by Jim McGrath
Collins put the kettle on and asked, ‘How are you feeling, Jamie?’
‘Much better, thanks. Mrs Winters says that I can stay a few days until I get things sorted out.’
‘That’s grand. Do you want us to talk to your dad and see if you can return home?’
‘Jamie doesn’t think there is any chance of that happening,’ Agnes said.
‘What about your mammie? Doesn’t she want you back?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Jamie. ‘Died when I was little. There’s just Dad and me and he don’t ever want me back.’
‘A lot of things get said in anger, especially between fathers and sons. I’m sure that when he’s cooled down he’ll have you back.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Jamie snapped. ‘He don’t ever want me back and, besides, I don’t want to go back.’ Jamie’s voice started to break as he wiped away a stray tear.
Collins sat down beside Jamie and placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you tell me what it’s all about? I’m sure either Mrs Winter or me can help sort it out.’
Jamie shook his head.
‘He doesn’t want to say what the problem is, which, given what’s happened to him, is understandable,’ said Agnes.
Jamie bit his lip. Head still bowed, he started to cry silently.
Collins looked at Agnes and nodded. She was probably right. Jamie would tell them when he was ready. However, he also felt certain that Jamie needed to tell someone, so he decided to try one last time.
‘Look, I’m a copper, but as long as you’ve not hurt anyone or stolen anything of value, I’m not going to run you in. So, you can tell me or tell Agnes in private what the problem is. That way we’ll know how best to help. Come on, Jamie, what do you say?’
Collins handed his handkerchief to the boy, who took it and wiped his nose. When he started to speak, his voice was low, punctuated with sobs of pain and self-pity. ‘I shouldn’t have told the priest.’
‘What priest?’
‘Father Murray.’
‘What did you tell Father Murray?’
Head still bent, it was hard to hear Jamie’s reply. ‘I told him that I’d been to the Toreador in Birmingham. It’s a pub where queers go.’
‘And you went there to have sex with a man?’
Jamie nodded, adding, ‘More than once.’
‘And he told your father? Why didn’t you tell him in confession?’
‘I did, but he asked me to speak to him outside confession. I trusted him. He wanted to help. But then he told Mr Wilson, me headmaster. He’s a right sanctimonious bastard and it was him that expelled me and told my father. There is no way back. Me Dad hates poofters.’
Collins patted Jamie’s shoulder and looked up at Agnes, who gave him a sad little smile. Maybe Father Murray had wanted to help – but then again Collins had met enough priests to realise that some were duplicitous bastards who applied the letter of the law with the same zealous enthusiasm that the Pharisees had used to implement the Law of Moses. They forgot what Christ had said about the importance of love and forgiveness. Fr Murray may well have trapped Jamie into revealing all outside the protection of the confessional. On the other hand, he may genuinely have wanted to help the boy.
With one final shuddering sob, Jamie stopped crying and pulled away from Collins. ‘So what happens now? Do you send me to a home?’
Collins started to reply, but was cut off by Agnes, ‘Nothing is going to happen for the next few days. I’m going to talk to some people who might be able to help and I’ll have a word with your father. We’ll sort something out, I promise, But sending you to a home is not an option.’
Jamie’s face broke into a tentative smile and he mumbled, ‘Thanks.’
‘Now, I suggest you go and wash your face and then you can come down and watch Bonanza with me in the lounge. I never miss it.’
Jamie’s face broke into a wide grin and he hurried off to the bathroom.
‘You were very good with him, Michael. How did you know he wanted to tell us?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it was instinct.’
‘Well, it was a good instinct.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Exactly what I said. I’m going to talk to a few people I know in the Education Department and visit his father. See if there’s any chance at all of a reconciliation – though I doubt it. Fathers can take it very badly when they hear that their son is a homosexual. They think it’s some sort of insult to their own manhood.’
‘Well, I’ve not known many queer fellas, but those I have were always OK with me. I’ve never understood why people hate them so much.’
‘Fear and hatred of the different. The same fear that sent six million to the gas chambers.’
Collins stood up to go. He’d reached the door when he turned and asked, ‘Do you mind if I watch Bonanza with Jamie? It’s my favourite programme, too.’
Agnes smiled. ‘Of course not, I’ll make us all a cup of hot chocolate.’
Stratford-upon-Avon, 19.10hrs.
The Major was the last to arrive. Colin Spencer was already well into Phillip’s whiskey and Trevor was picking imaginary lint from his jacket. They all knew why the Major had called them.
‘OK, let’s keep this brief. Colin called me yesterday. Two coppers were at The Palms asking about Andrew. Colin gave them nothing, but they want to speak to Jimmy next week. I’m satisfied that they don’t have much to go on. They certainly aren’t looking for us, just Andy – and they may not find him. If they do, we’ll need to act fast. I’m open to suggestions.’
It was Trevor who spoke first. His soft languid tones were at variance with what he was saying. ‘Andy is a liability. He has been since we brought him on board. Yes, he’s a good pick-up artist, but he gets too excited and then things go wrong. Last time, it was the overdosed girl. This time, it’s a dead girl. What will it be next time? Buggery of the entire choir during evensong?’
Phillip nodded in agreement. ‘He was next to useless when we dumped the girl. Nerves shot to pieces. If the police get to him, we’ll all be in the shit.’
‘I agree,’ said the Major. ‘Therefore, I propose that if the police do identify Andrew, we dispose of him.’
‘We can’t just kill him. It would too suspicious,’ said Colin.
‘Don’t worry about that. Trevor and I will look after him. There will be no comebacks, I promise you.’
‘Good.’
‘One thing, Phillip. Get rid of the Austin van and that includes any paperwork you have on it – just in case. OK?’
‘Right.’
‘OK, gentlemen, I’ll see you all on Saturday at the Club.’
Friday 15th February 1963.
Handsworth, 14.15hrs.
For once, the shift brought no surprises or emergencies. Word of Freddie’s accident had got around and several members of the public were keen to offer their congratulations or thanks to Collins and Clark.
‘News spreads faster here than in an Irish village.’
‘Jungle telegraph, Mickey. Jungle telegraph.’
By 2.15 both men were standing on the steps of the station. The day had grown colder as it wore on and they turned their collars up as they set off in the afternoon gloom.
‘I feel like seeing some clean snow for a change. How about we go through the park? I’ll show yoe a shortcut to your place,’ said Clark.
‘Fine. I’m in no hurry.’
‘I said I’d show yoe a shortcut, yoe Irish numty. It will be quicker than normal, not longer.’
‘From my experience, shortcuts have a habit of taking longer. Things happen when you take a shortcut.’
Clark looked at Collins and tried to work out if he was being set up or if Collins was serious. Unsure, he decided to defend himself with the
always useful multi-purpose response of ‘Bollocks’.
There had been a half-hearted attempt to clear some pathways in the park and the kids had played their part by trampling down the snow on their way to the big hill that ran from the railway bridge down to the boathouse. It was the best sled ride in the park, provided that you could get around the sharp bend at the end. Otherwise, you ran into the iron railings that protected the boats from being pinched in the summer.
The weeping willows that Collins had seen when he was looking for digs were still heavy with snow and ice. The lake was frozen and snow-covered, making it difficult for Collins to see where the land ended and the water began. However, there was no uncertainty in his mind as to the beauty of the scene in front of him. It was perfect, with a few flakes of snow gently drifting to the ground and adding a Hollywood touch.
As they neared the pond, Collins saw a movement on the lake, about 20 yards from the shore. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, then he realised it was a swan flapping its wings. Pointing, he said, ‘I bet he wishes he’d gone south.’
Clark nodded and both men continued to watch the giant bird flap its wings. There was something about the bird’s movements that seemed unnatural and as they neared, they could hear its distinctive squawks.
‘Bloody hell, I think it’s stuck in the ice,’ said Clark.
‘Poor thing,’ said Collins, stopping. ‘Is there anyone we can call?’
‘Yeah, the RSPCA, but wi could spend all day waiting for them buggers to turn up. So I guess it’s down to yours truly.’
‘Hang on a minute. I’m not going out on that ice.’
‘Too right you’re not. Yoe far too heavy. No, twinkletoes here will look after it.’
‘Clark, no. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Na, the pond is froze solid. I’ll be fine.’
Stepping carefully, Clark moved slowly across the ice. He placed each foot gently on the snow and tested the ice before transferring his weight. He was only 6 feet from the bird when a loud crack ripped through the air. Clark spun round and shouted, ‘Stay there’, just as the ice gave way beneath his feet and he plunged into the icy waters.
The cold was as bad as anything he’d endured in Norway, but the old training kicked in automatically. Don’t splash about. Orientate yourself. Find which way is up and make your way to the surface. Stay in the hole you fell through. Don’t slip under the ice. After what seemed like minutes but was probably only five seconds, Clark reached the surface. Beside him, the swan was gliding on open water. It looked at him with contempt, flapped its wings and took off. Well, at least this ended well for one fucker, he thought.
Looking around, he saw Collins step onto the ice and start running. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. ‘Go back.’ It was no use; Collins was past hearing.
As he ran, Collins struggled out of his coat. Oh fuck, thought Clark, he’s going to dive in and kill us both. But Collins was slowing down. Five foot from the edge of the hole, he lay down on the ice and, holding onto the sleeve of his coat, threw it overarm towards Clark.
The coat fell just short of the water and he tried again. This time, the tail of the coat hit the water and Clark swam towards it. Gripping it with both hands, he shouted, ‘Pull!’
Collins wriggled backwards in the snow, legs wide open, spreading his weight as best he could. Twice he stopped when he heard the ice crack beneath him, but nothing happened. Breathing hard, his arms cramping with the effort, he prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joseph to help him. Then, suddenly, the tension was gone. Looking up, he saw Clark crawling towards him on the ice grinning like a maniac. Collins’ head sank onto the snow.
‘Come on, lad, let’s get the hell out of here,’ said Clark, his voice choking with the cold.
Back on dry land, the two men stared at each other, then started to laugh. ‘That was sodding close, my mad Irish fuck. Thanks. I owe yoe,’ said Clark and held out his hand.
Collins flicked his coat over Clark and then shook hands. ‘I told you. Fecking shortcuts always take longer. We need to get you warm.’
‘No problem. I know just the place. There’s a Parkees hut just up that lane. The stove will be on.’
Weary and getting colder by the second, both men trudged the 200 yards to the green hut. Opening the door, they were confronted by two astonished park keepers and a stove in the corner that was blasting out heat – the distinctive smell of burning coke was heavy in the air.
‘Yoe got room for two more?’ asked Clark.
Agnes picked up the phone on the third ring. It was Mary.
‘Is your innocent copper about?’
‘No, he’s not come in yet. He said you might call.’
‘OK, I need to make this quick. I have a customer in five minutes. Can you tell him that Della has one customer who might fit the bill.’
‘Hold on let me get a pen.’ There was a pause as Agnes found a pencil. ‘Got it. Which Della are you talking about?’
‘Daft Della.’
‘OK.’
‘One of her regulars, a skinny, blond guy in his early twenties, likes to strangle her. He likes to ride her from the back and wraps a strip of velvet around her throat as a pair of reins. She calls him Bronco.’
‘What makes her think he might be our man?’
‘He gets a bit rough at times. Pulls that bit too hard. Susan says she’s passed out a few times.’
‘Why does she still see him?’
‘The answers in her name - Daft Della. She hasn’t got the sense she was born with. Besides he’s a good payer. When he does get a bit rough, he always gives her a big tip. Sometimes it’s worth more than her fee.’
‘Free with his money then.’
‘Well, that’s it. It’s not always money he gives her. Its bits of old jewellery, which she flogs for scrap value in the Jewellery Quarter. Reckons she got ten quid for a piece one time. She thinks he probably works in the Quarter. Oh, there’s the bell. Tell Michael to call me if he needs to talk.’
Agnes hung up. It did sound like their man. Michael had said that Simone had been strangled with a thin piece of fabric. The trouble was that the Jewellery Quarter was a maze of back allies and tiny workshops, and there were thousands of businesses in it. Finding Bronco would take an awful lot of luck and patience.
By the time Clark had dried out, it was nearly 5pm. By mutual consent, both men agreed not to mention their impromptu swim back at the station. However, they feared it was too good a story for the parkees to keep quiet about.
When Collins got home at 5.20 Agnes quickly reported the contents of the conversation she’d had with Mary. The description of Bronco fitted that given by Mr Wilcox. The similarity of the two names Bronco and Bucky were also too similar to be ignored, but it was mention of old jewellery that convinced Collins he needed to call Inspector Hicks immediately.
The conversation was short and to the point. Collins was to pick up the piece of broken jewellery from Mrs Winston and get back to the nick as quickly as possible, bringing Agnes with him.
Agnes and Collins arrived at the police station just before 6. Agnes was given a cup of tea and asked to wait. Collins was marched into Hicks’ office by Sergeant York. He wasn’t offered a cup of tea. York lent against the door. Collins remained at attention.
‘What the fuck have you been up to, Collins? Undertaking your own investigation into the Winston girl’s murder. Interviewing a known prostitute on her premises. Involving a member of the public in an ongoing murder investigation. I could have you out on your ear for this.’
‘I apologise, Sir. I obviously wasn’t thinking straight. It’s just that Agnes has a few contacts with prostitutes because of her work with beaten women and I thought that one of them might have seen this Bucky character. It’s my fault. I asked her for a name and made a nuisance of meself till she agreed.’
‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that bullshit? I made enquiries about Mrs Agnes bloody Winter after she solved our little code problem. From what I could learn of her exploits, she’s not a woman who would be badgered into doing anything she didn’t want to – especially by a wet-behind-the-ears probationary constable who has more enthusiasm than sense. Do you understand me?’
Collins heard York stifle a laugh. There’s always an element of enjoyment in watching someone else get a bollicking he thought. When he replied, he was suitably contrite. ‘Yes, Sir.’
Hicks sat back in his chair. When he spoke again, his anger had dissipated and he spoke in the tone of voice reserved for conversations that usually began with “What am I going to do with you?”
‘Look, lad, you’ve done some great work on this case, but you were out of order on this. Don’t you realise the risk to your career that you took visiting a known prostitute on her own premises? If you were seen going in, who’s going to believe that you were there to interview her and not shag the arse off her? Oh God, don’t tell me you wore your uniform when you paid her a visit.’
‘No, Sir, I was in civvies.’
‘Thank God for small mercies. Where was Clark when you were being bloody Sherlock Homes?’
‘He knew nothing about it. I did it on my own time.’
‘That I can believe because he would have cut your balls off before letting you go. However, it’s done now. You need to register this Karla woman as an informant. That way, you have a legitimate reason to visit her. Sergeant York, do you think you can get that backdated a few days?’
‘No problem, Sir.’
‘As for including Mrs Winter in the investigation, it has to stop. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal clear, Sir.’
‘Good. Now, let’s get Mrs Winter in.’