A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  Hill lowered his head and mumbled, ‘Yes.’

  ‘One last thing,’ said Collins, ‘don’t tell Councillor Robbins or the Agency that we might be calling on them. If you do, Detective Constable Clark here will be back – alone.’

  Back on the street Collins said, ‘You need to practice your nutter act a bit. I didn’t think it had your usual intensity.’

  ‘I was trying to hold the rage back. I dain’t want to show everything all at once. I wanted to hint at deeper wells of lunacy.’

  ‘I see. And where the feck did you hear that load of bollocks?’

  ‘One of those BBC arts programmes. Some skinny little shite were talking about his role as Macbeth. He dain’t look mean enough to scare Bram.’

  ‘That’s it, Get out of the car. Turn around three times and spit each time you complete a turn.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘You just said “Macbeth” in the car. Oh, feck. Now I’ve used the name. We’re cursed for fourteen years.’

  ‘Oh Larry, I hate to tell yow but wi ain’t actors. I can say “Macbeth” as often as I like, and it won’t bring us bad luck.’

  ‘Ah! but there you are wrong, my good man,’ proclaimed Collins loudly in a passable impression of Lawrence Olivier. ‘The whole world is a stage and we are but poor actors each with our own entrances and exits.’

  ‘Yow’ll have my foot up your exit if yow don’t tell me where wem going next?’

  ‘Why my good fellow, let us travel yonder and have a look at the beautiful people.’

  ‘I’m getting really fucking worried about yow. Ever since Agnes started taking yow to the theatre yow ain’t been right in the head.’

  ‘No, hang on,’ said Collins looking at his watch. ‘We’ve had another report of a young animal being slaughtered. The guy who found the body lives in Greenhill Road. Fancy a slight detour before the Agency?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Twenty minutes later Collins drew up outside a small villa. ‘You don’t have to come,’ he said.

  ‘Na, I’m interested. Maybe we can catch the bastard before he moves on to people.’

  ‘You think that’s likely?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I still think of those three kids regularly and wonder could I have done sommut to stop the bastard.’

  Collins’ knock on the green door was answered almost immediately. The man in front of them was over six feet tall, with grey hair, soft eyes and the look of a man who was used to manual work. ‘Mr Toomey I’m DS Collins and this man is DC Clark. We’re here about…’

  ‘The dog. I’m glad someone is taking this seriously. Whoever did this is sick in the head. Let me get me jacket and I’ll take you down to the school where he left the poor fella.’

  Walking the hundred yards to St Augustine’s, Toomey gave a full description of how he had found the animal. ‘I’m the school caretaker and I start work at six thirty every morning. On Friday I walked to the school to open it up for the cleaners and found the door open. Someone had used a jemmy to smash the lock. I thought it was a burglary, so I headed straight for Sister Angela’s office but that was still locked.’ He stopped speaking to show Collins and Clark the damage that had been done to the front door. Then turning left, he beckoned the two men to follow him. ‘That’s Sister Angela’s office, she’s the headmistress.’ Walking ten yards past the office, he stopped by a statue of Mary holding a baby Jesus. It was a fine piece of work, but the child’s swaddling clothes and Mary’s white robe were covered by a mucky brown coloured substance. ‘The puppy was hung by the neck around the statue’s neck. The stomach had been cut open and the guts pulled out. I took the body down and quickly washed the blood off. If you want to see the poor little thing, I have it in the workshop.’

  Collins answered for both men. ‘No, that’s all right, Mr Toomey. You can dispose of the body. This is the second incident of this type in a few days and I can assure you that we will catch whoever is responsible.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Birmingham, 16.25hrs

  The journey into Birmingham was done in almost complete silence. Both men had been shocked by the level of rage that had been behind the attack on the mongrel puppy. It reminded Clark of the savagery of the attacks on the animals in the fifties and Collins was angered by how the dead animal had been killed and displayed.

  As they climbed out of the car Clark said, ‘I want the bastard responsible.’

  Collins replied, ‘Me too.’

  The Pure Gold Modelling Agency occupied the ground floor of a Georgian town house on Calthorpe Road, between St George’s Church and Five Ways, Edgbaston. Clark pushed the heavy wooden door open and followed the sign to reception. A tall woman with a short black mini skirt, frilly white blouse and long glistening, black hair down to her waist and beyond, stood up and said, ‘Good afternoon gentlemen. Can I help you?’ The smile was the full two hundred watt model.

  Clark showed his warrant card and said, ‘The Sergeant and me would like to see the manager, please.’

  The smile faded to forty watts as she replied, ‘I’ll see if Mr Redford can see you. Won’t you please take a seat?’

  Collins remained standing by the receptionist’s desk. Clark meandered about the room, stopping to look at a range of pictures on the wall and the two catalogues of models that rested on the coffee table. He was flicking through the men’s catalogue when the receptionist returned.

  ‘You’re in luck. Mr Redford can see you now.’

  Turning over the catalogue page, Clark paused before saying. ‘Did yow hear that Sergeant? Wem lucky that Mr Redford has the time to see us.’ Laying the book down he said to the Receptionist, ‘What gave yow the impression that Mr Redford had any choice in the matter, love?’

  The receptionist waited until both men had their backs to her and then stuck up two fingers.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Clark.

  Mr Paul Redford was average height, average weight and average looking. He had the sort of face that you would forget within thirty seconds after seeing it for the first time. However, what he lacked in looks, he made up for in low cunning and a level of insight unusual in someone from his background. In a business where first impressions were all-important, he recognised that he needed to do something to stand out. The result was an immaculately tailored, blue stripped mohair suit, a pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, electric blue cravat and handmade Italian shoes, worn without socks – very stylish. But his crowning glory was his immaculately coiffured hair, which was dyed dark brown, long and luxuriant.

  The accent, when he spoke, was West End of London. ‘Morning, gents. What can I do you for? Need a bird to jump out of a birthday cake, do you? I’ve got a special price for my pals in blue.’

  ‘We’re not here about a cake. We understand that you had a girl by the name of Claire Lafferty on your books,’ said Collins.

  ‘Name doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll have to look her up,’ he said and went to the low bookcase behind his desk and drew out a black ledger stamped “Register of Models”. After a few minutes of seemingly fruitless search he looked up, and with a regretful smile said, ‘Sorry, I don’t have any record of her.’

  Collins looked at Clark and said, ‘That’s a pity.’

  Clark moved quickly and slammed the ledger closed on Redford’s hands. Redford gave a high-pitched yelp and pulled his hands clear. As he did so Clark grabbed the manager’s left wrist and elbow and in one fluid movement pushed the arm up his back. Holding Redford’s left hand with his right, Clark used his left hand to apply pressure to the elbow and push the man’s head down onto the blotting paper.

  ‘’What the fuck? You can’t do this,’ he croaked.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Collins. ‘You’re just helping us with our inquiries. But unfortunately, you forgot a few details and we are helping you to remember. The sooner you remember the sooner we’ll be out of your lovely hair.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who ordered Lafferty f
or the do at the Council House?’

  ‘Which do?’

  Clark pushed the trapped arm further up Redford’s back. ‘Don’t piss us about or I’ll break yowr arm and then start on the other one.’

  ‘OK. OK. Just loosen your grip.’

  Clark relaxed the pressure very slightly.

  ‘The Bosses said to send her.’

  Bosses? thought Collins, and immediately asked, ‘Which one?’

  ‘It was Hill. But Robbins knew about it.’

  Again, Collins exchanged looks with Clark, who winked and said to the back of Redford’s head, ‘Yowr telling me that Councillors Hill and Robbins run this knocking shop?’

  ‘It ain’t a knocking shop. We do a lot of legit work, magazines, women’s catalogues, posters. But some customers need a friend for the night, and we try to supply their needs.’

  ‘OK. So, the knocking shop part of the enterprise is just charity work, is it?’ asked Clark releasing Redford’s arm. The manager sat back in his chair massaging first his wrist and then his shoulder.

  ‘Do Reece, Thorne, or anyone else own a part of the business?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Na.’ said Redford. ‘Reece regularly uses our girls to entertain his customers. But he’s always charged full whack.’

  ‘What about Thorne? Ever seen him here?’

  ‘I don’t know any Thorne.’

  ‘What about Sir Charles Endbury?’

  ‘Never heard of the geezer.’

  ‘Who was it that suggested that Claire should bring a friend to the do?’ asked Collins.

  ‘It was Hill who said Claire should bring a friend to the Saudi do. Said it couldn’t be one of the regular girls. Needed to be someone totally new to the game in Brum. With big tits and a bum you could get hold of.’

  ‘OK, Mr Redford, you’ve been most helpful. I don’t suggest that you mention our little visit to Mr Hill or Robbins. If you do, we’ll have to tell them just how helpful you were.’

  The evening had become blustery. Eddies of paper and leaves chased each other along the gutters and across the open road and gardens. Rain was starting to fall, and the dark clouds overhead suggested that it was here to stay for the night. ‘Well that was interesting,’ said Collins. ‘I didn’t think that Hill and Robbins would be running the agency. Maybe we have to rethink their role and position in all that’s been going on.’

  ‘Who do yow want to visit next?’

  ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow. How do you fancy visiting Mrs Simpson tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘OK, but any trip to Chasetown is going to take nearly two hours driving plus the interview. So, we best leave about twelve.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Solihull, 22.37hrs

  Yolande and the kids were in bed when Boyle carried the phone from the hall into the lounge. The lead was just long enough for him to close the door. Sitting on the carpet, he dialled a number in North Dublin from memory. It was answered almost immediately. There was the sound of voices and music in the background.

  ‘Is that Dempsey’s Bar?’

  There was a slight hesitation at the other end. ‘No, you have the wrong number.’

  ‘Ah, sorry to call you. I’ve been trying for ten minutes to find the right number.’

  ‘Can’t help you,’ said the man and hung up.

  Checking his watch, Boyle went in the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea and buttered a piece of soda cake. Munching and drinking, he waited exactly nine minutes forty seconds before ringing a green and cream public call box in Grafton Street, Dublin. The phone was picked up immediately.

  ‘Declan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s so bloody important that you couldn’t leave it until the morning?’ I was just about to get the knickers off a lovely girl from Galway.’

  ‘I need help on that family matter I told you about. Would you send me a couple of lads first thing in the morning?’

  ‘If you need them, they’ll be there before three o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Boyle remained silent for a few moments then said, ‘Yeah see what you can find out about a Detective Sergeant Michael Collins, works for Birmingham police. Late twenties. Judging by his accent, I’d say north side of Dublin.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, and one last thing. Give the Galway girl one for me.’

  Sunday 29th September 1968

  Handsworth, 10.00hrs

  Collins waited until ten before he picked up the phone and rang his old editor at The Bray News. Padraig O’Brian had been well into his sixties when Collins had left for England in 1962 but there was no chance that he had retired. As he himself had often said, “They’ll have to carry me out of here in a box.”

  Collins called The Bray News confident that Padraig would be there alone, as he was every Sunday morning. While his wife attended Mass, he used the time to write. He had been writing stories of Ireland ancient and modern since before Collins had been born, but no one had ever seen or read one of them. Instead, they were stored in a large wooden box and only he had the key to open it. The direct line was picked up after four rings.

  ‘Yes,’ a voice barked.

  ‘Nice to hear you’re still biting people’s heads off whenever they ring you direct.’

  ‘That’s because only friends and family ever call me direct and I’ve told them not to call me at work.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s some logic in your reasoning, Padraig.’

  ‘There is. It means I’m not usually interrupted at work by some eejit of a junior reporter who gave up a promising career to run off and join the police, in England of all places.’ Then relenting, the voice softened and said, ‘How are you, Michael?’

  ‘I’m well. Yourself?’

  ‘Grand. Just grand. Joan got your card. It was good of you to remember her birthday. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come across a guy called Declan Boyle. He’s a friend of Martin Cunningham, a big-time builder in England. Cunningham was badly hurt in a hit and run last Friday. The name sort of rang a bell but there are a lot of Declan Boyles in Ireland.’

  ‘Indeed, there are. Alas, I don’t think I can help you. But you said in Joan’s card that you would be in Dublin Tuesday next. Why don’t we grab lunch at Clerys around two?’

  Collins knew immediately what the mention of Clerys meant. Whatever Padraig O’Brian had to say he didn’t want to trust it to the busybodies of a local exchange. ‘That would be grand. I’ll see you then.’

  Hanging up, Collins called Chief inspector Hicks at home.

  ‘What do you want, Mickey, that won’t wait until Monday?’

  ‘Permission to fly to Dublin on Tuesday, Sir.’

  ‘Why do you need to go to Dublin?’

  ‘When Clarkee and I went to see Mrs Cunningham yesterday to see how she was getting on we met Martin’s best mate Declan Boyle. I’m not sure if it was his name or face that rang a bell. Anyway, I’ve just got off the phone with my old boss at The Bray News. He said he knew nothing about the man but suggested that we have lunch at Clerys Tuesday.’

  ‘And I take it this was his way of saying, I can’t talk on the phone. Meet me?’

  ‘When I worked for him, a lunch at Clerys always used to signal something serious was up. He’s probably got a new word now.’

  ‘You think it might have a bearing on the corruption case?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Sir.’

  ‘OK. Pay for the ticket yourself and if it’s connected you can claim it back on expenses.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  For the rest of the morning Collins went through the information that Marie Bolding had sent and Agnes’s analysis of it and every other piece of information they had collected.

  For once Agnes had been unable to provide any new insights into the data but she had summarised everything that had been collected. Like an actor learning his lines, Collins read the document seven times. Turning th
e files over, he took a piece of paper and made a note of the paper’s key points. When he compared his list with Agnes’, he’d only missed one point. Collins read the summary three more times and repeated the process of writing out the summary. This time he got them all. With a smile he stored the files in a steel cupboard and locked it before heading for Clark’s house.

  New Street Station, 11.07hrs

  Declan Boyle drew up outside New Street station in a Ford Zodiac and two young men wearing Levi’s and stay-pressed button-down shirts climbed into the car. But that was all they had in common. Shamus, the tall one, was over six foot, with a lanky build and a long narrow face. His hair was dark brown and eyes green and sometime in his life his nose had been broken and reset so badly that it was bent to the right.

  His friend Bernie was much shorter, with ginger hair and a mass of freckles that covered his face, arms and chest. What he lacked in height he made up for in bulk, with a large chest, narrow waist and heavily muscled arms.

  Boyle smiled at both men, whom he knew well. He’d worked with them before. They could be trusted. Checking in the mirror, Boyle waited for a gap in the traffic before he pulled away and turned left 150 yards down the road.

  Boyle drove carefully down Navigation Street onto Suffolk Street and picked up the Bristol Road. From force of habit he constantly checked his mirror to confirm that no one was following him. A mile out of town he turned left and headed for Balsall Heath, home to thousands of single Irishmen working on the roads and buildings of Birmingham. He drew up outside a three-storey house and handed the big man sitting next to him a set of keys. ‘Welcome to Brum, lads. The shithole of Europe. Get settled in, you’re in flat 2. I’ll see you at the Irish Club in Digbeth at nine tonight. The drinks are on me.’

  Both men grinned and climbed out of the car. Putting the car in gear, Boyle pulled away, continuing to check regularly in his mirror to see if he was being followed.