by Jim McGrath
‘Fair enough, Sir,’ said Clark.
Twenty minutes later, Hicks and York left. No one had proposed doing anything after what Hicks had said. If anyone wanted to take independent action, the fewer people who knew about it the better.
‘So, Mickey, what are wi going to do?’
After the slightest pause, Collins said, ‘We go after the bastards.’
‘Good. Any ideas as to where wi start?’
‘A few. We need to find Simone’s diary. It has to be in one of three places: her home, the school or at a friend’s house. We’ll need to check all three again and talk to her school friends. We’ll also need to identify these influential friends that Young was supposed to have. We should also go back to The Palms and have a chat with that guy Ravenal, see what he really knows about Young. While we’re at it, we should go and sweat the manager. As we’re off book, maybe we could have a firm chat with him after work one night. Do you think that could be arranged, Constable Clark?’
‘No problem at all.’
‘Have I missed anything?’
‘Carver? I can feel it in me water that he’s the one who set Young up.’
‘I agree. Maybe we could catch him at work.’
‘And have a firm chat with him as well, Constable Collins?’
‘You read my mind, Constable Clark.’
Plan of action settled, the two men ordered a second drink and Clark regaled Collins with the early history of West Bromwich Albion. He explained how they had been formed by a group of factory workers from the George Salter Spring Works in 1879. Initially called West Bromwich Strollers, they changed their name to West Bromwich Albion within two years. And as any half-educated bog dweller would know, Albion was the old English name for England. Collins tried hard to keep his eyes open.
At about the same time as Collins was trying not to chew off his right hand from boredom, Agnes was standing outside the house that Jamie had called home. It was a rundown terraced house off Villa Road. She tried the bell and, when she heard nothing, knocked loudly on the flaking paint with her gloved knuckles. She heard footsteps and a few moments later, the door opened.
‘If you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, you can piss off. We’re Catholic here.’
The smell of beer was on his breath, shirt, jumper and trousers, but there was no mistaking Jamie’s Dad. They had the same compact body shape and the same sharp, well-defined facial features. However, whereas Jamie’s eyes were green, his father’s were brown. If he’d been sober, cleaned up and wearing a suit O’Conner would have been considered by most as handsome.
‘I’m not a Jehovah Witness,’ said Agnes. ‘I’m here to talk about your son, Jamie.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘I know. He’s staying at my house. May I come in so that we might talk in comfort?’ Agnes didn’t wait for a reply and stepped past O’Conner.
‘You better come down to the dining room. It’s the only place with a fire.’ O’Conner led Agnes down a long hall and into a small room that was no more than 10 feet by 12, which contained a table and four chairs, a sideboard and one red velvet armchair, under which newspapers from the last month were stuffed. A 17-inch TV sat in the corner, courtesy of Rediffussion Rentals. A second door led into the kitchen. The room smelt of boiled bacon, cabbage and cigarette smoke.
‘So where is the little ponce? In a home?’
‘No, he’s at my house. I’m looking after him.’
‘You fostering him?’
‘Unofficially, you might say. Jamie says that you won’t allow him to return home under any circumstances. Is that correct?’
‘That’s right. I’ll not have a queer as a son.’
‘I see. Well, in that case, I was hoping that you’d be willing to sign this,’ said Agnes, taking a large brown envelope from her bag and removing two sheets of typed paper.
‘What is it?’
‘A child can leave home legally at the age of sixteen. Jamie is fifteen. If he is to stay at my house, I need you to confirm that you have given permission for him to do so until he reaches the age of sixteen. I’ve had these documents drawn up and I can assure you that they are entirely legal.’
‘And why are you so interested in the little queer?’
‘Please stop calling him that. He’s just a child and he is still your son.’ O’Conner stiffened at the rebuke and drew his lips back, bearing his teeth like a dog. For a moment, Agnes thought that she’d gone too far and that he was about to strike her. Instead, he snatched the papers out of her hand and started to read them.
Agnes had lied. The papers weren’t legally binding. She had written them herself only that afternoon. Their purpose was to protect her against any charge of kidnap or hiding Jamie from his father.
After reading them twice, O’Conner said, ‘You still haven’t told me why you want to help him.’
‘He’s a child and he needs a home. He’s also bright. He writes well, even though his spelling is atrocious, and I think that with some help he can progress. Maybe even take his O Levels.’
‘So you’re going to educate him, is that it? What’s the matter, got no kids of your own?’
‘That’s correct. I have no children. My husband was shot down over the Channel in 1940 before we had time to start a family.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said O’Conner. ‘No offence meant.’
‘None taken. Are you willing to sign the papers or not? As you can see, they clearly state that you will be able to see Jamie anytime you wish.’
‘I won’t be making any visits, but I’ll sign. It’s better that he’s with you than on the streets or in some home.’
‘Well, I think that’s something we can both agree on. While I’m here, may I also collect Jamie’s belongings? He was particularly keen that I take the books that his mother left him.’
‘You can take whatever’s in his room. Margaret bought those books one a month for four years when he turned five. Started reading them to him when we was six. When she died, he would spend hours reading and rereading them. I reckon that’s what turned him queer. He should have been out playing football and tag with his mates, instead of burying his head in those fucking books.’
Agnes didn’t reply immediately. When she did, it was to ask for directions to Jamie’s room. It took less than ten minutes to pack the boy’s clothes, photo albums and odds and ends in the battered suitcase O’Conner gave her. However, three further trips were required to carry the fifty odd Everyman Library Books to the car.
As she climbed into the Rover, O’Conner came out and leaned against the roof of the car. He seemed to want to say something, so Agnes asked, ‘Do you have a message for Jamie?’
‘Tell him that for as long as he’s a queer, he’s no son of mine – but that he should look after himself for the sake of his mother. Tell him that. OK?’
Agnes thought that she detected a catch in O’Conner’s voice and said, ‘I will and thank you.’
As she drove away, she looked in her rear-view mirror. O’Conner was still standing by the side of the road. He looked lonely and beaten, and Agnes felt sorry for him. He was a broken man, trapped by his own prejudices.
Agnes arrived home a couple of minutes after Collins, who she found boiling the kettle in the kitchen.
‘Cuppa?’ asked Collins.
‘Please.’
‘How was it?’
‘Strangely upsetting. He can’t cope with the idea that his son might be a homosexual.’
‘I thought we had confirmed he was?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. A lot of young boys have homosexual experiences in their teens. For some, it’s a time of experimentation; for others, they’re looking for a father figure. Then, there are those who know what they are and never change. Only time will tell which path Jamie takes. Anyway, how did yo
ur meeting with the Superintendent go?’
Collins told her what the Super and ACC had said. She seemed as disappointed as Collins with the decision. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do to change their minds?’
‘No. Something’s going on. Strings have been pulled. That’s what Clark said and we can’t un-pull them. Hicks and York want to go on, but they can’t for a variety of reasons.’
‘You mean like pay, promotion and pensions?’
‘I don’t think that’s fair. Hicks as good as said he would try and look after us if we did continue the investigation informally.’
‘Are you going to do so?’
‘Oh yes. Me and Clark have worked out a plan of action.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘First and most importantly, find Simone’s diary. We’re going to see this guy Ravenal tonight and then we plan to speak to Mr Carver and Mr Spencer again.’
‘Well, I’ll speak to Mrs Winton and ask her to look for the diary. I know the police have been there, but mothers have a habit of knowing where their daughters hide things. Mine certainly did.’
Collins called for Clark at 8.30 and they quickly walked the half mile to The Palms. The dance hall closed at 10.30 so they calculated that Ravenal would take a break at around 9. They weren’t wrong. As they entered the dance hall, he was just stepping off stage. Pushing through the crowd of teenagers and twenty somethings, they followed him. There were two dressing rooms. Only one had a cardboard sign hanging on the door, which read “Jimmy Ravenal”. Collins knocked.
‘Sod off, I’m busy.’
Clark hammered the door twice with his fist and walked in. Ravenal was sitting on a chair, with a girl of about sixteen on his knee. Her jumper was rolled up, showing the bottom of her bra. She quickly pulled it down.
‘Sorry about that, kidda. I could have sworn I heard you say come in.’
Collins saw a flash of anger shoot across Ravenal’s face, but it was quickly gone as he registered the uniforms. ‘No harm done. I thought you were another autograph hunter.’
‘Like this young lady?’ asked Collins.
‘Yeah,’ replied Ravenal, ‘but she’s just leaving, aren’t you, love?’ The girl stood up and brushed between the two policemen.
Turning, she asked, ‘Will I catch you after the show?’
‘Yeah, do that.’
She went out and closed the door. Ravenal grinned broadly. His smile reminded Collins of a leering hyena he’d once seen in a cartoon – all teeth and sneering cold eyes. ‘If you’re in this business, you have to beat them off with a cricket bat. What can a man do as long as they’re legal, eh lads?’
‘And what if they ain’t legal?’ asked Clark.
‘I never touch ‘em. Anyway, how can I help you? Did I park the van in the wrong place or something?’
‘No, we just wanted to ask you a few questions about Andrew Young. You might know him as Andy.’
‘Sorry, friend. I don’t know any Andy.’
‘Tall, skinny, blond-haired guy. He was at the kid’s dance just after Christmas,’ said Clark.
‘No wonder I don’t remember him. You have any ideas how many jobs I’ve done in the last six weeks?’
‘We have a witness who says he was chatting to you.’
‘Lots of guys and gals talk to me. Doesn’t mean I know them.’
‘She says you were real friendly with him and the half-caste girl he were with,’ said Clark.
‘Don’t remember him or her. Look, what’s this all about. Missing girl or something?’
‘Yeah, yoe could say that. She’s missing alright – missing about fifty years of her life,’ said Clark.
Collins watched as Clark held Ravenal’s stare, waiting for a reply.
Ravenal was the first to look away. He picked up a towel from the dressing table and wiped his face. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I know nowt. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back on stage.’
As he moved to the door, Collins stepped in front of him. ‘Just one more thing before you go, Mr Ravenal. Could you give us your home address and telephone number, please? Just in case we need to speak to you.’
Again, a flash of anger, of barely concealed rage, clouded Ravenal’s features. He felt in his back pocket and pulled out a card. ‘I travel a lot, but you can always get a message to me if you ring that number.’
Collins took the card and stepped aside. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Ravenal.’
‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Ravenal,’ Clark said and winked.
Neither man spoke as they walked down the stairs. In the lobby, they buttoned up their coats before stepping into the night. Snowflakes were drifting lazily down and for few seconds Collins watched a single flake as it spiralled gently to the ground, illuminated by the light from a lamppost.
‘What did you make of him, Mickey?’
‘Odd bloke. He seemed ready to blow his top at any time.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that. He wants to be top dog in every situation. Can’t bear it if someone is sticking it to him – but were he lying?’
Without hesitation, Collins said, ‘As sure as the Pope is a Catholic.’
‘Well, wi agree on that.’
‘What about Spencer? Have we time to see him?’
‘Na. We’ll catch him tomorrow when things are quiet. Best if no one sees us going to talk to him. Now, come on, Ridley will have a fit if wi late for parade.’
As they began to walk, Collins asked, ‘Did you mean it when you told Ravenal we’d be speaking to him again?’
‘For sure. That sod’s up to sommut and I’m going to find out what.’
Wednesday 20th January 1963.
Handsworth, 15.00hrs.
Collins was still half asleep when he called for Clark at 3. He’d managed to get about six hours sleep, but it had been disturbed by noises in the house and the failure of the curtains to blot out the weak winter sunshine. I’ll need blackout curtains if I’m to get a decent sleep, he thought, as he rang the bell.
Collins wasn’t sure what Clark was going to do. Was he going to give Spencer the full “Welcome Wagon” treatment or just put a scare into him? When he asked, all Clark would say was, ‘Follow my lead, yoes can’t plan these things until you see how the guy reacts.’
Collins looked at the empty, locked-up Palms and wondered why so many picture houses, dance halls and theatres looked depressed and dead in the daylight. It wasn’t just that the night hid the damaged drainpipes, peeling paint and dirty windows. It was the lack of life. The lack of movement. Looking up, he saw that there was a light burning in what he guessed was Spencer’s office.
Casually, Clark walked down the alley to the stage door. He leaned against the door and was surprised to find it open. ‘At least wi won’t have to break in,’ he said, and walked through.
Collins followed Clark up the backstairs to the second floor and along the landing to Spencer’s office. Clark didn’t bother to knock. He flung the door open.
Spencer was at his desk and shot up as the door slammed against the wall. ‘What the fuck…’
‘Afternoon, Mr Spencer. Mind if wi come in?’
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Wi just came to have another chat with yoe about your teen dance, a long-haired streak of piss called Andrew Young and a pretty little half-caste girl called Simone Winston.’
‘And when we’ve finished with them, we’d like to hear what you have to say about Mr Ravenal,’ said Collins.
Regaining some composure, Spencer straightened up and, trying to appear indignant, said, ‘I told you before I know nothing about any half-caste girl or this Andrew Young character you keep on about. As for Jimmy, he’s just a DJ we use. Now, will you please leave?’
‘Na, wi can’t do that. Yoe see w
i both think you’re a lying sack of shit.’
‘How dare you. If you don’t leave immediately, you’ll find yourself in a whole lot of trouble.’
Collins watched as Clark sauntered over to Spencer. ‘Now, I wish you hadn’t said that. Yoe see, I hate threats. They make me nervy and when I’m nervy, I do things like this.’ Clarks hand shot out and grabbed Spencer by his balls, squeezed and twisted.
Agony registered on Spencer’s face. He stumbled forward, mouth open, gasping like a fish out of water, unable to speak and paralysed with pain. Without letting go, Clark pushed him back into his chair. Still squeezing his balls, Clark whispered in his ear, ‘Now, unless yoe want a whole world of pain, yoe going to tell me and my mate here what yoe know about Andrew Young.’
‘I told you I never saw him.’
‘Wrong answer,’ said Clark. He released his hold momentarily and punched Spencer in the stomach. Spencer doubled up. A new type of pain contorted his face. After another fifteen seconds, he said, ‘I told you I don’t know him.’
‘Wrong answer again,’ said Clark and pressed his thumb into the bottom of Spencer’s neck just above the collarbone. Spencer screamed with pain and continued squirming until Clark released his hold.
‘Now, what do yoe know about Andrew Young?’
‘Alright. Give me a minute,’ pleaded Spencer.
Clark stepped back.
Collins could almost see the wheels in Spencer’s brain turning. The little so-and-so was trying to work up a story that he and Clark would swallow.
Thinking done, Spencer raised his head and said, ‘OK. I never knew the guy’s name, but he was a regular here. He liked the girls and used to slip me a fiver if I put him onto a good thing.’