by Jim McGrath
A Death in Winter: 1963
not all murders are equal
By
Jim McGrath
Book One of the Handsworth
Quartet
Copyright © 2016 Jim McGrath
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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To Eija, Helen and Michael and all my mates who I grew up with me in Handsworth.
Acknowledgements
Shortly after starting to write this book I had the great good fortune to meet David Brown who joined the West Bromwich Police Service in January 1963. He has been a source of invaluable help, acting as technical advisor, critic, copy editor, proof reader, cover artist and friend.
If that wasn’t enough David has also written a collection of short stories about his experiences as a police officer in the 1960s called Brown in Blue. He has very kindly given me permission to adapt two of these stories for use in this book; Three O’ Clock at the Swan and Death Message.
To adequately thank Dave is impossible, all I can really say is Yoe been bostin kidda.
I would also like to thank my nephew, Stephen McGrath, who served in the Staffordshire Police Service for over twenty five years. He has supplied numerous anecdotes that will find a home in this series of books as the Handsworth Quartet of books moves into the 1970s.
I’d like to thank Paul Evans who I met at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham waiting room. It was Paul who tracked down for me the name of The Boundary Café and recounted the ancient peeing customs of Albion fans returning from away games (Don’t ask).
Finally, I would like to thank my copy editor, Hannah Cather, for her excellent work on the final manuscript.
Contents
A note on language used
Friday 8th February 1963. Stratford-upon-Avon, 19.10hrs.
Sunday 10th February 1963. Handsworth, 15.00hrs.
Monday 11th February 1963. Handsworth, 07.15hrs.
Tuesday 12th February 1963. Handsworth, 05.45hrs.
Wednesday 13th February 1963. Handsworth, 06.00hrs.
Thursday 14th February 1963. Handsworth, 08.00hrs.
Stratford-upon-Avon, 19.10hrs.
Friday 15th February 1963. Handsworth, 14.15hrs.
Saturday 16th February 1963. Hockley, 09.15hrs.
Saturday 16th February 1963. Solihull, 13.15hrs.
The Club, 21.10hrs
Sunday 17th February 1963. Handsworth, 12.30hrs.
Monday 18th February 1963. Handsworth, 11.00hrs.
Tuesday 19th February 1963. Handsworth, 14.00hrs.
Wednesday 20th January 1963. Handsworth, 15.00hrs.
Thursday 21st February 1963. Handsworth, 14.00hrs.
Friday 22nd February 1963. Handsworth, 01.00hrs.
Saturday 23rd February 1963. Handsworth, 12.00hrs.
Sunday 24th February 1963. Handsworth, 12.55hrs.
Monday 25th February 1963. Stratford-upon-Avon, 09.55hrs.
Handsworth, 12.30hrs.
Tuesday 26th February 1963. Handsworth, 12.00hrs.
Handsworth, 22.50hrs.
Wednesday 27th February 1963. Sutton Coldfield, 01.20hrs.
London, 11.00hrs.
Hockley, 12.00hrs.
Handsworth, 14.05hrs.
Hockley, 17.35hrs.
Handsworth, 18.30hrs.
Birmingham, 21.00 hrs.
Handsworth, 22.20hrs.
Thursday 28th, February 1963. Handsworth, 10.30hrs.
Handsworth, 13.00hrs.
Birmingham, 16.00hrs.
Handsworth, 18.20hrs.
Hockley, 21.40hrs.
Friday 1st March 1963. Strafford-upon-Avon, 01.30hrs.
Sunday 3rd March 1963.Handsworth, 21.00hrs.
Epilogue
A Death in Spring: 1968 Preview Book Two: The Handsworth Quartet
Saturday 20th April, 1968. Birmingham, 21.00hrs.
Handsworth Saturday 27th April, 09.00hrs.
A note on language used
This book contains both strong and racist language. I don’t wish to offend people by such language but neither do I apologise for its use. Just as smoking was a feature of life in the 1960s, and is depicted as such in what follows, so too was sexist and racist language.
How attitudes and social norms change between 1963 and 1983 will be reflected in The Handsworth Quartet.
The Black Country has no clearly defined borders but it is usually defined as “the area where the coal seam comes to the surface”. This includes Brierley Hill, West Bromwich, Oldbury, Blackheath, Cradley Heath, Old Hill, Bilston, Dudley, Tipton and Walsall but not Wolverhampton. Each town has its own version of the Black Country dialect and none of them share any resemblance to the typical “Brummie” accent. The following few words are used by Clark and other characters throughout the book to give an impression of how a person from West Bromwich might sound.
Ain’t = will not
Wi = we
Bostin = good/great
Wiek = week
Dain’t = did not
Wem = we are
Kidda = friend
Yoe = you
Summut = something
Yoem = you are
Tarrar or tarrar a bit = goodbye
Yam Yam = person from the Black Country
Part One: Earlies
Friday 8th February 1963.
Stratford-upon-Avon, 19.10hrs.
The phone rang twice before the Major picked it up.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘It’s me, Andrew.’ The voice was high-pitched and panicked. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Hang up,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll be over immediately.’
‘Who was that, dear?’ his wife asked from the sitting room, where she was watching Take Your Pick.
‘Andrew. The silly fool has had an accident and skidded off the road. I’ll take the Land Rover and pull him out.’
‘Very well dear, but do be careful. It’s so slippery underfoot. I really do think that this is the worst winter we’ve had since 1947.’
‘Shan’t be long, old thing,’ he said, as he closed the front door. He could feel his anger rising.
What a stupid, pathetic bugger Andy was. Would he never learn? Last time it was feeding sleeping pills to that Irish girl as if they were sweets, just so he could bugger her. Thank God the doc had been around to sort her out – but now this. Andrew was becoming a bloody liability to the group.
The Major brushed past Andrew and took the stairs two at a time and opened the bedroom door. His bulk blocking the entrance, he quickly surveyed the bedroom.
The girl lying face down on the bed was no more than fifteen. Her dark skin contrasted with the brilliant white of the Egyptian sheets and the bright yellow of her garter belt. A pillow had been pushed under her hips, her legs partially opened. A long ribbon of purple velvet was wrapped around her neck. It had dug deep into the flesh when pulled tight. A wine glass and some pills lay on the carpet.
Probably knocked from the night table as she thrashed about, he thought, as he felt a familiar tightening in his groin.
Andrew began to snivel again. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he cried. ‘We’ve done it before. She liked it,’ he whined like a spoilt child who had just broken a favourite toy.
‘Well, I think we can safely say she didn’t enjoy it this time, you stupid fucking moron.’ Moving with surprising grace for his size, the Major crossed to the bed and flicked the sheet over the girl’s body. He’d seen worse, much worse, than this in Berlin at the end of the War. When he spoke, his voice was calm and measured. It was the voice of a man who was used to dealing with problems. ‘Where’s she from?’
‘Handsworth.’
‘Good. That suits us. Call Phillip. Ask him to come over with a van. Then find something to wrap the body in. Make sure it can’t be traced back to you or Stratford. Got it?’
‘Yes.’ Andrew ran the back of his hand across his dripping nose. For the first time in the last forty minutes, he felt better. With the Major in charge, everything would be alright.
‘Good; then get along. You and Phillip can dump the stupid bitch back where she belongs tonight.’
With Andrew gone, the man locked the door. Returning to the bed, he pulled the sheet aside and pushed the girl’s legs wider apart. The vein in his right temple began to throb. His mouth had gone dry from the adrenalin coursing through his body. He felt his heart flutter as he undid his flies. Just like old times, he thought. Just like Berlin.
Sunday 10th February 1963.
Handsworth, 15.00hrs.
Collins stood near the gates of Handsworth Park and stamped his feet, thankful that he had decided to wear his police boots and not his black brogues. He rubbed his ears and shivered with the cold as he looked across to the boating lake, which was frozen solid. The weeping willows that edged the pond were covered in ice and a light dusting of snow. Every now and then the wind moved the stiff branches and small puffs of snow floated to the ground, adding to the three-foot drifts that had piled up against the frozen trunks.
He fumbled for the list of rooms to rent that the station sergeant had given him, his thick gloves catching in the lining of his pockets. There was just one to go. He was starting to feel dispirited. The first two on the list had displayed identical signs in their front window, “Room to let. No blacks, no dogs, no Irish”. At the third house he’d been told, ‘The room’s gone,’ as soon as he opened his mouth. He didn’t take the rejections personally. After all, he thought, it’s their house. They can rent their rooms to who they like.
Tucking a stay lock of chestnut-brown hair under his woollen hat, he trudged on looking for the “Mad Woman’s house”. The word in the station was that she was a religious maniac. It’ll be just my fecking luck if she turns out to hate Catholics, he thought.
Underfoot, the compacted snow was as hard as iron, and every now and then Collins felt his foot slip. A half mile further on, he finally found the house. It was set back from the road and protected by eight-foot iron railings and matching gates. He pushed hard against the gates, dislodging two inches of snow that covered the top rail, and walked up the drive. The house was huge, with three double windows on each side of a solid oak front door, which looked as if it had been pillaged from a castle. The U-shaped drive had been cleared of snow and a grey Rover 100 was parked outside the garage doors. The whole place screamed money and position. Suppressing an urge to shine his boots on the back of his trouser legs and look for the tradesman’s entrance, Collins grabbed the brass bell pull and, with a silent prayer to St Joseph, patron saint of the homeless, pulled it.
He heard the click of Agnes Winter’s heels on the parquet floor and steeled himself for the worst.
‘Yes, can I help you?’
Collins was surprised at the sight that confronted him. This was not the religious lunatic he’d been expecting. Agnes was about two inches shorter than him, which would make her 5 foot 9. She had thick auburn hair cut short into a neat bob, with the odd grey hair starting to appear. Her mouth was full, with laughter lines at the corners. Her nose, long and slender. But it was her emerald green eyes that held Collins. They shone with a mixture of intelligence and toughness that he had rarely seen in any man or woman. Collins found it hard to look away and even harder to speak.
Finally finding his voice, he said, ‘I’m Constable Collins from Thornhill Road Police Station. The Desk Sergeant said you had a room to let.’
Agnes smiled, her eyes sparkling, and stepped back from the door. ‘Indeed I do. Please come in, Constable Collins.’ Her voice was deep and her accent was proof of an expensive education.
After a brief inspection of the room and ground-floor kitchen, Collins found himself seated at a walnut table drinking tea from a bone china cup. He put his tea down and took another bite out of Agnes’ homemade fruitcake. As he chewed, he decided that even if he was offered the room he’d never be able to afford it.
Agnes came in and he stood up. ‘How do you like the room?’
‘It’s grand, but I don’t think I can afford it.’
‘Are you saying that your policeman’s pay won’t stretch to £2.10s a week. They really must be paying you a pittance.’
‘I can manage that, but why would you let it go for next to nothing? It’s easily worth £5 or £6 a week.’
‘Didn’t they tell you at the station? I’m a religious lunatic. I like to be charitable to deserving policemen.’
‘That’s very kind, but I don’t take charity.’
‘Oh, do stop it. I’m joking. I’m not a religious fanatic – at least I don’t think I am. I’ve rented rooms to policemen for over ten years and it’s proved to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. You see, my guests and I feel less vulnerable if there is a policeman living on the premises.’
‘Guests?’
‘Yes. From time to time I have women stay with me while they sort themselves out. They might be going through a divorce or separation and they need to get away from home for a while, but their husbands or boyfriends don’t always like the idea. Some of them can become aggressive.’
‘I see, and that’s when a copper on the premises comes in handy.’
‘Precisely. So for £2.10s a week, you not only get a roof over your head but a chance to improve your arrest record at no extra charge. So will you take it?’
‘It’s a lovely room, Mrs Winters. I’d be daft not to.’
‘Good, but please call me Agnes. I don’t believe in titles and I’ve no intention of calling you Constable Collins or Mr Collins. What’s your first name?’
‘Michael.’
‘Any relation to the Michael Collins?’
‘Yes, but you’d have to go back to when St Patrick was in short pants to find the link. Does that make a difference to your offer?’
She shook her head and, holding out her hand, said, ‘Welcome Michael Collins. I think we’re going to get on splendidly.’
It took Collins all of two hours to move from the couch he’d been sleeping on in the Station House fo
r the last two nights to his new digs. Everything he owned in the world fitted into a medium-sized brown leather suitcase, which looked as if it had seen service on the Titanic. Given that he’d never had a chance to unpack, most of his police kit was already stored in the case, along with an envelope containing the Birmingham City Stores voucher listing every item that had been issued to him and would have to be returned when he left the service. He spread out his police trousers, tunics and cape, then covered them with his one and only suit, two jumpers, a dark grey pair of trousers, sports coat, four shirts, underwear, a towel and shaving gear. He topped his packing off by adding his baton and handcuffs. The case was still barely three quarters full. Best to travel light, he thought, as he wrapped his eleven-stone frame into his father’s old great coat, then picked up his case and the felt string bag that contained his helmet.
As he left the station, night was falling, along with the temperature. Somehow it didn’t seem as cold as it had been a few hours earlier, nor the walk as long. From a nearby open window, he could hear someone playing the Beatles’ latest record: “Please, Please me”. He had to admit they were good, but they’d never replace Elvis. He smiled at two young boys repairing a snowman in their front garden. Its head had fallen off and they were working to glue it back together using fresh snow, which would freeze overnight. He tried to remember the last time he’d built a snowman but couldn’t. Maybe he would build one before the winter was over. For no reason he wondered when Agnes had last built a snowman. Perhaps they could build one together. He held that thought in his mind as he set out for Hampstead Road, his dark green eyes bright and alive. For the first time since he had left Dublin five months earlier, he felt truly happy.