A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Sherlock and his trusty bloodhound,’ said McEwan as he crossed the floor to meet Collins and Clark.

  Collins ignored the remark and said, ‘I had a message you wanted to see me, Mr Mc Ewan.’

  ‘Yes. I left it this morning,’ he replied and made it sound like a teacher reprimanding a pupil for their tardiness.

  ‘Sorry, but I only received it an hour ago.’

  ‘Busy catching killers, I suppose. Well I have a spot of good news for you. If that Catholic conscience of yours is bothering you about Mr Williams you can say three Hail Marys and forgive yourself. His death was not your fault. The bus did not kill him and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand the bang on the head wouldn’t have killed any normal man. Unfortunately for young Mitch he was not normal. He had the thinnest skull that I and my colleagues at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital have ever seen. Given his chosen occupation and the fact that he has probably had more than a few fights I’m amazed that he’s survived this long. One punch or even the slightest blow on the head could have killed him. You’re off the hook, my fine Irish Mick.’

  Collins didn’t react to Mc Ewan’s final insult, and instead thanked him for the information and left.

  ‘How is it that even when he’s got good news that bastard has to try and wind yow up?’

  ‘I don’t know. I reckon it’s a gift he’s got.’

  ‘Anyway, how do yow feel about what he said?’

  ‘I didn’t kill the lad, but I did set in motion the events that caused his death. If Moore had been where he was supposed to be instead of lying on the floor none of it would have happened. But you know what? I feel really sorry for Mitch and his mother, but I can live with it. ‘

  ‘That’s good. ’Cos I’m telling yow, Mickey, it weren’t your fault.’

  Sheldon, 17.35hrs

  The rain was lashing down as Martin Cunningham left his office. Ignoring the zebra crossing twenty yards to his left, he trotted to the centre of the road. There he stood with cars passing behind and in front of him for twenty seconds before a break in the traffic allowed him to reach the other pavement. It was a journey he made every day to the newsagent opposite his offices. A man of habit, he always bought the same few items. The Birmingham Mail for himself, three different packets of sweets for the kids, and once a week a box of Black Magic chocolates for his wife, although Fiona, the eldest, had announced last week that she was getting too old for sweets. However, Cunningham had noticed that it had not stopped her scoffing whatever he brought home.

  Exiting the shop, Cunningham stood in the doorway watching for his chance. He noticed the dark blue Ford Zephyr parked illegally thirty yards away to his right. As he started his run for the middle of the road the Zephyr moved off, accelerating up to thirty miles per hour. Standing on the centre line and watching the oncoming traffic Cunningham saw the Zephyr too late as it pulled over the white line. His reactions were still fast, and he jumped into the air an instant before the car hit him. Landing on the bonnet he slipped off and hit the road hard. His momentum sent him sprawling across the carriageway. The driver of an oncoming bread lorry saw him lying on the road and steered for the pavement while slamming on the brakes. His back wheels caught Cunningham a glancing blow to the head.

  As traffic on both sides of the road came to a stop, the Zephyr swept away and headed for a nearby scrap yard and its appointment with a car crusher.

  Cunningham lay unmoving. His left leg was at a very unnatural angle and blood seeped from his forehead and left ear.

  Handsworth, 21.20hrs

  News of Martin Cunningham’s accident reached Collins later that evening when he received a call at home from Sergeant O’Driscoll. ‘Mickey, I’m not entirely sure what you and Clarkee are up to, and I don’t want to, but I thought you’d like to know that Martin Cunningham was involved in a hit and run earlier this evening outside his offices. He’s been taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.’

  Hanging up, Collins immediately called Clark. ‘Have you heard the news?’, he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I was just about to ring yow. What wi going to do?’

  ‘Pay a visit to Mrs Cunningham in the morning.’

  ‘I was afraid yow’d say that. I’ll pick you up from the station around nine.’

  ‘OK.’

  Saturday 28th September 1968

  Handsworth, 09.13hrs

  As Collins walked past the Charge Room, Sergeant Ridley waved him in. ‘Glad I caught you, Mickey. I thought you’d like to see this report from Thursday night.’

  Collins took the proffered sheets of paper and looked at the heading, “Killing of young dog.” ‘Not another bloody one?’

  ‘Afraid so. This one took place near St Augustine’s Church. I was hoping you could talk to the man who found the dog’s body. His details are on the second page.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll go and see him later today. Thanks for this.’

  Solihull, 10.03hrs

  The change in Yolande Cunningham since Collins and Clark had last seen her was shocking. She looked drained of all vitality. Her eyes were black from lack of sleep and her skin was as pale as that of a two-day old corpse. In her usually bright eyes there was only bewilderment, while her movements were slow and ponderous.

  ‘Yolande, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we heard the news and wanted to wish Martin and you all best for a quick recovery. How’s he doing?’ Collins asked.

  ‘It’s good of you to call. Come in. Come in.’ Even on one of the worst days of her life it was impossible for Mrs Cunningham to be unsociable. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’

  ‘Why don’t yow point me in the right direction and I’ll make us all a cuppa while yow have a chat with Mickey.’

  ‘Ah sure, that’s good of you. Just follow your nose through that door,’ she said pointing, ‘and you’ll trip over it. The brack’s in the bread bin.’

  Collins sat in the same chair he had used only a few days earlier. ‘How are the girls?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, they love their Daddy. They’re all desperately worried. They feel terrible about it, as he was just buying sweets for them. Did it every day without fail, and now he’s in a coma.’ Yolande’s voice cracked and the tears started to fall again as long, loud sobs shook her body. Collins felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as a cold chill ran through his body. He did it every day, he thought.

  Half-recovered, Yolande ground her right fist into the settee cushion. ‘The fecking bastard didn’t even stop. Ran him over like a dog and kept going.’

  Clark appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea and six thick slices of well buttered Irish brack. He laid the tray on the table and handed Yolande her mug of hot sweet tea before taking his and sitting down beside her. ‘Where am the girls?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re out with their Uncle Declan. He caught the last plane out of Dublin last night as soon as he heard the news.’

  ‘It’s good to have family around you at times like this,’ said Collins.

  ‘Oh, Declan’s not family. His name is Boyle. He’s Martin’s oldest friend. Martin might have left Ireland in 1949 but he’s never forgot where he comes from nor the people he loves. I don’t think there’s a person in the village he hasn’t helped over the years.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Collins. ‘I only met him the once, but he seemed a decent man to me.’

  ‘That he is.’

  Both Collins and Clark knew that there was nothing they could say which would comfort Yolande. She needed her husband to wake up from the coma he was in, so they drank their tea, ate their cake and tried to encourage her to talk about Martin. Occasionally a smile would flit across her mouth as she remembered a specific incident, but it did not last long. The fear she felt obliterated every happy thought as soon as it was born.

  After half an hour Collins and Clark made their excuses and left. They were halfway down the path when they saw Yolande’s children walking slowly up the road, a tall thin man in his mid-forties bes
ide them. Ignoring the car, the two officers walked towards the sad little group. ‘Hello girls,’ said Collins. ‘We’ve just been to see your Mammy. We’re really sorry to hear about your Daddy.’

  The girls mumbled their thanks, all the time looking at the ground.

  ‘Are you the Garda?’ asked the thin man. His voice was deep and sounded strange coming from such a slim man. His eyes were set back with black rings under each. He had a large sharp nose and a small mouth. Collins was vaguely aware of having seen the face before but could not place it.

  ‘You must be Declan Boyle,’ said Collins, ‘Yolande spoke of you. I’m Detective Sergeant Collins and this is Detective Constable Clark,’ and held out his hand.

  Boyle ignored Collins’ hand and asked, ‘Are you investigating the hit and run?’ His dark eyes never wavered from Collins face. It was if he was committing the younger man’s face to memory.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why are you here, then?’

  ‘We met Martin a few weeks ago on another matter.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Best yow ask Mrs Cunningham,’ said Clark and touching Collins on the elbow said, ‘Wi have to go, girls. Be good to yowr Mom, she needs yow now.’

  As Clark drove away Collins looked at him and said, ‘You didn’t much like Boyle, did you?’

  ‘Bloody right, I dain’t. Every instinct I have was telling me that the Karloff lookalike were dangerous.’

  Collins smiled as he realised that Boyle certainly did look like Boris Karloff but still, he could not shake the conviction that he’d seen the man before. ‘Well, he was certainly unfriendly. But maybe he just doesn’t like the police.’

  ‘No, there were more to his attitude than that. He really dain’t like yow, Mickey. Now, I know that lots of people who hate the sight of yow, but normally they have to know yow for a few days before they hate yowr guts. He despised yow the minute yow said yow were police. I think it might be worth finding out a bit about him.’

  ‘Do you want me to give Dublin a call?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  They were on the A45 heading into Birmingham before Collins spoke again. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Now yow know what the doctor said about that. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘We’ll at least I don’t keep me brain in a shoebox at home, like some I could mention.’

  ‘Don’t go insulting my box, it’s a very nice box. Anyways, whatcha been thinking?’

  ‘Yolande said that Martin always bought his kids sweets, every day without fail.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What if he always bought them from the same newsagents, at the same time, most days?’

  Clark considered the implications of what Collins had said before replying, ‘Yow know, I’m starting to hate this case with all its coincidences.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But at this stage it’s only a maybe.’

  ‘And maybe me Auntie was a sergeant major in the war and had her balls shot off.’

  ‘What the feck does that mean?’

  ‘It means that one it’s possible, and two if it were a contract killing it would explain why the car hit him when he was standing in the middle of the road and why no one has been able to find it or why it looks like it were using false number plates.’

  ‘Where did you get that info from?’

  ‘I have my sources.’

  ‘And when were you going to tell me?’

  ‘I just have. Where next?

  ‘I think it’s about time that we visited Councillor Hill’s abode.’

  City Road, 12.35hrs

  Councillor Hill’s wife answered the door, checked both Collins’ and Clark’s warrant cards carefully and then shouted up the stairs. ‘Bill, there are a couple of policemen here to see you.’

  As Mrs Hill led them into a small dining room which had been converted into a very untidy office. Both men heard the sound of bedsprings and Hill’s feet hitting the bedroom floor, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of a flushing toilet and running water. When he appeared, Hill looked both tired and hungover. He was a big man, over six foot with a beer belly and a pair of breasts that clearly showed through his grubby shirt. He had the flabby facial features of a town drunk, with thick, slobbery lips, a nose covered in blackheads and pig-like pale eyes that seemed to be examining you like a hungry man looks at a sirloin steak. The stink of last night’s drinking seeped from every pore in his skin.

  Collapsing into the swivel chair behind the desk, he waved at the two high-backed dining room chairs set against the wall, raised one cheek from the chair and farted. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered, before delving into the centre drawer of the desk and fishing out a pack of Players cigarettes. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, lighting up. Every word he spoke seemed to be shouted making even the most inoffensive statements sound belligerent and aggressive. Collins took an immediate dislike to the man.

  While Clark prowled the room, Collins sat down, crossed his legs, and picked a piece of lint from the knee of his trousers before asking, ‘We’re wondering why you signed in a known prostitute to the reception held at the Council House, a Miss Claire Lafferty, for a Saudi prince on the first of June this year.’

  Collins watched Hill closely. The distain on his face was easy to read and interpret; he was too hungover to spend time talking to these bastards. Leaning forward, Hill laid both hands on the desk and intertwined his fingers. The fingers of his left hand were stained yellow and his fingernails were long with a rim of dirt beneath each nail. Glowering at Collins, he said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that? I’m not some nigger in the back streets of Birmingham you can intimidate. If you want to talk about Council business, then contact my secretary for an appointment at the Council House and don’t bother me at home again.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said Collins amicably. ‘We choose the time and place and you answer our questions.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, you officious cunt?’ shouted Hill. ‘I’m a respected Councillor and if I don’t get an apology out of you in the next two minutes I’ll be speaking to the Chief Constable as soon as you’ve left. You jumped-up Irish prick.’

  ‘Please don’t shout, Sir,’ said Collins as he watched Clark move behind Hill’s chair. ‘You see, my colleague doesn’t like it when people shout. Next to mentioning the war it’s the worst thing you can do.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about? What war?’

  Clark who had circled behind the councillor, grabbed the back of Hill’s head and slammed his face into the desktop.

  ‘I told you not to mention the war, Sir, didn’t I?’ said Collins.

  ‘Yow see, Mickey. It’s like I told yow. No one remembers the war and all the hardships I had to endure to make the world safe for arseholes like this ’un.’

  ‘You’ve broke my fucking nose,’ cried Hill.

  Clark looked at the blood running down Hill’s face and grabbed the offending protuberance between his thumb and index finger and waggled it from side to side. Hill squirmed and tried to pull away. ‘It ain’t broke. Just rearranged.’ Hill grabbed at Clark’s hand but immediately let go when Clark hit him with a short jab to the side of his face.

  A moan of pain escaped the councillor’s lips and he said something which sounded like ‘Geff thif fuckher offa me.’

  ‘Ah, sure. I can’t do that. He’s a decorated war hero and I’m just a “jumped up Irish prick”. Besides, you’ve not said the magic word.’

  ‘What fucking magic word?’

  ‘Do yow know something, Mickey? I think Mrs Ashcroft was right all those years ago when she said people are less civil these days.’

  ‘I agree with you. People have no manners these days,’ said Collins. ‘I blame the war.’

  Releasing Hill’s nose Clark banged the man’s head on the desk for a second time but not so hard this time. ‘I told yow Mickey, don’t mention the war.’

  Flopping back
in his seat, Hill took out a soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed gently at his nose before wiping the blood from his mouth and chin. The last few minutes had sobered him up and he was now wide awake. Glaring through hate-filled eyes, he asked. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Collins. ‘Why did you sign in a known prostitute and her mate to the reception held at the Council House for the Saudi prince on the first of June 1968?’

  Hill shook his head and licked his lips. ‘I was asked to provide some entertainment for the prince, should he want it. I was told he liked small women.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘No one. It was just a nod and a wink.’

  ‘And did the prince take what was on offer?’

  ‘No. He left with one of the waiters at the end of the night. No one told me he was a puff.’

  ‘Where did you get the girl from?’

  ‘I’d seen her before at other events. It wasn’t hard to see what she was.’

  ‘Answer the question,’ said Clark, ‘or I’ll give yow another slap. Mickey asked where did yow get her from.’

  Maybe Hill was confused. Maybe he was thinking about what the least incriminating answer was. Either way, it took him several seconds to reply. ‘She’s a model. Works out of Pure Gold Modelling Agency.’

  ‘What about her mate? The big blonde?’

  ‘I didn’t ask for her. The other girl just brought her along.’

  ‘Did yow see who the girls left with?’

  ‘The blond girl left with Endbury around 10.30. Lafferty left later with some bloke I’ve never seen before.’

  Clark held Hill by the chin and fixed him with an unswerving stare. ‘Now that weren’t so bad, was it? I’m going to tell yowr misses that yow tripped and banged yowr nose but yow’ll be right as rain after a couple of aspirin and a cup of tea. Right?’