A Death in Winter

by Jim McGrath

  Hicks settled into a small two-seater settee and Collins remained standing by the door.

  Collins watched as Mrs Winston eased herself into a chair next to a two-bar electric fire. She had a blanket draped across her shoulders, but was still shaking. Collins guessed that she was probably only in her early forties, yet she looked sixty. Her jet-black skin was grey with shock. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, stared into the distance.

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions,’ Hicks said slowly, in a low voice. ‘Constable Collins will take some notes. If that’s alright with you?’

  ‘If it will help…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘How long have you lived In England?’

  ‘I came after the war. I was one of the first. I’m a nurse at Dudley Road.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  A grim smile played around the corners of her mouth. ‘Him? He’s long gone. When I arrived, I thought all Englishmen were gentlemen – but when I fell pregnant in 1949, he disappeared quicker than the mist on a summer morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, her voice animated for the first time. ‘Simone and I are doing… I mean, were doing fine. She was a good girl. Went to church. Didn’t hang around with boys. Worked hard at school. I don’t understand why this has happened to her.’

  ‘Where did she go to school?’

  ‘St Martin’s in Hockley.’

  ‘And you say that on Friday she told you she was visiting a friend and would be back around 10.30?’

  ‘That’s right. Whoever did this must have took her as she came back from Carol’s house.’

  ‘Carol?’

  ‘Carol Midgley; she lives at 26 Prince Albert Road. They often spent Friday night together listening to Radio Luxemburg.’

  ‘And that’s what they were doing last Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Weren’t you concerned when she didn’t return on Friday night?’

  ‘No, I was working. I do nights every two weeks. It gives me a bit extra. We’re saving… sorry, we were saving for a holiday back home in Jamaica.’

  ‘What time did you get home from work on Saturday morning?’

  ‘I got in at about 8.30. I made a cup of tea and looked in on Simone before I went to bed. That was about 9.15.’

  ‘And that’s when you found her missing and rang the police?’

  ‘No, I didn’t ring the police. I went to the station and reported it straightaway. I knew my girl wouldn’t stay out all night. Something had to be wrong. I could feel it.’

  ‘She’d never stayed out all night before?’

  ‘No, sir. Never,’ she almost shouted. ‘Simone was a good girl.’

  ‘I’m sure she was. Do you mind if I take a look at Simone’s room while I’m here?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s the next room along on the landing. I need a cuppa. Would you like one?’

  ‘That would be very nice, Mrs Winston.’

  On the landing, Hicks asked, ‘Well, what do you think, lad?’

  ‘I think she’s telling the truth as far as she knows it. But if she’s working nights every fortnight, she can’t know what her kid’s doing.’

  ‘Exactly, but I bet Carol Midgley does.’

  Simone’s bedroom was not what Collins had expected from a teenager. It was spotless. The bed made. Books and magazines stored neatly in a white, painted bookcase. A new Dansette record player resting on a pine chair by the bed with half a dozen or so singles on the floor beside it. Her white ice skates were hanging on a hook behind the door. Not a single pin-up of Elvis, Billy Fury or even Cliff Richard adorned the wall.

  ‘You take a look at the dressing table,’ Hicks said, as he started to go through the bookcase. Working from the top down, he carefully inspected each book and magazine in turn for any hidden papers or photos.

  Collins remembered his training and kept his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the white dressing table. Every item was arranged precisely, as if the layout had been planned and precisely measured. A hairbrush and comb lay side by side, with a single bottle of red nail varnish, two lipsticks and a bottle of perfume lined up close by. At the back, aligned precisely with the corner of the dressing table, was a wooden jewellery box.

  Collins slipped on his leather gloves before he picked up the perfume bottle. The label said Chanel and although he didn’t know much about perfumes, it looked expensive. He put it to one side. Next, he opened the jewellery box. It was the usual assortment of cheap costume jewellery. Typical tat made from plated metal and decorated with either glass or wooden beads. He poked about the contents with his finger and was about to close the lid when he spotted what looked like an old broach. He fished it out and was surprised by its weight. It was shaped like a bird, but the wings had been broken off and several pieces of glass were missing from the tail and eyes. Turning it over, Collins saw that the clasp was missing. What a pity, he thought. It would have been a nice piece if it were undamaged. Then, he saw the hallmark.

  ‘Sir, I think you need to have a look at this.’ He handed Hicks the broach.

  The Inspector felt its weight. It certainly wasn’t made of cheap metal. He turned it over in his gloved hand and examined the hallmark. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What’s a fourteen-year-old girl doing with a broken broach made of gold and diamonds, and hallmarked “Birmingham 1912”.’

  ‘Is it worth much?’

  ‘Not a lot. Maybe a fiver. She probably picked it up at a jumble sale. If you find any more like this, it might be worth looking into. Anything else?’

  ‘I haven’t finished looking yet, but the perfume seems expensive.’

  Hicks picked up the bottle. ‘Chanel. Definitely not a perfume that a kid can afford. See what else you can find that is expensively out of place.’

  Fifteen minutes later, they had found a London-made dress and skirt hidden at the back of the wardrobe, along with two silk blouses. Collins also found a stash of bras, knickers, suspender belts, slips and a corset in the space between the bottom drawer of the dressing table and the floor. The underwear was both gaudy and expensive. It was definitely not the type of thing a mother would buy her young daughter. The list of suspect items was completed by the new record player.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, lad?’

  ‘I think she had a sugar daddy, Sir.’

  ‘Damn right she did. We need to ask Mrs Winston if she knows anything about these. It’s possible she was pimping the girl herself.’

  The thought hadn’t entered Collins’ head and he was sure the Inspector was wrong, but he stayed quiet.

  Collins watched as the look on Mrs Winston’s face turned from surprise to shock to horror as she realised the implications of what she was seeing. Eyes blazing, she flung the black corset with the white stain on the front against the wall, stumbled to the settee and collapsed. Head in hands, she rocked backwards and forwards crying dry tears and heaving on an already empty stomach. It was clear to Collins that either she was the best actress in the world or she knew nothing about this collection.

  Only the Dansette and the jewellery were innocent. She’d given the record player to Simone last Christmas, along with the top five singles. As for the jewellery, Simone had shown it to her and said she’d found it in a snow bank between the road and the footpath in the middle of January.

  Still fighting for composure, Mrs Winston looked Hicks in the eye and said, ‘You catch this bastard. Promise. I want him to hang for what he done to my child.’

  ‘I promise I’ll do everything I can, Mrs Winston. You have my word on that.’

  Straightening her back, she took a deep breath and, with all the dignity she could muster, said, ‘I believe you.’

  Collins watched on helplessly. He wanted to comfort this poor woman
on the worst day of her life. A mother, who in the space of forty-eight hours had lost her daughter and then discovered that she had been living with a person she barely knew. It was obvious that she would forever blame herself for failing to protect her only child against the evil bastard that had corrupted, exploited and killed her. Collins could do nothing but stand there and promise himself that he would catch whoever was responsible. No matter how long it took.

  As he followed Hicks out, Mrs Winston handed Collins a snapshot of Simone. ‘I want you to have it, so you don’t forget my girl.’ Collins didn’t know what to say. He squeezed the woman’s hand and carefully placed the photo in his breast pocket.

  Hicks and Collins left the car on Holly Road, crossed Grove Lane and headed down Prince Albert Road, looking for number 26. Carol wasn’t at home. She’d been upset by the death of her friend, but her mother, thinking that it would help if she kept busy, had sent her to school.

  Mrs Midgley had an abundance of pasty white skin, which hung in folds from her neck and arms. Despite the liberal use of Lifebuoy Soap, personal hygiene remained a problem for the big woman. She confirmed that Simone regularly visited Carol, but had not been there the previous Friday. She expressed the view that “Simone was a nice enough girl for a half-caste”, but there was something in her tone that implied Carol was better off not mixing with Simone’s sort.

  Turning from the door, Hicks waited until it had closed and said, ‘There’s a woman overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Not a single mention of Mrs Winston and how she was. Come on, lad. We’ll give Carol a visit on the way to the pathologists.’

  St Martin’s Secondary Modern School was located at the bottom of Hockley Hill. It was almost exactly halfway between Handsworth Park and Birmingham City Centre. Nestled in its own valley, it was surrounded by factories and workshops. This was, in fact, the original workshop of the world and was just a short walk away from the very first factory ever built by Robert Stevenson on Soho Hill. The smell of chemicals infused everything, skin, clothes, wood and brick. There was no escaping it. It stung eyes, irritated throats and slowly destroyed lungs. Even on this bright, cold day, a yellow-and-blue haze hung over the valley and dimmed the sunlight.

  St Martin’s was run by a formidable nun, whose chosen name, Sister Etna, described her perfectly. More than one city education officer had been on the wrong end of an explosive tongue lashing from this formidable woman when she thought her “kids” were being treated unfairly.

  Inspector Hicks explained that Sergeant York would arrange to take statements from Simone’s friends and teachers later in the week. For now he just wanted to speak to Carol Midgley and clarify a few things, and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, have a look at Simone’s desk.

  Looking at the office clock, Sister Etna said, ‘Lunch ends at 1.30. The classroom will be empty for the next hour.’

  ‘That sounds ideal. Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘If you’ll come with me.’

  For Collins, walking into the classroom was like taking a step back in time to Synge Street School, Dublin. The same scuffed oak desks arranged in six rows of eight. The walls covered in pictures from the bible, along with scenes showing the prairies of America and the Industrial Revolution, all capped off by a large crucifix over the blackboard. Not only was the Church’s teaching universally consistent, so too, it seemed, were its classrooms.

  ‘One thing I do insist upon, Inspector, is that I be present as an observer when you interview Carol.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ Sister Etna indicated Simone’s desk and left to find Carol. The contents of the desk were as neat and tidy as Simone’s bedroom, with her copy books neatly covered in wallpaper, numbered and stacked according to size. All pens, pencils and rubbers were neatly stored in a roll-top pencil case with a picture of the Beatles glued to the bottom of it.

  Working methodically, both men went through the copy books. All of the subject books were spotless. The only marks were the red pen of the teacher‘s comments – all of which appeared to be positive. It might only have been a Secondary Modern but Simone seemed brighter than the average fourteen-year-old. It was obvious to Collins that whatever else might have been going on in Simone’s life, it hadn’t affected her schoolwork.

  It was only when he started to flick though her two rough workbooks that he said, ‘Sir, what do you make of this?’

  Hicks examined the books. Along with the outlines for essays, maths formulas, doodles and notes to herself, there were seven strings of meaningless numbers. Each string circled in red biro. The shortest string ran to five numbers and each number was separated by a neat slash.

  12/1/14/24/3

  ‘What do you make of it, Collins?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Sir. Maybe it’s a code of some kind,’ he replied, thinking that his suggestion was both daft and amateurish even as he said it.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. A bit melodramatic, but we’re dealing with a child and a code could be her way of keeping secrets from Mom and teachers. Take all her copy books and we’ll have a closer look back at the station.’

  As Collins started to empty the desk, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Hicks said.

  Carol Midgley and Sister Etna entered. Carol had the same dark hair as her mother, but the likeness ended there. She was tall and thin with sharp, almost hard, features. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she looked very nervous.

  Hicks tried to put her at her ease immediately. ‘Carol, thank you for talking to us. I know this must be very hard for you but if we’re to catch the man who killed your friend, we need your help. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Speak up, child, so the Inspector can hear you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated at Sister Etna’s urging.

  ‘Good. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We know that Simone used her meetings with you as cover to go and see her boyfriend.’ Hicks looked at Carol for confirmation and she nodded. ‘Now, nothing is going to happen to you. You’ve done nothing wrong. You were just helping out a friend, but we need you to tell us everything you know about this boyfriend. No matter how small the detail is, it could be important. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. So when did it start?’

  ‘Just after Christmas. There were a kid’s dance at The Palms, just off Rookery Road, one afternoon in the holidays. But I got tonsillitis and had to stay in bed, so Simone went by herself. She said it were really good. There was a new DJ and the music was great. All the latest stuff, straight off Radio Luxemburg. Anyway, she met this guy who was with the DJ. He had his own car and loads of money.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you his name or anything about him?’

  ‘Na, but she had a pet name for him. She called him Bucky.’

  ‘Did she say why she’d chosen that name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It all sounds very secretive. Weren’t you annoyed that your best friend was keeping secrets from you?’

  ‘Na. You see, he’d made her promise. He said that because she were only fourteen, he didn’t want people to think he was a baby snatcher. Said people wouldn’t understand that they were in love, like Romeo and Juliet, and if they found out she’d be sent to borstal and he’d go to prison.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He promised her that she’d get a reward if she stayed quiet.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘Well, at first he gave her money, then he started buying her clothes and things. She showed me one dress – it were lovely – and some smashing underwear.’

  Hicks exchanged a look with Collins before asking, ‘How often did they meet?’

  ‘Every Friday that Mrs Winston was working nights, and sometimes on a Saturday afte
rnoon or evening. He even turned up at school once.’

  ‘When was that?’ Hicks tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, but Collins could see it in how his body had stiffened at the news and shuffled forward on his seat.

  ‘It was one Tuesday about a month ago.’

  ‘Did you see him or his car?’

  ‘I never seen him, but I saw his car. He parked just up the road from the school and Simone got in.’

  ‘What make was it?’

  ‘I don’t know much about cars.’

  ‘Was it a small green van with a sort of wing on the front of the bonnet?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It was a big black car and had a tiger – you know, like in the advert for petrol – in the back window.’

  ‘Had Simone told you that she was being picked up?’

  ‘No, but I remember she looked nice that day. She had a new white jumper on, so she probably knew he were coming. She told me later that he took her to some restaurant near Stratford and they went to this really nice hotel afterwards.’

  ‘For sex?’

  Carol looked at Sister Etna, whose face was pinched and white. Her eyes reflecting the anger she felt. Finally, Carol replied, ‘Yes. She said she loved him and that when she was old enough, they were going to get married.’

  ‘Did she ever say how old he was or describe him?’

  ‘The way she talked, I thought he were in his twenties…’ She hesitated, wondering if she should continue.

  ‘What is it, Carol? What have you remembered?’

  Again, she looked at Sister Etna. The girl seemed both embarrassed and afraid about what she was going to say. ‘I think he had blond hair.’