A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  ‘A well-known builder in Birmingham, Martin Cunningham, was involved in a hit and run. Within hours Declan Boyle turned up to console his wife, Yolande. Now one of the possible suspects in the case has disappeared.’

  ‘There’s no chance that the IRA are on the rise. I’d stake my job on it.’

  ‘Michael’s contacts in Ireland say otherwise. They say Boyle is preparing for another campaign. If Martin Cunningham dies, Declan Boyle may effectively be running one of the biggest independent building companies in the UK. An organisation that will provide the IRA with money and a bridgehead in Britain for agents.’

  ‘I really don’t think that there is anything to worry about, but I’ll ask someone to look into it and get back to you. Now I really must go, I have an appointment with Prince Philip in ten minutes.’

  ‘Still misbehaving, is he?’

  ‘I will pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  After he hung up, Sir Aubrey pressed the button on the intercom for his secretary. She responded immediately, ‘Jenny I’m just leaving. Please ask Mr Rhodes to see me on my return.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Handsworth, 12.10hrs

  Clark looked across at Collins’ empty chair. If he believed in God, now would be the time he said a quick prayer for his mate. It was the inquest into Mitch Williams’ death and both Hicks and Mickey were there. It was an open and shut case and no blame could be attached to Collins. However, Clark knew that with his over-developed conscience, Mickey would find a way to blame himself. Looking to the heavens Clark muttered under his breath, ‘How the fuck was he supposed to stop the bleeding rain?’

  Clark was in the canteen doing his pools when Collins and Hicks returned from the inquest. Clark bowed to no man when it came to the finer points of football. He even understood the offside rule and what the semi-circle at the edge of the penalty area was used for. But he knew that it was impossible to predict football results based on form, league position or past performance. So he quickly placed an x against the sixteen numbers he habitually used, wrote his name and address on the back of the coupon, and slipped it into his jacket. After collecting their fish and chips plus an extra mug of tea for Clark, both men slid into the seats opposite Clarkee, ‘How did it go?’ he asked

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Hicks. For once McEwan was a real help. He made it clear that Mitch was an accident waiting to happen. He even praised the efforts of Mickey here to keep him alive.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Will miracles never cease?’

  ‘What about you? What have you been up to?’ asked Hicks.

  ‘Been checking the inquest transcripts and newspaper stories about the Simpsons’ case.’

  ‘Well, if you fancy a trip out, I was thinking of paying Charlton a visit. Want to come?’ asked Collins.

  Clark took a penny from his pocket and tossed it in the air. Catching it, he said, ‘Heads Charlton, tails court papers.’ Turning his hand over he slapped the coin down on the table.

  ‘Heads it is,’ said Collins.

  As he stood up and slipped his jacket on, Clark said, ‘Yow know what I find disconcerting about Scousers?’

  ‘You can’t understand a word they say?’

  ‘Besides that. Them’s all live in Liverpool, right by the seaside. But them’s so full of bullshit. I mean where do they get all the shite from?’

  ‘That’s a question for the great thinkers of our age. You should write to Malcolm Muggeridge,’ said Collins.

  Great Barr, 13.51hrs

  ‘We’d like to see Mr Charlton,’ said Clark showing his warrant card to the red-headed woman behind a sliding glass partition.

  ‘Sorry love,’ she said. ‘He’s out on site, but he should be back any minute now. Why don’t you take a chair and I’ll get you a tea?’

  ‘Ta, that would be bosting.’

  Collins and Clark eyed the plastic-covered waiting room chairs and settled on the corner unit, which was green, cheap and nasty, but surprisingly comfortable. Two mugs of hot sweet tea arrived within a couple of minutes, along with a plateful of ginger nuts and the men tucked in. Ten minutes later Ronny Charlton bustled through the swing doors clocked Collins and Clark and asked, ‘Who are you?’

  Collins stood up and held out his warrant card. Charlton took it and examined it closely. ‘You looking for me?’

  ‘Just a few questions.’

  ‘OK, you better come in. Maggie, can I have a brew please?’ Looking at the empty cups on the table he added, ‘And refills for the coppers.’

  There was nothing grand or spacious about Charlton’s office. The desk was cheap plywood, covered with a teak veneer. The chairs were foam filled and covered in blue plastic. The remaining furniture consisted of three filing cabinets that seemed to have been bought prior to the Boer War and a scarred set of shelving, buckling under the weight of lever arch files and papers. Not a single item of furniture matched any other, and there was no discernible colour scheme.

  ‘Have a seat. Just chuck the papers on the floor.’

  Collins was surprised by Charlton. He had been expecting a Scouser with an accent as broad as the Mersey and an attitude that saw police as the enemy. Instead he found a middle-aged man who had no discernible accent and a seeming willingness to speak to the police without demanding that his brief be present. He also seemed to possess something approaching charm, then he remembered what Freeman had said about him, “A man who would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, screw the widow and throw the kids out of their home.” Don’t be fooled, he thought.

  Maggie arrived with three teas and an open packet of chocolate biscuits. Leaving the tray on Charlton’s desk, she smiled and said, ‘Get stuck in.’

  ‘What’s this about? Cunningham?’

  ‘Why should it be about him?’ asked Collins.

  ‘’Cos I knew him and he was run over in a hit and run. Which is a crime, ain’t it?’

  ‘You think you’re a suspect, is that it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t think I was.’

  ‘OK, did you have any part in Cunningham’s hit and run?’ asked Collins.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you benefit from it?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Yeah, I did benefit a bit from Cunningham’s accident.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Cunningham is number two builder in Brum when it comes to Council work. With him out of the picture for a while I stand a chance of taking some of his business.’

  ‘And Thorne?’ asked Clark.

  Charlton looked confused by the question and took a couple of seconds to reply. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘He’s missing,’ said Collins.

  ‘Bloody hell. They must have been big bastards to take him down.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked Clark.

  Charlton hesitated before replying then said, ‘Off the record. Thorne likes to scrap. He does four or five bareknuckle bouts a year. I ain’t never seen him beat yet.’

  ‘What’s his relationship to Reece?’ asked Collins.

  ‘People think he’s Reece’s number one. But what you might not realise is just how much Reece relies on him. It’s him that manages much of Reece’s organisation. If he’s out of action, it will weaken Reece. So again, that’s good for me.’

  ‘Were yow at the Saudi prince’s do back in June?’ asked Clark.

  ‘I had an invite but didn’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Family do, in Liverpool. Me Dad’s in his seventies now. Even so he would have skinned me alive if I’d missed his and me Mam’s golden wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Did you know a young woman called Christina Murray?’

  ‘No. But I’d known Claire Lafferty, the other woman you lot found dead, Of course I didn’t know her name was Lafferty or that she was on the game the night she shagged me.’

  ‘Anything happen after that memorable encounter?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Photos
in the post.’

  ‘Na. It never got that far.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’m forty-seven, a bit overweight, going bald and I’m starting to have to take three pisses a night. I’m not what you’d call every woman’s dreamboat, unless their idea of a dream boat is a broken-down old bugger with plenty of money. I saw Lafferty coming a mile off. She wanted to go back to her place, but I insisted on mine. Even before we started, I clocked she left the curtains open a few inches. Then I heard the photographer outside the window start clicking away as soon as she peeled me pants off. But I did what every Englishman should do in such situation. I fucked her to a finish.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I shot at the bastard outside my window with my legally registered shot gun. Don’t worry, I aimed to miss. But it did the job. He shit himself, fell over, smashed his camera and almost broke the hundred yards record running away.’

  ‘What did yow do to Lafferty?’

  ‘What could I do? She was so busy laughing at the little ponce running down the drive, she nearly peed herself. We went upstairs to bed and continued shagging uninterrupted. She didn’t charge me, but I gave her a small gratuity. I thought the entertainment value had been worth it. Especially when she told me that it was Reece and his mates Robbins and Hill who were behind the blackmail attempt. After that she provided me with some useful info which I paid her for and received a free shag as a by-product of my generosity.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Nothing to do with the building trade or Reece’s business. More to do with who Reece had in his pocket. Which girls were screwing which councillors or businessmen? Then it all stopped, and you discovered the reason for that when you dug her up. She was all right, was Claire. She didn’t deserve to die like that.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose yow had anything to do with that?’

  ‘Not a thing. In fact, I’m willing to offer a five grand reward, anonymously of course, for any information leading to the arrest of Claire’s killer.’

  Collins looked at his watch and stood up, ‘Well thanks for your time, Mr Charlton. We’ll probably be back.’

  ‘Not what I expected,’ said Collins as he walked back to the car.

  ‘No, he weren’t but did yow notice what he said about Christina Murray.’

  ‘Yeah the newspapers don’t know that the two deaths are related. So how did he know that Lafferty was Murray’s friend?’

  As Collins was opening the car door Clark said, ‘You know I reckon you’ve got a flat tyre.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the bottom.’

  ‘Pillock. Which wheel?’

  ‘Not sure. Give me the tyre gauge.’

  Collins fished the tyre gauge out of the door pocket where he kept it with a set of point gauges, a couple of new spark plugs, a fan belt and hose clamps of various sizes.

  Collins stood by the driver’s door as Clark examined each tyre in turn. Clarkee had taken the pressure of two tyres before Collins realised that he was not concerned with tyre pressures. He was interested in the black Humber Hawk on the opposite corner with the ginger-haired driver.

  Kicking the last tyre for effect, Clark slid into the passenger seat and asked, ‘Yow clock him?’

  ‘Yeah, same kid who asked to borrow the brown sauce in the café in Sheldon.’

  ‘Maybe more than that. I got a feeling I’ve seen the car before that.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Maybe outside the station. I can’t be certain.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘What do yow think? Grab him. Yow block him in and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘OK.’ Collins put the car in gear, waited for a break in the traffic and then executed a three-point turn.

  The lad realised he had been spotted when Collins was twenty yards away and tried to jump out of the driver’s door. Collins accelerated and stopped inches from the driver’s side. Collins looked at the lad and smiled as the realisation that he was trapped spread across his face.

  Clark was already moving, the passenger door open, when the driver’s window exploded in a cascade of glass followed immediately by the passenger’s window. Looking across Collins saw the lad level the .45 again, threw himself across the passenger seat and started to scramble towards the open door. He knew he would never make it before the next shot was fired. Then he felt Clark’s hands grab his shoulders and pull him clear as the second shot was fired. A third and fourth shot went off in rapid succession.

  Huddled behind the Capri’s front wheel arch Collins’ noticed a rapidly expanding patch of blood on Clark’s waist and his eyes looked small and unfocused. Collins heard the passenger door of the Hawk open and slam shut as footsteps approached. He’s still got two bullets, thought Collins. With no truncheon and no gun Collins realised that his only chance was to rush the man as soon as he appeared. But which end of the car would he come from? Collins decided he would approach from the front and clambered over Clark to protect him from the first shot.

  When he did appear, it was from the rear of the car. Collins heard his footsteps and turned just in time to see the gun go off. He expected to feel the hammer punch of the bullet as it ripped his chest apart but there was nothing. Just a surprised look on the young man’s face as he saw the throwing knife sticking out of the centre of his chest. His gun pointing skyward and his eyes closing for the last time. Looking down Collins saw Clark grinning at him. ‘Thank fuck for the overconfidence of youth,’ he said before he closed his eyes and his head dropped onto his chest.

  By now shopkeepers and shoppers were rushing to see what was going on. Charlton pushed his way through the crowd. One look at Collins cradling Clark’s head while applying pressure to his wound was enough for him to immediately take charge. Turning to Maggie, he said, ‘Call the General Hospital tell ‘em a copper with a gunshot wound to his stomach is on his way in. Then call the coppers and tell ‘em that two of their own have been involved in a shooting.’

  Looking around Charlton spotted a man in his fifties sporting a blue blazer and the badge of the Parachute Regiment. ‘Mate, you’re in charge until the coppers come. Keep ‘em back and don’t move the kid’s body.’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant, we have to get your mate to hospital. You go with him in the back. I’ll drive.’ With the help of a couple of bystanders Clark was lifted gently into the back of the Capri. Collins slid in beside his friend. Not once did he let up on applying pressure to the wound which was still bleeding profusely.

  Wheels spinning, the two litre Capri fishtailed away and was doing fifty before it reached the end of the street. The mid-afternoon traffic was light on the A34 and ignoring the speed limit, Charlton put his foot down. Blowing his horn as he approached traffic lights and zebra crossings, his speed seldom dipped below sixty. As he approached Perry Barr a police motorcyclist roared up beside him, lights flashing, and tried to wave him down.

  Collins saw what was happening and wound the rear window down. ‘Officer shot,’ he shouted twice and held up his warrant card, his hand covered in blood. ‘Get us to the General Hospital.’ That was enough for the motorcyclist. He accelerated in front of the Capri and waved Charlton to follow him. With the motorcycle’s sirens blaring and lights blazing, cars, vans and buses pulled over to the side of the road and let the small procession pass. At some stage, the police rider called Central Control and told them what he was doing. By then Control had heard of a shooting involving a police officer and every car and motorbike in the city was tasked with clearing the roads to the Accident Hospital for Collins and his yellow Capri.

  At the hospital, a trolley was already waiting for Clark. A young nurse gently removed Collins’ hand from Clark’s stomach and quickly applied a clean compress to the wound. The nurse was still pressing hard down when seconds later Clark was wheeled into the operating theatre. It was only as the doors swung shut that Collins realised that Charlton and the police motorcyclist were still with him. ‘Can I
buy you lads a coffee?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Na. We’ll buy you a cup of tea,’ said Charlton. ‘Looks like you could use one.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ said the motor cyclist, and holding out his hand said, ‘The name’s Ward, Richie Ward.’

  For fifteen minutes Collins, Charlton and Ward sat and chatted in the small waiting area outside the operating theatre and drank some hot, sweet tea provided by a friendly nurse. As if by some unspoken agreement none of them spoke about what had just happened. Formal statements would come later, and it was best not to indulge in any activity that might imply collusion between witnesses and participants. It was only when Ruth appeared with Bram, Agnes and Hicks that the gathering broke up.

  It was twenty past six when the surgeon, Mr Conway, came out of theatre and spoke to Ruth. Although he was nearly ten years her junior, his tone was condescending. ‘It’s my opinion, Mrs Clark, that your husband was incredibly lucky. The bullet went straight through his side and shaved his liver which was the cause of so much bleeding. We have been able to stich the liver and stop the bleeding. He will have some pain for a week or so but should make a full recovery. One thing is certain. He owes whoever maintained pressure on the wound his life.’

  ‘Will he make a full recovery?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’

  ‘How long will he be off work?’ asked Hicks.

  ‘If you confine him to desk duties, I think he could return after a week or so. Provided all goes well, that is. Personally, I would be more concerned about his mental health than his physical if I were you, Mrs Clark.’ The young doctor spoke as if he was delivering a message inscribed on stone tablets from the slopes of Mount Sinai. ‘I’ve been reading recently about the impact that violent incidents can have on individuals who haven’t been specially trained. Now your husband has been trained to deal with violent thugs, but to be shot in his line of work is extremely rare. It’s highly likely that he will suffer what we call traumatic memories concerning the incident which may cause him to have panic attacks or suffer problems coming to terms with the fact that he killed a young man.’