by Jim McGrath
‘The Palestinians don’t have enough weapons to arm themselves adequately. Of what possible use would they be to the IRA? Unless it was their paymasters he was interested in,’ said Agnes.
‘Of course, the Russians. They’d welcome an uprising in Northern Ireland. Anything to embarrass Britain and the West would be good for them. What about you? What have you found?’ asked Collins.
‘Well Sybil’s information is mainly from narks, and is dubious at best. But she’s identified a couple of characters that Boyle has met in London. An American called Dwight McCloud and one Mohammed Ali. He met them separately. Both are known to be active in the field of illegal weapons. Anything from a revolver to an RPG launcher, with munitions. She has also provided us with a list of people Boyle has met or spoken to in the last nine months. Obviously, it has gaps.’
Before Collins could reply, the front door was opened and Marjorie and Annabel half fell into the hall chatting. They weren’t drunk but they had been drinking and the world was a much better place for both of them. Seeing Agnes and Collins, they waved, and Annabel said, ‘We’ve bought some fish and chips. There’s plenty for the four of us.’
‘How could we turn down such an offer?’ said Agnes, ‘Put the kettle on.’
It was nearly eleven thirty by the time Marjorie and Annabel had described every scene in Bullitt to Agnes and Collins, and the fish and chips party broke up. Both Agnes and Collins were tired, and neither were keen to reopen their earlier conversation. As Agnes turned her bedside light off, she said, ‘If you leave your files. I’ll go through them tomorrow and summarise all our notes.’
‘That would be great, love,’ he said and fell asleep.
Tuesday 8th October, 1968
Handsworth, 09.05hrs
Hicks was reading the reports from the weekend when Collins arrived. ‘Sorry I’m late, Sir. I called in on Clark. The hospital released him yesterday.’
‘How is he?’ asked Hicks.
‘Better. He’ll be back tomorrow or Thursday.’
‘Strange things, shots in the gut. They can lay you out for months or a few days. No telling with them. How did yowr meeting with Boyle go?’
‘He’s a cool one, that’s for sure. Admitted nothing but implied a lot. I’d like to get him in an interview room.’
‘With Clarkee, no doubt. What have you planned for this morning?’
‘Not a lot.’
The conversation was cut short when Collins’ phone rang. Picking it up, he heard Ridley’s familiar voice. ‘’You’ll like this, Mickey. DCI Jameson has just called. One of their lads saw a young guy and girl acting strangely near the Villa ground last night. As he moved towards them, they did a runner. When he reached where they’d been standing, he found a cat hanging by its neck with one paw nailed to the fence of a two up two down. Poor thing was still alive. The copper reckons he could identify the pair.’
The hair on Collins’ neck stood up as he remembered the meeting with a young man and woman as he was checking out a dead kitten nailed to Mrs McCann’s rear gate. ‘I think I know where they can be found,’ said Collins. ‘I’ll call Jameson.’
Handsworth, 12.10hrs
Collins was enjoying his hake, chips and peas when Stephen Rhodes dropped into the seat opposite him. The young man looked tired and Collins wondered what job he’d had to finish the previous evening. ‘You look terrible,’ he said, ‘Grab yourself a cuppa and a bite to eat.’
‘No, I’m fine. I had something on the motorway. What’s happening?’
‘Not too much at the moment. If you want to join me later tonight, I’ll be picking up a couple of vicious little sods who enjoy nailing animals to fences and back gates.’
‘Well I’ve no appointments tonight, so I’d love to join you. But what are we going to do until then?’
‘Well, Thorne is still missing. I was thinking it might be useful to visit Reece’s offices and see if he’s heard anything.’
Forty minutes later, Collins and Rhodes parked behind Reece’s office and took the elevator to the sixth floor. As the door opened it was obvious that not all was well. A heavy-set man wearing a gray pinstripe suit was holding a meeting in Reece’s office, the largest room available. The room was packed, and the overspill extended into the reception area.
The man seemed to be coming to the end of his speech. ‘As I’ve said, Mr Reece will be away from work for a period of four weeks. I’ll be in temporary charge until his return.’
A rumble of surprise and doubt ran through the gathering and a middle-aged woman in the centre of the crowd started to ask a question.
Collins decided he did not have the time to wait for the meeting to end. Raising his voice, he said, ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Collins. I need to speak to the gentleman talking, so I must ask you to return to your offices.’ There was a murmur of discontent which Collins quickly silenced with a firm command of, ‘Now, please. My business is urgent.’
The office emptied within forty seconds. Collins closed the door and asked the middle-aged man for his name.
Wiping the sweat from his brow he said, ‘I’m Nelson Thurston, the Chief Accountant.’
‘You must know everything that goes on here?’ said Collins.
‘If only. I’ve been here less than three months and I’m already looking for a new job, but when you’re the wrong side of forty-five, it’s not easy. Now the bastard has gone on holiday and left me in deep shit.’
‘You’re not a fan of Mr Reece?’
‘God, no. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I joined.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s it. I don’t know. I just know that all he wanted me to do was pay the bills, advance him large amounts of cash whenever he demanded them, and draw up a set of accounts for the Inland Revenue and Companies House that would satisfy them.’
‘Didn’t you ever ask him what he used the money for?’ asked Rhodes.
‘Once. He told me he spent it on three things. Entertaining clients, promoting the business, and paying experts for their services.’
‘Did he ever give you receipts or invoices for these services?’ asked Collins.
‘He did occasionally. Mostly it was just a memo signed by him. I’d be amazed if the Inland Revenue accepted them as genuine receipts. I’ve spent the last day and a half going through his files and I still have no idea or any record of what deals he’s done or the conditions under which they were made.’
Collins looked at Nelson Thurston. He did not look like a career criminal. He was an overweight, middle-aged man who had been used by Reece to make his accounts look legitimate. As for any tax audit of his affairs, Collins was fairly certain that there had been audits and Mr Reece had managed to entertain, pay off or frighten Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Taxes enough to ensure a clean bill of health every time.
Taking Thurston by the elbow, Collins said, ‘It’s Tuesday today. Tomorrow, you will talk to the firm’s solicitors, bankers and accountants, after which you will call Superintendent Patterson, at the Fraud Squad, Steelhouse Lane. Tell him you have spoken to me and that you think Reece’s entire business was built on a fraud and ask him to investigate. He’s a decent man. He’ll look after you. Any problems, ask him to give me a ring.’ Collins took a sheet of paper from Reece’s desk and wrote both his and Patterson’s name and telephone numbers on it.
Thurston took the page, his hands and lower lip shaking in unison,’ ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Outside, Rhodes asked, ‘Are you sure we can trust him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Collins. ‘But I do know that I can trust the Superintendent. I worked with him a few years ago. A great copper. I gave him a copy of John Simpson’s audit report on Friday. With Thurston’s help, Patterson will find every piece of shit that Reece was ever involved with and prosecute every politician, builder and lowlife who got anything from Reece.’
‘Aren’t you worried that you’re making it easier for Boyle to take over the building indust
ry in Birmingham?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you, me and Clarkee are going to take him down.’
Rhodes smiled and said nothing.
Thirty minutes later, Collins and Rhodes pulled onto the car park in front of Thorne’s offices. A hand-painted sign on the front door read “Closed until further notice”. Next to it was a letter from Thorne’s solicitor stating the same in formal terms.
The reception area was empty, and after ringing the bell three times Collins resorted to banging on the desk. In place of the attractive young woman who had been present on his first visit a man over six feet tall with dark Italian looks appeared from the workshop area. Looking at the two men, he said, ‘What the fuck do you want? Can’t you read? We’re closed,’ and started to walk away.
Collins nodded at Rhodes, who grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him round. The man was a pro and he had started his punch the moment Rhodes hand had touched him. But he was not quick enough. Rhodes left elbow blocked the punch and his right fist plunged deep into the man’s solar plexus. He bent double as every drop of air in his lungs was expelled from his body. A much less ferocious punch hit him on the side of the face, and he collapsed onto the floor and curled up.
Neither Collins nor Rhodes moved to help him. After thirty seconds he sat up and leaned against the reception desk, still trying to fill his lungs with air. Another fifteen seconds passed before he asked, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘That’s better,’ said Collins and showed the man his warrant card. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Morgan. Richie Morgan.’
‘And what do you do here?’
‘I’m the foreman.’
‘I see. And what are you doing today?’
‘Thorne’s solicitor came in this morning and said he had been told to sell the business.’
‘Who told him to sell it?’
‘He dain’t say.’
‘And what about the receptionist and other office staff, where are they?’
‘The solicitor paid them two months’ salary and told them they’d no longer be needed.’
‘What about the books, who’s got them?’
‘Books?’
‘Accounting books.’
‘The solicitor.’
‘OK. Do you have Thorne’s address book?’
‘Na. If it’s still here, it will be in his desk.’
‘One last question what’s the name and address of Thorne’s solicitor?’
‘Carrington and Ridgeway, somewhere on Great Charles Street.’
‘Well thank you for your co-operation, Mr Morgan. We’ll just have a quick look for Mr Thorne’s address book.’
Morgan didn’t reply. He was too busy watching Rhodes and planning what he’d do to the ponce next time he saw him.
It was a disappointed Collins and Rhodes who returned to the lobby ten minutes later. Every piece of paper and record had been removed from Thorne’s office. The safe’s door was open, and a quick glance was all that was required to confirm that, it too, was empty.
At the front door Collins copied the solicitor’s address into his notebook and walked slowly back to Rhodes’ car.
‘Where to now?’ asked Rhodes, ‘The solicitor’s?’
‘Not yet. I need to check them out. I’ve not heard of them before. I need to go back to the station and give Marie a call.’
‘Why not call in and see her on the way back?’
‘Because that sack of potatoes Chief Inspector West will be monitoring every person she sees.’
‘What I don’t understand is why Reece has gone on the run.’
‘I don’t think Reece is running. He’s trying to find out who’s coming after him and Thorne and kill them before they can attack again.’
Handsworth, 18.24hrs
The afternoon had been spent digging up information on Thorne’s solicitors, and Collins was only too glad when his wristwatch showed twenty-five past six and he went in search of those who would accompany him on the arrest of June Gregg and Andy Dewar.
Collins, Rhodes, Jameson and PC Brown, the young constable who had seen the boy and girl the previous night, pulled up two hundred yards from the house June Gregg lived in. Rhodes and Jameson got out, walked to the back of the building and waited.
Five minutes later Collins knocked on June’s front door which was opened by a middle-aged woman.
‘Mrs Gregg?’
‘Yes.’
Holding his warrant card up, Collins said, ‘I’m DS Collins, I’d like to speak to your daughter June, please.’
‘What about?’ she asked her voice unsteady.
‘I just need to speak to her.’
‘Well you’d better come in.’ Both men stepped into a short hallway and were directed to the front parlour. Collins heard a back door slamming shut, followed by the sound of high heels on the hall’s tiled floor. As soon as June entered, PC Brown lent over and whispered, ‘That’s her, Sergeant.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Miss June Gregg, I am arresting you under Section (1) (a) of the Protection of Animals Act 1911 for cruelty to animals, namely four kittens, two puppies and one rabbit and for their killing. You do not have to say anything …’
‘What! You can’t? I ain’t done anything.’
‘I can and I am,’ said Collins, and spinning the young women around, he took her by the arm and led her past her crying mother in the hall and out to the car. Tears had formed in June’s eyes, but she fought hard to stop them falling.
The door that had slammed shut five minutes earlier had been the Greggs’ kitchen door as Andy made a run for it. He pulled the back gate open and immediately ran into a fist in the face from DCI Jameson. His eyes went blank and he stumbled two steps backwards before he collapsed onto the floor. Rhodes and Jameson lifted him up, pushed his arms up his back and led him down the alley and back to the waiting police car.
At the station Gregg was locked in the cells while Dewar was put in Interview Room 1 and the police doctor was called. Collins thanked DCI Jameson and PC Brown for their help and asked them to write up their arrest reports and send him a copy within the next twenty-four hours. Rhodes and Collins then headed for the canteen and an appointment with a late dinner.
It was nearly eight before Collins had Gregg taken from the cells by WPC Coates and brought to Interview Room 2, where her mother and father were sitting. When Collins saw her, he was surprised. She didn’t seem afraid or scared. She looked sullen and angry. She sat sideways in the chair and refused to look directly at Collins. ‘Do you know why you are here?’ Collins asked.
‘No. I ain’t done anything illegal.’
‘Cruelty to animals is illegal.’
‘I’ve never hurt any animals, and you can’t prove that I have.’
‘We have an eyewitness who saw you and your boyfriend nailing a small puppy to a back garden gate.’
‘You mean some old biddy who’s half-blind.’
‘No. I mean a young Constable who has excellent eyesight.’
‘Well he’s lying if he said that I were nailing the puppy to the gate. ’Cos I wasn’t.’
‘You may not have, but what about your boyfriend? Did he hurt them and let you watch?’
‘No. Andy’s not like that.’
‘So, what is he like?’
‘He’s kind and gentle. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Well he’s been telling me that it’s you who always suggests going out and finding some defenceless little animal to torture and kill,’ lied Collins.
‘Now I know you’re lying. Andy would never say that. He’s told me all about how the coppers frame people for things they haven’t done.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Course I do. He knows what he’s talking about.’
‘OK,’ said Collins, ‘you will spend the night here and tomorrow morning be taken to a Special Magistrates Court. Where you w
ill face charges of cruelty to animals, along with your boyfriend.’
Ten minutes later Dewar was brought into the interview room by a constable who Collins didn’t know. Andy Dewar smiled when he saw Collins, and flicking his head, cleared his fringe from his eyes. A middle-aged women accompanied him into the room. Collins correctly guessed that she was Dewar’s mother.
Collins was confident that Dewar would be found guilty. He’d seen his likes before. Overconfident, arrogant young men who thought they knew it all. Court appearances seldom went well for such people.
‘You will be held in custody overnight and appear in a special magistrates’ court tomorrow, for the torture and killing of various small animals. If found guilty you will probably be sent to an approved school where you can be kept for training until you reach the age of twenty-one.
‘That’s a load of bollocks. I love animals, I do. I’d never hurt any animal.’
‘That’s not what your girlfriend told me. She said you had a thing about torturing and killing young animals. It turned you on.’
‘No, she dain’t.’
‘And why are you so sure she didn’t?’
Looking at Collins straight in the eye he said, ‘A, because she loves me and even if I had done what you say she would never shop me, and B, I dain’t do it. You’ve got the wrong man, so you have.’
‘Well I’m certain we’ve got the right man, and so is the eyewitness who will identify you in court in the morning.’
Wednesday 9th October 1968
Liverpool, 07.02hrs
James Charlton and his two eldest sons, Mark and Peter, climbed into the grey 3.5 Rover and started out on their eighty-mile journey to north Birmingham. They took the A-roads, ignored the recently built sections of the M6 and kept within every speed limit. Peter, the younger of the two sons, sat in the back and looked out of the rear window. After half an hour he said, ‘There’s no one following us, Dad.’