by Jim McGrath
‘What did you give him?’ asked Agnes.
‘A couple of my painkillers.’
‘Opiates?’
‘Yes, but he really does need to see a doctor.’
‘I know, but he won’t go until we’ve seen Tobin,’ said Clark. ‘He’s the last of them.’
Victor didn’t need to ask what Clark meant by “the last”. ‘Very well. What have you brought me to copy?’
‘The best present yoe’ve ever had,’ said Clark, and pushed the briefcase across the floor with his foot.
Victor opened the case and a fire ignited in his eyes. ‘As the Yanks say, it’s the mother lode.’
‘That it is, but can yoe get it copied quick? I want Tobin before he does a deal and disappears.’
‘Do either of you know anything about photography?’
‘I do,’ said Agnes.
‘Fine, you come with me while Mr Clark here keeps an eye on his friend.’
Clark looked at Collins, who was asleep in the chair. The concern in Clark’s eyes was obvious. Victor read his thoughts and said, ‘He’ll be fine.’
Forty minutes later, Victor and Agnes returned to the boardroom to find Collins awake but groggy. ‘Victor, I’ve no idea what you gave me, but I feel grand. Even the pain feels grand,’ said Collins, smiling like an idiot.
Victor exchanged looks with Clark and said, ‘You’d best be going. The pills will work for about three hours. You need to get him to a hospital before they wear off.’
Clark held out his hand, ‘Thanks, Victor, for everything. It’s probably best that we don’t meet again. Things will go barmy after yoe write your story.’
Victor took Clark’s hand in his, ‘It’s been an honour and a privilege to have worked with you and Michael. Make sure you tell him that when he recovers.’
‘I will. Good luck.’
‘You too.’
‘Goodbye Victor,’ said Agnes, and kissed the old man on the cheek. ‘I’ll pray for you.’
‘Come on, Mickey, wi have one last toe rag to sort out,’ said Clark, pulling Collins to his feet. ‘Then yoe can sleep.’
It was nearly 3am when Agnes pulled up outside Tobin’s house. Clark insisted that she remain in the car just in case Tobin was armed. There was one light on and the front door was ajar. Collins grasped the briefcase in his left hand as Clark helped him out of the car. His steps were unsteady, but supported by Clark he made it to the front door. The light came from the first floor. Collins could hear the sound of muffled voices. Tobin had company. Clark withdrew his .455 Webley and, holding the gun in his right hand and supporting Collins with his left arm, the two men moved up the stairs.
Clark propped Collins against the wall and opened the door. Tobin was seated at his desk, finishing a telephone conversation. He hung up and said, ‘Come in, Constable Clark, and bring your young friend. I’ve been expecting you.’
Clark stepped into the room. Collins remained against the wall, with just his face showing around the door jam.
‘This gentleman on my right is from MI5. I think you know him.’
Clark nodded at Richards.
‘He’s been sent to look after me. He’s just finished talking to the Cabinet Office. You see, I’ve done what the Americans call a deal.’
‘I’m sorry, Clark, but you’ve had a wasted journey. The PM has agreed that in return for not divulging certain material, Sir Marcus is to be allowed to resign before the next election and live out his life in peace and seclusion.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes it is, Constable Clark. The material I have could bring the Government down and even make it difficult for Labour to form the next Government. The PM won’t allow such information to fall into the wrong hands. So you and your Mick Irish friend can fuck off out of my house. In future, remember that when you play against the big boys, you need a few aces up your sleeve.’
‘You mean like this,’ said Collins, stumbling into the room and flinging the briefcase across the room. Landing on its side, the case popped open, spilling pictures and cine films across the carpet.
Tobin’s face drained of colour and he slumped back in his chair. Rallying, he said, ‘That means nothing, even without it I know enough to cause one almighty stink. And, as the PM knows, in politics the accusation can be just as damaging as the proof. The Government will never risk putting me on trial.’
‘I’m afraid that’s true, gentlemen,’ said Richards. ‘The Government can’t allow this matter to become public knowledge.’
‘So he gets away with it?’
Torbin laughed at the expression on Collins’ face. ‘You have a lot to learn, officer. We always get away with it.’
‘Who’s we?’ asked Collins.
‘Your betters, my bog-dwelling friend.’
‘Is that the way it works in England?’ asked Collins, his head spinning. It seemed to him he’d asked this question before, but he couldn’t be sure. Everything was becoming fuzzy and the room was spinning.
‘I’m afraid so. Money, power, position and family connections can buy you a lot of protection in this country. Unfortunately, for Sir Marcus, he has no real family connections to talk of.’
Tobin’s head snapped up, his face clouding with confusion.
‘He just married into an old family. That makes a world of difference. Also, his power has just been greatly depleted thanks to you, Constable Collins. You may be an upstart, but I must admit I admire your persistence and I’m sure the PM will be grateful.’ Drawing his gun, Richards held it against the side of Tobin’s head.
A look of shock, followed by bewildered realisation and fear flashed across Tobin’s face. Then, the gun exploded and a bullet sliced through his brain.
The noise was deafening in the small room and Collins jumped at the explosion. Clark caught him as he started to slip to the floor.
‘Constable Clark, I suggest that you take your young friend to a hospital. I’ll stay here and arrange matters so as to make it look like a suicide, which Superintendent Burgess will be only too pleased to rubber stamp. Off you go now.’
Clark moved to pick up the contents of the briefcase. ‘Sorry, gents, but you’ll have to leave the briefcase here.’
Clark laid the half empty case on the table, slipped his arm under Collins’ arm pit and lifted him up. Turning, the two men left the room. Unseen by Richards, Clark was smiling.
Sunday 3rd March 1963.
Handsworth, 21.00hrs.
Dudley Road Hospital discharged Collins after two days of extensive treatment. The doctors had wanted to keep him in for at least another forty-eight hours, but he’d managed to annoy, beg and cajole every nurse and doctor he spoke to until they had finally relented and agreed to release him.
On admission, he’d been treated for four broken ribs; a broken little finger and missing nail; a broken nose; seven chipped, broken or missing teeth; multiple and severe bruising and contusions; and a serious case of concussion. He would be off work for at least three weeks.
Doctors, nurses and dentists had worked on his injuries for nearly eight hours and every time one of them had left the treatment room, they were accosted by Clark who wanted to know how he was. Later, Clark was joined by Agnes and Ruth, and instead of one anxious friend asking questions the medics now had three.
By 1pm on Saturday, Collins had been tucked up in bed with enough painkillers to float the Titanic. He had slept for nearly twenty-four hours straight, with Clark, Ruth and Agnes keeping a constant vigil throughout. None of them had wanted him to wake up without seeing a friendly face.
As Clark pushed Collins to the waiting car, he asked, ‘How are you feeling Mickey?’
Collins twisted in his seat, grimaced with the pain and said, ‘How the feck do you think I feel? I feel like I’ve done ten rounds with Sonny blood
y Liston and then been run over by a bus. That’s how I feel. Just get me home, you mad yam yam.’
‘Yam yam? Where the hell did that come from?’
‘I’ve decided to learn a foreign language. I’m hoping to get some free lessons from me mate.’
‘Struth, yoer concussion must be really bad.’
Between them, Agnes, Ruth and Clark helped Collins up the stairs. Sheba didn’t want to be left out but only managed to get under everyone’s feet. Although Gloria and her fellow guests did not know the full story, they knew that Collins had saved a woman’s life. It was enough for them to greet him like a returning hero and Gloria threatened him with “a free one” when he felt better.
Despite the warm welcome, each step was an exercise in pain. His newly set nose throbbed and his ribs screamed in agony with every breath. He wondered when the painkillers he’d taken before leaving the hospital would kick in. But, he was alive and he’d be better in a week or two, which was more than could be said for Hollis, Tobin or Bishop.
‘We can put him in my room. It has its own shower and toilet,’ said Agnes, pushing the door open.
Clark manoeuvred Collins through the door and gently sat him down on the bed. A low moan escaped his bruised lips. ‘Sorry, kidda; soon have you in bed. Then you can sleep until morning, when the stiffness will make it ten times worse.’
‘Up yours,’ mumbled Collins.
‘Whatever yoe say, laddie. Whatever yoe say. Now I’m going to lie yoe down and get yoer legs on the bed. OK?’ Throwing the eiderdown to one side, Clark slowly eased Collins down and swung his legs onto the bed. ‘Right, I’m off. I draw the line at taking any man’s trousers off, so I’ll leave Agnes to tuck yoe in. See you tomorrow.’
Ruth approached the bed and, laying her hand gently on Collins’ cheek, kissed his forehead. ‘Thank you,’ she said and smiled.
Collins couldn’t lift his head to return her kiss, so instead he squeezed her hand and said, ‘My pleasure.’
At the front door, Clark turned to Agnes. ‘Look after him, yoe hear. Yoe don’t find his kind more than once in a lifetime.’
I know,’ said Agnes and kissed Clark on the cheek, before embracing Ruth.
Returning to the bedroom, Agnes found Collins asleep. She slipped in beside him and pulled the eiderdown over them both. At first, she held him like a child. Later, as he drifted in and out of sleep, she held him like a friend. Then, as the first weak rays of sunlight cast shadows on the wall she held him like a lover.
Epilogue
In the immediate aftermath of the events of Friday 1st March, very little appeared to happen. Collins was visited by Inspector Hicks and ACC Morris. Neither mentioned how he had sustained his injuries, but both wished him a speedy recovery.
Despite a careful survey of The Birmingham Post, The Birmingham Evening Mail and The Express and Star, not a single story appeared about what had taken place at H & T Scrap Merchants – even Agnes was impressed at how the Government had been able to impose a total news blackout of the whole affair. ‘Clearly,’ she suggested, ‘the power of the D Notice has not diminished since the war.’
It was only on the following Thursday that all hell broke loose. For the first time in its 148-year history, The Stratford Bugle published a special edition. The six-page special had been written entirely by Victor Begley under great secrecy, and printed and distributed by himself and four trusted employees. The paper was distributed free to residents of Stratford-upon-Avon and a copy was sent to every national paper in Fleet Street, along with Reuters, The Press Association, and the London representatives of Le Figero and The Washington Post. Victor’s reasoning was simple: even if the Government stopped publication of the story in Britain, the news agencies would ensure that it was published abroad. Each outlet contacted was given permission to reproduce any or all of the content free of charge, provided that Victor Begley’s by-line appeared above the story.
In great detail, along with numerous pictures of the guilty, the paper outlined the story of how – starting with fraudulent misappropriation of funds at the end of World War Two – Chief Superintendent Hollis, Sir Marcus Tobin MP and Edward Bishop, a notorious gangland leader and others had colluded to take over the illicit trade in sex, gambling, protection and blackmail in Birmingham. Police officers had been used to ensure that any attempts by London gangs to move into the City were repulsed.
The paper explained how the whole criminal enterprise had been brought to its knees by the dogged investigation of a small number of concerned citizens who had carried out an informal investigation into the death of Simone Winston (14) and Janet Crosby (15), both of whom had appeared to have died following sexual exploitation by one or more men associated with the gang.
During their investigation, the citizens had gained evidence that proved the gang had used photographic evidence of senior public figures engaged in illicit sexual activities with young boys and girls to extort money, gain power and protect themselves from police action.
A vivid description was given of the final “shoot out”, as Victor described it, at H & T Scrap Merchants, when factions of the gang fell out and violence erupted.
The story attracted national and international attention and, despite intense pressure, Victor refused to reveal who the “concerned citizens” were or who had provided the material for his expose. Strangely, neither the Birmingham nor Warwickshire Police interviewed Victor in the days that followed publication, although MI5 did take tea with him at his home.
It was only in April when the full extent of the Profumo Scandal became apparent that the Babes in the Wood Affair was pushed off the pages of the Sunday papers.
Simone Winston was buried on the 11th March. Collins, Clark, Agnes, Hicks and several other police officers from Thornhill Road attended the service. When Mrs Winston went to the funeral home to settle her bill, she found that it had been paid in full by a well-wisher who wished to express their profoundest sympathies.
Collins returned to work on the 1st April 1963. No one asked him how he had been injured or what had happened at the H & T Yard. They didn’t need to. The grapevine had manufactured a story that was part Gunfight at the OK Corral, part St Valentine’s Massacre and all Jimmy Cagney and Humphrey Bogart in The Roaring Twenties.
At the end of May, Jimmy Ravenal cut short a gig in Birmingham when he fell down two flights of stairs and suffered severe bruising to his face and body along with two cracked ribs. Although he occasionally visited Birmingham in the following years, he never established the same contacts and support that he developed later in the UK.
On the 4th October 1963, Victor Begley was laid to rest. The service was held at the Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare had been baptised. Local dignitaries were out in force, as were a number of hacks from Fleet Street who had come to salute one of their own. Dressed in civilian clothes and tucked away in a corner of the packed church, Collins, Agnes, Clark and Ruth each prayed for the old man in their own way. All of them hoped that he’d found satisfaction in breaking a story that had been headline news around the world.
A week later, Collins and Clark received identical brown paper packages about the size of a house brick. Inside was a letter from Victor Begley.
Dear Michael,
If you’re reading this, then I’m in the ground. I just wanted you to know that I died happy. It was wonderful to land the biggest story of my career at the end of my life – a true crowning glory you might say.
I loved every minute of working with you, writing the story and the madness that followed publication. I even enjoyed being interviewed by MI5. They were actually very decent to me. No thumb screws or truth serums. In fact, I had the feeling they were glad to see the end of Sir Marcus – bloody – Tobin.
It’s sometimes difficult for a good man to stand up for what he believes, especially if it puts his livelihood, and that of his family,
at risk. You did that and to help you do it again, if need be, here’s a small gift from my Fuck You Fund. I got the idea from Humphrey Bogart who didn’t always get on with his producers and directors, so he saved enough money to enable him to tell them, “Fuck off, I’m leaving” should he want to. I hope the cash will give you the financial freedom you need to always do the right thing.
The cash has been in a floor safe at home for years. So don’t think you have to reveal it to my executors or pay tax on it. It can’t be traced. Talk to Michael Griffiths at Griffiths and Collins Accountants about how to invest the money without anyone knowing about it. He’ll be expecting you.
With great respect,
Your friend,
Victor.
Beneath the letter was £7,000 in twenty pound notes. It was enough to buy a large four-bedroom house in Sutton Coldfield and still have change left over.
The End…
until
A Death in Spring: 1968
A Death in Spring: 1968 Preview
Book Two: The Handsworth Quartet
Saturday 20th April, 1968.
Birmingham, 21.00hrs.
There was no doubt about it, the killer was handsome. He was over 6 foot, well built, with blond hair parted on the left and combed towards the right, where it brushed his eyebrow. His eyes were deep blue, his mouth wide and full. A pair of dark blue slacks, a yellow open neck shirt and a black leather jacket combined with his relaxed fluid movement to add a touch of style to everything he did.
He knew that the old queens would swoon and gabble, the pitch of their voices rising, as soon as they saw him. But he wasn’t interested in them. He had very specific tastes. He was searching for fresher, younger meat. He went hunting regularly now, but only occasionally did he find what he wanted. Maybe he’d be lucky; maybe tonight would end in another success.
He paused for a moment before he got out of the car. Consciously, he relaxed his face and jaw. Looking in the mirror, a half smile appeared on his lips, softening his face further. It was show-time and he was ready.