by Jim McGrath
‘Why?’
‘Because yoe got such a small brain in that big skull of yoes that there’s extra water in there, to stop it rattling around, and in this cold it’s probably frozen solid.’
Collins was still thinking of a suitable response when they heard a window break at the back of Burtons. Both men stopped and listened. There it was again. The unmistakable tinkle of shards of glass being broken to make room for someone to climb through.
‘Hear that?’ whispered Clark.
Collins nodded. Drawing their truncheons, they moved quietly towards the alley. The alley was 8 foot wide and ran the full length of the shop, before turning sharp left at the end. As they edged toward the corner, they could hear the sound of someone breathing hard and muttering softly to himself.
Clark put his mouth next to Collins’ ear and whispered, ‘Noisy bastard, ain’t he?’ Collins had to fight down the urge to laugh. Clark clearly wasn’t at all concerned about what they might find.
At the turning, with his back flat against the wall, Clark risked a quick look. He held up one finger and whispered, ‘Ready?’ Collins nodded.
Stepping beyond the edge of the wall, baton in one hand and torch in the other, Clark said, ‘Evening. You’ll never earn a living as a burglar if you can’t keep the noise down. I could hear you at the lights’.
The man stepped away from the window and it was then that Collins saw he was carrying a crow bar, and didn’t seem in the least worried about being caught.
A voice from behind Collins made him spin around. ‘Who says we’re burglars short arse?’
Clark turned and looked at the man who had spoken. He was maybe 6 foot 2 and looked lean, strong and wiry. He was holding a knife. His eyes shining with excitement. He grinned, showing a full set of smoke-stained teeth in the torchlight. Beside him was a smaller stockier man with a doubled-up length of motorcycle chain. He swung it casually in circles by his side and looked faintly disinterested in the events unfolding. He even had time to run his free hand through his crew-cut hair. They’d been standing by the bins hidden in the shadows. Clark cursed himself for being so careless.
‘We’ve got a message for you from some friends of ours. Stop messing in things that don’t concern you.’
‘OK,’ said Clark, ‘we’ve got the message. Thanks. We’ll be on our way.’
‘Lads, the short arse has a sense of humour. It don’t work like that. We have to deliver the message in full, so there won’t be any misunderstanding.’
‘Did yoe hear someone say that on TV or did you dream it up yourself?
‘You really are a smart arse, aren’t you? I’m going to enjoy taking you apart.’
‘That’s a pity, ‘cos it means this is going to get right painful for yoe.’ Turning to Collins, Clark asked, ‘Can yoe remember what I said on the first day?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good lad.’ Turning back to the leader, Clark said, ‘Come on then, let’s get on with it.’
This was not the reaction that the big man had expected. Annoyed, he said, ‘Fuck you’ and charged.
He came in, slashing wildly with his knife. When he was within reach, Clark waited for the swinging backhand to miss him by an inch. He then pivoted 45 degrees on his left heel and kicked out sideways, stamping down hard on the man’s exposed kneecap. The knee buckled, bent backwards and snapped. As the man fell to the ground, the screaming began and didn’t cease.
Unperturbed, Motorcycle Chain advanced quickly. Clark waited for him to get within range and swing. As the chain whistled towards his head, Clark brushed it aside with his baton. The chain wrapped around the truncheon as Clark knew it would. Then, using the man’s forward momentum, he pulled hard, bringing the man closer. Simultaneously, his left arm shot out and upward, the heel of his hand hitting Chain on his upper lip, just below the nose. However, he wasn’t aiming for Chain’s lip or tip of the nose. His target was 2 inches inside the man’s mouth. Teeth, gristle and bone gave way as he found the bulls-eye. Chain staggered backwards and fell to the ground unconscious.
Clark grabbed Collins, who had been holding off Crowbar with his baton, and flung him to one side. Crowbar hesitated. He’d seen what Clark could do, but freedom was beyond the little man – and fear of going back to prison outweighed everything. Screaming loudly, he charged.
Clark waited for him to come. Then, raising his right knee, he snapped out a straight kick, which caught the man flush in the groin. Crowbar stopped. Comically, like a scene from a cartoon. His raised arm poised in mid-air. Unable to breath and unable to cry out, he began to fall forward onto his knees. As he did so, Clark kicked him in the face. Crowbars head snapped back and he went sprawling on the floor unconscious. His jaw broken and his red-tipped teeth spread across the snow.
Looking at Collins, a smile spread across Clark’s face, ‘You OK, Mickey?’
Collins nodded his head, amazed at what he’d just witnessed in the space of five or six seconds. Clark had laid out three armed men all bigger than himself and he wasn’t even breathing hard. Instinctively Collins knew that if the little man’s pulse was taken at that precise moment, it would be normal – unlike his, which was pounding in his ears, twenty to the dozen.
Walking over to the leader, Clark hunkered down and said, ‘Thanks for the work out, kidda. If yoe ever want a rematch, I’ll be happy to oblige. Now, I’ve just got one question for yoe before I ring an ambulance. Who sent you?’
‘Fuck off, cunt. Look what you did to me knee.’
‘That’s the wrong answer. Shall wi try again?’ said Clark and dug his baton into the man’s shattered kneecap. The man stifled a scream and swore. Releasing the pressure, Clark continued. ‘Your mates are out cold. They’ll never know you spilled your guts, so save yourself a whole lot of pain. Who sent you?’
‘Bishop,’ he whispered.
‘I can’t hear yoe.’
‘Bishop sent us.’
‘Why did Mr Bishop send yoe?’
‘He was told to by some guy.’
‘Told to? And who were this guy?’
‘I don’t know. Just some posh bastard who phoned him.’
‘How do you know he were posh?’
‘It were me who answered the phone.’
‘And did this guy have a name?’
‘He just said, “It’s the Major. Put Bishop on.” For fuck sake, call an ambulance.’
‘I will, kidda. Just one last question. What’s your name?’
‘Shepard. Johnny Shepard.’
‘OK, Johnny. Make sure you never cross me path again or next time I’ll cripple yoe for life. And if you or your mates ever go after me mate over there or anyone we care about, I’ll fucking kill you and they’ll never find the pieces. Understand?’
Shepard nodded.
Collins had watched the interrogation with fascination. There was no doubt in his mind that Clark meant every word of this final exchange. What was more important, so did Shepard.
‘Come on, Mickey, let’s get these boys an ambulance.’
They found a phone outside the post office and Clark dialled for an ambulance. In a convincing German accent, he explained that he’d just seen three injured men in the alley next to Burtons on Soho Road and that they needed an ambulance. When the operator asked for his name, he hung up.
‘Aren’t we going to arrest the bastards?’ asked Collins.
‘Na, them’s small fry. We got what wi need. Proof that this Major guy exists and that he’s got enough pull to tell Eddie Bishop what to do.’
‘Hell of a way to find out,’ said Collins, still finding it difficult to comprehend what he had witnessed. ‘Mary said Bishop ran underage girls.’
‘So you told me, but he’s into a lot more than that. I’ll tell yoe about Mr Bishop this afternoon.’
‘Why t
his afternoon?’
‘Cos that’s when wi going to pay him a visit.’
Collins didn’t try to pursue the conversation and instead changed the subject. ‘Was it the Commandos who taught you to fight like that?’
‘Yeah, I were taught by the best.’
‘No wonder you won the war,’ said Collins, with feeling.
Clark smiled at the compliment. ‘You did alright yourself, lad. You dain’t panic. Yoes covered me back. That’s all I ever ask of a partner.’
Collins had never been so pleased by a compliment in his life. The approval of this little man meant more to him than he could explain or understand. ‘Could you teach me how to fight like that?’
‘Yeah, I can teach you the basics.’
‘Why just the basics?’
‘When I were taught it, I needed it to stay alive and kill people. That meant I was willing and able to spend hours, days and months getting it right. Yoe don’t have the same kind of motivation. Yoe just need enough to deal with scumbags like them back there. We can do that in a few months, part-time.’
‘When can we start?’
‘As soon as yoe like, but yoe need to know that not everyone takes to it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Even the basics require patience and a lot of hard work. Not to mention the bruises, sprains and the odd broken bone yoe pick up along the way.’
‘Sounds grand.’
Clark looked at his young partner and laughed. ‘just remember that the commandos motto is: “train hard, fight easy”. Yoe can’t say I dain’t warn yoe.’
A little later, as they turned into Thornhill Road, an ambulance rushed silently past. It didn’t need its bell on the deserted roads.
With Clark’s mother and father visiting family in Coventry, there was no chance of borrowing their car. Instead, Collins and Clark caught the number 70 bus to Birmingham. The sight of two uniformed police officers on the bus mid-afternoon was unusual enough for the conductor to refuse to take their fare and more than one passenger turned around to gawk at the pair.
Collins wished that they’d stayed downstairs. There were only five other passengers on the top deck, but they were all smoking and no windows were open. To take his mind off the drifting smoke, he asked, ‘Have you ever met Bishop?’
‘Na, can’t say I have. But I know him by reputation. Every copper in Brum does and we’d all love to nail the bastard.’
‘So what’s his game then?’
Clark outlined what he knew of Bishop. Some of it was fact, some supposition and a bit myth, but even myths have their origin in a truth of some kind. He confirmed what Mary had said, that as well as running several discreet brothels there were well-founded rumours that he supplied underage girls for overage men.
But Bishop was a lot more than just a pimp. He also ran protection rackets aimed at small shop owners, a string of dirty bookshops, most of the illegal gambling in the city, and Central CID were convinced that he’d financed and organised more than one raid on jewellers and knocked off the wages from several companies. ‘They even reckon that he’s gone along on a few of the jobs. Apparently, he likes to keep his hand in. That and the fact he probably gets a hard-on when knocking some poor sod over the head with a pickaxe handle,’ said Clark.
Collins asked, ‘If there’s so much circumstantial evidence against him, why haven’t we been able to pin anything on him?’
‘I’ve often wondered that meself. My guess is he has a few well-placed coppers in his pocket that can tip him the wink when plod is getting close. That would account for some of it, but he’s also a clever sod. With the exception of the robberies, he seldom gets his hands dirty. Prefers to work through Benny and Brian – a couple of brothers. Right nasty bastards. Built like brick shithouses, the pair of ‘em. All three grew up within spitting distance of Villa Park, in the slums of Aston.’
‘It sounds rough.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I ain’t saying that Aston is the end of the world, but you can see it from there.’
‘Your objective opinion of Aston wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that they have a football team that even I’ve heard of?’
‘Na, of course not, but now that you mention it. Ever since the Villa won a couple of league titles back in the 19th Century, when the Royal Engineers were a big team, them believe they’re sommut special. Arrogant sods, the lot of em.’
‘And the Albion aren’t?’
‘Na, we’re nice, wi am.’
Collins decided to change the subject. ‘I suppose if he’s running pros, he could also have a few councillors, even judges, in his pocket.’
Clark looked at Collins and nodded, ‘Yoe could be right, but there’s also the small matter of at least four people who were thinking about squealing, who slipped on various towpaths around Brum and ended up dead in the canal. That’s just a rumour you understand,’ said Clark and winked.
They got off at Colmore Row and walked past St Phillips. The graveyard that surrounded the Anglican Cathedral was covered in snow, except for the heavily used pathways that had been cleared and gritted. Today, its pathways and benches were deserted. It was hard to believe that in a couple of months, the flowerbeds would be in bloom, the grass neatly cut and office workers would be eating their sandwiches under the trees.
As they walked past the Council House, Town Hall and the city’s wonderful redbrick library, they discussed how to handle the interview. ‘He’ll be a hard nut to crack,’ said Clark, ‘but I’ve been thinking. I’ll try to get him feeling secure and in control, and then yoe hit him hard with sommut. He won’t expect a sprog lie yoe to challenge him. It’ll hurt his pride. With a bit of luck, he’ll react.’
‘Hit him with what?’
‘Search me. Yoe can’t rehearse these things. Just pay attention, follow me lead, and then ask your question. If it surprises me, it will sure as hell surprise him. OK?’
‘OK,’ Collins replied, doubtfully. He wasn’t at all sure that he could come up with a suitable question. Besides, he had the distinct feeling that this wasn’t going to be an interview – more a confrontation. That thought was enough to trigger a release of adrenalin into his system. He felt his heart beat faster and the familiar dryness in his mouth as he mentally prepared himself. Because it would do no harm, he silently prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joseph that he wouldn’t let Clark down.
Bishop’s office was behind the old Bingley Hall, just off Broad Street, in a three-storey Victorian townhouse that had been converted into offices around the time that the Great War was just getting started and people still believed it would “all be over by Christmas”. As far as Collins was concerned, the house was certainly showing its age, with flaking brickwork, peeling paint and green stains streaking the walls. It didn’t look occupied, but a small sign in the doorway read: E. Bishop Ltd. 3rd Floor. There didn’t appear to be any other occupants in the building. Both Collins and Clark eyed the ancient lift with suspicion and simultaneously decided to head up the oak stairway.
Reaching the third floor landing, they followed the sign to Reception. There was little sound and a complete lack of movement, but they could hear two women talking quietly. Collins opened the door and walked in. Sitting at separate desks were a set of twins. Identical, except that one was dressed entirely in black and the other in white. Neither was doing any work and they seemed surprised that a visitor had had the temerity to call and disrupt their conversation.
Standing up, the woman in white said, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?’
‘We’d like to see Mr Bishop.’
‘I’m very sorry but he’s out and won’t be back today. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get him to call you. Or I could make an appointment for you.’ As she said this, the woman in black casually stood up and walked over to the filling cabinet. Openin
g it, she took out a file and slammed the drawer shut. Not content that it had fully closed, she repeated the process.
‘Oh, we don’t mind hanging about, love. Tell you what, we’ll make ourselves at home in Eddie’s office while we’re waiting.’
‘You can’t go in there,’ said the woman in white and tried to step in front of Clark. But she was too slow and he brushed past her.
‘Well, would yoe look at this, Constable Collins. Mr Bishop and his associates are in here. Either them snuck in the back way or those young ladies were telling us porkies. Which is it, Mr Bishop, lies or incompetence?’
Collins entered the room just in time to see Bishop stand up and say, ‘Neither. I pay Miss Train to keep the riff-raff out.’ He was not what Collins had expected. Standing 6 foot 3, with brushed-back grey hair, a strong Roman nose and a well-proportioned mouth that showed off a set of brilliantly white teeth every time he opened his mouth, he was an imposing figure. The Savile Row, single-breasted, charcoal grey pinstripe suit and immaculate white shirt from Jerymn St. with a muted red tie added to the image of a highly successful businessman. Unfortunately, that image was shattered the moment he spoke. His voice was high pitched and screeching and had the same effect on Collins as someone running their fingernails across an enamel basin. The man’s accent was a strangulated combination of Received Pronunciation mixed with Aston slum.
There were two other men in the room. One was young and slim, with blonde hair spilling over his collar and soft feminine features. He was almost too pretty to be called handsome. Beautiful was a better description. Dressed in a dark blue, made-to-measure suit, white shirt, striped tie and black shoes, he looked as if he had just stepped out of a shop window. Collins wondered if the smell of expensive perfume came from him or the White Twin standing behind him.
The other guy was built like a beer barrel, with a massive chest and a football-sized head that seemed to grow straight out of his chest without any evidence of a neck. He’d stood up when Bishop had risen and was waiting quietly to see what his boss wanted him to do with these two hick coppers. Collins moved towards him and stood blocking any run he might take at Clark. Fortunately, Bishop’s next words calmed the situation. ‘I’m always happy to help the police, but I do prefer to be given advance notice of any visits. Now that you’re here, though, why don’t you sit down. You can go, Susan.’