A Death in Winter

by Jim McGrath

  Clark pulled out his notebook. ‘I’ll keep the notes.’

  Collins was surprised. He’d expected Clark to take the lead with the questioning. Maybe he’s testing me, he thought.

  The three of them sat down at the kitchen table and Collins tried to remember what he’d been taught about interviewing a witness.

  ‘Were you in on Friday night?’

  ‘Oh yes. Me and my husband normally go to the Uplands for a drink with our friends, Harry and Maud, on a Friday, but it was much too cold to go out last Friday. Blooming perishing, it was. So we stopped in and watched Take your Pick.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘About 11.’

  ‘And your bedroom is at the front of the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After that, did you see or hear anything?’

  ‘No. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. You really need to speak to my hubby, Bert. He’s up and down to the toilet five or six times a night. He might have seen something.’

  ‘When will he be in?’

  ‘He’s normally back from work by 5.30, but give him time to have his dinner. He’s always in a foul mood until he’s had his dinner. So, say 6.30.’

  ‘Well, that seems to be…’

  ‘Just one last question, Mrs Wilcox,’ said Clark. Have you seen any cars or men hanging around the Lane recently?’

  ‘No, it’s too cold for that sort of thing.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ asked Collins.’

  ‘You know, canoodling and such like. In the summer we get a lot of couples parking by the ditch and walking up the hill. Did you know that Hill Top is the highest point in Birmingham? At night you can see all the lights in Birmingham spread out beneath you, winking like diamonds and rubies.’ She paused before adding, ‘Not that those who go up the hill are interested in the view. I know I never was.’

  As they left the house, Collins said, ‘I should have asked her about cars and strangers.’

  ‘No worry. Yoe did OK. It ain’t easy to remember everything when yoe know some sod like me is watching yoe. Just try to relax.’

  ‘OK.’

  The remaining six houses in the Lane produced no new information. The two men sat on the wall that Collins had vacated an hour earlier and made up their notebooks, careful to ensure that they both recorded the same information and times. They knew how defence barristers loved to exploit even the most minor details in an officer’s notebook in an attempt to plant the seed of reasonable doubt in the mind of jurors. Finished, they reported to Inspector Hicks and then headed back to the station for some snap.

  Both men had eggs, beans, sausages and chips. They then proceeded to argue if what they had eaten was either a British or Irish breakfast, Michael claimed that the Brits had pinched it from Ireland in the 19th century – but Clark was having none of it. Their dispute was still going on when they sat down to write their statements.

  Clark finished writing at 4pm, waved ta ra and went home. Collins couldn’t resist the opportunity to see what Clark had written. He wanted to see what was considered an acceptable standard and reckoned that Clark’s report would be around the minimum required. Retrieving the report from the Inspector’s in-tray, Collins was surprised to find that it was a superb example of how to write a report using simple, clear, accurate English that highlighted all the main points and left no room for ambiguity or confusion. Even the handwriting was elegant and precise. It was the second time that day that the little man had surprised him and he wondered what other surprises Clark might have up his sleeve.

  Collins returned to his desk, ripped up his draft and started again. He continued to write and rewrite his statement like an author polishing a piece of prose. It was his first day, his first murder and his first statement. He wanted it to be perfect. But no matter how hard he tried it didn’t match Clark’s work. Making a promise to himself that he would improve, he finally signed and handed in his report at 5.45.

  Stepping outside, he suddenly felt exhausted. The excitement of the day, the adrenalin rush that had followed finding the body, even the mundane experience of talking to the neighbours had left him drained. I’m going to sleep the sleep of the dead tonight, he thought.

  At the Park Gates Stores, he picked up a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, a packet of Brook Bond tea, sugar, bacon, eggs and a packet of Walls sausages. Another fry-up and bed were calling him.

  He was about to turn right on Holly Road and head for home when he remembered Bert Wilcox. It was just gone 6pm. Bert would be home. With a resigned sigh, he turned left and headed for Ashcroft Avenue.

  Bert was enjoying an after-dinner cup of tea when Mrs Wilcox showed Collins into the snug dining room. The coals of the open fire were glowing red and barely a string of smoke escaped up the chimney.

  ‘You get warm, love, and I’ll get you a cuppa and a sandwich. You look like you could use both.’

  Mr Wilcox turned the telly off and said, ‘Mavis tells me you want to talk about Friday night last. Ask me if I saw anything. Well, happens I did.’ His accent was different to those Collins had been hearing all day. More like those used in old George Formby films.

  ‘You did?’ said Collins, his tiredness washed away by a flood of excitement.

  ‘Didn’t I just say so, lad? It was 2.20. I know ‘cos I looked at the clock when I got up to go to the lavatory, like I always do. I heard a car on the road. The curtains weren’t full drawn so I went over to close them. That’s when I saw them lifting a cardboard box out the back of an Austin A35 Van.’

  Collins felt his pulse quicken and worked hard to keep his voice level. ‘Did you get a registration number?’

  ‘No. It were parked sideways onto the house. But it were green, if that’s any help.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. Are you sure it was a green A35 Van. I mean it was dark?’

  Leaning forward, Mr Wilcox fixed Collins with a stare. ‘I’d been working with cars for twenty years before you were even an itch in your father’s pants. So if I say it were a green Austin A35 van, you can be bloody sure it were.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question your knowledge. I just wanted to be certain. What about the man? Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘Men, lad, not man. There were two of them.’

  ‘Mrs Ashcroft only saw one man.’

  ‘She also thinks that she still owns the land that the rest of the houses in the road are built on, but she’s wrong about that an’ all. Stuck up snob. Puts on all sorts of airs and graces because her husband was a bloody alderman. Treats us like we’re skivvies living in her bloody garden.’

  ‘The men, Mr Wilcox?’

  ‘One were tall. Six foot or more and skinny. I’d guess he was around twenty, and he had long, light-coloured hair like them Beatle characters.’

  ‘Sounds like you got a good look at him.’

  ‘I did. I remember thinking he were a right prat wearing no hat with the temperature below freezing. Besides, he were standing in front of the sidelights. I could see him plain.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘He were a bit older. Thicker set. Muffled up well against the cold. He seemed to be giving the orders and it were him that were driving.’

  ‘Would you recognise either man again if you saw them?’

  ‘The young one for sure. Not the other.’

  Between chomping on his sandwich, Collins went over the details twice more with Mr Wilcox and jotted them down in his notebook before he left. He’d never sleep now. He was too excited. He’d found a clue.

  In his excitement to get back to the station and report this important information to the Duty Detective, he’d half run, half trotted 400 yards before he realised that he’d left his shopping at the Wilcox’s and had to retrace his steps.<
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  Collins arrived at the station and headed for the CID Room. Sergeant O’Driscoll was sitting behind his desk, feet up, reading through a pile of crime reports. His hair, grey and thinning, was uncombed, his tie askew, shirt tail flapping in the wind and his beer belly overlapping his belt, he looked every inch of an Irish farmer. Looking up, he squinted and asked, ‘Collins?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Come in and shut the door. This place is bloody freezing at night.’ His accent was unmistakably from the north side of Dublin.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘You’re new and I know every other bugger in the station. Here,’ he said waving his cup in the air, ‘the kettle’s just boiled. Make me a cuppa and have one yourself.’

  Collins brewed up and carried both cups over to the Sergeant. As O’Driscoll removed his feet from the desk, Collins noticed that there was a hole in his left sole. ‘So, what’s brought you back at this time of night?’

  Collins quickly outlined the contents of his conversation with Mr Wilcox.

  ‘Well, me fine lad, not only do you find a body on your first day, but a clue as well. They’ll be making you Sergeant before you know it.’

  ‘Do you think we should call the Inspector in?’

  ‘Now if I go doing that, than neither he nor, more importantly, you are going to get out of here before midnight – which means that you’ll be knackered in the morning after less than five hours’ sleep. No, me fine friend. This is good stuff, but it will still be good stuff in the morning. So write up your notes and get off home to bed. I’ll brief the boss in the morning. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Sergeant.’

  ‘Use York’s desk.’

  Collins moved to the bombsite that was York’s desk and carefully cleared the papers that covered the ink blotter. Searching in the top drawer, he found an officer’s statement form and started to fill in the details of his conversation with Wilcox. He took his time double-checking everything he wrote with the contents of his notebook. It was nearly 10 by the time he’d finished.

  Looking up, he saw that O’Driscoll had fallen asleep over an unopened file. Collins sighed. It looked like there was more than tea in O’Driscoll’s cup. Standing up he pushed the chair back with maximum noise.

  O’Driscoll sat up and grinned. ‘I’m at an age when I need me beauty sleep,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Are you finished?’

  Collins nodded.

  ‘Good. Give it to me and I’ll put it in the Inspector’s hand first thing in the morning.’

  Collins handed over his report, picked up his shopping and had his hand on the door handle when O’Driscoll asked, ‘Do you know where Wilcox works, laddie?’

  ‘No, I never asked. Is it important?’

  ‘No, not that important, but Hicks will want York to take a full statement and he won’t want to wait until Wilcox comes home. Don’t worry, though, York can get the details from the wife.’

  Collins opened the door and stepped into the corridor. He should have thought of that. He should have asked Wilcox where he worked. Sod it. Well, that was another mistake he’d never make again.

  Tuesday 12th February 1963.

  Handsworth, 05.45hrs.

  Collins was first to arrive for Parade. He’d hardly slept the night before, tossing and turning in bed trying to work out what Mr Wilcox’s information meant to the investigation. One thing was sure: more than one man was involved in the girl’s death. He just had time to brief Clark on what had happened the previous night before they went on Parade, handcuffs and truncheon at the ready to show the Sergeant when required.

  At 6 sharp, Collins and Clark left the station. Walking the beat for the first time was an unusual experience. Collins quickly realised that the uniform set him apart from the rest of the crowd on Soho Road. Some nodded good morning or waved as they hurried to the early shift at work; others gave way to him and Clark as they passed; and a few, those with a guilty conscience, seemed to sigh with relief as he passed by.

  Shopkeepers were keen to invite them in for a cuppa and a biscuit, hoping that such hospitality would be rewarded when they were next on night duty by giving their premises more than just the usual cursory glance.

  Clark had the beat timed to perfection. Without stopping for a chat or having to deal with a problem, it took exactly two and half hours to do a complete circuit – which ran from the Palladium Cinema in Hockley to the boundary line between Birmingham and West Bromwich.

  As they approached the border, Clark asked, ‘Have yoe been up this far yet?’

  Collins shook his head.

  ‘Well, yoe are now entering holy ground. See that blue brick wall? That’s the Hawthorns, the home of West Bromwich Albion. Make sure you genuflect when you pass or whatever you lefthanders do. Me, I always touch the wall for good luck.’

  All Collins could see was the curved corrugated steel roof of a stand that had no sides and was in need of painting. The turnstiles were closed and litter had accumulated by each entrance. Everything was dirty and grime-encrusted.

  ‘It could do with a clean and a lick of paint don’t you think?’ said Collins.

  Clark stared at him with disgust. ‘This is the highest football ground in the Football League, which means it’s about as near to God as yoe’ll ever get. It is also home to the biggest pitch in England – and that includes Wembley. Yoe do know what Wembley is, don’t yoe?’

  Collins decided to wind Clark up. ‘Of course I do. It’s where England play cricket.’

  ‘God give me strength! How the hell did yoe get through selection? Wembley is where football is played, not cricket. And the Hawthorns on a Saturday afternoon is where great football is played – except when they have an off day. And then them crap. But on a good day, it’s the best place in the world to be with 30,000 other Baggies fans – especially when wi stuff the Villa.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘No need to. When this snow finally clears, yoe can come to a match with me.’

  ‘OK,’ said Collins, doubtfully.

  ‘Now, come on, I need to report in.’

  The familiar police pillar was on the other side of the road. Standing 5 foot tall and surmounted by an orange light that flashed whenever the station wanted to contact the beat bobby it contained a locked telephone box for the exclusive use of police officers and a separate phone that could be used by the public to summon police assistance. Clark spoke briefly to Thornhill Road, confirmed that they were heading back to the station and hung up.

  ‘See that row of bus stops just before you get to the Hawthorns?’ asked Clark. ‘That marks the boundary between Birmingham and the Black Country. If you ever go to Dudley Zoo to visit yoer relatives, you’ll pay one bus fare to the boundary and another to the zoo.’

  ‘That sounds like a bit of a palaver.’

  ‘If I had my way, yoe’d have to show your passport before yoe could get into God’s blessed Black Country. Now, opposite the Albion, and officially in the Black Country, is The Boundary Café – or, as its regulars call it, The Shit Hole. Great tea and bacon butties. But always remember: never step in any puddles when yoe goes in, especially on a Sunday’.

  ‘Puddles?’

  ‘Yeah, puddles. Yoe see when wi go to an away game, the coach drops us off at the café. It’s usually late when wi get back and there’s no buses, so before wi start walking, the lads take a piss. Most pee up against the wall of the cafe or see how high up the windows they can reach. But one or two, who’ve had a run in with Sid, piss through his letterbox – and someone has always had a row with Sid that wiek.’

  Back at the station, Collins was wiping up the last of the egg yolk with his fried bread when DS York sidled up to the table.

  ‘Collins? The Inspector wants to see you in his office.�
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  Collins looked at Clark, pushed his plate away and stood up. He felt a mixture of nerves and excitement as he knocked on the Inspector’s door. He knew what it was about; he just hoped his report had been clear.

  ‘Ah, Collins. Come in. I read your report. Well done. You showed a bit of initiative going round there last night. Sergeant York will follow it up and take Wilcox’s statement.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  In stark contrast to the clear, freezing air outside, the office was stifling hot and blue cigarette smoke filled the air. It was those swanky French Gaulloises, which smelt like rotten cheese, that Hicks was smoking. Collins could feel a cough forming in his throat and fought it down.

  ‘I thought you might like to spend the rest of the day with me. See how the CID do things. I’ve cleared it with your gaffer. OK?’

  ‘Fine, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope you feel the same way tonight. We identified the girl. Simone Winston. Her mother reported her missing on Saturday morning. We’ll see her first. Then, it’s a trip to the pathologist. He’s new and from what I saw of him yesterday a real delight. I hope you’re not the fainting type?’

  ‘No, Sir, I’m not.’

  ‘OK then. Grab your coat and let’s get going. Can you drive?’

  Collins drew up outside 211a Holly Road. Mrs Winston lived in a second-floor flat that overlooked the tennis courts in Handsworth Park. The view would have added £250 to the value of the house pre-war, but now it was worthless. The neighbourhood had changed. The professional classes, who had once boasted of having an address in Handsworth, had moved to Sutton Coldfield – well away from the common riff-raff of Handsworth, and the Irish and coloureds that seemed to breed like rabbits.

  The houses were now occupied by Irish immigrants and children of the Empire from the Caribbean, India and Pakistan. Those from the dominions had expected to be welcomed by the Motherland, who had called on them to be doctors, nurses, bus conductors, hospital orderlies and factory workers. But, like the Irish before them, they had quickly found that they were wanted and despised in equal measure. To pay the mortgage, they rented out spare rooms – the result was that the desirability of living in Handsworth had quickly spiralled downward and would never recover. Mrs Winston led Hicks and Collins into a tidy living room with a cooker and sink in one corner. Against the longest wall stood a glass display cabinet with a mixture of pottery and souvenirs from day trips around England.