A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  Collins pushed him into the kitchen, closed the door and told him to sit down. He looked groggy and disorientated. Collins filled a half-pint glass with water and laid it on the table. Burns picked it up and drained the glass in one go. Exchanging the glass, for a small hand towel Collins said, ‘First, you are finished beating your wife and burning her with cigarettes. Second, you will write a letter to your children telling them the truth, in detail, about what you have been doing to your wife. Third, you will go home, pick up your clothes and move out of your house tonight, and you will never return. Fourth, you will visit your solicitor tomorrow and transfer the house to your wife, and finally you will never attempt to see or speak to your wife again.’

  ‘What makes you think you can tell me what to do? I’m heading straight to the police once I leave here and tell them how you attacked me.’

  ‘Not a good plan. For two reasons. Firstly, I’ve got two terrified women who will testify to what happened and secondly, I am the police, Detective Sergeant Collins and to prove it, here’s my warrant card.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Yes, I am, but I’m not a cowardly bastard like you. Now while I go and get you a pen and paper, I’m going to handcuff you to the cooker.’

  After two poor attempts to write the letter Collins dictated Burn’s confession cum apology to his family, and watched with satisfaction as he signed it. ‘Now if you ever go near your wife again, I promise I will put you in hospital for three months. Now, piss off and pick up your belongings from your wife’s house.’

  Burns rose from the table and dropped the towel on the chair. The blood had congealed and there was now a clear bend in his nose.

  ‘You can keep the towel. I suggest you visit the hospital on your way home.’

  Collins walked Burns to the door and watched as he climbed into his car. As he drove off, Agnes and Sheba came into view.

  ‘Who was that driving away?’ Agnes asked as she slipped out of her overcoat and Sheba, nose to the floor, followed the drips of blood into the kitchen.

  ‘Marjorie’s husband,’ said Collins and gave his fiancée a hug.

  When Marjorie and Annabel returned, they told Agnes the full story and Collins handed Marjorie the letter Burns had written. The two women both embraced Collins with tears in their eyes.

  When Collins told Annabel what Superintendent Patterson had said about John’s audit report the tears began to flow. It was Agnes who broke into the sniffles and laughter, ‘I think we should go out and celebrate. All those in favour say “aye”.’ Collins was the last one to agree as he waved goodbye to an early night.

  Thursday 3rd October 1968

  Sheldon, 02.03hrs

  The police telephone call woke Thorne at exactly three minutes past two. His latest squeeze was snoring gently beside him. Picking up the phone, he confirmed his name and then listened as an Irish copper told him that a regular patrol had found the front door of his premises on Wagoner’s Road open. As the registered keyholder, he was asked if he would attend the premises and accompany the waiting officer into the building.

  It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was annoying. I’ll have to change the name of the keyholder, he thought, as he pulled on his trousers and an old jumper. He quickly went through possible candidates for the job. No one struck him as trustworthy enough. Either they would be out shagging the night away or would be so pissed when they got the call that they’d listen, hang up, turn over and fall asleep immediately. No, there was no one he could trust, and he preferred it that way.

  There were no lights on in the building when he drove onto the forecourt and parked in his reserved parking spot. Stepping from his car he saw a figure in the familiar uniform of a policeman standing beside a powder-blue Ford Anglia panda car, with the broad white stripe running across the top and over the front doors.

  ‘Mr Thorne?’ asked the policeman walking towards him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you for coming out so quickly. If you could accompany me into the building?’

  The door had been kicked in and was open four inches. ‘Bloody amateurs,’ he said, turning towards the policeman. That was when he saw the blackjack being swung at his head by the copper who had just greeted him. As he ducked, the cosh missed its target and smashed against the door. Rising, Thorne swung an uppercut into the midriff of his attacker and followed it up with a right cross that sent the smaller man crashing to the floor. But the man was up almost immediately, reaching inside his jacket. In the moonlight, Thorne saw the handle of an old army revolver. Springing forward, he hit the gunman in the neck with his shoulder and fell on top of him as they both hit the ground. The man tried to break Thorne’s grip on the hand that held the gun. Suddenly, there was a loud report and the man screamed in agony as the bullet ripped into the top of his thigh and embedded itself in the bone. Struggling free of the man, Thorne stood up and kicked him in the face, breaking his cheekbone. Grabbing the unconscious man under the arms, he dragged him back to the panda and was just about to bundle him into it, when he heard someone running down the stairs. Dropping the man on the ground, Thorne ran to his car and started the engine just as a small man with ginger hair appeared at the door and fired two shots at the accelerating Aston Martin.

  The ginger-haired man knew that he would never catch Thorne in an Anglia, even if it had been repainted to pass as a panda car in the dark. Lifting his friend into the passenger seat, he reversed away from the building and headed towards Birmingham in the opposite direction to that taken by Thorne.

  Handsworth, 07.50hrs

  Annabel and Marjorie were chatting in the kitchen, and Agnes was stirring a large pot of porridge when Collins returned from his early morning walk with Sheba. Hearing voices in the kitchen, Sheba made a beeline for her favourite room in the house. Long ago she had worked out that if there were humans in the kitchen there was always a good chance that they’d give her something to eat.

  Collins was about to join Agnes when the phone rang. A call this early in the morning had to mean it was the station, but when he lifted the receiver, he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end. ‘Sergeant Collins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you hold, please? I’ve got Inspector York for you.’

  Collins waited as he was put through to his old sergeant.

  ‘Morning, Mickey, how are you?’

  ‘Grand, Sir. And yourself and the family?’

  ‘All well, thanks. Which I suspect is more than I can say for Mr Christopher Thorne.’

  ‘Thorne? What’s happened to him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He may have been kidnapped or murdered or just done a runner. Someone phoned him early morning and lured him to his office where they jumped him. Judging by the amount of blood spilled, I’d say he put up quite a fight.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Collins paused trying to think who would want Thorne dead. The only name that came to mind was Declan Boyle. ‘You’re calling because Clarkee and me paid him a visit yesterday.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘OK. I’ll pick Clark up and be with you within an hour. Where are you, the station or Thorne’s offices?’

  ‘His offices.’

  Agnes emerged from the kitchen and asked, ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Inspector York. I have to go over to Sheldon. One of our suspects has gone missing. Look, I don’t think I’ll have the time to take Annabel home today to pick up some more clothes.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll take her and Marjorie. We’ll make it a girl’s day out.’

  Collins kissed her on the lips and set off to Clark’s.

  Sheldon, 09.23hrs

  Once through Birmingham, the traffic was light with most of it heading towards the city. Collins and Clark made good time in the lemon monstrosity. When they arrived, there were two police cars, the SOCO’s van and a couple of spectators outside Thorne’s office and workshop to greet them. They drove onto the car park and ducking u
nder the police cordon, waved their warrant cards at the young constable standing guard by the broken front door, asking where they could find Inspector York. Following the constable’s directions, they made their way to the workshop at the back of the building on the ground floor.

  Inspector York saw the two men and waved them into the workshop. A heavy wooden chair had been placed near a basinful of water and an old set of jump leads on the floor. On a bench nearby a variety of tools had been laid out. All of them had innocent uses in the workshop. But the way they were displayed reminded Collins of numerous films where the hero was tied up and the villain took delight in displaying his toys and explaining what he was going to do with each one.

  ‘Can I have a butchers?’ asked Clark, nodding in the direction of the chair.

  ‘By all means. You know more about this sort of thing then I do,’ said York.

  There was no sign of any blood or vomit on the chair or floor. Nor was there any blood on the tools on the bench. Straightening up, Clark said, ‘He was called here early morning you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said York.

  ‘Why would he come out in the middle of the night?’ asked Collins and then answered his own question, ‘Because the call he got was from the police, or so he thought.’‘That’s what I think,’ said York, ‘and whoever called him jumped him outside.’

  ‘So, either he duffed them up and did a runner. or they did him,’ said Clark. ‘But there’s no sign of blood on any of the tools laid out, or on the ropes, chair or floor. Which means they dain’t get him inside.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said York.

  ‘Which means either he’s dead or he got away,’ said Collins.

  ‘Any ideas who might have done it?’ asked York.

  ‘Let’s grab a cuppa across the road and wi’ll fill you in,’ said Clark.

  The small café catered for workmen from the local workshops and warehouses. There was no heavy industry or engineering around here. Most of the firms were like Thorne’s, small businesses turning out electrical components for a range of industries including car and aircraft.

  York insisted on paying and Collins carried the tray of three teas and two bacon butties and a sausage sarnie over to the corner window seat. ‘OK, lads. Tell me what you’re up to this time. And please don’t tell me it involves MI5 again.’

  As the three men munched their way through their doorstep size sandwiches Collins outlined everything that had happened since they had visited Superintendent Wallace, right up to the interview they had held with Mrs Simpson. The only interruption was when a small ginger-haired man from the nearest table asked to borrow their brown sauce.

  ‘Bloody hell, lads. This sounds worse than last time.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. We’ve got no evidence that the IRA is involved. Sure, every family in Ireland has a Declan Boyle of sorts. And on Easter Sunday every family in the twenty-six counties claims that their father or grandfather was in the Post Office with Padraic Pearse and James Connolly.’

  ‘I agree with Mickey, wi have no hard evidence, but what I’ve seen and heard this morning, I think Thorne had a run-in with the IRA.’

  ‘But why would they go after Thorne? If it is the IRA and they are making a play to run building in Birmingham wouldn’t they go after Reece?’ said York

  ‘Maybe they wanted to remove any chance of reprisals from Thorne before they took out Reece,’ suggested Collins.

  For the next fifteen minutes the conversation continued without coming to any firm conclusion as to why the IRA might have attacked Thorne. As the three police officers finished their teas the conversation changed to how well Sheldon Flight were doing in the Birmingham Police Football League this year. As the conversation ended, it was agreed that Collins and Clark would pay a visit to Mr Reece to break the news and that York would follow their visit up later that afternoon. They would compare notes on Reece tomorrow.

  Five Ways, Edgbaston, 11.57hrs

  Reece was on the telephone when Collins and Clark burst into his office, followed by his secretary. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Reece, but I couldn’t stop them.’

  ‘That’s all right, Janet. Please call my solicitor and tell him to get around here immediately. Tell him I’m being harassed by two police officers.’

  ‘Yow might want to hold off on that Mr Reece. Wi’ve come bearing news of yowr mate, Mr Christopher Thorne,’ said Clark.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘He’s either dead or done a runner,’ said Clark.

  The colour drained from Reece’s face and he fell into his chair. ‘How? Who? What do you mean, “dead”?’ he demanded.

  ‘You can leave us now, Miss,’ said Collins and led the shaking secretary to the door and closed it.

  ‘He was called to his office in the early hours and a fight ensued. Someone, either Thorne or one of his attackers, lost a lot of blood,’ said Collins. Do you know anyone who would want to kill Mr Thorne?’ asked Collins.

  Reece staggered to his feet, and going to the drinks cabinet behind his desk, opened the doors and took out one glass and a bottle of whiskey. Sitting down, he poured himself nearly a full glassful and drank half of it in one gulp. Some colour returned to his cheeks. ‘Do you have any suspects?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ lied Collins.

  ‘Chris has been a friend of mine for twenty years. Find out what happened and there will be a hefty drink in it for both of you.’

  ‘We’ll find out what happened, but we won’t be accepting any reward from you, Mr Reece. Now if Mr Thorne does contact you, please let us know immediately.’

  ‘I will.’

  Handsworth, 14.15hrs

  Despite the slurring of his words Clark recognised the Australian tones of Harry Freeman immediately. ‘Is your mate about, Shorty?’

  ‘Na, he’s out of the office. Can I help yow?’

  ‘No one can help me, mate. But that’s another story and my God is it one boring crock of shit. Just tell the Irish bloke that it was Councillor Robbins who signed in Claire Lafferty and Hill signed in Christina Murray to the Saudi do. Got that?

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good man. Now I’m gonna have a shit and go home. I’m pissed.’

  Clark smiled to himself as he heard the Aussie hang up. As a rule, Clark didn’t like drunks. They were usually selfish arseholes who caused all sorts of pain to their wives, families and themselves. But for some, it was the only way that they could deal with memories that no person should have to endure, and Freeman was definitely one of those.

  Slipping his jacket on Clark went in search of Collins and found him in the Charge Room talking to Sergeant Ridley.

  ‘Whatcha doing hiding in here?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Talking about a report that DCI Jameson from Perry Barr just sent us. It seems there have been seven reports of small animals being killed and their bodies put on display in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, all of them have taken place within a three-mile circle of the first one and that was in Handsworth.’

  ‘So, yow reckon that whoever is doing it lives locally?’

  ‘Seems a reasonable assumption,’ said Ridley. ‘I’ll ask the lads to keep an eye out for anything suspicious.’

  Handsworth, 20.07hrs

  The transformation in Annabel that had started when Collins said he believed her and had accelerated by whatever Agnes had said had continued. For the first time since he had met her, she appeared animated as she moved around the kitchen helping Agnes to tidy up and feed Sheba.

  Thirty minutes later Annabel and Marjorie said they were going for a walk and left Collins and Agnes alone. Neither Collins nor Agnes said anything until they heard the front door close.

  Collins and Agnes were watching TV when the phone ringing. Collins recognised Clark’s voice immediately, ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Just had a call from Freeman. He confirms it were Robbins who signed in Claire and Hill signed in Christina.’

 
; ‘Now that’s interesting. I think we need to visit them again.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘No, it will have to be Monday. It’s the inquest tomorrow and I need to check the file.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll stay out of your hair. But you’ve got nowt to reproach yourself over. Remember that.’

  Friday 4th October 1968

  Handsworth, 10.20hrs

  Ever since Collins had mentioned Declan Boyle and the possible IRA involvement in the corruption case, Agnes had been fighting the temptation to call Sir Aubrey Nichols, Deputy Head of MI5. She knew how much Collins disliked the man and how he would never forgive him for putting Agnes in harm’s way during Petrov’s defection. But every fibre of her security service training was telling her that Boyle was a potential threat to the country and MI5 needed to be alerted.

  At twenty past ten Agnes finally gave in, picked up the phone and called Sir Aubrey on his direct line. On the fourth ring the phone was answered. ‘Aubrey speaking.’

  ‘Hello Aubrey, it’s Agnes.’

  ‘Agnes, what a lovely surprise. I wasn’t sure if we were still on speaking terms.’

  ‘We’ll always be on speaking terms. It’s Michael you have to watch out for.’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Aubrey. ‘How can I help you?’

  He must be busy, thought Agnes, he has no time for the usual small talk. ‘Do you know a man called Declan Boyle?’

  ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard for a few years. Big in the Border Campaign for the IRA, but nothing to worry about these days.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, the IRA is finished. It no longer speaks for the Catholics of Northern Ireland. The Civil Rights Movement has succeeded them. The IRA have no money, precious few weapons and an organisation that leaks like a colander. Besides which they threw Declan Boyle out of the organisation over five years ago. No, he is yesterday’s man. I’m more worried about what the Protestants will do if the Civil Rights Movement wins substantial concessions. Why the sudden interest?’