A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  The roads were virtually deserted, and it only took a few minutes to reach Radnor Road. Clark parked four houses down from Williams’ on the opposite side of the road. It was a couple of minutes to ten and the night sky didn’t show the moon or a single star. Thick rolling rain clouds had blacked out all celestial light, leaving just the underpowered streetlights, the odd headlights and any light escaping from behind pulled curtains to breach the blackness. Within two minutes of parking Clark was asleep. Collins hunkered down in his seat and pulled his collar up. Nothing happened in the next hour, other than it started to rain again. Then at ten past eleven Mitch opened the front door and a tall skinny kid came out, pulled his collar up, and started to jog up the street.

  Collins nudged Clark in the ribs. He was immediately awake. ‘We’ve got a fish.’

  Clark started the car and followed the lad up the street. Turning right at the corner, Skinny ran down the hill before turning right onto Wellesbourne Road. Clark accelerated and passed the boy as he opened the door to number 23B.

  ‘Home James, and don’t spare the horses,’ said Collins with a grin. ‘We’ll get a warrant tomorrow.’

  Fully awake now, Clark asked, ‘Anything interesting happen after I left?’

  ‘Not really. Ridley asked me to check out a dead cat which had been nailed to an OAP’s back gate.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Yow don’t get that every day.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘I had a case of a young kid in the fifties, no more than about sixteen, who went around killing family pets. He’d done seven of them before I caught him.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Fourteen months in an approved school.’

  ‘You think he should have got more?’

  ‘When he came out he disappeared. Seven years later he was arrested in London for killing three kiddies all under the age of eight. So yeah, I think he should have got more. Kids can be vicious little bastards, they’ll pull the legs of a daddy-long-legs but they stop short of killing animals of any size. Those that don’t, those that like it, are dangerous. Whoever did the puss needs to be caught.’

  ‘What happened to your lad?’

  ‘He tried to plead insanity but the press were after his blood. He were hanged.’

  Tuesday 24th September, 1968

  Handsworth, 11.00hrs

  Collins had thought about applying for a warrant to search the houses on Radnor Road and Wellesbourne Road but decided that they were not required. If necessary, he’d wave his warrant card at anyone demanding one, ensuring that he held his finger over the word “Card”. He was reading the Superintendent’s file again and checking for anything he had missed earlier, and Clark was talking to the gas board when Chief Inspector Hicks returned from his meeting with the Chief Constable. Most of the station believed that it had been about who was going to take over from Jock Wallace, but no one was going to ask the question. Hearing the end of Clark’s conversation, he asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We got lucky on the burglaries, Sir,’ said Collins. ‘We were checking known burglars on the patch and Sid Williams was on the list. Well, Sid has emphysema and can’t stand up. But his grandson Mitch asked if the old man who got hit with a poker was all right. Said he’d read about it in the Mercury, but we never told the press what the old man was hit with.’

  ‘He also told us he worked for the gas board. I were just checking if any of his gas visits were to houses burgled,’ said Clark. ‘Wi’ll get an answer back later today.’

  ‘On top of that Mitch has a skinny mate who would be perfect at squeezing through small windows.’

  ‘Sounds hopeful. When are you going to search the properties?’

  ‘We’ll leave it until Mitch is back from work. Say six tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you think the old man knows what his grandson is up to?’

  ‘A pound to a brass farthing he bloody trained the pair,’ said Clark.

  ‘Do you want me to clear the warrants?’

  ‘Na, that won’t be necessary,’ said Collins.

  Hicks looked at Collins and said, ‘OK, but be careful. In the meantime, what have you got on for the rest of the day?’

  ‘We were planning on seeing a guy called Reece about land purchases.’

  ‘OK. But remember what I said about the Super’s investigation. I don’t want a load of grief from upstanding citizens because you pair have trampled all over their finer feelings.’

  Birmingham, 12.10hrs

  John Reece’s office was situated at Five Ways, Edgbaston. A concrete and steel tower block, it was what architects described as “an exceptionally fine example of Brutalist architecture”. The locals described it as “bloody awful”. Reece’s office could not have been more different from Sir Charles’ wood panelled walls and Edwardian chairs. Here everything was black leather and polished chrome. The paintings on the wall reflected the modernist look with expensive signed prints by Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol adorning two of the walls.

  The office was oblong, and Reece’s desk rested on a nine-inch raised dais positioned directly opposite the door. This meant that anyone entering had to navigate twelve yards of bare carpet before they reached his desk. Collins was impressed. As a way to unnerve and intimidate staff it was very effective. The walk would embarrass the little people and leave them in no doubt as to who was in charge. But it had no effect on Collins. Nor on Clark, who ignored Reece and decided to examine the Pop Art that adorned the walls as if he was in a public art gallery.

  Collins walked casually to the desk and held out his hand, ‘Mr Reece, I’m Detective Sergeant Collins and the gentleman admiring your paintings is Detective Constable Clark.’

  Clark turned and waved at Reece, ‘Morning’.

  Reece rose. He was a couple of inches taller than Collins and was at least twenty stone. Rolls of fat moved as he stood up and his handshake felt soft and sticky. His blond hair had been carefully combed forward to cover the signs of a rapidly receding hair line. The front of his hair had been shaped into a V and extended an inch past his forehead and all held in place by hair lacquer. The shape reminded Collins of the end of the runway on aircraft carriers and made Reece look like a narcissistic fool. His eyes, hidden behind folds of fat, were pale blue and his tanned skin looked as if it was out of a bottle. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Collins. What can I do for you?’

  Collins ignored Reece’s failure to recognise his official status. He knew what he was dealing with, a bully. A man who had to have his own way or else he would stand in the corner and scream, shout and stamp his little feet until everyone did what he wanted. ‘We think you might be able to help us with our enquiries. We’re investigating corruption in Birmingham City Council and your name has been mentioned as someone we should talk to.’

  ‘Are you saying someone has accused me of corruption?’ demanded Reece, his voice rising. ‘If so, I want to know who they are.’

  Thin-skinned or just acting, thought Collins, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you have been accused of corruption. It’s just that you do a lot of work with the Council and you might have seen or heard something.’

  Reece sat back in his chair, the anger in his watery eyes receding. He ran a hand across his chin and said, ‘You should watch how you phrase things, Mr Collins. In my game if you say the wrong thing you can end up in court.’

  Collins recognised the implied threat. ‘Oh, I’m used to being in court, Mr Reece. It has never bothered me. Now, if you could tell me have you ever been asked for money or other favours by a Council official?’

  ‘And why would they ask me for money?’

  ‘As payment for ensuring that your quotation for work or planning application was approved.’

  ‘I’ve already told you I’m not aware of any corruption in the council.’

  ‘’No, you dain’t, Mr Crease,’ said Clark. ‘Yow got on yowr high horse and said yow wanted to know who’d suggested wi talk to yow. Wi dain’t say yow were corrupt. So be a goo
d boy and answer me mate’s questions.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that? And the name is Reece not Crease.’

  ‘Yeah, and me mate’s name is Detective Sergeant Collins, not Mr Collins and the next time yow try to insult or intimidate either of us, I’m going to take offence. And yow really don’t want to know what I do when I take offence. So cut the fucking bullshit and answer the Sergeant’s questions or wi can take this down the station.’

  Collins could almost see Reece’ mind calculating. He had clearly handled the meeting poorly. These bastards were not going to be cowed by his usual tactics. He decided to change tack. ‘It seems we got off on the wrong foot. I apologise. But I’ve had a very difficult weekend and to be accused of corruption was just the last straw. Ask your questions and I’ll answer them as best I can.’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Clark. Taking the chair that flanked Reece he moved it to the side of the desk, where he was outside Reece’s eye line, and sat down.

  ‘Corruption and Birmingham Council, what do you know about it?’ asked Collins.

  ‘I’m not aware that there is any significant corruption. You hear stories of architects and surveyors or purchasing officers getting backhanders but nothing significant. It’s all low-grade stuff. I’ve never heard of any councillor taking a bribe.’

  ‘Not even Councillors Hill and Robbins?’

  ‘That pair. Never.’ He paused briefly, before continuing, ‘But I can understand why people would be suspicious. Neither of them follows the party whip. They’re a pair of mavericks. They’ve got more in common with each other than their respective parties – who hate the sight of them.’

  ‘So how come them still on the Council?’ asked Clark.

  ‘They look after their constituents, that’s why. If there’s any money going, they make sure that some of it reaches their wards.’

  ‘What about Sir Charles Endbury?’

  ‘Lover boy. Loves the ladies but as straight as a die. He doesn’t need the money. He wants power. He’s lined up a safe Parliamentary seat at the next election. Give him five years and he’ll be in the Cabinet. There’s no chance that he’d risk that.’

  ‘And Ronny Charlton, what about him?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Now he might be worth looking at. I’ve got no proof that he’s corrupt, but with his background he’d be my number one suspect.’

  ‘Were yow at that do for the Saudi prince a few months back?’ asked Clark.

  Reece swivelled around in his chair to face Clark, ‘I suspect that you already know I was,’ he said with a smile that never moved any further than his lips.

  Clark leered in return. ‘Did yow notice a good-looking woman at the party? About twenty-seven, well built with blonde hair? Spent a lot of the evening chatting to Endbury with her mate.’

  Reece paused, clearly pretending to think, before he said, ‘No, I can’t say that I did. Have you asked Sir Charles about her?’

  ‘Na, not yet,’ lied Clark.

  ‘One last question, Mr Reece. Did you ever come across a planner by the name of Simpson?’ asked Collins.

  Reece spent even longer pondering his answer to this question than the last. When he did answer he sounded surprisingly regretful, ‘No I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Are yow sure?’ asked Clark. ‘The poor lad committed suicide.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Rising, Collins stood up, ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Reece. We may have further questions for you as the investigation develops.’

  Before Collins and Clark had reached the road, Reece was on the phone to Christopher Thorne. ‘Chris, I’ve just had two smart arsed coppers here asking about the Saudi do and a woman with blonde hair. Tell me that you took care of everything?’

  ‘We’re covered. No problem. I asked Nugent to deal with it.’

  ‘Well, double-check, will you? And watch out for the smarmy Irish git and the annoying shit of a dwarf that he hangs around with. Keep it tight when you talk to them and whatever you do, don’t underestimate them. I think they could be trouble.’

  ‘OK.’

  After hanging up, Reece thought about calling Charles Endbury but decided that it would be unwise.

  As they walked back to the car Clark asked, ‘What do yow think?’

  ‘He’s a lying bastard. He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the arse.’

  ‘I agree, but what exactly were he lying about?’

  ‘Everything. Everyone he said was clean we treat as dirty and everyone he said was dirty we put on the back burner until we know a bit more.’

  ‘Seems fair to me. Where next? Thorne?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Collins had just finished buckling up and was turning the ignition key when his radio burst into life. Picking it up, he said, ‘Collins’.

  ‘Mickey, we’ve been trying to get you for the last thirty minutes.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me now. What do you want?’

  ‘Can you get over to Handsworth Cemetery ASAP? Use the Park Lane entrance. They’ve found a body.’

  ‘It’s a cemetery. It has a lot of bodies.’

  ‘Yeah, but not that many who have been murdered and stuck in a hole.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Next, you’ll be telling me the victim is female, about twenty seven, well built with long blonde hair.’

  ‘How the bloody hell did you know that, Sarge?’

  Collins didn’t respond to the question. He put the car in gear and sped away, leaving a track of rubber behind.

  Handsworth Cemetery, 13.08hrs

  Heavy rain was falling as Collins reached the top of Camp Lane, turned onto Park Lane and then took a sharp right into Handsworth Cemetery. Just three hundred yards away the red-painted floodlights of the Hawthorns were briefly illuminated by a flash of forked lightening.

  Clark nudged Collins and pointed in the direction of a gaggle of police cars off to the right. Collins followed the road around and drew up behind a squad car. Looking at the heavy rain, Collins reached for his wellingtons on the back seat and started to pull them on. Clark looked on with a wry smile as his friend went through various contortions, not helped by the steering wheel sticking in his stomach. ‘Yow remind me of a new-born giraffe. All legs and no grace.’

  ‘You know I could easily replace you, Detective Constable. Maybe bring in Marie. She’d show me the respect I deserve.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’d show yow me boot up yowr arse. Ready?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Collins. As they stepped from the car, PC Alex Fletcher detached himself from the tree trunk under which he’d been keeping dry and ran over. ‘What we got, Alex?’ asked Collins.

  ‘It’s a nasty one, Mickey. She’s been in the ground about three months. She was buried in the side of a bank. The heavy rain last night flushed her out.’

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Clark.

  ‘An old boy walking his dog. Doggie disappeared into the undergrowth and when he dain’t respond to being called his master followed him. Poor old sod got a right shock. She’s a bit of a mess. Looks like she was smashed up before she was killed.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Mr McEwan. He reckons she was beaten, cut and then hung up.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Collins.

  ‘Great. Let’s take a butchers,’ said Clark and taking a small bottle of Vick from his pocket he opened it and dabbed a spot of the chest rub under each nostril before passing it to Collins who did the same. Both men were used to death. They knew it was seldom the sight of a body that made coppers lose their breakfast, it was the smell which had a way of triggering memories years down the line. Best to kill them at birth.

  Fletcher walked up a narrow path that led to a wrought iron pedestrian gate which was never locked. Nearing the top, he turned left and the three men trudged across the sodden turf, between the rose beds, into a dense copse of trees. The holly bushes and spreading rhododendrons formed a canopy over the small glade and provided some shelter from the ra
in. In sunlight the small dell would have been magical with sunbeams illuminating the secret clearing, constantly shifting and moving as the light breeze moved the tree branches. Probably a favourite spot for couples, thought Collins.

  ‘Ah, it’s the dynamic duo themselves. Killed anyone this week?’ asked Mr McEwan, City Pathologist and former surgeon. A man universally despised by everyone who know him except, possibly, his mother.

  ‘Nah, but the list of possible candidates just grew by one,’ said Clark. Fletcher and the two PCs helping Gerry Dobbs, the SOCO, sniggered.

  Ignoring the exchange Collins said, ‘Afternoon, Dr McEwan, what do we have?’

  ‘It’s Mr McEwan. I’m a consultant as you well know.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, what have you got?’

  ‘A white female, approximately twenty-eight years of age, five feet seven tall with blonde hair. Buried some three or four months ago, I’d say. The cool conditions in the glade and the fact that the soil has a high percentage of peat has kept the body in reasonable condition, so I should be able to confirm the cause of death with some certainty after I get her on the table. What I can say is that she was tortured prior to death and at some stage hung up by the neck. Whether the hanging took place pre- or post-mortem will become clear after the autopsy. Unfortunately for you,’ he said smiling, ‘she was naked, and has no scars, tattoos, rings or jewellery of any kind that might help you identify her.’

  ‘Ah, sure that would be too easy,’ said Collins in the broadest Dublin accent he could manage and winked at the doctor, who sniffed and turned away.

  Clark and Collins moved over to the body. The woman had been bent double and buried in a four-foot deep hole in the side of the bank. She’d been well covered up and the body, except for some decomposition, was well preserved. Her head, torso and hands had been exposed when the bank partially collapsed following the heavy rain of the previous two nights. The foxes had wasted no time feasting on the exposed parts of the cadaver and several fingers were missing