by Jim McGrath
Monday 11th February 1963.
Handsworth, 07.15hrs.
He’d been told to report to the Superintendent at 9am sharp. The alarm sounded at 7.15, but he was already awake and quickly shut it off. First day on the job, he thought, and his heart missed a beat. Was it nerves he felt in his stomach or excitement? He couldn’t be sure.
Pushing the bedclothes off, he swung his legs onto the floor and for an instant luxuriated in the feel of the carpet between his curled toes and the warmth of the bedroom. Thank God for central heating! he thought, grabbed a towel and his shaving gear, and headed for the bathroom. Before stepping out onto the landing, he quickly checked that nothing was sticking out that shouldn’t, while hoping that Agnes didn’t have any guests. As he walked along the landing, he resolved to buy a dressing gown from his next wages.
Thirty minutes later, shaved, washed and dressed, Collins walked into the kitchen and stopped as if he had run into a plate glass window. Standing by the cooker was a woman who was no more than 5 foot tall, with bottle blonde hair, a red blouse and fishnet stockings. She had slim legs, upon which was balanced an enormous backside that was winning the fight with her short black skirt. It looked as if it would explode and make a run for freedom at any moment. She was standing lopsided as the heel on her right shoe was missing and she seemed to be wearing some sort of turban. It was only when she turned around that Collins could see that it was a bandage secured by a large safety pin over her left eye, which was blue, black, red and swollen. It was impossible to guess how old she was. She had a face that had lived a thousand stories and none of them with a happy ending.
‘Hello handsome. Come on in. I won’t bite – unless yous want me to.’
Just then, Agnes brushed past. ‘Michael, I see you’ve met Gloria. She arrived at 3 this morning. What was it this time, Gloria? A disagreement with a rounder’s bat or a blackjack?’
‘Christ, Agnes, you’re going gaga. I told yous; he hit me with the pan.’
‘Yes, yes you did, but it was the middle of the night and I only had one eye and half a brain cell working at the time’.
‘Is he the new copper?’ Gloria asked, as if Michael wasn’t in the room.
‘Yes.’
‘Well yous better get over here then and cook yous breakfast fast. Unless we put a bit of meat on them bones, yous will be crap when Harry comes looking for me.’
‘Harry?’ asked Michael.
‘Her pimp,’ said Agnes.
‘I’ll see you later, gorgeous,’ said Gloria, before limping out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in one hand and a bacon butty in the other.
‘What happened to your heel?’ Michael called after her.
‘Oh that,’ she said, looking down. ‘The last time I saw it, it were buried in Harry’s head.’
When Gloria was out of earshot, Michael turned to Agnes and said, ‘When you said that you helped women who had been hurt by men I thought you meant married women. Not…’ His voice trailed off.
Agnes’ voice was curt and steely as she asked, ‘Do you mean prostitutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I help all women who are in need. No exceptions. Does that bother you, Constable?’ Her voice was low and as cold as last night’s freezing temperature.
Michael was conscious of her eyes boring into him. He felt a tremor run down his spine and knew with absolute certainty that if he said the wrong thing he’d find himself looking for new lodgings. Finally, he replied, ‘No. No. Of course not. It’s just that she caught me by surprise. I wasn’t ready for…’ he struggled to find the right words, before settling on, ‘the sight that confronted me.’
He realised how stupid he sounded and, looking at Agnes, he started to laugh. Within seconds, Agnes was also laughing uncontrollably and had to resort to pushing a tea towel in her mouth to stop.
When the laughter finally subsided Agnes said, ‘I’m not sure anyone is ever prepared for Gloria,’ which set Michael off again.
Sergeant Ridley marched Collins into the Superintendent’s office at 9am on the dot. Collins halted in front of the Superintendent, came to attention and saluted.
‘Probationary Constable Collins reporting for duty, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Ridley. I’ll take it from here.’ The Superintendent waited until Ridley had left, then said, ‘Stand easy, Collins.’
Superintendent Hollis was a thick set man with broad shoulders that were pinned back as if an iron rod ran across the back of his neck, a powerful chest and a large head. The left side of his face was pockmarked with what looked like shrapnel wounds and the little finger on his left hand was missing from the first knuckle. He stubbed out the cigarette he’d been smoking and lit another.
Collins decided that he was probably ex-army and, judging by the row of campaign medals, he’d had an eventful war. Everything in his bearing and posture exuded self-confidence. Clearly not a man to mess with, Collins decided.
‘Sorry we couldn’t put you up in the Station House, but as you know the water tank burst and flooded three rooms. God knows when we’ll get it sorted out. Available plumbers are as rare as pools winners these days. Anyway, I hear you’ve got digs with Agnes Winter?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘A fine woman. A Quaker, you know. Friend of the Cadbury family, I believe. Everything alright on that front?’
‘Oh yes, Sir. Grand, thanks.’
‘From your file I see that your grandfather was in the Royal Irish Constabulary and that your uncle is a Chief Superintendent in the Met. Why didn’t you join the Garda or the Met?’
‘I didn’t want people thinking I was trading on the family name. Nor did I want people comparing me to me grandfather or uncle.’
‘Want to do it on your own, eh? Well, that’s probably wise. Just one more thing before I bring your partner in. Your scores during training were uniformly high. One officer described you as, and I quote, “possessing a high level of intelligence”. But then I think you already know that you’re brighter than most, don’t you?’
Collins remained silent.
The Superintendent smiled. ‘Good for you. You know when to keep your mouth shut, so you probably already know that you don’t want to flaunt it in front of the men. Save it for your sergeants and inspectors exams. Coppers don’t trust bright sparks. They think they’ll bottle out when things get rough. What the average copper wants is a mate they can rely on in a tight corner. Win their trust and you’ll be in. Now I think it’s time you met Constable Clark, who is a bit of a character but a bloody good copper.’ Without expanding on what he meant, Hollis pressed the button on his intercom and said, ‘Sergeant Ridley, send Constable Clark in please’.
Moments later, the door opened and Collins was confronted with the smallest policeman he’d ever seen. At just 5 feet 5 inches, and weighing around 9 stone, he looked more like a flat jockey than a policeman. His face was thin and his features were sharp and regular. Like so many thin people his eyes appeared deep-set, hidden in shadows. His nose had a distinct bump in the middle where it had been broken and reset in a hurry. A small scar ran upwards from the right corner of his mouth for maybe an inch. It made him look as if he was smiling wryly at some stupidity that only he could see. Two rows of campaign ribbons adorned his chest and the crease in his trousers was sharp enough to cut the unwary. The toe caps of his boots had been bulled with Dubbin and polished to a brilliant finish.
‘Clark, this is Collins our new probationer. I want you to teach him everything you know.’
‘Yoe must be joking Sir? What I knows would never fit in that tiny skull.’
‘Ignore him, Collins. Clark believes that anyone born outside a 1 mile radius of the Hawthorns is mentally sub-normal. Isn’t that right, Clark?’
‘Damn right, Sir. In fact, I’m starting to think it should be half a mile.’
&nbs
p; Collins had no idea what or where the Hawthorns was, but stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Oh sod me, Sir, not another bloody Paddy. Even a sodding Brummie is better than another Paddy.’
Collins was about to snap at the bait, but he resisted the temptation. Instead, he reeled his temper in and said, ‘Is that right? Let’s see if you feel the same after a month.’ His eyes, locked on Clark’s face, never wavered.
Clark looked at the Superintendent, who was trying hard not to laugh. ‘I’ll say one thing, Boss, this one has a pair of brass balls on him. Cocky bastard.’ With that, Clark held out his hand.
Collins found the grip dry, honest and surprisingly strong. As he withdrew his hand, he felt the texture of Clark’s skin. It was hard and abrasive, like pumice stone.
Outside, Clark said, ‘Wait here, Paddy. I’ll see if the Sergeant has anything for us. Then I’ll start to learn you everything I know about police work.’
‘Fine, but me name’s not Paddy.’
‘What?’
‘You can call me Collins, Michael, Mike, even Mickey, but not Paddy. If you do, I’ll just ignore you.’
‘Struth. Yoem a sensitive soul yoe. Mickey it is then. With those ears, yoe look like a bleeding mouse anyway.’
Before Collins could think of a reply, Clark had gone. He returned minutes later with a piece of paper. ‘Well, Mickey, it’s our lucky day. We’re off to see Mrs Ashcroft. She’s complaining about fly tippers – again.’
‘Fly tipping? Shouldn’t the council look after that?’
‘Normally they would, but she’s got contacts. Her old man used to be Chairman of the Watch Committee so she gets our silver service. One thing. We don’t ever go in her house.’
‘Why not?’
‘Yoe’ll see. And while we’re laying down a few rules: yoe can call me Clark, Clarkee or Chipper. Only me mother and father ever call me Clive. Clive makes me sound like a right ponce, OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘The only other thing yoe have to remember is: if we ever get in a punch up, get behind me and watch me back. Leave the rest to me. Do that and I’ll get yoe through your months’ attachment, and yoe might learn enough to survive the remaining twenty-three months of yoer probation.’
For a moment Collins was about to protest that he could look after himself, but there was something in Clark’s slate grey eyes that didn’t allow for disagreement.
Clark set off at a brisk 2.5 miles an hour, which Collins found hard to keep up with given the conditions. The roads were passable, but the pavements hadn’t been cleared, and conditions under foot were treacherous.
‘I’d normally cut through the park, but yoe’d need bleeding snow shoes after last night. I’m afraid it’s the long way round for us, Mickey. Come on; keep up.’
As they walked down Holly Road and along Grove Lane, Clark kept up a running commentary on the occupants of various houses and streets that they passed. Wife beater, tea leafs, slags, Toms, pimps, burglars, hard bastards, teddy boys, receivers. Nothing big.
Collins broke into the monologue and asked, ‘What about Birmingham? Anything bigger there?’
‘There’s a few bigger firms. One or two that go in for armed robbery and the like, but nothing like the London gangs.’
‘Why’s that? I would have thought they’d be in here like pigs at a trough.’
‘Bloody hell, yoe ask a lot of questions. Training to be a detective, are yoe? Brum has this thing called the Watch Committee. They enforce the licencing laws and everything is closed by 11pm, so there are no nightclubs worth the name. Nowhere for the Kray’s and their mates to put their money and have a good time. There’s also the Welcome Wagon.’
‘The Welcome Wagon?’
‘Yeah, whenever one of the London boys are spotted, a DCI and a couple of the boys pay him a visit and explain to him why he should piss off back to London before something nasty happens to him and his mates.’
‘And it works?’
‘Oh yeah. It’s amazing how co-operative these guys can be when hanging upside down outside a sixth-floor window.’
‘Does that really happen?’
‘Last time I were on the Welcome Wagon, I was holding some guy by the balls for fifteen minutes while the Inspector explained why he should leave and go home that night. It were really painful.’
‘I bet.’
‘Yeah, I got terrible cramp in me fingers, but he were very attentive.’
At the top of Grove Lane, Clark slowed down as he approached a row of newly built semi-detached houses set well back from the road. At the third house, a dark-haired woman in her thirties was cleaning the inside of the lounge window. Clark stopped and waved to attract her attention. She eventually caught sight of him and waved back. He gave one final wave and walked on with a smile on his face.
It was the first time Collins had seen him smile and it transformed his face to that of a child’s on Christmas morning. Collins said nothing but began to turn over the various possibilities of who the woman was in his mind. Wife? Unlikely, as she was ten or fifteen years younger than Clark. Girlfriend? Unlikely. Sister? No, he’d been too glad to see her. Fancy woman? Maybe.
Even before he pushed open Mrs Ashcroft’s gate, Collins could smell it. Cat pee. The pungent smell of ammonia stung his nostrils. It came in waves from the house and surrounding garden, which had an unnaturally high percentage of yellow snow. Even 10 yards from the house, and in the middle of winter, the smell was overpowering. Hell knows what it was like in summer.
Clark knocked on the door, then took two steps back and three to the side. Collins remained in line with the door. That was a mistake. As the door opened the full force of the smell hit him like a brick in a sock. An old woman with one stocking around her ankle, and cats hairs covering her skirt and jumper, looked at Clark and said, ‘Well, I must say you took your time, Sergeant Clark. I phoned on Saturday morning.’
‘Sorry, Mrs. Ashcroft. I only got your message today,’ he said loudly, as he backed off even further. ‘I can only apologise.’
Collins followed suit and moved back.
‘I should think so. In my husband’s day, when he was Chairman of the Watch Committee, such tardiness would not have been tolerated.’
‘You’re right, Mrs Ashcroft, standards have fallen since the war.’
‘Quite right. They have. It’s a pleasure to find another who sees the decline so clearly.’
Collins suppressed a smile. Clark had changed his accent, agreed with everything the old lady had said and had in a matter of seconds placated the old dear. Maybe there were some things he could learn from the little man after all.
‘Would you and your man like to come in for a cup of tea?’
Clark was prepared for the invitation. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Ashcroft, but we have a burglary to go to on Rookery Road as soon as we finish up here,’ he lied. ‘So if you can just tell us where you saw the man drop the rubbish.’
‘It’s over there in the ditch between the road and the allotments. If you find an address, I do hope you’ll prosecute.’
Collins looked in the direction she was pointing and moved towards the ditch. Anything to get away from the stench. The weekend’s snow had covered whatever had been dumped. Using his truncheon Collins started to prod his way along the ditch.
‘It’s further up the lane, young man,’ cried Mrs Ashcroft.
Collins moved to his right and almost immediately saw the flaps of a cardboard box. Clearing the top snow, he could see some clothes and a roll of felt inside. He grabbed the edges of the box and pulled hard. The box came out as if it were a sled and Collins fell backwards arse over tip. As he lay on the hard snow, he started to laugh. Looking towards Clark he expected to see the same reaction, but Clark was running towards him ashen
-faced. Only when he sat up did Collins see the girl’s head, arm and naked shoulder protruding from her felt shroud.
Detective Inspector Hicks had taken charge. He was new to the station, but came with the reputation of being honest and fair. The word was that he’d cocked up his last case at the Met and had decided that his future lay away from the bright lights of London.
Breaking away from the pathologist, he walked over to Collins who was seated on a low brick wall, writing up his notebook and drinking a cup of tea provided by Mrs Ashcroft’s neighbour.
‘You alright Collins?’
‘Fine, Sir.’
‘Good man. Hell of a way to start your first day on the job. Why don’t you and Clark do a house-to-house for the rest of the road and check if anyone saw anything. If you find anything, tell Sergeant York. He’ll take the statement. Then piss off to the station and get a bite to eat.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Hicks rejoined the huddle of officers that were organising a search of the ditch and adjoining ground, and Collins went looking for Clark. He found him in the neighbour’s kitchen with a cup of tea and a round of toast in front of him. Collins looked at him accusingly.
‘Perks of seniority, Mickey boy. Yoe get a cup of tea and a cold wall to sit on and I get the honoured visitor’s treatment. What can I say?’
‘Well, now we both get the honoured job of canvassing the rest of the neighbours courtesy of Inspector Hicks.’
Clark was about to reply when Mrs Wilcox, the neighbour, came in. She was in her sixties and had a cheerful red face and twinkling blue eyes. Collins guessed that she would have been a handful in her youth. The centre of attention wherever she went.
‘Another cup of tea, officer?’
‘No thanks, Mrs Wilcox. That was bostin. The Inspector wants Constable Clark here and me to check if anyone in the road saw anything on Friday night. Would you mind answering a few questions?
‘Not at all. I know I shouldn’t say it, but this is the most excitement we’ve had around here since the ack-ack guns on Hill Top shot down the German bomber in 1942 – or was that ‘43?’