by Jim McGrath
‘Take your coats off, gentlemen; no one with any blood in their veins needs this amount of heat. Take a seat and I’ll make us all a cup of tea. Or would you prefer something a little stronger, seeing as this is an unofficial visit?’
‘Tea would be grand, sir.’
After Begley had left, Clark lent across the table and asked, ‘Did I hear yoe right when yoe told him this was unofficial? Why?’
‘I worked on a paper just like this for two years before I came over. Mr Begley is a paper man down to the soles of his feet. Good reporters are mavericks. They break the rules. I gambled he wouldn’t be able to resist the chance of a good story about two coppers working a case on their own time.’
‘Well, let’s hope he don’t go blabbing about it to his rich friends. It might be them wem after.’
‘You don’t know reporters. They never blab in case someone pinches their story, and the good ones would hang their granny for a great story.’
‘Nice people then.’
When Begley returned minutes later, he was pushing a small tea trolley. On it were three cups and saucers, a large pot of tea, the bottom half of a cottage loaf, butter, cheese, arrowroot biscuits and a near-full bottle of Johnny Walker Whisky. ‘I thought you might be hungry and a drop of whisky in your tea doesn’t count as a drink in my book. Shall I be mother?’
For ten minutes, the men drank their tea, enjoyed doorstep-sized slices of bread and cheese, and spoke about the weather and the effect it was having on the sporting calendar. Clark complained about the lack of football and Begley was bereft at the suspension of horse racing. He’d not had a bet in weeks. Only when they had finished eating and piled everything back on the trolley did Begley lean forward and place his clasped hands on the conference table. ‘Right then, gentlemen. How can I help you?’
‘We’re interested in this picture,’ said Collins, sliding his copy of The Bugle across the table.
‘Martin Phillips and our esteemed local MP, Sir Marcus Tobin. What is it that interests you about the photo?’
‘We’d like to know when it was taken,’ said Clark.
‘And why are you interested in that?’
‘There’s a van behind the two men. Wi need to know if it were on Morrison’s lot before the 8th of February.’
‘The 8th of February, you say.’ Collins watched as the old man pulled together various disparate ideas that were forming in his mind. ‘Nothing happened in Stratford around that date. Even if it did, the local police would be looking into it – not two Birmingham coppers. So the question is, what happened in Birmingham around that time important enough to bring you here on your off day and in miserable weather? I should imagine it’s something serious. A robbery, maybe, or a murder?’
Begley stopped and looked at both men. ‘Am I getting warm?’ he asked.
‘About as warm as this room,’ said Collins.
‘There was no major crime reported in the Birmingham Mail on the 8th or 9th of February. However, on the 10th, they reported the death of a half-caste girl. Am I warm?’
‘Roasting, sir,’ said Collins.
‘In that case, I’d better go and check the photo records in the archive and cool down,’ said Begley, with a smile.
‘He may be old and sick, but he’s still got all his marbles that ‘un,’ said Clark, after Begley had left the office.
‘I was thinking…’
‘Careful now, that could be dangerous seeing as yoe do so little of it.’
Collins ignored the comment and continued, ‘He probably knows everyone who’s anyone in Stratford. We should do a deal with him. Tell him the entire story, as far as we know it, in return for every bit of title-tattle and gossip he has about the important people of Stratford.’
‘He’ll want the lot.’
‘So we give it to him on condition he keeps us out of the story.’
‘I ain’t sure. Yoe can never trust a reporter. Tell yoe what, let’s see what he brings back.’
‘OK.’
When he returned, Begley was carrying a photo and two old copies of The Bugle. Sitting down, he spread the three items out on the desk. ‘The photo was taken on Monday 5th February,’ he said, and turned the photo over to reveal the date it had been taken. ‘You can also see part of the van’s registration number in the original.’ Both Collins and Clark smiled. ‘Better than that, though, I can prove the van had been on the lot for at least three weeks prior to the 17th of February.’
‘How?’ asked Clark.
Begley slid a copy of The Bugle that was dated 17th January across the table. It had been opened and folded in two. The bottom of the page contained a quarter-page advert for Phillip Morrison Motors of Stratford, listing a selection of the cars and vans for sale and, fourth entry down, was an A35 with the same registration number as in the original photo.
‘Mr Begley, sir,’ said Clark, ‘you’ve just proved that a certain gentleman lied to us. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘What’s the last paper?’
‘Oh, I almost forgot. It’s this week’s issue. We led with the deaths of Andrew Young and the unknown girl. Now, what I want to know from you, gentlemen, is: what is the connection between Phillip Morrison, Andrew Young and the death of two teenage girls?’
Clark and Collins looked at each other, still undecided about revealing everything to a reporter.
In an attempt to break the impasse, Begley said, ‘Gentlemen, I’m seventy-two-years-old and, with the exception of the last war, I’ve worked as a reporter or editor since 1920 and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. My one regret is that I’ve never broken a really big story. I’d like to do it just once before I die. The doctors say I have maybe four or five months to live. Liver cancer. So this is probably my last chance to beat those bastards in Fleet Street and land a whopper. I’ll do anything you want and agree to any conditions you set, as long as you give me the full story when you can.’
‘What if we aren’t able to prove it all?’ asked Collins.
‘Then I’ll print what you can prove and that way you can at least string the guilty up in the court of public opinion.’
‘If wem right, yoe could make yourself really unpopular among some important people round here. They might go after yoe or your family.’
‘That’s really not a problem. As I said, I’ll be gone soon enough. My wife died in 1957. We had no children and I think my only living relative lives somewhere in Canada. When I go, the nearest thing I have to a family, this paper, will close. After 148 years, it too deserves the chance to go out with a bang.’
‘What if the government slap a D Notice on yoe?’ asked Clark.
‘I’ve never liked being told what to do, so I don’t care if they slap a D Notice on me. The story runs. Anyway, they can only slap a Notice on me if they know about the story in advance and they won’t. The first they’ll know about it will be when the paper hits the street. Then let them try and stop it. After that, who gives a flying stuff? I’ll be dead before they can put me in jail.’
Clark was satisfied. Looking at Collins, he said, ‘OK, but on two conditions: One, yoe leave our names out of it and two, yoe wait until we give you the go-ahead to print it. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
‘OK then. Tell him Mickey. Tell him all of it.’
It took Collins nearly twenty minutes to relate the entire story. The old man only interrupted twice to ask questions of clarification. Collins finished by telling him about their visit to Bishop the day before.
‘Eddie Bishop, you say. Long time since I heard that name. Nasty piece of work. Whatever he might have told you, he knows Stratford. He tried to rob a jewellery shop in the high street back in the early fifties. Left the manager with a fractured skull, but someone saw him take off his balaclava before he jumped in the getaway ca
r. They picked him out in an identity parade. The police were certain he was going down for six or more years. Anyway, the case went to the Assizes Court, but fell apart when the witness failed to recognise Bishop. Of course, it may have been amnesia from the nasty crack on the head that the witness suffered when he slipped and banged his head.’
‘That sounds like the Bishop I know and despise,’ said Clark.
‘Alright, what can I tell you that may be of use? I‘ve definitely seen Phillips and Young together. There is a third character that hangs around with them, Trevor Keel, but there’s nothing unusual about that. Stratford isn’t a big place and they are of a similar age and move in the same social circles – the tennis club in summer, the hunt in winter and the Young Conservatives throughout the year. They also have links to the same business organisations, such as the local Chamber of Commerce. What’s more interesting, and relevant, is that Keel left the army under a cloud. Seems he smuggled a woman into the barracks.’
‘Nowt odd about that. Just about every officer I ever knew under thirty did it. Almost part of the initiation ceremony.’
‘Yes, but this one ran half naked onto the parade ground and screamed the house down. She claimed that he’d tried to rape her. Of course, the army hushed it up and his short commission became even shorter than he expected.’
‘Do any of them hang around with someone called the Major?’ asked Collins.
‘I’ve been thinking about that. There are a lot of retired majors and the like living in and around Stratford – many from the First World War – but I’ve never seen either Young or Phillips with any major I knew. I’ll look into it and check out some of the ex-majors we have in the town.’
‘What do yoe know about Superintendent Burgess?’
‘Ambitious. Doesn’t want to rock the boat, just in case it scuppers his chances of promotion. It’s very likely that if he was told to close the Simone case down, he’d do so and ask no questions.’
‘And Sir Marcus Tobin?’ asked Collins.
‘Lower middle-class, maybe even working-class background. He had a good war. He started out in the ranks but won a battlefield commission. When he came home, his accent had changed along with his name. He dropped Michael and started calling himself Marcus. Anyhow, he managed to charm Miss Mary Singleton out of her knickers and in so doing married money and began his political career. He may yet end in the Cabinet if Macmillan wins the next election.’
Collins looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Begley, we need to be on our way.’
‘That’s quite all right. I’ll give you my number and you better give me a private number I can reach you on. We don’t want to set any tongues wagging in the station, do we? I’ll come in tomorrow and go through the files and see if anything jumps out at me. I’ll call you no later than Monday night.’
‘Thank you, Mr Begley, for all your assistance.’
‘No, thank you, gentlemen, for making the last few months of an old man’s life interesting.’
Victor Begley was still smiling as Clark and Collins drove away. The biggest story of his life had just landed in his lap.
Part Three: Afternoons
Sunday 24th February 1963.
Handsworth, 12.55hrs.
Ruth and Clark arrived at 12.55 for Sunday lunch. Ruth brought a box of Black Magic chocolates for Agnes and Clark gave Sheba a large beef bone, which she immediately grabbed and took to her temporary bed in the kitchen.
They were joined by Jamie for a dinner of roast beef and all the trimmings. By the time the pudding of apple pie and custard was served, everyone was feeling full and relaxed.
‘Michael tells me that you can speak several languages, Clive. I did some translating during the war. Which languages do you speak?’ asked Agnes.
‘I’m not up to the level of a translator but I can get by in French, German and Dutch, and I know a bit of Polish and Norwegian.’
‘That’s very impressive,’ said Agnes in German.
Clark replied in German and for a few minutes he and Agnes showed off their linguistic skills as they switched between various languages. Eventually, Ruth joined in leaving Collins and Jamie to lament their lack of any foreign language training. At a break in the conversation, Collins winked at Jamie and launched into a recitation of the last verse of the WB Yates poem Easter 1916 in Gallic. When he’d finished, he said, ‘I just thought you polyglots would like to hear what a real foreign language sounds like.’
‘I think he’s telling us to talk in English,’ said Ruth.
‘Where did you do your translating during the war?’ asked Clark, who seemed to have moderated his Black Country accent.
‘Oh, here and there. I was based in London at first and then a place near Milton Keynes for a while. After the war, I was in Berlin and Nuremburg.’
‘At the trials?’ asked Collins.
‘Yes.’
‘My unit did a bit of work around Milton Keynes. As a training exercise, we used to try and break into various places. The idea was it kept them on their toes and gave us a bit of practice. There was one place near Milton Keynes that we did twice. First time we tried, it was easy-peasy – like walking into an open house. Second time, one of my mates got a bayonet in his side for his troubles. He was OK, though. I think it was called Station X.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve never heard of Station X, said Agnes, standing up. ‘Would anyone like some more tea or coffee?’
Ruth curled up on the settee, enjoying the heat from the open fire. Agnes sat in her favourite rocking chair, drinking tea. They could hear Clark shouting in the garden and Jamie laughing, as Collins set about building a snowman.
Agnes felt relaxed and contented. It had been a very pleasant few hours. Clark had surprised her. She suspected that he was a lot more intelligent than he let on. His German was certainly very good. She was also certain that he had seen past her denial that she’d never heard of Station X. He may not know what had gone on at Bletchley, but he knew that it had been important. Strangely, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. For eighteen years, she had kept secret the nature of her work. Now someone had an inkling of what she had done and that shared secret – never fully explained and only hinted at – had a liberating effect on her.
‘Michael tells me that you came to England as a refugee and found yourself billeted with Clive’s parents. Was it love at first sight when he came home?’
For a moment Ruth was uncertain just how much Collins had told Agnes, but her words were not tinged with sympathy. Collins had kept her secret. ‘Well, I was only fourteen when he came home from the war and he was twenty-two. Mom and Dad were kind. They’d always wanted a girl, but Clive’s sister had died at birth. I became their daughter and Clive’s little sister, but I always knew I loved him and that I wanted to marry him. But I said nothing.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, I think eventually Mom guessed how I felt about him. I mean, I’d never had a boyfriend. Not even a date. On my 21st birthday, she and Dad went to stay the night at Auntie Diane’s. I think Mom arranged it. Clive took me to a Chinese restaurant. Have you ever had Chinese food?’
‘Yes. It can be very good if you get the right restaurant.’
‘We should all go one night. You can choose the restaurant. Anyway, when we got home, there was a feeling in the air that something might happen. I know that Clive felt it because he was very quiet. Then, he kissed me on the forehead and rushed off to bed. Well, I’d had enough. I’d been waiting for him to do something for seven years. So I took off all my clothes, went up the stairs and got into bed with him. And that was that. We were married three months later.’
‘Did you ever find out why he hadn’t said anything to you?’
‘Oh yes. First, I was too young. Then he thought he’d be taking advantage of me because I was living with Mom
and Dad. Then, when I was older, he was afraid to tell me how he felt in case I left home. Amazingly, he had no idea that I’d loved him from the moment we met.’
Agnes smiled. ‘Men can be pretty stupid when it comes to anything that involves feelings. Take Michael. He’s mentioned Clive to me once or twice and I’ve only seen them together for a few hours, but it’s obvious that he’d do anything for him.’
‘I’ve noticed the same with Clive. I think the fact that Michael risked his life on the ice to pull him clear meant a lot to him – even though Clive insists he could have got out of the water using his knife.’
‘What ice?’
‘Didn’t Michael tell you?’
‘No.’
Ruth retold the story that Clark had told her to explain why his normally immaculate uniform was crumpled, stank of stagnant water and generally looked as if he’d slept rough in it for a week.
‘Well, it seems Clive is not the only man around here who doesn’t like to talk about what he does.’ Looking up, Agnes could see that the snowman was reaching completion. ‘That snowman needs a hat and I know just the right hat. Come on, grab your coat.’
Minutes later, Agnes and Ruth appeared in the garden wearing green wellies and Agnes carrying a battered top hat.
‘Agnes thought that the snowman needed a hat in this weather.’
‘That’s a grand idea. Come on, Agnes, give his lordship his topper.’
Agnes responded to Michael’s urgings by walking very solemnly towards the snowman with her arms outstretched, carrying the hat as if it were a crown. As she prepared to crown the snowman, the men removed their own hats and she placed the topper on the snowman’s head. ‘Let it be known,’ she intoned in her best Shakespearian voice, ‘that this snowman will henceforth be called Clive Michael Jamie the First, ruler and protector of the back garden for as long as the frost duth last.’
A ragged cheer went up from the assembled throng.