by Jim McGrath
Collins stood up and stretched. He’d spent the entire afternoon at the women’s flat. Scenes of Crime had confirmed that the stain that Clark had found was blood. One of the technicians had taken a sample to Mr McEwan to check if it was the same type as the body found the previous day. The landlord had been contacted and he confirmed that the two women in the photo had indeed been the tenants of the flat. When they had failed to pay their rent on the sixth of July, he had called around to find that they had disappeared. ‘I assumed they’d done a midnight flit and stuck me for the rent. But I did think it was odd how clean and tidy they’d left the place.’
Scenes of Crime quickly confirmed that the place had been cleaned by professionals. The only fingerprints found belonged to the landlord, Collins and Clark. Other than the blood there wasn’t a single sign that the women had ever been there.
‘Looks like we have a double murder on our hands,’ said Hicks, who was the senior officer responsible for the case.
‘Never rains but it pours, boss,’ said Clark.
‘Why don’t you two go back to the station and grab a bite to eat? Write up your statements and then circulate Lafferty’s picture to the press saying that her family is concerned for her welfare. You know what’s required. Don’t link her to Christine at this stage. We’ll meet first thing in the morning to sort out our priorities. We need to decide if this murder is in any way connected to the Super’s case.’
Handsworth, 17.30hrs
A file of information from Marie Bolding was waiting for Collins when he returned to the station. He quickly flicked through it before he laid it on the filing cabinet next to the coat stand. He’d read it when he got home. He felt tired and confused. The clean-up at the scene of the murder clearly indicated that they were dealing with professionals. But if that was the case why had they done such a piss poor job of disposing of the body. Sticking it in a hole under a tree was downright amateurish. It was obvious, that eventually it would be found.
He was still thinking of this as he stood in the deserted canteen and stirred his tea waiting for the toaster to pop. ‘Put a slice in for me will yow,’ said Clark as he headed for the recently brewed pot of tea. ‘Did yow get the releases out?’
‘Yeah. Sent the details to the newspapers and Lafferty’s description to all forces in England, Scotland and Wales. I also sent it to the RUC and the Garda just in case she’s back in Ireland.’
‘Waste of time if yow ask me. The poor lass is already buried in the ground.’
Collins put his cup down. ‘Of course,’ he cried. ‘How could I have been so bloody stupid?’
‘Perhaps because being stupid comes natural to yow.’
Collins ignored the insult. ‘You’re right. It was a waste of time contacting the other forces. She’s already in the ground. In Handsworth Cemetery.’
Clark saw the excitement in his partner’s eyes. ‘Explain.’
‘Don’t you see? The killers were professional in how they cleaned the flat. But they just stuck Murray’s body in a hole, where eventually it was going to be uncovered. Why didn’t they just drop her in an open grave that was ready for a funeral the following day?’
Understanding spread across Clark’s face. ‘Because them had two bodies but could only find one open grave and if they’d put both bodies in the same grave it would have looked too shallow after they’d shovelled a foot of earth on top.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But there would have been more than one open grave. They must do well over 30 burials every day up there. Why not just find a second grave?’
Leaning forward, his tea and toast forgotten Collins said, ‘The main gates are locked at night. They didn’t want to break in as that might have attracted attention. So, they came in by one of the pedestrian gates off Camp Lane. I noticed one just about twenty yards from where the body was found. Now even if there were two of them, they wouldn’t want to lug a body far in the pitch dark. They would have wanted to dump the body in the nearest grave they could find…’
‘And they found one for Lafferty easily enough but couldn’t find a second one for Murray within easy carrying distance,’ said Clark.
Collins sat back in his chair grinning. ‘I think we’ll be at the cemetery first thing in the morning.’
‘What wi going to do about Mitch and his mate? Yow don’t want to leave them in the wind too long. They might bop another poor sod.’
‘True.’ Collins looked at his watch. ‘The afternoon shift are just coming in for their snap. I’ll have a word with Ridley and see if we can borrow four bobbies. We’ll pick up Mitch first.’
Handsworth, 18.25hrs
The two unmarked police cars drew up on Radnor Road. It was raining heavily and the wipers were having problems keeping the windscreen clear. Collins was about to open the door when through the murk he saw Mitch’s skinny friend appear at the top of the road. Grabbing his radio, he said, ‘Clarkee hold your position. Mr Universe is heading for Mitch’s.’
‘I see him. Wi’ll give it five minutes.’
The six men sat quietly, waiting. They all knew that even a minor raid like this could go wrong and there were a few nerves evident in the slightly pale skin of one of the newer constables and a drumming of fingers by another against the back of Clark’s seat. He was about to tell the man to stop or he’d break his fingers when he saw Mickey get out of the car.
Sending PC Moore to cover the back alleyway Collins watched as he trotted quickly up the hill. Another thirty seconds and he’d have the back exit covered. Collins counted to twenty-five then walked up the garden path to the front door and rapped hard on the old wood with his knuckles. Mitch’s mother opened the front door. Collins held up his warrant card and said, ‘We have a search warrant for these premises. Where is your son Mitch?’
At the top of her voice she shouted, ‘Mitch, it’s the police.’ Then stared sullenly at Collins while blocking the doorway.
Collins heard a window being opened upstairs, pushed the woman aside and took the stairs two at a time. As he neared the top, he could see that Mitch’s bedroom door was open and the lad was sitting on the window ledge, Mr Universe standing behind him.
Looking over his shoulder, Mitch saw Collins and the PC. He didn’t hesitate, pushed off from the ledge and landed on the coal shed below. The corrugated roof was wet and covered in green slime and Mitch slid off the side to land hard on the garden path.
Grabbing Mr Universe by the arm, Collins flung him towards the PC who was standing in the doorway. As the PC spun the bewildered boy around and cuffed him, Collins dropped onto the shed roof below and half-slid, half-jumped onto the path.
Mitch was already disappearing over the back fence by the time Collins picked himself up and charged at the fence. Scaling the six-foot fence commando style Collins heaved himself into the back alleyway just in time to see Mitch turn left at the bottom and head for Villa Road. Where’s Moore? he thought, He’s supposed to be watching the back alley.
Collins exited the alley and followed Mitch. Twice he shouted, ‘Police! Stop!’ at the top of his voice. Mitch didn’t stop. Which was OK as far as Collins was concerned, as it now meant Mitch had resisted arrest. A charge that would keep him on ice while they finalised the burglary charges.
Mitch had youth and muscle on his side, but he was no runner and by the time he reached Villa Road, Collins was less than ten yards behind him and gaining. The wind was blowing the rain into his face and the path underfoot was slick with water and fallen leaves, but Collins knew that he had the lad. Mitch was now visibly slowing. Collins shouted again, ‘Police! Stop!’
Oblivious to all around him except Collins, the boy pushed and jostled pedestrians out of his way. Collins was less than a yard behind when he reached for the boy’s jumper. Mitch hit Collins’ hand away and stepped into the road without looking. Collins barely had time to shout, ‘Watch out!’ before a bus hit Mitch and sent him sprawling. His body skidded on the wet ground and Collins heard the crack as Mitch’
s head hit the corner of the pavement.
Collins was first to reach Mitch, quickly followed by the bus driver, who jumped down from his cab. ‘It wasn’t my fault, sure. He just jumped straight in front of me. Ah, God! Is he all right?’
Collins ignored the man and felt for a pulse in the boy’s neck but could find nothing. Pinching the boy’s nose closed, he started to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and alternated that, after every five breaths, with pumping the boy’s chest fifteen times.
The owner of the Milk Bar on the opposite side of the road ran out carrying a sheaf of towels. ‘I’ve rung for an ambulance and the police.’
‘I am the fecking police,’ hissed Collins as he pressed down on Mitch’s chest with the heel of his left hand. By now a crowd was gathering and Collins was relieved to hear a familiar voice, ‘Move back now. This is a police scene. Leave the Sergeant to do his job.’ Hunkering down beside Collins, Clark asked, ‘How’s it going?’ Collins looked at his friend and shook his head imperceptibly. ‘OK,’ said, Clark standing up. ‘I want everyone back at least fifteen yards.’ Looking at the two PCs who’d followed him out of the house he said, ‘Organise the traffic. Turn it into a single lane road.’
The ambulance arrived within seven minutes, but they were already too late. Collins had stopped resuscitation three minutes earlier and covered Mitch’s face with one of the Milk Bar’s towels.
When the Patrick Flynn, the designated traffic officer, arrived at the scene he said, ‘Mickey, you get back to the station and write up your statement. I’ll sort things out here.’
‘OK, but I have to inform his mother first.’
‘You ain’t going anywhere near the mother, Mickey,’ said Clark. ‘I’ll do that, and I’ll bring the skinny kid in when I head back. For now, yow get a cuppa and write yowr report. This weren’t yowr fault.’
Collins looked at Clark and tried to smile, but whatever Clarkee might say, this was his fault.
Collins took a circuitous route back to the station, stopping off at St. Francis Church on Wretham Road before returning to the nick. For ten minutes he sat in the silence of the empty church. Trying to pray. Trying to calm the emotions flooding his mind. But peace didn’t come. It had been an accident. Collins knew that he had not directly caused the boy’s death but he had set in train the events that led to his death. That was enough for him to feel numb with guilt.
Rising, he headed for the station. By the time he had rung Agnes and told her what had happened, Chief Inspector Hicks was standing by his desk. Someone had called him at home. Hicks listened to what had happened and then said exactly what Clark had said, ‘It wasn’t your fault, Michael.’
Collins spent the next hour writing his statement and had just signed it when Patrick Flynn, the traffic officer, knocked on the CID door. He acknowledged Hicks with a wave and sat down opposite Collins. Collins handed him his statement in silence. There wasn’t much to it. Barely three pages, but it contained all the facts and a blow by blow description of the raid and subsequent chase. After reading the statement Flynn slipped it into a manila folder and said, ‘I think we can say you’re in the clear, Mickey. We’ve got two witnesses who say they heard you shout “Stop. Police.” And several who saw the lad push your arm away and run into the road. None of them say you pushed him.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s a relief. But what the fuck happened to Moore?’
‘He was only half way up Hamstead Road when you went charging up the stairs. He slipped on the leaves and landed hard on his hip. His thigh is covered in bruises. He can hardly walk.’
Collins stood up. ‘Thanks, Flynny. If it’s OK with you, Boss I’m going to leave the booking in of Mitch’s mate to Clark. I think he should write up the report of the raid as well.’
‘That’s fine. Get off home and try and get some rest.’
Handsworth, 23.30hrs
Collins had spent the night talking to Agnes about what had happened trying to convince himself that it had not been his fault. But the words of Patrick Flynn about Moore’s accident kept coming back to him, “He was only halfway up the road when you went charging up the stairs.” If only I’d waited. If only I’d checked that Moore was in position before I’d gone in, thought Collins.
That night, in bed, Agnes held Collins in her arms as he described once more what had happened. She remembered only too well how she had felt when she had shot two Bulgarians in self-defence three years earlier. Nothing she could say would ease his guilt, but her nearness did soothe his troubled mind. She did not let go until he fell asleep and then she said a prayer for him and the boy who had died.
Thursday 26th September 1968
Handsworth, 08.56hrs
Collins and Clark sat in silence waiting outside the Cemetery’s Registry Office for the Registrar to arrive. Clark knew what was on Collins’ mind. It was written in the black hollows under his eyes and the distant faraway look in his eyes. Clark understood the turmoil that was washing through his friend’s mind and that the best thing he could do was say nothing until Collins was ready to talk.
Mr Regan, the Registrar, arrived at nine exactly. He was everything you would expect of a man in charge of a large cemetery. He was over six feet tall, stick-thin with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down every time he swallowed, which was often. He had candlewax skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, a long thin nose and eyes that lay in such deep shadows that it was difficult to say what colour they were. It was a surprise when he greeted the men with a cheerful, ‘Good morning. Another beautiful day in the offing, I think.’ As he unlocked the office door, he asked, ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’
Stepping into the small, bare office that had a counter running down the middle and a door behind it marked Private, Collins explained the purpose of their visit. Mr Regan disappeared into the back room and retuned moments later with a black ledger marked Burials 1 April – 31 September 1968 embossed on the spine. Flicking over to the June entries, Regan quickly found the burials for Monday the third of June. ‘We dig the graves for Monday burials on Saturday morning and we had …’ he quickly counted the relevant entries, ‘thirty-three that Monday. Only one grave was dug near where your body was found. The next nearest was down the hill near the Camp Hill and Oxhill Road entrance.’
After taking details of the grave nearest to where the Christine’s body had been found Collins said, ‘We’d be obliged if you would say nothing about our inquiry to anyone. We’ll be back later with an exhumation licence.’
‘I understand.’
Edgbaston, 09.45hrs
John Reece sat at his desk. Spread in front of him was that morning’s Birmingham Post. Blazoned across the first page was the story of a body found in Handsworth Cemetery. Checking his watch, he picked up the phone and called Thorne. ‘Chris, have you seen today’s Post?’
‘No.’
‘Well have a look at it, then get over here with Nugent as soon as you can.’
Forty minutes later Thorne and Nugent were in Reece’s office. Nugent knew that he’d messed up and the sweat was pouring off him in waves. His blue nylon shirt was sticking to his back and chest and sweat was dripping down his side from his armpits. ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Reece. We did as you said,’ he lied. ‘We dumped the one cow in an open grave, but we couldn’t find another one. We must have spent close to an hour looking for one and it was starting to get light.’
‘You panicked and stuck her under a bloody tree?’
‘We were going to go back but …’
‘But it slipped your mind because you had so many other bodies to think about. Is that it?’
Nugent said nothing.
Leaning forward Reece looked at Nugent and speaking very slowly he said, ‘You’ve fucked up. Big time. Do it once more and I swear that you will be lucky to live long enough to regret it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes boss.’
‘Now get the fuck out and wait for Chris outside.’
When Nugent had left Thor
ne asked, ‘Do you want me to do anything about his cockup?’
‘No, leave him. I’ve got a job for him but there’ll be no bonus in it for him.’
‘What do you want him to do?’
‘What do you think?’
Handsworth Cemetery, 14.39hrs
It was normal practice for the police to undertake exhumations after dark, but this was too important to wait. Collins led the SOCO, his assistant and one police car to the site of the grave where he was convinced Claire Lafferty was buried. Two grave diggers and Mr Regan were waiting for him. The Registrar examined the exhumation licence and said, ‘That all appears to be in order. You may proceed with the exhumation. I shall be in my office if you need me.’
A seven-foot high canvas screen was quickly erected around the grave and digging began. Collins was amazed at how fast the gravediggers worked. They seemed to dig effortlessly, barely breaking sweat as they dug a trench six feet deep and measuring three feet by seven. He remembered being told that it took a strong man eighteen months to become a navvy who could dig non-stop eight or ten hours a day, six days a week. It required strength, stamina and real skill with a shovel to lift a spade of earth as if it were weightless, and these guys were experts.
The sound of metal hitting wood announced that the heavy digging was finished. Using small shovels, the sides of the coffin were exposed and lifting straps worked under the coffin. With the coffin lifted clear, the remaining ground was raked lightly until the rake’s tines caught on a piece of cloth.
