by Jim McGrath
Collins saw Clark glance at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock. Ruth had planned dinner for Agnes and Collins at three and she would not be best pleased if he was late. Shifting forward on the chair Collins said, ‘Well, Mr Cunningham, Mrs Cunningham, we’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ve given us some great information. When we’ve done a bit of digging I’d like to come back and ask you a few more questions.’
‘Happy to help anytime. And in future it’s Martin and Yolande,’ said the big man.
Holding the door open, Martin scratched his nose with his index finger and said, ‘You know who you should talk to in the Corporation, Harry Freeman. An Australian fella. Works in the Housing Department now. But he knows more about what’s going on in the Corporation than any man I know. But don’t go after lunch. He’s terrible with the booze.’
As the men walked back to Collins’ new car, Clark returned to a familiar refrain. ‘Look at that load of yellow shit, would yow? It’s a fucking embarrassment.’
‘How can a Ford be embarrassing?’
‘A two litre, canary yellow Capri, with a black hood and a bonnet as long as a bloody E-type. It’s the sort of car a pimp would buy, or someone who’s been short-changed in the meat and two veg department.’
‘Bollocks. You’re just jealous.’
Collins slipped into the car and quickly accelerated away before Clark had settled himself. The acceleration slammed the small man into his seat and Collins grinned.
‘Bastard. Anyhows, where do wi go from here?’
‘Reece’s in the file so he’s already on our list. But Thorne is only mentioned in passing. We need to move him up the table. Sir Charles Endbury is new and so is this Harry Freeman character. I think we should collect some more info before we visit Reece or Thorne.’
‘I agree,’ said Clark. ‘Wi should start with the Freeman geezer.’
‘There is just one other thing,’ said Collins and told him of his interview with Mrs Lafferty on Saturday.
‘What’s that got to do with corruption in Brum?’ asked Clark.
‘Well the last time Claire Lafferty was seen alive was at a Council do for some Saudi Arabian prince.’
‘Bloody hell. Now ain’t that a coincidence?’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences?’
‘I don’t. Especially, when they happen to me. Now a little less chat and a bit more speed. We’ve got a date with Sunday dinner and High Noon is on the box at three thirty.’
‘Why don’t you watch a real cowboy film like A Fistful of Dollars?’
‘Na. Italian rubbish. Besides, Eastwood’s a middleweight. He’ll never be as good as Wayne, Cooper or Stewart. Them’s real heavyweights.’
They were still arguing the merits of the four stars when Collins drew up outside Clark’s house. They were met at the front door by Ruth, standing beside Sheba and Sailor, whose tails were wagging at the sight of their respective masters. Behind Ruth stood Agnes, holding Bram who was busy pulling her hair. Collins smiled. Life is good, he thought.
Monday 23rd September 1968
Birmingham, 11.40hrs
Collins and Clark trotted up the steps to Bush House on Broad Street, showed their warrant cards at reception and asked to see Mr Henry Freeman, Estates Department.
Five minutes later a dishevelled giant of a man lumbered into reception. He was wearing a pair of beer-stained trousers, an off-white shirt with a frayed collar, and a yellow and green Australian cricket tie that had seen far too many Test Match celebrations. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, and there were multiple scars on both forearms. Moving slowly, he approached Collins and Clark. ‘You the rozzers looking for me?’
‘If yow’re Mr Freeman, wem looking for yow,’ said Clark.
‘What did I do this time? I don’t remember doing anything,’ the big man sighed.
‘Nowt,’ said Clark. ‘Wem just here for information.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you say so? Tell you what, mate,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘why don’t we continue this conversation in my office?’
Collins and Clark expected to follow the big man into the bowels of the Housing Department. Instead he headed for the front door. They caught up with him at the traffic lights. When they turned green Freeman marched smartly across the road and into the Granville Pub. ‘Take a corner seat and I’ll get the drinks in. Pint of bitter each OK?’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Collins.
‘Never mind, we can’t all be perfect. I’ll get you a lemonade. That all right, mate?’
‘Fine. Thanks.’
It was before lunchtime and the pub was deserted. A thick carpet that had seen better days, with flowers and a purple thistle design, covered the floor. The four captain’s chairs around each table were wood and leather were old but still comfortable. The smell of stale beer and old cigarette smoke oozed out of every crevice of the pub.
Minutes later Freeman laid the tray of drinks on the table and flopped down into one of the padded armchairs. In addition to the three pints and one lemonade there were two double whiskeys. Picking up a whiskey, Freeman emptied it into his pint and lifting his drink, emptied a third of it in two swallows. Banging the glass down, he wiped the foam from his lips and said, ‘First of the day. Best of the lot.’ His Australian accent was unmistakable. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
Collins briefly explained the purpose of their visit and ended by saying, ‘Martin Cunningham said we should talk to you.’
‘That sanctimonious shite. You should watch him.’
‘Why?’ asked Collins.
‘No one gets to be as big as him in the building trade without having a few skeletons buried somewhere.’
‘Such as?’ asked Collins.
‘Well that’s it. He’s a clever bastard. Him and the wife. They don’t leave any fingerprints. Leastways, none that I ever found. But there’s something not right about them.’
‘Let me get this straight, yow don’t like him ’cause he’s clean?’ asked Clark.
‘No one in the building trade is clean, mate. And if you believe they are, you’re a mug.’
‘What do you think he might be up to?’ asked Collins.
‘No idea. But don’t trust him. That’s my advice.’
‘What about Sir Charles Endbury?’ asked Collins.
‘Lover boy. Who’s he been screwing this time?’
‘No one that we know of,’ said Collins. ‘Other than the women, what’s he like?’
‘For a politician he’s almost human. Of course, he looks after himself but he doesn’t screw the public doing it.’
‘Yow don’t think he’s on the take, then?’ asked Clark.
‘Na. He’s got more fucking money than Fort Knox. As I say, his weakness is the ladies. He’ll fuck anything in a skirt provided its halfways decent.’
‘What if the bribe were some tart?’ asked Clark.
‘He doesn’t need to pay for it. He gets plenty free. Besides, I’ve seen him operate. He likes the thrill of the hunt.’
‘If he’s so clean, why do you think he changed his position on the Birchfield deal?’
‘You heard about that? I don’t know. What’s more surprising is that the Committee Clerk doesn’t know either.’ Freeman took another long swig from his pint followed by a sip of whiskey and eased back in his chair. A loud fart that sounded like a starched cotton sheet being ripped in two caused the barman to look accusingly in their direction. Freeman ignored him.
‘Yow don’t think he was nobbled, then?’ asked Clark.
‘Na. He’s clean.’
‘What about blackmail?’ asked Clark, ‘A young girl maybe?’
‘Na. He likes them mature. Woman who know the rules. Women in their late twenties or early thirties with big tits, long legs and an arse he can hang onto.’
‘If pressure was applied on him who do you think was behind it?’ asked Collins.
‘Reece gained from the decision, so he’d be number one in the runners a
nd riders. But Ronny Charlton was also bidding on that bit of land.’
Clark jotted the name down before asking, ‘What’s his story?’
‘Came to Birmingham in the mid-fifties from Liverpool. He’s a right scally. His family are dockers and the story goes that his father and brothers are responsible for organising most of the pilfering that goes on at the docks. Charlton would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, then screw the widow before evicting the kids if it would make him a few quid. But he’s not known for violence. He prefers to lie and cheat. My guess is that he’d be happy to use blackmail to get what he wants.’
‘But in this case, he dain’t get what he wanted,’ said Clark.
‘Are you sure of that? He’d be happy to make a deal with Old Nick himself if it gained him a few quid. Maybe he got a fixer’s fee.’
‘You’re saying he may have blackmailed Endbury for Reece?’ said Collins.
‘It’s possible.’
‘But why?’
‘You’d have to ask him that.’
‘What’s Reece like?’ asked Collins.
‘He’s like a fucking fat shark off Bondi Beach. Always swimming. Always looking for a kill. Always needs to win. All in all a right dangerous bastard and his mate, Thorne, is a vicious sod too.’
‘Has he been involved in anything like the Birchfield deal before?’ asked Collins and sipped his lemonade.
‘Nothing proven but there have been stories. A lot of stories. He’s got a lot of friends on the council including Councillors Hill and Robbins. Now those fuckers are worth having a look at. Bent as a pair of hair pins and bosom pals even though one’s Labour and the other Conservative.’
‘If we were to start digging into Reece, where do you think we should start?’
‘Take a look at the planning application for Trent Tower. There was a young auditor, I think his name was John Simpson, who kept asking for more information. Ended up killing himself when he found out his wife was shagging some bloke. The wife denied it, but there were photos.’ Finishing his pint, Freeman leaned back and looked expectantly at Clark.
Collins nodded and Clark moved to the bar.
‘You’ve been a big help, Mr Freeman. Just one more thing. There was a Council reception for a Saudi prince a few months back. Could you get us a copy of the guest list and any photos that were taken?’
‘Sure, what are you looking for?’
‘Not sure yet. But I would like to trace a tall blonde woman aged about thirty who was seen at the party talking to Sir Charles.’
Freeman smiled, ‘No problem. Give me your number and I’ll call as soon as I get them.’
Collins scribbled down his number on the back of a beer mat that Freeman handed him.
Just then Clark reappeared with two pints and matching whiskey chasers and laid them on the table.
Freeman looked at the drinks and smiled. ‘That’s very generous of you, mate. You can definitely come again.’
Collins had parked at the side of Lee Longlands and waited until he was in the car before asking, ‘What did you make of that?’
‘Well Charlton is a new name on the list, and he confirmed that Hill and Robbins are dirty. He’s also right about Cunningham. Wi both liked him, but that don’t mean wi should treat him as if he’s clean.’
‘I agree,’ said Collins as he put the car in gear and pulled away. ‘I wonder where Freeman got the scars on his arms from.’
‘Torture.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I’ve seen ‘em before. Some Jap guard tied his arms to a table, palms down and beat the shit out of them with a bamboo cane.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly,’ said Clark. ‘Where to now?’
‘Let’s go see Marie,’ said Collins looking at his watch.
Birmingham, 13.05hrs
Collins and Clark found WPC Marie Bolding in the same office that Katie O’Neil had occupied just a few months earlier. But now, instead of files covering every chair, desk, and square inch of floor space, it was neat and orderly. A row of filing cabinets had been installed along one wall and three rows of built-in pigeonholes had been erected opposite. Katie’s oak desk had been replaced with a modern monstrosity made of teak and chrome. Marie, head bent, was reading a file laid flat on the pristine surface, her back to the frosted window overlooking Steelhouse Lane.
Collins knocked on the open door and said, ‘Have you got time to see a couple of old friends, or are you too grand to speak to us now?’
Marie’s head snapped up and a broad smile spread across her face. ‘I’ve always got time to see my two favourite coppers. Come in.’
‘Ta,’ said Clark. ‘But what’s this about yowr two favourite coppers? I thought I were yowr favourite?’
‘You’re my favourite on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Collins is my favourite on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays.’
‘What about Sundays?’ asked Clark.
‘That’s my secret. Grab a chair. Can I get you a cuppa?’
‘We’ll buy you one in a bit, if that’s OK,’ said Collins closing the door and sitting down. ‘How’s the arm?’
‘Fine. Nothing that another three operations won’t put right.’
‘Do yow get much pain?’
‘Na. Only when I move it or bang it or try to bend it. Other than that, it’s painless.’
‘Well yam lucky. Some people who get shot in the elbow are in constant pain,’ said Clark.
Marie smiled and gingerly placed her left forearm on the desk. ‘Anyway, what brings you here and why the closed door?’
‘You heard about the Super?’ asked Collins. Marie nodded her head. ‘He’s been looking into a case on the side for the last couple of years. To quote Marcellus, of Hamlet fame, he thinks there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. For Denmark read Birmingham. He’s asked us to look into it?’
‘Corruption?’
‘Yeah. Big time if he and Martin Cunningham are right.’
‘Who’s Martin Cunningham?’ Marie asked.
‘One of the good guys, wi think,’ said Clark.
‘Who do you want info on?’
Collins withdrew the notes he had made on the file and added Simpson and Charlton’s names to the list. As an afterthought he added, plus any rumours about Trent Tower and handed them over. ‘That’s my summary of the info the Super has collected. I’ve highlighted six names I’d like you to look into. But I have to warn you we could be dealing with some pretty important people, so this is strictly off the books and—.’
‘Hush-hush. I get it. Tell you what. I’ll copy the notes and see you in the canteen. Mine’s a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich, please.’
Twenty minutes later Marie sat down beside Clark. A saucer covered her teacup and a ham and a cheese sandwich sat beside the mug.
Passing Collins his notes, she said, ‘That photocopier’s crap. You only have to look at it and it goes doolally. When do you want the info?’
‘As soon as you can manage it.’
‘OK. Give me forty-eight hours.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope,’ said Collins, then hesitated. ‘Well, when you look at Martin Cunningham see if the Garda have anything on him in Ireland, but I doubt you’ll find much,’ and picked up his egg sandwich.
Birmingham, 14.30hrs
As they walked from the car, Clark asked, ‘Where to now?
‘I think we should have a chat with Mr Endbury and discover why he changed his vote.
‘OK, but how do yow want to play it, seeing as wi have nowt on him?’
‘The usual. I’ll start easy and then if you think he’s holding back you go for him.’
‘How come I’m always the hard bastard?’
‘Because at your best you can be a really irritating little sod that gets under people’s skin and would try the patience of Job.’
‘Fair enough. As long as yow ain’t taking me for granted. It can ruin a relationship if yow
start to take someone close to yow for granted.’
‘Have you been reading Woman’s Own again?’
‘Na. Ruth read it to me. I dozed off halfway through.’
Albert Endbury had established The Foreign and Empire Engineering Company in 1899. No one seemed to mind that his most distant customer was located just thirteen miles away in Wolverhampton. Expansion was helped by the First World War when the factory was put on a war footing and produced munitions for the duration. The Company’s most profitable years had been 1917 and 1918 when Winston Churchill had been put in charge of munitions by the new Prime Minister, Lloyd George. The profits generated in those two years alone had been enough to provide the capital required to move into the production of plating plant equipment and the sale of anodising chemicals post war.
Charles Endbury joined the family firm in 1937 at the height of the depression and was almost resigned to the firm closing until war came to the factory’s rescue. Foreign and Empire dusted down the old machines, bought some new ones and quickly started selling both munitions and machine parts for military vehicles. By 1945 they were supplying parts for everything from bicycles to tanks and Charles had plans for further diversification. For the next twenty years profits increased year on year and Charles Endbury became the darling of the Stock Exchange and in 1961 a knight of the realm.
Collins and Clark pushed their way thought the revolving doors and found themselves in the main reception area which was heavy on marble, oak panelling, and tradition. On the wall were two large plaques. The first listed the employees of Foreign and Empire who had died in the Great War, the second those killed fighting for Britain’s survival in the Second World War. The top of each was adorned with a carved relief showing a battlefield altar of drums draped with Union Flags. The centre of the reception area was dominated by a fountain with a statue of a naked woman standing in the centre, water pouring from a jug balanced on her shoulder.
