A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  Whatever beauty she had possessed in life had been stolen from her by a terrible death and three months in the cold black earth. While Collins examined the body, Clark surveyed the ground. ‘Have you checked the ground around here?’ he asked, directing his question at the SOCO and his assistants for the day, who were sheltering in the lee of a large rhododendron bush. All three nodded and mumbled in the affirmative. ‘OK, then. Have yow got a small fork or trowel I can borrow?’

  The SOCO passed him a folk and resumed his place under the rhododendron bush. Slowly Clark started to rake the ground lightly near the body in a series of expanding circles.

  Collins stood up from the body, and crossing to his friend, hunkered down. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to stuff that arrogant bastard. Did you notice, three of her fingers been chewed off by the foxes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘One of them were her ring finger. It’s a long shot but did yow ever hear of a fox eating a ring?’

  Collins smiled and standing up said, ‘I need a trowel here.’

  Over the next ten minutes or so, both men slowly extended the area of their search. It was Clark who found the inch-long stub of a finger still wearing a gold ring with a diamond setting enclosing a large, expensive-looking oblong emerald.

  Standing up, Clark looked at Collins and asked, ‘Yow or me?’

  ‘It’s your honour.’

  Drawing himself up to his full five feet five inches and holding the evidence bag containing the finger above his head, Clark bellowed in his best Sergeant-major’s voice, ‘OK, yow lazy incompetent shits. Stop pissing me about and do yowr job right or yow won’t have one. Sergeant Collins and me want every inch of this ground gone over like a mother looking for nits in precious Johnny’s hair. And I don’t care how fucking long it takes or how wet yow get.’

  ‘I’d like to be associated with DC Clark’s comments. If we come back and find any other evidence lying on the ground someone here will be out of a job.’

  As Clark passed Mr McEwan, he pressed the evidence bag into the doctor’s chest. ‘Yow know Doc. there’s always room in this world for a peasant like me who knows how to use a fork.’

  Back at the car Clark said, ‘We found our mystery lady, Mickey.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking. But it makes no sense why Endbury or Reece would have killed her.’

  ‘Maybe it weren’t them. Maybe it’s just a coincidence,’ said Clark.

  ‘You know that’s bollocks, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah it is. Wi need to formally identify her and link her to the do at the Council House.’

  ‘I’ll head back to the station and brief Hicks and put her description out. It’s too late to call Freeman but I’ll see him first thing in the morning. Are you all right handling things here?’

  ‘Yeah. No problem. Hicks will want to see the site anyway. Warn Ridley that we’ll need to post a guard here overnight.’

  ‘Will do.’

  When Collins returned to the station, he found that Hicks had already left for the cemetery. Checking Clark’s desk, he saw the note from the gas board which confirmed that Mitch Williams had done work for the gas board in four of the five houses burgled over the last three months. ‘Got you, you little git,’ he said under his breath. He had to fight the urge to go around and arrest Mitch immediately but knew that it would be best to do both residences on the same day and for that he needed Clark. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Instead, he spent half an hour writing a full description of the woman and circulating it to all police stations in the Birmingham area, Central CID and adjoining forces. After that he spent an hour thinking about why Reece or Endbury would want to murder a good time girl.

  Wednesday 25th September 1968

  Handsworth, 07.13hrs

  There was a new guest in the kitchen when Collins came down for breakfast. Some time in the night he’d been aware of Agnes sliding out of bed to answer the phone, and he rightly assumed that the mature woman in front of him was the cause of her disturbed night.

  ‘Marjorie, I’d like you to meet Detective Sergeant Michael Collins. He’s my lodger and offers the extra protection I was talking about, when needed.’

  Marjorie held out a limp hand and Collins gripped it lightly. It felt clammy and there was a slight tremble in it.

  As Collins warmed his porridge and stirred in a handful of raisins to the mix he examined the woman discreetly. She was only a little shorter than Agnes, at around five foot eight and was probably in her early sixties, making her more than ten years older than Agnes. In her prime Marjorie would have been very attractive but the years had not been kind. Her skin was dry and sickly pale and her eyes lacked any sparkle of life. In contrast to Agnes’ shining auburn hair Marjorie’s once blonde locks were now a dead mousy grey. But look as he did, Collins could see no bruises on the woman’s face or arms. However, her eyes were those of a beaten woman; fearful, sad and hopeless. The bastard hits her where it doesn’t show, he thought.

  Marjorie finished her breakfast and pushed her chair back from the table. She winced as she stood up and Collin knew that his assessment of her injuries had been correct. ‘I think I’ll have another bath, if you don’t mind, Agnes, and then I’ll go to bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Agnes and smiled.

  Collins waited until he heard Marjorie open the bathroom door before asking,’ ‘What’s her story?’

  ‘One of the Quakers at Bull Street called last night. She’s been trying to help Marjorie, but she can’t provide accommodation. Marjorie turned up on her doorstep at twenty to two last night.’

  ‘She seems in a bad way. As if she’s given up. Is she suicidal?’

  ‘Well she has reason to be. Her husband has turned their adult children against her. For years he’s been beating her while acting as Mr Nice Guy to their three children. When she finally told them what he’s been doing he denied ever hitting her and demanded that she show them her so called bruises she claimed she had. She couldn’t do it. And now he has the children believing she’s a fantasist.’

  ‘Why the feck didn’t she show them the bruises?’

  ‘Because even if she wore a bikini none of the bruises would be visible. His favourite hobby is kicking and punching her breasts and vagina. He likes to end every session with a cigarette. He’s very artistic. The last time he tied her up and branded her with the Olympic Rings on her breasts with a single burn on each nipple to round things off.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I have to find a way to show her children that she is telling the truth and that their father is a monster.’

  ‘If all else fails, and she’s willing, I could get the SOCO to take some pictures.’

  Rising Agnes walked round the table and kissed the top of Collins’ head. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  Birmingham, 09.23hrs

  Collins had been sitting in the reception area of Bush House for ten minutes when Henry Freeman came through the front doors. It took Freeman maybe five seconds for his fogged brain to recognise who was blocking his path, and then he remembered the two pints and whiskey chasers. ‘Sergeant. I said I’d call you when I had any information.’

  ‘That was before we found a murdered woman matching the description of the woman seen with Sir Charles Endbury on the second of June.’

  ‘Bloody hell, mate. We better take a walk down to the Council House and see my mate Ian Buckley, he does the official photography. I rang him and he said he’d get me the info for Thursday. But if the sheila’s dead, you need it now.’

  Work started on building the Birmingham Council House in 1874 when the foundation stone was laid by the Lord Mayor, Joseph Chamberlain, father of the future British Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. It was completed in 1879 and cost the then princely sum of £163,000. It had been money well spent and was still an imposing building sitting next to the Town Hall
, the Museum and Art Gallery and just fifty yards away from the City’s magnificent redbrick Library.

  The interior of the Council House’s was even more impressive than the exterior. An imposing marble staircase greeted all who stepped through the main entrance. Walk up the red carpeted steps and you were on the first floor where two long brightly lit corridors branched off to the Committee Meeting Rooms and the offices of the Clerk of the Council and the City Treasurer. Both corridors had the same fine brass light fittings, which illuminated a long line of dark oak doors, cream coloured walls and expensive red Axminster carpet. Follow the stairs to the second floor and you were in the Council Chamber.

  Unfortunately, Ian did not live above ground. He resided in one of the numerous offices, hidden below ground, in a spaghetti of corridors. After following Freeman for no more than thirty seconds Collins felt entirely lost. This place is like Hampton Court Maze, he thought. It didn’t help that five feet of white tiles covered the walls from the floor to about halfway up the wall and green paint covered the remainder up to the ceiling. The style was utilitarian and uniformly dull. At last Freeman stopped, knocked on a door and walked in without waiting for a response. A small man in his mid-fifties, wearing a light blue suit, white shirt and red bow tie looked up from the pile of photos he was examining.

  ‘Ian, you old queen. This is Detective Sergeant Collins I was telling you about. He needs that info about the Saudi do now, not next week.’

  Ian stood up and waved the magnifying glass at Freeman, ‘Listen, you Australian lush, stop telling everyone I’m queer or we are going to fall out.’

  ‘Christ, mate, I’m not aware we ever fell in. I must have been really pissed that night. Don’t remember a thing.’

  ‘Anyway, why is it suddenly so urgent?’

  ‘As of yesterday, we are trying to identify a murder victim. We think she was the blonde-haired woman who was seen talking to various guests at the reception for the prince,’ said Collins.

  ‘Bloody Nora. OK, have a seat. I need to pop down to the storeroom. I won’t be more than five minutes.’

  Collins sat down in an old green tubular and canvas chair that had been new in 1943 and Freeman took Ian’s battered swivel chair. Casually, Freeman started to flip though the photos that Ian had been examining. Halfway down the pile, he let out a loud, ‘Bloody hell. Take a look at these,’ he said, tossing a handful of photos to Collins.

  Collins flicked through them. It was a tasteful portfolio of a young man in his twenties wearing a ridiculously small pair of swimming trunks. He was well muscled with shapely legs, a slim waist and well-developed chest and arms. But the biggest feature in each photo was the huge bulge in his swimming trunks which just about managed to keep its contents under wraps.

  ‘Who’d have believed it? Old Ian is moonlighting for a skin mag.’

  ‘Nothing illegal here. Anyway, they might just be for his own use,’ said Collins.

  Freeman leered, ‘Yeah, I can see how he’d use them.’

  Freeman was still grinning when Ian returned looking flustered. ‘I’m terribly sorry but all the photos from that night appear to be missing.’

  ‘You mean misfiled?’ asked Collins.

  ‘No, missing. I filed them myself. I always do all my own filing. Someone has taken them and not signed them out. I can only assume that they have been stolen.’

  ‘Feck, feck and double feck,’ said Collins. ‘You’ve got no pictures of that night.’

  ‘No. None.’ Collins felt his heart sink. ‘All I’ve got are the negatives.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ said Freeman.

  ‘You’re sure you have the negatives?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Oh yes. I keep a second copy of all the negatives in the dark room for six months before I file them with the photos. Just in case anyone wants a copy run off.’

  ‘Can you get them for me, please?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Ian and Collins spent the next twenty minutes standing under the basement window that was flush with the pavement of Victoria Square going through the 144 negatives that Ian had of the night. Seven negatives appeared to be of interest and Ian disappeared into his dark room to develop them while Collins and Freeman headed for the Copper Kettle Café at the bottom of Christ Church Passage. Two cups of tea each and an interminable lecture on why Australians were superior cricketers to any English team helped pass the time. Freeman’s monologue on Australian cricket was even more boring to Collins than listening to Clark explain why the Albion were and always would be a better footballing team than Aston Villa.

  Collins took his time walking back to the Council House. Christ Church Passage was his favourite ‘street’ in Birmingham. Set on a steep hill, it consisted of a series of tiered steps that led up to Waterloo Street. It was enclosed on both sides by a miscellany of Victorian and Edwardian shops, that sold artists’ supplies, confectionary, cigarettes and tobacco, stamps, paintings, linen, haberdashery and jewellery. There was even a Ronson lighter repair shop.

  Despite two World Wars many of the shops retained much of their original ornate brick, wood- and ironwork. Further up from the Copper Kettle Café Bar sat the smaller Medina Café, and between them they blanketed the entire passage with the smell of freshly made coffee. The Passage was a small time capsule and Collins never lost an opportunity to tread its age-worn steps and for a minute or two to step back in time to Victorian/Edwardian Birmingham. Reaching the top of the steps, Collins and Freeman turned left and headed for the Council House just across Colmore Row.

  There were four photos of the blonde-haired woman, two with a female friend and two of her chatting with Sir Endbury. The small dark-haired friend was immediately familiar to Collins. It was Claire Lafferty. But he didn’t let it show. ‘Ian, do you know either of these women?’ asked Collins.

  ‘I’ve never seen the blonde before. The small one, with the dark hair, is Claire Lafferty. I’m pretty sure she’s on the game. High class, but I’ve seen her at a lot of dos and she always leaves with some bloke.’

  ‘How would they get in?’

  ‘They could be signed in as a guest. Or, if they know the commissionaire, a gratuity might change hands.’

  ‘Can you check who signed them in?’

  ‘I could, but that will take some time. If you give me your phone number, I’ll call you as soon as I get it. I’ve got Claire’s address if you want it.’

  Collins did not let on that he had Claire’s address. Instead he asked, ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘I’m a photographer, darling. Loads of girls give me their details just in case I can throw any modelling work their way. Now, if that lump of Australian mutton will get out of my chair, I’ll get my contacts book.’

  Handsworth, 12.10hrs

  Clark locked his car door and walked over to where Collins was parked. ‘What have yow got, Mickey?’

  Collins handed Clark the four photos. ‘The dark-haired woman is Claire Lafferty, calls herself a model, but according Ian Buckley, the city’s official photographer, she’s on the game but expensive. I told you about her mother who came to the station on Saturday and reported her missing. Shares the top floor flat, in number 38, with a Christina Murray. That’s what the landlord said when I called him. Both were snapped at the Saudi do and Christina looks a lot like our corpse.’

  ‘Yow reckon that Lafferty is at home?’

  ‘Not according to the landlord. Both of them did a runner in June without paying the rent. But there’s only one way to be certain.’

  Clark knocked on the flat’s white panel door twice. There was no response. Taking his lock picks from his pocket he sprang the pre-war lock in less than eight seconds and pushed the door open. The flat was silent, spotless, deserted and had that stale air feel that rooms get when no one has been in them for a while.

  Collins drew the curtains and opened the window. Not a cushion out of place. It looked as if no one was living here. A search of the two b
edrooms confirmed that every drawer was empty. There wasn’t as much as a pair of stockings to indicate that two women had ever lived there. The bathroom was equally bare, with no cosmetics or even a sign of any old make-up.

  ‘It don’t look like anyone has lived here in months. How old were the address?’

  ‘Ian said it was only about three months and Lafferty’s mother said she wrote her last letter to this address in early May.’

  ‘Well there ain’t anyone here now. Let’s go. Wi can have a chat with the landlord.’

  ‘Not yet. There’s something wrong with this place. Let’s have another look around.’

  ‘Yow and yowr bloody hunches. OK. This time, I’ll do the front bedroom and yow take the back.’

  After a careful check that revealed nothing, Clark sat in the small chair next to the wardrobe and looked at the room. Between the showers, the sun was now streaming through the window into the room illuminating the bed and carpet. It was then that Clark noticed that the off-cream carpet at the foot of the bed looked cleaner than in the rest of the room. Standing, he checked the outline of the clean patch. It was about seven foot by seven. Getting down on his hands and knees, he felt the weave. It was dry but there was no mistaking that it had been recently washed. ‘Mickey, get in here. I need yow to help me lift the carpet.’

  They moved the bed to the opposite side of the room and laid the two bedside cabinets on it. Clark used his knife to lever up a six-foot run of the carpet from the gripper nailed to the floor. Grabbing hold, they pulled the rest of the carpet away from the wall and rolled it up as they moved toward the lighter patch. The underlay was thick grey felt. As they exposed the washed area it became darker, almost black. Clark cut a one-foot square of felt from the middle of the dark patch. The floorboards beneath it were also stained black with blood. ‘It looks like wi’ve found where Christina was killed. But where’s Lafferty?’