by Jim McGrath
Meet Bucky 4. 22/1. School.
‘Alright, now that you’ve wet my appetite, you have to tell me more about this case,’ said Agnes.
Collins realised that he would have to return, yet again, to the station with what he had just learned, but as he finished his lukewarm fish and chips, he briefly outlined what the police knew. Agnes was particularly interested in how Simone had died and the fact that she had been violated after death. Collins finished by saying, ‘We think she was being played along by this fella Bucky. He might just have liked young girls or maybe he planned to put her on the game. It’s even possible she may have been killed by accident.’
‘That’s one possibility, certainly, but if this boyfriend of hers likes to play rough, you should talk to the working girls. Find out if any of them has a customer who likes to strangle them.’
‘That’s a good idea, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know any prostitutes.’
‘You do.’
‘Who?’
‘Gloria, of course. She was looking for you this morning. I think she has a crush on you,’ Agnes teased.
‘God, keep her at bay! I’ll do anything, but just don’t leave me alone with her.’
‘You’re not afraid of little Gloria, are you?’
‘No, I’m terrified,’ he joked.
‘You’ll never make a policeman if you don’t get to know at least some of the working girls in Birmingham. They know more about what’s going on in Birmingham than any other group of people. Their list of customers includes everyone from factory workers to judges. And a great many customers like to talk – to impress the girls. The girls are told things that no one else ever hears.’
‘Not even a priest in confessional?’
‘No, and I bet the girls could tell you about one or two priests, and Quakers, I don’t doubt – although we don’t wear dog collars and are therefore harder to spot. Tell you what; I’ll call Mary tomorrow. She’s an old friend and can tell you who’s who in the game in and around Birmingham. Now, you look like you could use a good night’s sleep. Why don’t you have an early night and I’ll tidy up?’
‘Not a chance. I have to get back to the station and tell the CID Duty Officer what you found.’
‘Can’t you just ring him?’
‘No, I need to show him.’
Collins arrived at the station and headed for the CID Room. Sergeant O’Driscoll was on the phone taking notes when Collins arrived. Waving him into a seat, O’Driscoll continued to listen and take notes for the next five minutes, only occasionally asking a question to clarify what the person on the other end of the line had said. It seemed to Collins that he had enormous patience and a sharp, analytical mind. He asked probing questions and then gave the person on the other end of the line plenty of time to respond.
After some time, O’Driscoll finally hung up and said, ‘So what’s brought you back to this wonderful shrine to justice for the second time in two nights, me fine Dub friend?’
Collins quickly explained about Simone’s code. Then, taking from his pocket the decoded list of words, he explained how Agnes had cracked the code.
‘She sounds a bright woman, this Agnes of yours. Still, we Irish have always known that women are as good, if not better than us poor ejits. Why, if it wasn’t for the mothers, I don’t think any Irish family would survive.’ O’Driscoll sounded even more maudlin than the previous night.
Collins ignored the comments and asked, ‘Do you think we should call the Inspector in?’
‘As I said last night, all we’ll be doing is ruining the Inspector’s night. If he was willing to wait until tomorrow before sending the code to Steelhouse Lane, he’ll be happy to wait until tomorrow for your translation. Do me a brief note and attach it to the grids, and then get off home to bed.’
‘OK.’ As on the previous night, Collins found a space on the shambles that was York’s desk and briefly outlined what the seven sets of numbers meant. As he stood up to leave, the older man asked, ‘Would you mind if I gave you a piece of advice, Michael Collins? One Irish man to another?
‘No, Sergeant, of course not.’
‘You’ve started well. Hicks was impressed with what you did over Wilcox. You need to keep it up. If an Irishman is to progress in this force – Christ, what am I talking about, in this country – then he has to be miles better than the nearest Englishman. Either that or he needs to be a Mason with friends in high places. Remember that.’
‘I will, Sergeant. Thanks.’
Stepping out of the station, Collins turned over in his mind what O’Driscoll had said. It may or may not be true, he thought, but one thing it did confirm was that the Sergeant was not alone in the CID room. He had a bottle or two to keep him and his regrets company through the long, dark night. Even so, Collins realised he’d taken an immediate liking to the rumpled scarecrow of a man. It would be interesting to get to know him better.
Wednesday 13th February 1963.
Handsworth, 06.00hrs.
As Parade came to an end, Sergeant Ridley fixed Clark and Collins with a stare. ‘I’ve got a little job for you pair. Stop off at Linwood Road during your beat and interview Mrs Susan Jones. She’s reported an incident of indecent exposure.’
‘Do wi know where it happened?’ asked Clark.
‘She says the corner of Rookery and Soho Road.’
‘I could’a guessed. Is Upright Freddie back on the streets?’
‘Yep. Got out of Winston Green last week.’
‘Well, it’s a pound to a penny he’s back there next week. Come on, Mickey, my lad, you’re about to meet the biggest wanker on the patch and I mean that literally. This guy can wank-off up to twenty times a day, no bother.’
‘Now, don’t get jumping to conclusions. It may not be Upright,’ said Ridley.
Clark gave Ridley a mocking stare.
‘All I’m saying is talk to Mrs Jones before you pick the bastard up.’
As they began to walk the beat, Clark gave Collins a quick resume of Upright Freddie’s criminal record. He’d been in and out of prison since he was eighteen and, despite “numerous attempts to cure him of his tendencies”, he was still on the streets at the age of thirty-one. ‘Mind you,’ said Clark, ‘Freddie is very selective about who he flashes. It has to be a female. Age don’t matter, nor looks, size, black or white. As long as it’s female it will do.’
‘But why would anyone expose themselves in weather like this. It’s flaming perishing,’ said Collins.
‘Upright’s a real professional – come hail, sleet, rain or snow, he’ll be out there knocking one off the wrist. He’s mental, but basically harmless. He’d never dream of speaking to any of the girls or women he scares – let alone touch them.’
‘It must be awful for the women, though?’
‘For the youngsters, it is. They can get right upset. But he doesn’t get it all his own way. A few months back, one old girl walked up to him, grabbed his prick and nearly ripped it off. Then, for good measure, she punched him in the balls. The judge said she were an example to all right-thinking people everywhere and awarded her ten quid from public funds. Upright got three months, it must be that stretch which he finished last week.’
It was just gone 9 when Mrs Jones let Collins and Clark into a house that was overcrowded with both furniture and people. Judging by the family photo on the mantelpiece, there were five kids living alongside the parents in a two-bedroom house; with a recently built extension off the kitchen, which boasted a bath and toilet.
Mrs Jones poured three cups of tea and handed the fig rolls around. She didn’t wait to be asked a question before she launched into her story.
‘That pervert, Upright Freddie, is at it again. He’s only been out of clink for a week and there he is pulling on his dick in broad daylight. When are you going to lock him up f
or good and throw away the key? Dirty bastard.’
Clark jumped in with a question when Mrs Jones stopped to take a breath. ‘Where and when did this happen?’
‘Last night at about ten past five. I’d just finished a bit of shopping and was walking home, when Upright stepped out of an alley and opened his coat. His flies were open and his cock sticking out.’
‘What did yoe do?’
‘I gave him a right slap around the ear. I bet it’s still buzzing. Dirty little shit.’
‘Did he threaten yoe in any other way?’
‘No. He just stood there. I mean, it were bloody freezing.’
‘And yoer sure that the man in question was Freddie Bartholomew, also known as Upright Freddie?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I’ve known him since he was in nappies. Come to think of it, he were always playing with his dick then and all. Look, I know he wouldn’t attack anyone – he’s too afraid of women to do that – but he scares the youngsters when he does it. They shouldn’t have to look at the likes of him. Get him off the streets for everyone’s good.’
‘And yoe’d be willing to repeat what you have just said in court.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, we’ll take your statement; then we’ll go round and pick Freddie up. Collins, yoe can write it.’
It took thirty-five minutes and another cup of tea and a piece of toast to finish the statement and sign it.
Outside, Clark looked up and down the road.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Collins.
‘I’m thinking we could save a bit of shoe leather if we go to The Palms first and then pick up Freddie on the way back to the station. What do yoe think?’
‘Fine by me, if it will save traipsing all the way back here.’
The cleaners were just leaving as Collins and Clark arrived at The Palms, and they directed them to the manager’s office on the first floor. Mr Spencer was everyone’s idea of a dance hall manager. Over 6 feet tall, he was brash, confident and immaculately turned out. All that tarnished his image was his ever-expanding beer belly, which even the best cummerbund could not disguise.
‘Yes, we had a back-to-school dance on Friday 28th December from 2 ‘til 5. 1/6d entrance fee. It was my idea and, if I do say so myself, it was a great success.’
‘Did you notice a young man in his twenties at the dance? He has blond hair, is over six feet and on the skinny side?’ asked Collins.
‘No, I can’t say I did. It was very crowded and I was running the snacks and soft drinks. Peggy had failed to turn up. A bomb could have gone off and I wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘This guy would have stood out. Tall, blond, skinny. He were friends with the DJ,’ repeated Clark.
‘Sorry. Like I say, I didn’t notice anyone like that.’
‘What about a young half-caste girl. Very pretty. Did you notice her?’
‘Not a chance. There were lots of good-looking teenagers. White, black, blue – after a bit, they all blend into one another.
‘Maybe the DJ remembers the bloke. We’ve been told they were friends. What’s his name?’ asked Clark
‘Ravenal. Jimmy Ravenal.’
‘Is he the guy off Radio Luxemburg?’ asked Collins.
‘That’s him. Now, he does have blond hair but he’s not in his twenties.’
‘Where can we find him?’ asked Clark.
‘Sorry, I have no idea. He travels from gig to gig in a caravan. You could probably chase him down by contacting his mother, but he’ll be here next week if you want to speak to him. He’s DJ here next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.’
‘OK. Tell him we’ll see him on Tuesday.’
‘Certainly.’
On the way out, Clark turned to Collins and asked, ‘Why were that an interesting conversation?’
‘Not once did he ask us what it was all about. Either he’s the least curious man in the world or he already knew.’
‘So yoe were awake. Hard to tell with yoe at times. I think Hicks will be interested in our Mr Spencer.’
Spencer watched the two men leave the building before he followed them. Crossing the road he made a beeline for the phone box outside Rookery Road School. He dialled a Leeds number from memory and waited. On the second ring, the phone was answered. ‘Hello.’
Spencer pushed the change into the box, waited until the line cleared and said, ‘Could I speak to Jimmy please, Mrs Ravenal? This is Colin Spencer.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Spencer. I’ll just get him for you.’
After a short pause Ravenal picked up the phone. ‘Hello Colin, me old mukka. What can I do you for?’
‘Jimmy, I thought you’d want to know that I just had the coppers around. They wanted to know about Andy and the half-caste girl. They know she came to the dance and that she’s been going out with a thin, blond guy in his twenties.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. Played a straight bat all the way. But they also asked about you. They said that you knew Andy.’
‘Christ. What did you say?’
‘I told you, nothing. They want to speak to you. I said that you were travelling around in that caravan of yours and that their best bet was to see you at The Palms next week.’
‘You’d better tell the Major about this.’
‘That’s what I was going to do.’
‘Good man.’
Agnes waited until she had finished breakfast, completed The Times Crossword and tidied up before ringing Mary. On the fourth ring, a woman answered. ‘This is Karla speaking. How can I help you?’ The voice was low and sensuous. Almost an exact imitation of the black-haired comic vamp Fenella Fielding, who seemed to be on every TV quiz and variety show at the moment.
‘You can stop trying to seduce me with your husky purr, Mary, and do me a favour.’
The voice rose several octaves and there was genuine pleasure as Mary said, ‘Agnes! How are you?’
‘I’m well and you?’
‘Oh, you know. The same. The game gets harder as you get older, but I’m doing OK.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Anyway, what’s up? You’ve not decided to become a lesbian after all these years, have you?’
‘No. The sisterhood will have to get by without me. I assume you’ve heard about the young girl found near Hill Top.’
‘Yeah, poor little sod.’
‘My latest private policeman is on the case. He needs to speak to someone who knows the game in Birmingham and can point him in the right direction.’
‘For you, Agnes, anything. Send him over and I’ll enlighten him.’
‘Well, don’t enlighten him too much. He’s only just arrived from Ireland and I think he’s a bit innocent.’
‘You mean a virgin?’
‘No. I don’t know. Just don’t embarrass the poor lad.’
‘You sound very protective. Fancy him a little bit, do we?’ Mary teased.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to be his mother.’
‘That didn’t stop Jocasta from bedding Oedipus, did it?’
‘You should be walking the corridors of academia not—’
‘The streets. I know, but my chosen career pays better. Besides, I only read what I want to, not what I’m supposed to, so I’d be a useless academic. Anyway, send him over tomorrow and I’ll talk to him. Get him to give me a ring first, OK?’
‘That sounds fine.’
When she hung up, Agnes smiled. For all her banter, Agnes knew that Mary would want to help. She was happy to entertain transvestites, slaves, mackintosh and gas mask lovers and a whole range of other tastes, but she hated anyone who hurt children.
It didn’t take Collins and Clark long to track Upright Freddie down. He was at home i
n his flat; a one-room hovel that consisted of a single bed, a chest of drawers and a two ring gas stove. He’d managed to pinch a 17-inch TV from somewhere, which sat on an upturned orange box at the end of the bed. Strewn around the floor were a fine collection of glamour magazines. His favourite appeared to be Spick and Span, which featured well-endowed young women showing off their knickers and stocking tops, with just the occasional breast on view.
For someone who indulged in such tiring work, Freddie was remarkably sprightly. As soon as he heard the knock and the word “Police”, he was out of bed and yanking the window open.
‘He’s making a run for it,’ Collins shouted and hit the door with his shoulder. The lock wasn’t strong enough to withstand a two-year-old and the door crashed open just in time for Collins to see Freddie drop from the window into the yard below. ‘He’s in the yard. Cut him off.’
Clark turned and ran down the stairs. Collins went out of the window. Dropping onto the lean-to coal bunker, he landed in the yard just as Freddie was about to disappear over the back fence. Lunging, he caught hold of Freddie’s jumper and pulled him back. Freddie tried to wriggle out of the jumper, but with the arrival of Clark he was never going to get away.
‘OK, you got me,’ he said as he slid down the fence.
Neither Collins nor Clark were prepared for what happened next. Freddie screamed. Not the sort of scream you hear in a horror movie or at the fun fair. This was the real thing. A howl of anguish that the damned must make as they are finally dragged into hell. It started from the very bottom of his soul, passed into his stomach and grew louder and more shrill as it worked its way through his lungs and out of his throat.
‘What the fuck is wrong?’
Freddie could hardly speak. His face was the colour of old dough. Between gasps of air, he finally said, ‘I’m stuck.’
What do you mean you’re stuck?’
‘I’m stuck on a nail.’
‘Well, unstick yourself,’ said Collins.