A Death in Winter

by Jim McGrath

  He vaguely remembered seeing a huge flat-roofed monstrosity and wondered at the time if that was where the singer Rosemary Squires and Roger Moore of Maverick fame lived.

  As they approached Roman Way, Clark pointed to a row of shops set back from the road. Outside the general store and post office, there was a telephone box. Clark pulled up beside the familiar red box and jumped out. ‘I’ll only be a tick,’ he said. ‘Switch seats’. Thirty seconds later, he was back in the car satisfied that the phone was working.

  ‘OK, Mickey. About 400 yards down the road, there’s an island. Drop me off there and then come back here and wait. If I’m not back in 35 minutes, call 999.’

  ‘OK but what if someone asks me what I’m doing parked outside a post office in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Show them yoer warrant card. Yoe do have it with yoe, don’t yoe?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ said Collins and pulled away with a jerk. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve not had much practice recently.’

  ‘I’m just impressed yoe can drive. I thought that your lot still drove pony and traps.’

  ‘I’m from Dublin. We have cars, electric lights and indoor plumbing –something a lot of the houses in West Bromwich don’t have.’

  ‘Less chat, more driving.’

  Clark slipped out of the car at the roundabout. By the time Collins looked in the mirror, he’d disappeared. Only a sliver of the moon showed in the cold night sky. However, with the snow reflecting what little light there was, Clark was able to pick his way through the heavy undergrowth that boarded both sides of Roman Way. He knew it was probably unnecessary, and he could have ambled down the road at this time of night and not be seen, but he couldn’t ignore his training and the maxim that had been drummed into him: “Never take unnecessary risks no matter how small they may appear”.

  Clark veered slightly to the left. After seven minutes, he found the railings that ran alongside Bishop’s house. He hunkered down and surveyed the house and grounds. The snow on the lawn was pristine with no evidence that any dog or guard had walked on it in days. Slipping off his rucksack, he threw it over the fence. He then jumped up and caught hold of the top bar and pulled himself up. Unbidden, the memory of Upright Freddie came to mind as he carefully avoided impaling himself on the 12-inch spikes that topped the fence. Satisfied that he was clear of all snags, he jumped and rolled forward on landing. He lay there for thirty seconds, waiting to see if anyone had seen or heard him. Nothing.

  Picking up the rucksack, he ran parallel to the fence until he was at the side of the house. Again he stopped, looked and listened. Again, nothing. No sound. No movement. Bishop clearly doesn’t know how to protect himself, he thought. Then, he realised that as the number one villain in Brum, Bishop had no reason to fear being done over by a burglar. Everyone was too shit-scared of him to try such a suicidal move.

  Clark moved out of the shadows and crossed to the kitchen door. He shook his head in disappointment as he saw that all he had to get through was an old Yale lock. Bishop was making this too easy. In less than twenty seconds he was inside and striding quietly across the tiled floor to the hallway.

  There were three reception rooms downstairs. Clark selected the one that looked like Bishop’s study. The room had been furnished like a gentleman’s club. A captain’s chair stood behind a fine mahogany desk. The centre of the room was dominated by two Chesterfield settees and an oak coffee table, and a fine series of glass-fronted bookcases covered three walls.

  Clark quickly checked out the books. Most had never been opened, but those housed behind Bishop’s desk had clearly been read. They were mainly military memoirs and first editions by various playwrights including Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams. So, Bishop did know his Osborne from his O’Neil, thought Clark. Good – that would make what he was about to do even more personal.

  Clark silently started to remove the books from behind Bishop’s desk and build a small wigwam of books and rolled-up newspaper on the carpet in front of the desk. He left the centre of the pile hollow to allow for a good draft. Opening his rucksack, he removed a pint bottle of turpentine and sprinkled it liberally on the 3-foot mound of books. Taking a small bundle from the rucksack, he unwrapped a cheap Timex watch, a 9-volt battery and a small detonator.

  Checking his watch, he set the alarm for eleven minutes and placed his homemade charge in the centre of the wigwam. Even if someone was in the room when the detonator went off, the charge was too small to harm them, but it was more than enough to ignite the books and with it the whole study. Clark hoped that it would prove to Bishop that he was dealing with someone just as willing to kill as he was. After one last check, Clark stood up, sprinkled the last of the turpentine over the books and laid the empty bottle next to the improvised bomb. Standing up, he took his rucksack and left.

  Once over the fence, he checked his watch. Twenty two minutes since he’d left Collins; barely three since he’d set the timer. Retracing his steps, he reached Collins at the row of shops nine minutes later.

  Without stopping to talk to Collins, he went straight to the phone box and waited. With less than one minute to go before the incendiary went off, he called Bishop’s number. The phone was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Is that Eddie Bishop?’

  ‘Yes. Who the fuck is ringing me at nearly two in the morning?’

  ‘I’m the guy who has just been in your house. You have about 20 seconds before your nice collection of books goes up in flames. I wouldn’t go in there before you hear the bang or you might hurt yourself. After that, yoe’ll be able to put the fire out fairly easily.’ Message delivered, he hung up.

  As they drove back along the Queslett Road, Clark explained what he had done. ‘What about innocent people in the house?’ Collins asked.

  ‘You mean wife and kids? He ain’t got any.’

  ‘There could be others.’

  ‘There could, but do you really think that anyone staying at Bishop’s is innocent? Besides, if he stays outside the room until the fire starts I doubt anyone will get hurt.’

  ‘You doubt!’ said Collins.

  ‘Mickey, that’s the difference between us. Yoem a copper and one day you’ll be a great copper. Me, I’m a soldier. I know from bitter experience that the only way to fight someone who is trying to kill you is to show him that yoe are just as ruthless as he is. That way, he may back off.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t back of?’

  ‘Then you kill him before he can kill yoe.’

  They drove on in silence. For the first time, Collins realised why Clark didn’t talk about the war. He’d been part of a war that had required him to slit a man’s throat in cold blood or hang a woman on the back of a door and make it look like suicide. He’d been turned into a killer by experts at the age of twenty and he’d remain a killer until the day he died. No one, except maybe Ruth and his fellow commandos, would ever fully understand that.

  At the end of the Queslett Road, Collins pulled over to a phone box and Clark jumped out. Bishop answered his call on the second ring.

  ‘Did yoe get there before the fire took?’

  ‘You bastard. I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Bishop. It’s your threats that got you in this mess in the first place. Yoe say that yoe warned me twice. Well, I’ve given you fair warning. Come after me, me family or friends and I promise you that I’ll fucking kill you and everyone and everything you hold dear. Understand?’ Clark didn’t wait for a reply and hung up.

  Collins eventually pulled up outside Clark’s house. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Clark said, ‘I’ll see yoe later, Mickey’ and started to open the door.

  Collins caught his friend by the arm. ‘Clarkee, I know we’re different, but I want you to know that I’ll always back you up. No matter what.’

  Clark pus
hed the door open and, without looking back, said, ‘Thanks Mickey. I knew I can rely on yoe.’

  London, 11.00hrs.

  Agnes sat with her ankles crossed and looked at the portraits on the wood-panelled walls. They were a collection of military leaders, none of whom Agnes could name, but two of which were very fine examples of 19th century portraiture. She’d been waiting twenty minutes but didn’t mind. It had to be important. She knew how much Aubrey loathed poor punctuality and he’d be mortified that he’d kept her waiting.

  The telephone on the secretary’s desk rang. She picked up the receiver, listened for a few seconds, hung up and then in the most condescending voice that she could muster said, ‘Sir Aubrey will see you now.’ Rising, she opened the door behind her and ushered Agnes into the holy of holies.

  As Agnes entered, Sir Aubrey leapt from his chair and came round the desk. ‘Agnes, my dear. I’m so sorry that I kept you waiting.’

  ‘That’s perfectly alright, Aubrey. I’m sure it was unavoidable.’ At the use of Sir Aubrey’s first name, Agnes could feel the secretary stiffen beside her.

  ‘Miss Florin, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea and biscuits? Chocolate biscuits, not the usual rubbish we give visitors.’

  The mention of chocolate biscuits was the last straw and Miss Florin’s one word reply of ‘Yes’ was as cold as the ice covering the window sill. She withdrew and the atmosphere in the room immediately became warmer.

  ‘My Lord, it’s good to see you, Agnes. How long has it been?’

  ‘I think the last time we met was in Berlin. Just after Nuremburg. October 1946, I think.’

  ‘That’s right. Just before the hangings. What have you been up to since?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know? My word, your spies must be very second rate. I thought you kept a close eye on all of us oldies from the war.’

  ‘In your case, just a watching brief. Your discretion and loyalty were and never will be in doubt.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that I’m on a number of Quaker Committees and look after beaten women.’

  ‘No regrets that you never joined the service? You would have made a wonderful intelligence officer.’

  ‘None. The work at the Park and in Berlin after the war was enough for me.’

  ‘Pity. Oh, do you know who I ran into just yesterday? Ian. I said I was meeting you today. He sends his love. I think he still sees you as the one that got away.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘How is he? Still writing?’

  ‘He didn’t look too well, but he’s still scribbling away.’

  There was a knock at the door and Miss Florin entered carrying a tray, which she deposited on the table next to Sir Aubrey’s desk. She moved to pour when Sir Aubrey said, ‘You can leave that, Miss Florin. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Very well, Sir,’ she said. But really it wasn’t well at all that Sir was pouring tea for some unknown middle-aged woman, who apparently could get an appointment with the Assistant Director of MI5 with one phone call and all without going through her. Outrageous.

  Handing Agnes her tea, Sir Aubrey asked, ‘So, what’s brought you here today. It sounded important on the phone. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Me, nothing, but friends of mine have become involved in something that you may have an interest in.’

  ‘You mean your tame policeman?’

  ‘So you have been watching me.’

  Sir Aubrey smiled and raised his shoulders in a shrug.

  ‘He’s investigating the death of a fourteen-year-old half caste girl. Her body was dumped in Handsworth, but the trail seems to lead back to Stratford-upon-Avon. The names Sir Marcus Tobin and Superintendent Burgess have cropped up. I was wondering if you had anything on them? There is also mention of someone called The Major, who may or may not be either Tobin or Burgess.’

  Sir Aubrey sat back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. Looking over the rims of his glasses, he exhaled a long ‘Hmmm’ before answering. ‘Sir Marcus Tobin, Chief Whip of the Tory Party. He definitely knows where all the bodies are buried. Very powerful behind the scenes. No one wants to cross him.’

  ‘Aubrey, I could get that information from The Times. What’s in his file?’

  ‘Are you asking me to divulge state secrets despite the fact that you always refused to sleep with me?’ he said, jokingly.

  ‘From what I recall, you never tried that hard.’

  ‘True. I suppose I loved Claire too much. Still do, in fact. Anyway, Tobin. A nasty piece of work. Was commissioned from the ranks in 1944, I think. At the start of the war, he was assigned to special ops. He had a talent for killing people quietly and took out several important targets for king and country. Came back to England. Married into money and started to forge a career in politics.’ Sir Aubrey hesitated.

  ‘What else?’ asked Agnes.

  Sir Aubrey seemed to be making up his mind. ‘There is evidence that he likes the company of young people.’

  ‘You mean children?’

  ‘No, older. Teens seem to be his preference.’

  ‘Why haven’t the police done something about him?’

  ‘There’s no hard evidence.’

  ‘You mean you won’t give it to them.’ Agnes was starting to feel angry.

  ‘Agnes, that’s a little unfair. We have no hard evidence, just a lot of stories and innuendo. Besides, he has some very powerful connections. Some of whom may share his predilections.’

  ‘And if you prosecute him, he could bring the government down?’ suggested Agnes.

  ‘That’s a possibility. Macmillan knows that he’s only one more cock-up or scandal away from handing the next election to Wilson and his Red friends on the proverbial plate.’

  ‘You said that he likes teenagers. Does that include boys?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘The girl was buggered after she died.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Was Tobin in Berlin at the end of the war?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

  ‘I seem to remember that at the end of 1945 seven teenage girls were found dead. All of them had been buggered after they died. The police never caught anyone, did they?’

  ‘No. It was put down to the Russians, I believe.’

  ‘What if it were Tobin and he’s been killing ever since?’

  ‘Christ. That would bring the Government down. But if I start an investigation, it will be closed down before it begins.’

  ‘I know, so why not let my tame policeman stir the pot for you? If he finds conclusive evidence of Tobin’s guilt, I’ll let you know and you can take the action required.’

  ‘You know that if Tobin is involved, the case will never go to trial? Other action will have to be taken.’

  Agnes hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you still want to pursue it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alright. What do you need?’

  Agnes took out a list of names and the details she had on each person from her handbag. ‘A copy of your file on Tobin and his military service record.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, whatever you have on Peter Carver, Phillip Morrison, Trevor Keel, Colin Spencer, the dead man Andrew Young and – a bit of a long shot – a disc jockey by the name of Jimmy Ravenal.’

  ‘Very well. However, I do hope you’re wrong about this. I’ve already got a Cabinet Minister sharing a prostitute with a Russian spy to contend with. Is that the lot?’

  ‘I’d like to see your file on Inspector Burgess and—’

  ‘I don’t think he’s involved. All he cares about is his career and keeping the people who can help him become ACC happy.’

  ‘I’d still like to see his file. Also, any information you have on Eddie Bisho
p. My policeman seems to think that you might already be investigating him.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because he came across a Sergeant Richards who seemed far too much like an ex-public school boy to be a mere policeman in the Central CID.’

  ‘We do employ people who didn’t go to public school, you know. In fact, we have a number of very good grammar school chaps.’

  ‘But not in the top jobs.’

  Aubrey smiled thinly, ‘Any revolution in Britain takes time. You know that.’

  ‘I suppose I do. But the files…’

  ‘I never could say no to you, Agnes. You can have a copy of them all, for your eyes only, provided you join me at Simpsons for lunch. I haven’t had a good steak and kidney pie for months. Claire’s got me on a reduced meat diet, whatever that is. The files will be here by the time we get back.’

  ‘That would be nice. Now, if you give me five minutes, I’ll go and powder my nose.’

  ‘Yes and I’ll make a few calls.’

  After Agnes left, Sir Aubrey flicked the switch on his intercom and asked Miss Florin to connect him with the Home Secretary on the secure line. ‘Good afternoon, Home Secretary. I thought you’d like to know that I’ve just finished my meeting with Mrs Winters. I have agreed to give her Tobin’s file along with one or two others.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope that we have not misjudged the tenacity of Constable Collins and the well-attested skills of Constable Clark.’

  ‘Quite so, Sir, but given Constable Clark’s apparent willingness to burn down Bishop’s house, I don’t think we need concern ourselves on that score.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘What about your man, Richards? Has he come up with anything?’

  ‘Nothing that would be of interest to us, but he’s made it clear to Clark and Collins that he is willing to help.’