A Death in Winter

by Jim McGrath

  Susan closed the door, but not without giving Clark a stare that she had probably used to shrivel many a man’s amorous intentions. It didn’t even register with Clark.

  ‘Na, we’ll stand, Mr Bishop, if it’s all the same. Wi ain’t going to be long.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Bishop and resumed his seat. ‘So, what are you here for? A donation to the Police Benevolent Fund or tickets to the police ball?’

  Clark ignored Bishop’s attempt at humour. ‘Yoe heard about the half-caste girl who got killed and dumped on Hill Top?’

  ‘I saw something in the paper.’

  ‘Well, wi was wondering if you knew her?’

  ‘Now, why would I know her?

  ‘Because yoe run a string of underage girls from all accounts.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Those old stories about me are just that – stories. Put about by jealous competitors.’

  ‘I didn’t think yoe had any competitors. The way I heard it, they usually end up dead in the canal.’

  ‘What can I say? More rumours put about by people who want to do me and my legitimate business interests harm.’

  ‘So yoe’ve never heard of Simone Winston?’

  ‘Never heard of her. Never met her.’

  Collins was wondering why Clark was talking about Simone. They knew that she wasn’t one of Bishop’s girls, although that didn’t mean he had never met her.

  ‘What about Andrew Young, the guy who killed her. Ever hear of him or meet him?’

  ‘Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘You sure? A long, blond, skinny streak of piss?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Bishop. We’ll be going now. If you think of anything, please give me a ring at the station.’ Clark crossed to the desk, picked up a gold Waterman fountain pen and scribbled the station’s number on the pristine blotter.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’

  Clark turned without reply and headed for the door.

  The Bull in the corner stood up and spoke for the first time. ‘Don’t let the door hit you in the arse as you leave.’

  Collins could see that Clark was desperate for him to ask his question, but instead he turned and headed for the door. Even with his back turned, he could feel the waves of disappointment coming from his friend. Only when he grasped the door handle did he half turn and ask, ‘When was the last time you spoke to the Major, Mr Bishop?’

  Bishop’s head snapped up and, for just an instant, Collins saw the rage that lay behind his normally cold, lifeless eyes. Here was the true Bishop. The animal Bishop who enjoyed wielding a pickaxe handle and exercising his power over those that couldn’t fight back. As quickly as it had appeared, the anger retreated into its cage.

  When he spoke his voice was higher pitched than before, but he chose his words carefully, ‘I’m sorry I don’t know any Mr Major.’

  ‘Not Mr Major. The Major. An army man, probably. He lives near Stratford.’

  ‘You’re losing me again. I don’t know any army major and I’ve never been to Stratford. I’m not a big Shakespeare fan. I prefer Tennessee Williams and that guy, Osbourne. There’s always a chance of a bit of sex in their plays.’

  ‘So you’ve never provided the Major with girls for his parties then? Underage girls.’

  ‘I’ve told you already. I have nothing to do with any underage girls’

  ‘Not even the little one found dead next to Andrew Young last Sunday?’

  ‘No. None,’ said Bishop, the pitch of his voice rising. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Number one on your list will probably involve calling the Major. Give him our regards and tell him we’re looking forward to meeting him.’ Collins didn’t wait for a response but quickly left, with Clark just behind.

  Clark waited until they were out of the office and halfway down the stairs before he said, ‘I know I said surprise the bastard, but that were a right shock to his system. Did yoe see the look he gave you when you mentioned the Major?’

  ‘You think I overdid it?’

  ‘No, lad, you got a rise out of him, which confirmed he’s in this up to his neck with whoever is running things from Stratford. Trouble is, there will be repercussions from what you said. Let’s hope we can deal with ‘em. You’ll need to put your steel helmet and box on again, me lad.’

  Collins was about to ask what the hell this box was that Clark kept on about, when he stopped on the second-floor landing and looked at the two doors each side of the stairs. ‘What do you reckon is behind them?’

  Clark smiled, ‘I’ll check the two on the left.’

  The first door Collins tried revealed a storeroom full of old files and broken furniture. The second was locked. Looking up, he saw that Clark was picking the lock on his first door. Collins joined him just as the latch sprang back. The room was neat, tidy and painted light pink. There was a queen-size bed in the corner, heavy curtains on the window, an empty drinks table, wash basin and mirrors on three walls. Clark flipped open the small trunk that sat on the floor at the bottom of the bed. It contained an assortment of ropes, handcuffs, whips and hoods.

  ‘I doubt that much sleeping goes on in here,’ said Clark, with a grin.

  The next door was also locked, but Clark was now up to speed and quickly picked the lock. This room was almost identical to the first except that it was painted blue and had a picture of a naked young man fondling himself.

  ‘Pink for girls and blue for boys,’ suggested Collins.

  ‘Could be. Let’s see what’s behind the last door.’

  ‘Maybe it’s for those who can’t make up their minds.’

  Clark gave Collins a pitying glance and shook his head.

  The last room was a surprise. It was huge for a start. Maybe 20 by 30 feet, it looked like a small dance hall with a parquet floor, a fair-sized bar in one corner, a row of leather booths down the left side, and small round drinks tables and leather chairs down the right. Every window was covered with new wooden shutters and the lighting was subdued and intimate.

  Collins felt his excitement build.

  Clark quickly relocked the ballroom while Collins checked the other doors, before they slipped quietly out of the building. Once on the pavement, they looked at each other and both broke into a huge grin.

  When Clark returned home, Ruth handed him a message she’d received from his friend in Vehicle Registration. “There are four E-Types registered to addresses in Stratford, but only one features the name Phillip and that’s Phillip Morrison Motors of Stratford Road. Hope that answers your question. You owe me a pint. Don.”

  Clark gave a little whoop of delight and kissed Ruth on the lips. Slipping her arms around him, Ruth responded to his kiss. That’s when he decided he had better things to do at that precise moment than ring Collins with the news.

  Saturday 23rd February 1963.

  Handsworth, 12.00hrs.

  With his parents back from Coventry, Clark was able to borrow his father’s car and, as arranged, pick Collins up at 12. Collins had only slept for three hours. Half the trouble was that bloody dog, Sheba – or, more precisely, the noisy fuss that Jamie, Gloria, Mary and even Agnes were making of her and the banging of doors as they pursued her around the house. This, combined with his first full week on nights, had wrecked him. He felt like a half-resurrected corpse. His mind felt disassociated from his body as he curled up in the corner of his seat. He was asleep before they had reached the A34.

  Morrison’s Motors was easy to find. It occupied a large site at the side of the main A34 road, about 2 miles from Stratford. There was a selection of new Fords in the showroom and outside was a variety of second-hand cars including Fords, Austins, Vauxhalls, a few old Humbers and even a pristine Morris
Traveller. Nearly all of which had been taken in part exchange.

  Collins began to casually meander among the cars looking for an A35 Van, while Clark checked out the parking space at the rear of the showroom. It quickly became obvious that there was no A35 on the lot.

  Shaking off the snow from their boots, they entered the showroom. A young man in his early twenties approached and asked, ‘Can I help you, officers?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to Mr Morrison, please,’ said Collins.

  The young man disappeared into the back of the showroom and moments later reappeared with Phillip Morrison. ‘You wish to speak to me, officers?’

  Morrison was pretty much what Collins had expected. Well-dressed, in a smart Italian suit, pale blue shirt and matching knitted tie, he had light brown hair, hazel eyes and the looks of an older James Dean. This was coupled with innate self-confidence, born of privilege, and it was obvious why Simone would have been attracted to him. Collins disliked him on sight.

  ‘Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to yoe about your friend Andrew Young,’ Clark said.

  ‘You mean my acquaintance, Andrew Young. We were never close friends. We’d be better off talking in my office, if you’ll follow me.’ They followed him down a short corridor to a small office overlooking the parking area. Once settled, he asked, ‘Can I get you gentlemen a hot drink?’

  ‘That’s very kind of yoe sir, but this won’t take long. Just a few details wi need to clear up for our report,’ said Collins.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Little things, but important,’ said Collins.

  ‘And what report would that be?’

  ‘The report into the unlawful killing of Simone Winston by Andrew Young,’ replied Collins.

  ‘I thought the local police were dealing with that, not Birmingham’s finest.’ His words were laced with sarcasm.

  ‘They are, sir. But, yoe know how it is, every force has its own records to keep and our boss likes to tie up any loose ends,’ said Clark.

  ‘I see, and that’s what you’re doing here. Tying to tie up loose ends?’

  ‘Correct, sir. Now, yoe say Andrew Young wasn’t a friend of yours, more an acquaintance. Is that right?’

  ‘I’d known him for many years to say hello to. We were at school together, but not in the same year. We were never what you would call friends. However, in a small town like this, it was entirely natural that we should move in the same circles. Besides which he used to buy his cars from me. If I’m honest, though, I always thought he was a bit off – if you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do, sir. Can yoe explain?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Not one of the lads. Not very sporty. To tell you the truth, I always thought he was queer.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘Well, even in prep school he seemed to prefer playing with little girls. Doctors and nurses, that sort of thing, rather than rugger or cricket.’

  ‘But yoe dain’t play with the little girls, is that it, sir?’ asked Clark.

  ‘That’s right. I preferred playing with the bigger boys and girls.’

  Collins knew that Morrison was baiting them and decided to give him something to think about. ‘If that’s the case, sir, how is that you had intercourse with Simone Winston, aged fourteen, on the 18th January 1963 and had her wank you off on the 25th January 1963?’

  The details contained in the accusation hit Morrison like a blow to the stomach, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘I assume that you have proof to back up these ridiculous claims?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. We have her diary. She provides detailed descriptions of the nights she met with you, Andrew Young, a woman called Marie and an unknown girl, probably about her own age.’

  ‘That’s absolute tosh. I’ve never been invited to an orgy, let alone partaken in one.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about an orgy, sir,’ said Collins.

  ‘Don’t be pedantic, officer. You know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s the thing about the law, Mr Morrison. It’s very pedantic in matters like this,’ said Clark. ‘So if these events never happened, how do yoe account for Simone having your telephone number and describing the car you drive as a red E-Type? Yoe do drive a red Jaguar E–Type?’

  ‘I don’t like your tone, officer.’

  ‘Yeah, I get a lot of complaints about it – but yoe see, I’m from the Black Country and there ain’t many cows there, so I can smell bullshit ever so easy when I’m within a mile of it. Now, how did she get your name and a description of your car if she never met yoe?’

  ‘That’s very easy to explain. I used to lend the car to Andrew on occasions.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Morrison. Lending your posh new car to just an acquaintance,’ said Collins.

  ‘Well, perhaps I should have said rented. I had an arrangement with Andrew that he could borrow the car for special occasions, provided he filled it up before returning it to me.’

  ‘And that was financially worthwhile?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Do you know how much it costs to fill an E-Type? A full tank costs more than you earn a month in overtime.’

  Collins felt elated, but hid it well. Morrison was rattled. Clark could take the next swing.

  ‘What about yoer name and phone number? How did she get that?

  ‘Isn’t it obviously? Young must have mentioned where he got the car from and she probably found one of my old business cards stuffed in the glove compartment or some such thing. The rest she made up to impress her friends. You know what schoolgirls are like.’

  ‘What about the A35 van you have for sale? Where’s that? asked Collins, hoping that the change of direction would unsettle Morrison further.

  It didn’t. His reply was instant. ‘I don’t have an Austin A35 on the books. I haven’t had one since about September last year.’

  ‘Yoe sure of that, sir?’ asked Clark.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well, in that case, wi won’t take up any more of yoer time.’

  ‘No need to show us out, sir. We’ll find our own way,’ said Collins. As they walked through the showroom, Collins spotted a copy of the local newspaper, The Stratford Bugle, lying on a table. Folded in two, it had a picture of Morrison shaking hands with an older man on the forecourt. On impulse, he picked it up.

  As they made their way back to the car, Collins studied the picture and read the caption beneath it. It showed Morrison shaking hands with a big man in a Crombie overcoat and scarf. The heading read “Local MP praises businessman’s support for orphanage”.

  As he closed the car door, Clark’s irritation finally broke free. ‘Lying bastard,’ he spat. ‘Did yoe see the way he was playing with us? Cocky sod. I’ll have ‘im. I swear I’ll have ‘im. If it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Calm down. It’s not as bad as it seems.’

  ‘What do you mean? I can’t see how the hell wi can get past his story. Wi know he’s lying thought his teeth, but it’s his word against the scribblings of a dead girl.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Have a look at this,’ said Collins, handing his partner the paper.

  Clark slowly scanned the front page. Finally, he spotted the small photo near the bottom of the page. ‘Sorry, kidda, I don’t see the significance.’

  ‘Look at what’s in the background.’

  Clark brought the paper closer to his face and squinted. It was barely more than an out-of-focus blur, but it was enough. ‘Sod me. That’s an Austin A35 or I’m a Chinaman. When was the picture taken?’

  ‘Well, the paper is 15th February so the photo had to be taken sometime before that. It means the car might have been on the lot on the 8th February.’

  ‘The day old Wilcox saw it. Wi better get over to the paper. Do yoe think it’ll be open?’

/>   ‘It’s worth a try.’

  Less than ten minutes later, they were outside the offices of The Stratford Bugle. But one look was enough to tell Collins that the place was closed for the weekend. He should have known. Just what you’d expect from a small local weekly newspaper. Once they’d covered the Saturday morning weddings, staff would be off for the weekend.

  Clark was in the act of reversing when an elderly man emerged from the front door and started to lock up.

  Collins didn’t wait for the car to stop. He jumped out and slammed the door shut. ‘Excuse me, sir, my colleague and I were wondering if it would be possible to have a look through your archives?’

  ‘Can’t it wait until Monday? I’ve just locked up.’ The man was hunched over, his arthritis-ravaged hands struggling to turn the key. His skin was an unhealthy yellow, with patches of green shading under his eyes. Collins had seen this before. Liver disease. The poor sod would be dead before Christmas.

  Clark joined them just as Collins considered his options. On nothing more than a hunch and a little knowledge about old reporters, he decided to be frank with the man. ‘I’m afraid we can’t come back on Monday. You see, sir, my partner and I have been specifically told not to investigate this matter.’

  The old man tried to straighten up, a sudden gleam illuminating his eyes. ‘You’d better come in then. We’ll go in my office. It’s the only place that’s heated on a Saturday.’ He led them to the back of the building to an office with the name “Victor Begley, Editor and Proprietor” in gold lettering on the door. He unlocked the heavy oak door and the three men stepped into a stifling hot room. The office wasn’t that large, but had oak-panelled walls, a mahogany conference table with eight chairs and a bookcase holding bound copies of every issue published by The Bugle since 1815. It was impressive and spotless. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in the wrong place and the whole room smelt of fresh furniture polish.