A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  Burntwood, 12.08hrs

  Collins pulled up outside Clark’s house, trotted up the steps and rang the bell. Even before Clark opened the door, Collins could hear Michael crying and smiled. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Always, if yow’re sure yow can read the map.’

  ‘I can read a map.’

  ‘I dain’t know that? Who taught yow?’

  ‘Up yours, you Villa fan.’

  ‘Yow do know, Chasetown is nineteen miles from Brum and it has no train station and a lousy bus service and if yow cheek me again I’m going leave yow stranded there. We’ll take my car.’

  Instead of going straight across the Chester Road at the end of the Queslett Road and heading into Sutton Coldfield, Clark turned sharp left onto the Chester Road and headed for Brownhills. Parts of the Chester Road had been built nearly 1,800 years earlier by the Romans and while the road was no longer as straight as a yard measure it still contained plenty of straights that allowed Clark to put his foot down.

  Chasetown was one of three small mining villages in Staffordshire where a massive house building programme in recent years had changed the character of the area forever. Small two and three-bedroom houses had sprung up all over Chasetown and its near neighbours Burntwood and Chase Terrace. Originally the three had formed a triangle on the map with not very much in the centre except farmland. Now the centre was crammed with houses intended for young married couples working in Birmingham. Thousands had responded to the low prices and the proximity of Cannock Chase with its miles of trees, bridle paths, heathland and 800 strong deer herd, and headed north to start a family.

  The Simpsons had lived at 58 Leverson Avenue. Turning off Queen Street. Clark had to drop down to second gear to take the one in eight road. Number 58 was at the top, on a corner. Clark pulled up beside a well-kept lawn. The house was a dormer bungalow with two bedrooms downstairs and the main bedroom and the bathroom upstairs. As Clark locked the car, Collins spotted the lounge curtain twitch.

  Collins pressed the bell and waited as he heard someone fumble with the security chain. It was only when the door opened, did he realise that the tired and dispirited young woman in front of him had been putting the chain on the door, not removing it. Her hand was trembling as she asked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Simpson?’ She nodded. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Collins and this is Detective Constable Clark. We’d like to talk to you about your late husband,’ he said holding his warrant card up for her to see.

  ‘Why?’

  Throughout the brief exchange, Collins had been assessing Mrs Simpson. It was clear she was living on the edge of a breakdown. Her ginger hair looked lifeless and her eyes darted from Collins’ warrant card to his face and then his hands. It would only take a single wrong word and she would dissolve into tears or much worse. She didn’t need the usual police platitudes. She needed some hope. Collins decided to gamble. ‘We don’t think your husband John committed suicide.’

  The woman searched Collins’ face and eyes for any sign of deceit and found none. Tears began to roll silently down her freckle-covered cheeks and she said, ‘You’d better come in,’ and closing the door, she undid the safety chain.

  There was no hall in the house and Collins and Clark immediately found themselves in a neat lounge with a blue settee sporting brightly coloured exotic birds, and matching chairs. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Maybe later, Mrs Simpson,’ said Collins unsure how long the frightened woman in front of him would remain stable enough to answer questions.

  ‘All right, then. What do you want to know?’ she asked flopping into one of the armchairs. Picking up a scatter cushion, she held it across her stomach and chest as if it were a shield.

  ‘We’re investigating possible corruption in Birmingham City Council and someone suggested that your husband may have been investigating the same matter before he died.’

  ‘What we really want to hear, Mrs Simpson,’ said Clark, ‘is yowr story about everything that happened leading up to yowr hubby’s death and later at the inquest.’

  For the first time since they met a thin smile spread across Mrs Simpson’s lips. ‘It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Collins.

  ‘In that case we’ll all need a cup of tea,’ she said rising, ‘And please call me Annabel.’

  Five minutes later, a mug of tea in her hand, Annabel Simpson started to tell her story. ‘John and I were married in 1966, the day England won the World Cup and the same year he qualified as an accountant. We moved out here in early ’67 and that coincided with him getting the job of Contracts Auditor at Birmingham Council. Everything was great at first. He loved his job and we loved this house. It’s got loads of scope for improvement and we found a wonderful church just up the road at Sankey’s Corner. A real evangelical church.

  ‘Then in early 1967 he started to bring home papers from work. Not just the odd memo or report, but boxes of files. He stopped doing any work around the house and spent all of Saturday and even some of Sunday in the back room going through the papers.’

  Collins wanted to ask what the papers were about but decided against it. Annabel had that faraway look that people get when they are reliving past events. All will become clear in time, he thought.

  ‘This went on for weeks. I was getting worried. Poor John was working himself into the ground. Finally, I asked him what was going on and when would I get my husband back. Well, he just smiled and said, “I’ve almost finished, just another few days and I’ll deliver my report to the Chief Auditor. Then it will be his problem, not ours.” I was so happy to hear this that I didn’t ask him what the report was about.

  ‘About a week later I got a telephone call from an old friend, Angela Greening. I hadn’t seen her since school. She said she was going to be in Brum on business the following week and could we meet up for a meal to catch up on old times. I said yes.

  ‘We arranged to meet at the Belgravia Hotel on New Street for a drink before going on for our meal. Well she was late. Just like she always was, and this chap started to chat me up. I told him I was married, and he said he was just killing time before he met his girlfriend and could he chat to me until my friend arrived. Well he was good-looking, and he was nice, so I saw no harm in it.

  ‘The next thing I can remember is waking up in a hotel room naked. My clothes were all over the floor and my knickers were ripped. I knew I had been raped. I could smell him on me.’

  ‘I spent an hour in the shower and bath that night trying to scrub myself clean. But no matter how many showers I take, I’ve not felt clean since it happened.’ Annabel stopped talking and looked at her hands. Her fingernails had been gnawed down to the quick and a thin line of blood rimmed seven nails. She took a deep breath and shivered, but when she continued her voice was strong. ‘When I got home, I told John everything that had happened, and he believed me. But I could tell he was worried. As if he blamed himself.

  ‘The next day I tried to phone Angela, but it was just a hotel number, and no one knew anything about her. Later when the police were checking my story, they traced Angela to Manchester, and she said she’d never called me.’

  ‘About three days after I was raped a package arrived addressed to John and me. I opened it and there were about twenty photos of me and the man I’d met in the bar. Some of them were absolutely disgusting. I was doing things to him that I’d never done with John. With it was a note saying that unless John lost his report on property contracts the photos would be sent to our family and friends and our local church. They said they wanted all the notes, draft reports and the final report by Friday or the photos would go in the post Saturday morning. John was to deliver them to a man he would meet on the fourth floor of the Stirling Street car park.

  ‘We discussed it for two solid days. I wanted John to go to the police. But he didn’t want to see me dragged through the press. On Friday night, John kissed me goodbye and the last words he ever said to me were, “A
fter tonight we can get on with our lives.” He took everything they asked for, including the photos. Four hours later the police arrived to tell me he’d committed suicide by jumping from the multi-storey car park.

  ‘The inquest was terrible. The police traced the man that I said had raped me and he said that I’d been alone in the bar and that I’d approached him. As for the photos, he said he knew nothing about that. It had just been him and me in the hotel room. Then Mr Hastings, the Chief Auditor, said that he had no knowledge of any report John had been writing.

  ‘It was implied that I’d made the whole story up about the report and being raped because I’d told my husband what I’d done and couldn’t face the fact that he’d committed suicide because of me. One paper called me “The Black Angel”. John’s parents haven’t spoken to me since the inquest. Even my own family have disowned me – except me mom who tries to phone when me dad is out. But she always ends up crying.’

  ‘And no copies of this report were ever found?’ asked Collins.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about the files your hubby brought home, are they still here?’

  ‘No. Two men from the Audit office called the week after John’s death and took everything that belonged to the Council.’

  ‘And this Chief Auditor still maintains that he knew nothing of your husband’s report?’

  Annabel nodded.

  Collins placed his hand on hers and said, ‘I’ve just got one more question for you. Why did they go after you, rather than try and blackmail your husband? Wouldn’t that have been easier?’

  ‘I was pretty wild when I was at school and after. I drank and slept around. I was even arrested once for prostitution, but the case was dismissed. I was so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing. It was only after I met John that I cleaned my act up and found Jesus. That’s why I loved him so much. He was a decent man who had standards and beliefs and tried to live up to them. It was easier to blackmail a bad girl turned good than a genuinely good man whose reputation would protect him. You do believe me, don’t you?’ Her voice was beseeching.

  ‘Yes, we believe you.’

  Annabel slumped back in her chair and the tears began to flow freely, but this time there was a smile on her face. After a few moments she wiped her face clean with the back of her hand and said, ‘Time for more tea and a sandwich all round. I have no bacon, but I have some Cumberland sausages. How about that?’

  Clark exchanged looks with Collins and then answered for both, ‘That would be bostin.’

  As Mrs Simpson laid the tray of sausage sandwiches and tea on the coffee table the transformation in her appearance was amazing. Collins could see that some colour had returned to her face and life and hope were creeping back into her eyes. After twelve months of being branded a liar, someone finally believed her and there was a chance that her attacker would face justice. As they munched their way through their sandwiches Clark asked, ‘Is there anything at all left of yowr hubby’s notes and papers?’

  ‘If there is, they’ll still be in his room. I’ve not touched anything in there since he left that Friday night.’

  ‘Mind if I take a butchers?’ asked Clark.

  ‘No, feel free.’

  While Clark disappeared into the small study off the lounge Collins was playing with an idea. ‘Mrs Simpson…’

  ‘Annabel, please.’

  ‘Annabel, you’ve been cooped up in this house with no one to talk to about what happened. I’m surprised that you’ve managed so well. My landlady works with women who have been beaten and raped. She knows about these things. I think it would do you good to stay with her for a few nights. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  Collins saw the hesitation and said, ‘I tell you what. Just come back with me for tonight and then if you don’t like Agnes, I’ll drive you home in the morning.’

  ‘Well, I suppose one …’

  ‘Good. I’ll give her a ring while you pack an overnight bag. Then I’d better give Clarkee a hand checking out the study. He’s been known to get lost in his own back garden,’ he joked and was rewarded with the briefest of smiles from Annabel.

  Left alone, Collins called Agnes and without giving any details said that he would be bringing home a woman who needed help. Agnes didn’t ask any questions; they would come later. She just said, ‘We’ve got plenty of room.’

  Hanging up Collins found Clark in Simpson’s small office which was inordinately neat and tidy. Everything you would expect from an accountant, except for the light covering of dust on the furniture, books, files and black plastic floor tiles. ‘Found anything?’ Collins asked.

  ‘Couple of diaries, a few torn pages in the wastepaper bin. Lots of passages underlined in the Council’s Standing Orders and Financial Regulations but nowt of any use.’

  Collins wandered over to the desk and ran his hand over the black and gold Remington Rand typewriter on the table. A blank sheet of paper already in the carriage and a quick check showed that the ribbon was brand new. Closing his eyes Collins remembered Padraig O’Brian standing beside him at his interview. “Close your eyes now and type your name and address.” The result had been disastrous, but all that Padraig said was, “Sure some of the best reporters I ever worked with couldn’t type. You’re hired. Start Monday, OK.” Still with his eyes shut he typed out his name.

  ‘Whatsha doing?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Remembering me past. I used to have the same model when I was at The Bray News. Looking down Collins saw his work, but it wasn’t what he’d typed. It was gibberish. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Whatcha got?’

  ‘I’m not sure but it looks like someone typed a string of characters and then rewound the ribbon to the start.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Possibly to check the alignment or to leave a clue.’

  ‘And now yow’ve just typed all over it. You pillock.’

  ‘I’ll take it back to the station and get one of the SOCO lads to have a look at it.’ Collins picked up the typewriter and immediately felt something attached to the base. He laid the typewriter on its side and there, stuck to the underside of it by a four-inch piece of Sellotape, was a small key. ‘Will you look at this?’ he said.

  Clark wandered over and bending down, smiled. ‘That’s either a key for a safe deposit box or left luggage. But I reckon yow’ve just typed over its bloody address. Like I said, yam a pillock.’

  ‘I found it.’

  ‘Sheer bloody luck.’

  Handsworth, 16.27hrs

  Agnes turned down the gas under the pot of soup she’d been stirring when she heard Clark’s car pull up on the drive. Opening the front door, she kissed Collins on the cheek and shook Annabel’s hand. After the introductions were complete, Agnes said, ‘Come in Mrs Simpson – or can I call you Annabel?’

  ‘Annabel, please.’

  ‘I’ll show you to your room and you can freshen up before we have a bite to eat. I’m afraid it’s just soup and bread. I didn’t have time to cook.’

  As Agnes led Annabel up the stairs, she nodded at Collins, ‘Don’t wait for us. Have some soup before you head back to the station.’

  Collins immediately knew what that meant. Agnes was going to have a chat with Annabel and depending on how well that went she would be down in either a few minutes or in two hours.

  The station was unnaturally quiet when Collins arrived carrying the Remington Rand typewriter. The afternoon shift was out on duty; no one had called in for assistance and both Hicks and O’Driscoll were at home.

  Collins ran his finger under the front of his belt. It was tight. You’re getting flabby Michael, he thought. A waist of barely 28 inches when I landed in this county and now it’s tight at 32. No cake for you. Just a cuppa.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting at his desk. He rewound the ribbon then removed it from the typewriter. Picking up his diary, he found the home phone number for his mate at Scenes of Crime Office. His call was answered on
the third ring, ‘Biddeford,’ was the one word greeting he received from Sergeant Biddeford, who like Clark had enjoyed a good war.‘Joe, it’s Mickey. Can you come over to CID on Monday please? I need your help to read a typewriter ribbon.’

  ‘It ain’t me you want, Mickey. I know fuck all about typewriters. There’s a guy whose number I can give you. Runs his own typewriter business. I’ve used him in the past. He don’t charge us for his services.’

  ‘OK, mate. Give me his number.’

  Hanging up, Collins rang Sidney Steptoe’s home number, introduced himself, mentioned Biddeford’s name and outlined what he was after.

  ‘Well, I can’t come immediately but I could make it for five thirty tomorrow, if that’s all right?’ asked Sidney in what sounded like a woman’s voice.

  ‘That would be great. Thank you very much, Mr Steptoe.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Always pleased to help the police. But please call me Sidney.’

  ‘See you Monday at five thirty, Sidney.’

  Picking up his mug of sweet tea, Collins settled back and started to read the crime reports from stations in the city. There wasn’t much going on. Give it a few weeks and firework-related accidents and petty crime would increase along with the injuries. For now it was just the usual burglaries, a couple of smash and grabs in the city centre, a fairly big punch-up at a pub in Hockley between two biker gangs and the killing of a pet rabbit in Perry Barr and the nailing of its body to a garden gate. His heart missed a beat as he read the details. The injuries and the display of the body were identical to those of the kitten. Picking up the phone he rang Perry Barr station and asked to be put through to DCI Jameson who had signed the report. After a two-minute conversation, Jameson agreed to circulate a request to all stations in the Birmingham area for any similar incidents of small animals being killed, and promised to send Collins a copy of his findings. Collins hung up and moved on to checking his notes for the inquest into the death of Mitch Williams the following week.