a right turn.’
‘Can’t one of uniform look after it?’
‘I’m short-handed. I’ve got two down with summer flu.’
Collins knew that summer flu was shorthand for a copper taking a few days off with the wife and kids when the weather was particularly nice, or in this case it was their last chance to get to the sea before winter set in. ‘OK. What’s the name and address?’
Mrs McCann, a mother and grandmother, lived on Broughton Road. When she opened the door and heard Collins introduce himself, she smiled. ‘From Dublin, are you?’
‘And here’s me thinking I’d lost me accent.’
‘Sure, it’s going but it’s still there. How long have you been here?’
‘Just coming up to seven years.’
‘Ah, you’re just a babie. Forty-three years for me next October. But I go home every year for me holidays and for all the weddings, funerals and baptisms. Jesus, I’m always there. Anyways you’re not here to talk about me. I just want ya to know that I’ve worked in hospitals as a cleaner, nurse and ward sister, and I’ve never seen anything like that poor kitten. Whoever did it is sick in the head. That’s why I called you. I reckon there’s some sick bastard around here and next time it could be a dog or, God forbid, a babie.’
Collins agreed that a cat killer could easily move from killing a cat to slaughtering a dog. However, he thought Mrs McCann was going too far to suggest that they might progress to murdering a baby. But he said nothing except, ‘Can you show me where you found the cat?’
In the back garden Mrs McCann stopped by the coal shed and opened the door. Picking up a shoe box, she handed it to Collins. ‘I put the poor thing in that.’
Collins was not prepared for what he found in the box. The piece of string was still around the kitten’s neck and it had bitten deep into the poor cat’s fur and skin. But worse – each of its front paws had been pierced by a two-inch steel nail.
‘They nailed the poor thing to me back gate by its paws.’
Collins shook his head. He’d been on the job six years and had seen his fair share of beatings, suicides, murders and decomposing bodies. Those he could understand. But this seemed as if pain had been inflicted on the kitten for the sheer love of it.
Opening the back gate Mrs McCann pointed at the blood smear where the cat had hung. ‘I left it
on till you’d seen it.’
A back gate to one of the houses on the opposite side of the lane opened, and a young girl and her boyfriend emerged holding hands. ‘Afternoon, Mrs McCann. How are you today?’
‘I’m all right I suppose, June. But some fecker killed a poor innocent cat and nailed it to me gate last night. That’s why I’ve got the police here.’
‘You from the police then?’ the boyfriend asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Think you’ll catch him?’
Collins thought he heard an edge of mockery in the lad’s voice and looked at him closely. The youth’s eyes were bright, sparkling and alive. There was something wrong about him, but Collins wasn’t sure what. He decided to put it down to the arrogance of young men, who think they know everything because they have not lived long enough to realise that they know nothing.
Holding the boy’s stare, Collins said, ‘If he does it again, I’ll catch him.’
June, who was still holding the boy’s hand, said, ‘Come on Andy, we’ll be late. Bye, Mrs McCann.’
Andy reluctantly followed his girlfriend down the lane. Just before they turned onto Broughton Road he looked back and waved at Collins.
Collins ignored the gesture and wrote out his number on the back of a piece of paper and handed it to Mrs McCann. ‘Call me if anything else happens around here. You can be sure I’ll keep an eye out for any other reports of small animals being killed on the patch.’
Handsworth, 21.40hrs
Collins arrived at Clark’s house at nine forty. All was silent, so Collins tapped on the front window instead of using the bell or knocker. A few moments later Clark opened the door and whispered, ‘Keep it down. Ruth’s just got him off. You wake him, she’ll duff yow and me up.’
In silence Collins watched as Clark sat on the stairs and put on his shoes before taking an old tweed overcoat down from the stand and slipping it on. As gently as possible Clark closed the door. They were halfway down the path when they heard little Mickey start crying. Clark didn’t hesitate. ‘Scarper. She’ll blame me for sure. We’ll use my car.’