by Jim McGrath
‘OK then. Give me the Sten and I’ll go and play sentry.’
‘Are yoe sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘OK, but after this wi get you to a hospital.’
‘Fine, but for now will you go and get the bastards for me?’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, but don’t shoot me. Got it?’
‘I think so.’
Collins left the office by the hole that Jock had created. Seeing the black beret resting on an upturned bucket, he bent down and picked up the spare clips and pushed them into his pockets. Looking at his watch, he calculated that it had been less than three minutes since the first explosion. The police wouldn’t be here for at least seven minutes. Twelve, if they were lucky.
Stumbling forward on unsteady legs, Collins looked around for something he could use to steady himself and found part of Ruth’s shattered chair. Jock clearly hadn’t wasted any time untying her. Despite the pain, he smiled when he realised that with luck Ruth and Jock were already well on their way to the Land Rover and safety.
The freezing night air helped to clear his head, but with clarity came pain. Every bone in his body hurt and each step was a study in exquisite agony, as was each breath that allowed the cold air to attack the exposed nerves of his chipped, broken and missing teeth.
He desperately wanted to lie down in a warm safe bed and go to sleep, but he couldn’t let Clark and Jock down. It was his job to close the back door. He plodded on, the pain in his side growing worse with each step.
After the longest four minutes of his life, Collins found the spot in the fence where he and Clark had removed three rails earlier. A nightlight burning in the warehouse across the canal illuminated the gap and provided an irresistible lure to those desperate to get the hell out of here before the place was crawling with police. All he had to do now was find a place to hole up and wait for the rats who had escaped. He found his spot behind an industrial water tank.
Once seated, Collins found it difficult to keep his eyes open despite the pain and cold that had invaded his body and was making him shake uncontrollably. It was only the sound of Keel slipping on the ice and landing hard against a half full barrel of nickel off cuts that alerted him to his presence. Breathing hard and swearing under his breath, Keel hauled himself to his feet. Looking around, he saw the gap in the fence and headed for it.
Collins waited until Keel drew level with where he was standing, before he said, ‘That’s far enough. Hands in the air and I won’t blow your fucking head off.’
Keel stopped and turned towards where the voice had come from. ‘Well, if it isn’t Constable Collins. It seems we underestimated you and Clark.’
‘You’ve been underestimating us for centuries.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Put it down to a concussed brain.’
Three shots rang out to the right of where Collins was standing and both men jumped.
‘I assume that your gun is real, which is interesting. If it was your friend Constable Clark holding that gun, I’d be dead by now. Concussed brain or not, I don’t think you have it in you to kill a man in cold blood, so I’m going to leave now. You can’t stop me because you won’t shoot and you’re too weak to fight me.’
‘I am too weak to fight. And as for killing a man, you may be right. I don’t think I could kill a man in cold blood, but I could wound one. So, stand still.’
‘So what are we going to do? Stand here until you collapse or the police arrive?’
‘Maybe. Tell you what. I’ll let you go if you answer two questions.’
‘Fire away,’ said Keel, ‘no pun intended.’
‘Why did you kill the girl with Young? It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was me,’ said Keel. ‘As for why, I would have thought that was obvious. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘For God’s sake, she was only a kid. Didn’t that bother you?’
‘No. Go to Africa or the Middle East and you’ll soon see how cheap life is. In a lot of places I’ve been to, a life is worth no more than the price of a bullet. Can I go now?’
‘You haven’t answered my second question. What was her name?’
‘Bishop told me it was Janet Crosby. Now can I go?’
‘Just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘How much do you think your life is worth? Is it worth half-crown?’
What?
‘That’s the price of a Sten gun bullet, according to Clark. I think your life is worth more than 2/6d,’ said Collins.
Keel smiled in relief and moved towards the fence. As his hand grasped the fence, Collins said, ‘Don’t you want to know how much I think your life is worth?’
Keel turned, ‘What?’
‘I think it’s worth seven and six.’ There was just enough time for fear and understanding to register before Collins shot Keel three times in the chest. The force of the short burst propelled him though the gap in the fence and across the narrow towpath. Falling backwards, he landed on the ice. His body lay spread-eagled for a moment. Then, much to Collins’ surprise, there was a loud crack as the ice gave way and Keel slid from view.
Clark had followed Hollis, Bishop and Tobin out the door. There was no sign of Tobin, but from the porch he saw Hollis and Bishop disappear down the lane that led to the crusher. Clark decided to turn right. If he was correct, they would come out about fifty yards from where Collins was standing guard. He needed to get there first and set off at a fast jog.
With no torch, Clark stumbled on the uneven track and nearly tripped twice over junk that had become dislodged from their mounds by the shock of the explosions. When he reached the spot where he thought Hollis and Bishop would emerge, he took three deep breaths, letting the air out slowly. By the time he’d finished, his breathing had returned to normal. All he had to do now was wait quietly. He didn’t have long to wait. At the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing to his right, he stepped further back into the shadows.
The two men emerged from behind the last mound of junk and started across the 6 or so yards of snow-covered grass that separated them from the fence. Clark waited until they were up to their knees in the soft drifts before shouting, ‘That’s far enough. Turn around slowly. Hands in the air.’
Reluctantly, both men complied. ‘Now, come back. Keep yoer hands where I can see them.’
As he retraced his steps, Hollis asked, ‘So, what now? Are you going to arrest us?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘Good. You and I both know that this case is never going to come to trial. At most, I’ll be forced to resign and lose my pension. Far better if you let us go now and early next week you’ll get a nice little parcel in the post containing £25,000. What do you say?’
‘I’d say, stuff it.’ As he spoke, Hollis stumbled. Bishop immediately grabbed him under the arms and tried to pull him up.
‘Hands,’ screamed Clark. ‘Show me your hands.’
Regaining his feet, Hollis pushed Bishop aside and levelled a .38 revolver at Clark. He managed to get off one shot before Clark hit him with two bullets in the stomach. The revolver dropped from his hands and he doubled over in agony, a surprised look on his face. It was incredulous to him that he might die on this non-descript piece of waste ground behind a scrap yard.
Before Hollis hit the snow, Bishop launched himself at Clark. Keeping low, he caught the smaller man in the midriff with a rugby tackle and both went sprawling on the cinder track. The impact of landing with Bishop on top of him drove the breath out of Clark’s body and his gun went spinning into the darkness.
With his knees pinning Clark’s arms, Bishop’s hands encircled Clark’s throat and squeezed. Clark looked up. Bishop’s eyes were bulging with effort and spittle was for
ming in his mouth, ‘I’m going to kill you, you fucking bastard, and then I’m going to find that fucking bitch of yours and kill her too.’
As he spoke his fingers dug deeper into Clark’s neck. The periphery of Clark’s vision was starting to go black. Another few seconds and he’d be unconscious. Hands pinned, Clark only had his legs to work with. Bending his right knee, he smashed it as hard as he could into the middle of Bishop’s back. The man rocked but his grip remained tight. Time after time, he drove his knees into Bishop’s back until he felt the weight of the bigger man shift just enough for Clark to pull one arm free. Powered by desperation, he landed a right hook to the side of Bishop’s head and sent the bigger man sprawling.
Both men regained their feet at the same time. Slowly, they circled each other, looking for an opening or a weapon they could use. Bishop found his on the floor half hidden by a bin of metal off cuts – a hammer. Kicking the bin over, he grabbed it.
Grinning, he started to advance on Clark – all the time swinging the hammer in a wide arc. ‘Come and get it, copper. What’s the matter? Scared of a little hammer? I thought you were a hero or sommut.’
Each swing forced Clark to back up further. Soon he would be pinned against a pile of washing machines and mangles, and there was nothing there that he could use. His brain was telling him to think, but Bishop wasn’t allowing him any time.
But one fact did register with Clark. At the end of each swing, Bishop was off balance for an instant. It might just be enough time. Behind Bishop, Clark could see the spilt bin of metal off cuts and decided it was worth a try.
He waited for Bishop to swing, then threw himself into a forward roll beneath the hammer, passing Bishop on the right. Coming out of the roll, Clark made a grab for a bar of metal, but Bishop was too quick and Clark was forced to back up. Almost tripping on a length of copper wire in the process, he grabbed it.
Bishop swung again and this time the hammer only just missed Clark’s head. His mind made up, Clark waited for the next swing. Instead of backing up this time, he stepped into the swing. Bishop’s arm hit Clark in the back. As it did so, Clark elbowed Bishop in the face. There was the satisfying sound of a cheekbone breaking.
Pirouetting 180 degrees, Clark placed his left forearm over Bishop’s right wrist and brought his right arm up under Bishop’s elbow with as much force as he could generate. The blow broke the elbow joint. Bishop screamed and dropped the hammer.
Clark followed up with a right hook to the face, which caught the side of Bishop’s nose. Blood stained his face. Clark hit him again with a chop to the throat. Staggering backwards, Bishop tried to turn and run. Clark grabbed the hammer and threw it. The lump hammer hit Bishop between the shoulder blades and he stumbled to the floor on his knees.
Clark was on him immediately. Scooping up a piece of copper wire, he looped it around Bishop’s throat. Before he could pull it tight, Bishop got his hand partially in the way of the deadly noose. Placing his knee in Bishop’s back, Clark pulled. The wire cut into Bishop’s hand and sheared off the top of three fingers. The noose was now cutting deep into the man’s neck. His one good hand scrabbling, his head jerking and his shoulders moving, Bishop tried to throw himself onto the floor. However, Clark held firm and pulled the head backwards. For an instant before he died, Bishop’s eyes met Clark’s. It was at that moment, staring into Clark’s calm, grey, cold eyes, ones that held no emotion or hatred, that he finally realised the man was an expert in killing. A professional who took no pleasure or excitement from the act, only a grim satisfaction from exercising his deadly skills.
Bishop’s body slumped forward, his arms moving like two pendulums across his body. The blood from his hands and nose mixed with the black slush of the cinder track. Clark gave one final tug on the wire, then released it. Bishop fell face down in the black slush.
The wire had cut through Clark’s gloves, and the palms and fingers of his hands were bleeding. But he felt no pain. That would come later.
Slowly, he became aware of Hollis moaning and crying, ‘Help me.’
Clark looked around for his Webley and found it. Only then did he walk over to the wounded man. ‘Please help me. Call an ambulance.’
Clark sank down onto his haunches. Lifting Hollis’ hands away from the wound, he opened the policeman’s coat and saw dark blood oozing through his shirt and jacket.
‘I got lucky. Two in the liver. I reckon yoe’ve got ten minutes provided yoe just lie there and keep pressure on it, or five if yoe move about. It’s up to you, Boss.’
‘Please call an ambulance. You can’t let me die like this.’
‘Well, that’s where yoe’re wrong. You were willing to kill me, me wife and me friend. You can be damn sure I can let yoe die.’
Collins could hear the faraway sound of police bells. They’d be here in a few minutes. Where the feck was Clark? They needed to get out of here. Peering around the edge of the tank, he was just able to make out a figure of a man about 35 yards away. He was carrying something. It took Collins a couple of seconds to realise that it was Tobin and that he still had his briefcase with him.
Suddenly, Tobin stopped and listened. The police bells were nearer. He seemed to be thinking and started to look around. Finally, he clambered up a pile of scrap for about 6 feet and pulled open a small door. Quickly, he manhandled his briefcase into the box and shut the door. Dropping back to the ground, he looked around and found a large stone that he placed on the ground beneath the stored briefcase.
Standing still, he listened again for the bells, then hurried over to the fence. Collins raised the Sten gun, but his hands, arm and entire body were now shaking so much that he couldn’t keep the gun still. Shock was starting to take over. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just as Jock had told him, trying desperately to steady his hands.
For a man his age, Tobin was remarkably agile. He clambered up the fence and dropped to the ground before Collins was able to get off two shots. Both went wide of their mark and Tobin didn’t wait around for a third. He set off at a sprint, following the canal towards Five Ways and Harbourne.
Collins resumed his place behind the water tank and waited for Clark to arrive. He didn’t have long to wait. Clark announced his arrival with a hissed, ‘Mickey, yoe there?’
Collins stepped forward and nearly stumbled. ‘Mickey, lad, you look terrible. Come on, let’s get you to hospital‘
‘Not yet. Tobin was here a minute ago. He stashed his briefcase in that pile of junk over there. He marked the spot with a rock and shoved it into something about 6 feet off the ground.’
‘OK, I’ll take a dekka. You wait here.’
‘I didn’t plan on going anywhere.’
Collins slumped against the tank as his friend went to retrieve the case. Minutes later, he returned with the briefcase and a smile bigger than the Cheshire Cat’s. ‘I could almost kiss you, Mickey lad. He stuffed it in an old cooker and wi got it. You hear me? Wi got the lot. Photos, cine films, diaries, everything. This is his blackmail stash. Without it, he’s dead in the water. He must have emptied Bishop’s safe, thinking the police might find it if they came looking for us.’
Collins gave the best impression he could of a smile and said, ‘OK then. Let’s go and finish this.’
‘Mickey, we’ve got to get you to hospital. Tobin can wait.’
‘Fuck that. We end this tonight. Wasn’t that what you said.’
‘Yes but--’
‘No buts. Get to a phone and tell Victor we’ll meet him at the paper. He needs to copy everything in that case. Then, we pay Sir Marcus – bloody – Tobin a visit. I reckon he’ll head for home and call his protection officer. What do you think?’
‘It’s as good a place as any to start.’
Leaning on Clark, Collins managed to make it back to the Ice Rink. The Range Rover, Jock and Ruth were gone and in their place
was Agnes and her Rover 100. She was shocked at the sight of Collins and demanded that they drive directly to the Accident Hospital. It was only when Collins opened the door and started to get out that Agnes relented and agreed to drive the men to Stratford.
On the way, Clark gave her an abridged and sanitised version of events, but it was easy for Agnes to fill in the details given the state Collins was in. Clark provided even less details of what had happened after he had caught up with Bishop and Hollis.
Collins adopted the same approach and said nothing about shooting Keel. He just described how the man had tried to cross the canal and had fallen, then the ice had broken and he’d slipped under.
Agnes knew enough not to challenge the stories. She’d learn the truth soon enough. Right now, she wanted to get Collins to a hospital as quickly as possible and that meant going to Stratford first. On the near empty roads, she drove as fast as the ice-covered roads would allow.
Friday 1st March 1963.
Strafford-upon-Avon, 01.30hrs.
Victor was waiting for them when they drew up outside the delivery bay at the back of the paper. He was shocked when he saw the state Collins was in and helped Clark half carry, half drag him into the boardroom. ‘My God, what have they done to you, poor lad?’
‘It looks worse than it is,’ said Collins.
‘No it fucking doesn’t. Stay there while I get a bowl and some painkillers.’ Victor brushed past Clark and gave him a withering look, which seemed to ask how he could have let Collins take such a beating.
When he returned, he had a bowl of hot water with added Dettol, soap and two face towels. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take these before we start. They’ll help the pain.’ Collins took the pills and looked around for something to drink. Agnes went to the sideboard, picked up the soda fountain and squirted a couple of fingers of sparkling water into a cut-glass tumbler.
By the time Victor had gently cleaned the blood off Collins’ face and hands, the pills had started to work and he was having a hard time staying awake.