A Death in Autumn

by Jim McGrath

  Collins went to the window and opened it.

  ‘You don’t smoke, Sergeant. That’s unusual in the police?’

  ‘That it is, but I never took to it.’

  ‘Wise man. Costs a fortune. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Yolande said that you flew in on the last flight from Dublin. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. It was three minutes early. The British still can’t believe that we’re able to operate a successful national airline.’

  ‘Is that the same flight you caught the day Martin was run over?’

  ‘Ah, no, sure. I was in Manchester when I heard about that. I came straight down.’

  ‘Yolande thought that you flew over on the last flight. Why would she say that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. All I can say is that when I arrived, she was in a terrible way. Your lot had told her what had happened and took her to the hospital. Sure, she didn’t get home until gone midnight. Mind you, there was no police car to take her home. They’d all pissed off, quicker than the day’s favourite at Leopardstown. No, she had to catch a taxi.’

  ‘What about the two lads who came in with you?’

  ‘You saw those did you?’ Boyle’s eyes were alive. He was enjoying himself. ‘Friends of Martin’s. They wanted to see Martin and came back with me from Dublin.’

  ‘What are you planning to do after Martin’s recovered? Stay here or return to Ireland?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll stay on a bit. Give Yolande a hand. She needs a bit of help now.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘The usual. Don’t get me wrong, Yolande is a powerful woman, worth two of most men, but she’s not at her best just now. I’ll help manage the business and the men until she’s feeling a bit better and Martin is back on his feet.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’ll head home, job done.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be tempted to keep it for the IRA?’ asked Collins and held Boyle’s eyes.

  ‘You’ve checked me out, have you? Well you can’t be any good if you didn’t know that I left the IRA nearly six years ago.’

  ‘Kicked out for incompetence and poor performance as quartermaster, I heard.’

  Boyle’s lips grew thin and some colour left his face. ‘Ah sure, you don’t want to believe everything you hear, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Which part shouldn’t I believe? The part which says you were kicked out for doing a piss-poor job or the part that says you left the IRA?’

  ‘Ah, it’s interesting you should say that. You know why I hate the bastards that leave Ireland and join the Crown’s forces? They become the lackeys and lickspittles of their country’s oppressors. But one day they’ll be judged as the traitors they are.’

  ‘And I assume they will all be found guilty?’

  ‘That they will,’ said Boyle with a smile.

  ‘And what then?’

  But Boyle was not going to be drawn further. With a broad smile he said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me I’m very tired and that bed has me name on it.’

  Sitting in Rhodes’ Cortina, Collins asked, ‘What did you think?’

  ‘He knew you were going to ask the question about the time of the flight.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘He was playing with us.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too. But why?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t expect to see you again.’

  Collins understood the unspoken warning contained in Rhodes’ response. After a few seconds’ thought, he said, ‘Check out who the boys with him are and radio the watchers to keep a good eye on all three of them overnight.’

  ‘OK,’ said Rhodes.

  On returning home Collins kissed Agnes and ran his hand down her back, coming to rest on her backside. Agnes removed it and smiled, ‘You don’t look capable of doing anything. Go on and sit down and I’ll make you a pot of tea and some toast.’ Eight minutes later Agnes carried the tray into the lounge, but she was too late. Collins had slipped off his shoes and jacket and was curled up on the settee, asleep. Crossing to the table, she laid the tray down and returning to the settee she bent down and lightly kissed his forehead and whispered, “We are such stuff As dreams are made on, And our little life

  Is rounded with a sleep.”

  Turning the light off, Agnes closed the door and returned to the kitchen and the BBC Radio Four news.

  Monday 7th October 1968

  Birmingham, 09.33hrs

  Rhodes parked outside the General Hospital and he and Collins walked to Steelhouse Lane. The overnight rain had washed the skies clean and added to the number of leaves that were starting to accumulate in the gutters. Another week or so and the trees will be bare, thought Collins. He had not spent any time thinking about how he’d handle West, but he had promised himself not to lose his temper with the overweight, pompous, arsehole. Now, he was about to find out if he could keep that simple promise.

  Passing the Charge Room, the two men headed for the second floor and Inspector West’s office. Knocking on the door Collins walked in, followed by Rhodes. West’s two Sergeants and three Detective Constables looked up. Collins could feel their animosity roll over him. They were never going to forgive him and Clark for how they had been humiliated in the Yates multiple killings case five months earlier. Collins didn’t think it was worth telling them that their own boss had been the cause of their embarrassment. A quick look at the glass corner office confirmed that West was out

  ‘We’re looking for Inspector West,’ said Collins.

  After an awkward silence, the youngest person in the room, said, ‘He’s with the Superintendent. If you want to hang around you can.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Collins. ‘You’ll find us in the canteen when he’s free. Give us a shout, would you please.’ Leaving the office Collins turned left, rather than head for the stairs, turning the corner he pushed open Marie Bolding’s door. Marie looked up from the file she was making notes on and smiled when she saw him and Rhodes. ‘I suppose you’re here to see West.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ said Collins. ‘This gentleman is Stephen Rhodes. He is helping me out until Clarkee is back on duty. Did you manage to get any additional information on the names I gave you?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Marie and going to the filing cabinet nearest her desk, opened it and withdrew a black lever arch file in a brown paper bag.

  Collins picked it up and flicked through the papers. There were over twenty pages of information. ‘Anything that you want to tell me?’

  ‘Yeah. Boyle’s been in England most of this year. He’s spent some time in London but mostly in Manchester. He was in Manchester when Cunningham was run over. Flew back to Dublin last Friday and returned last night. The word among Irish narks in Brum is that he was thrown out of the IRA in 1963 and now works for himself.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Rhodes.

  ‘That’s difficult to say. Putting people in touch with other people is the best description I can give you. He’s travelled to Europe, the Middle East and America this year and talked to people.’

  ‘What sort of people?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Manufacturers, builders, bankers and the odd politician here and there. He’s registered a small private company in Ireland called Eire’s Voice. He’s making money but not a huge amount. He seems to spend most of what he earns on travel.’

  ‘Has he got any employees?’ asked Collins.’

  ‘He’s got three full-time employees in Ireland and a part-timer who works from a one room office in London. Her name’s Fiona McGuinness. There’s a picture of her in the file. She’s quite a looker.’

  ‘His woman?’ asked Rhodes.

  ‘So, rumour says.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take the file and give you a call when I’ve read it. In the meantime, can I buy you a cuppa?’

  ‘No, sorry. I need to finish a report for the ACC by tonight. Otherwise I won’t be going out and I have a red-hot date. Another time?’ Marie stood up and kissed Collins on the cheek and shook hands with Rhodes
.

  As they headed down to the staff canteen Rhodes asked, ‘What happened to her arm?’

  ‘A bullet broke her left elbow about six months ago. But she saved my life and Clarkee’s. We owe her.’

  ‘Will she ever get full movement back?’

  ‘I don’t know. They are still operating on her. I hope so. We need coppers like her.’

  It was a few minutes after eleven and the early shift were piling out of the canteen after their second breakfast of the day. Both men were tempted by the smell of bacon and sausages but neither wanted to leave an entire plateful of uneaten food if West deigned to call them. They settled down in the corner with a slice of toast and a tea each. ‘What made you join the Service?’ asked Collins.

  The question did not surprise Rhodes. Most people were curious, but few ever asked it in such bald terms. Rhodes took a few seconds to frame any sort of answer. Collins had treated him well since they had been thrown together and he deserved at least a partially true account of how he had been recruited. ‘You don’t beat about the bush, do you, Mickey?’ Collins shook his head and waited.

  ‘As you’ve probably guessed my name is not St Clair Rhodes. It used to be plain old Stephen Rhodes. I’d never thought about joining any service, but I got in a spot of bother when I was twenty-two and thought it would be better if I could tell the judge that I’d applied to join the Guards. It probably kept me out of jail. Anyway, I joined up as a regular soldier. I thought I’d do my five years and leave but I found I enjoyed it and they seemed to like me. I worked hard and the harder I worked the more I enjoyed it. I came out of basic training as top recruit. After a tour in Aden in 1962 I was promoted to Corporal and my Sergeant suggested I try out for the SAS. They’re a specialist …’

  ‘Yeah, I know about them,’ said Collins.

  ‘Well that went very well, and I joined the regiment. After some work I did in Africa, MI5 contacted me and the rest is, as they say, history.’

  ‘What does your family think of your success?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ve never met my father and my mother died when I was six. I spent the next ten years in a children’s home. Then two years on the streets of London before I got a job that put a roof over my head.’

  Collins didn’t inquire how he had survived. He had a fairly good idea. Instead he asked, ‘What was the job?’

  ‘Bellboy at the Savoy. Someone I met on the streets coached me for the interview. They taught me how to speak, how to eat and how to remain invisible. All vital skills if you want to succeed at the Savoy – or MI5. I was one of four front desk managers when some money went missing. The suspects were me and a French nobleman. Guess who they blamed. Thus, my court case.’

  ‘I’m surprised you were able to trade a career in the army for a place in jail.’

  ‘My friend from the street was, what shall we say, influential.’

  Collins wanted to ask if he had kept in touch with his friend but decided it was none of his business.

  They had just finished their second cup of tea when West barrelled into the canteen with one of his sergeants. Spotting Collins, he bent down and said something to his sergeant, who then headed towards the corner. It was now ten past eleven and the room was nearly empty. Pulling back a chair the fat detective dropped into the seat. His thighs slopped over the sides of the chair. Sitting down he looked like an adult who had just joined a couple of children at their play. He’s put on at least another stone since spring, though Collins. Fat git.

  ‘You were after me, Collins?’

  ‘Yes Sir. I’ve been looking into corruption in the Council, and it appears that a Mr John Simpson who it was thought had committed suicide was probably murdered. It was your case and I thought you should know that it’s now being actively re-investigated.’

  ‘And what proof have you got that it wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘The man who slept with Mrs Simpson has admitted that he drugged her and arranged for the pictures to be taken.’

  ‘Fair enough. But that don’t change the fact that her husband jumped off the fourth floor of a multi-storey car park.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But it does support her story about her husband writing a report on corruption and being killed when he refused to be blackmailed.’

  ‘Who are you reporting to on this case?’

  ‘Acting Superintendent Thatcher and ACC Knowles.’

  West sat quiet for a few moments. Standing up he said, ‘Well it sounds like you’ve stitched me up, again you little shite. Just don’t expect any help from me, my team or your lezzie friend Marie Bolding.’

  Rhodes waited until they were outside before he said, ‘Bloody hell, that fat slob really does need taking down a peg or two.’

  ‘True, but he didn’t learn anything about you. Nor has he learned that we have a copy of Simpson’s report.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the report?’

  ‘He’ll build up his defence based on the info I did give him and when he raises it in a meeting with the ACC, I’ll be able to stuff the bastard.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you really don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘That’s a fair assumption.’ said Collins.

  Handsworth, 14.00hrs

  When Collins arrived back at Thornhill Road, Rhodes said, ‘I have a little job to take care of. I’ll be back tomorrow early. I’ve left an envelope with the info from the centre which you asked for in your pigeon-hole.’

  ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’

  Collins stopped off at the Charge Room to pick up the post and then headed for the empty CID room. Hicks had taken a day’s holiday and was somewhere in Cardiff with his wife.

  As he walked, he started to flick through the envelopes he’d picked up and took out an A5 brown envelope with HMSO printed on the front and addressed to him by hand. It contained a three-page summary from Steve of the data he’d received from Sir Aubrey.

  Over the next four hours the phone rang several times, Collins studiously ignored it each time and continued to read and take notes from Simson’s audit report. By 6.20 he’d finished his second run through of the document and the paperwork from Marie. Much of the information appeared in both files but there were a couple of pieces that seemed to contradict each other, usually concerning dates and times. Picking up his notes, the file and Rhodes’ summary he headed for home. He wanted Agnes’ opinion.

  As he opened the front door Sheba came bounding across the wooden floor to welcome him and he heard Agnes shout ‘Hello,’ from the lounge. He laid the files on the phone table and took Sheba into the kitchen where he found the bone from yesterday’s shoulder of lamb and broke it at the joint. Bending down, he gave the smaller bone to Sheba, who didn’t bother to say “thank you”, but instead disappeared at speed out of the dog flap and into the garden. After putting the kettle on, he went to see Agnes.

  Agnes was sitting at the dinner table, a large collection of Metropolitan Police papers spread across its surface. Most had “Confidential Met Police” stamped across them. ‘Sybil has been busy,’ he said. ‘Found anything of interest?’

  Agnes looked up, her mind clearly somewhere else. ‘I’ve nearly finished. Go and make some tea and I’ll tell you what I’ve found.’

  When he returned five minutes later with a tray of tea and a couple of slices of sponge cake Agnes was leaning back and stretching. He set the tray down, went behind her and kissed the back of her neck. Within seconds she was giggling and telling him to stop.

  ‘We have work to do.’ she told him. After a final nibble of her ear lobe he let her go. ‘I’m starting to think that you are a big bully Mr Collins.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking I’m Don Juan.’

  ‘You have the passion, my love, but not the language.’

  ‘There you go again. It’s always languages with you.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Agnes and standing, she crossed to Mickey and sat on his lap. ‘Sometimes,’ she paused, ‘it’s work. What did you find in your files?’ />
  Collins picked up his summary notes. ‘If you’ll just sit on one of the other five chairs in the room, I’ll tell you.’ Agnes kissed him hard on the lips before moving. ‘Marie tells me that Boyle has been living in England for most of 1968 He arrived on the fourth of January and has flats in both London and Manchester. He returns to Dublin at least once a month to see his mother.

  ‘He’s well-known in the Irish circles in both cities and gets on well with the local Irish lads. Always willing to buy a round. He does not attend any political meetings and based upon what the IRA has said about him and his actions in England it doesn’t look as if he has anything to do with the Cause.

  ‘He’s not been seen very much in London. His girlfriend, Fiona McGuinness, runs the London Office of his Eire’s Voice and spends most weekends with him.

  ‘Last February he had a two-week trip to the USA and again in July. Visited New York, Chicago and Washington. On his return he went to Manchester and had a lot of meetings in and around the city. But none in Liverpool.’

  Collins stopped for breath and picked up his tea and took a sip.

  Before he’d had a chance to bite into his cake, Agnes said, ‘So either his meetings in the US are entirely innocent, or he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s speaking to people in Liverpool who could help him import guns and ammunition from the States.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought.’

  ‘Do you know who he met over there?’

  ‘Marie didn’t, but Sir Aubrey did. All of the men he met are known supporters of the IRA. Several of them are suspected of supplying arms to the IRA during the Border Campaign.

  ‘On top of his visits to the States he’s been to the Middle East twice. Neither file tells me who he met. But both visits were to Lebanon, and on both occasions, there was a delegation of Palestinians in Beirut at the same time, but there is no proof he met with them.’