A Death in Winter

by Jim McGrath

  ‘I’m afraid they have, Sir,’ said York.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Does that mean we get paid for today?’ asked Clark.

  Hicks eyed Clark with sly amusement and said, ‘We’ll see, you cheeky beggar. Tell me what you have.’

  As briefly as possible, Collins and Clark reported what they had found and York outlined his conversation with the Desk Sergeant at Stratford. Hicks listened in silence. He then asked just one question, ‘You’re sure that Carver was lying?’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Collins.

  ‘So he’s involved in this, too. Whatever this is.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Clark. ‘He’s in it up to his eyes.’

  ‘OK, you two reprobates can push off to the canteen while York and I speak to Stratford. We’ll find you when we know what’s what.’

  Two cups of tea and a bun later, the reprobates were joined by Hicks and York. Collins sighed with relief. Clark had taken the opportunity to educate him in all things Albion while they had been waiting. He’d just started to explain the fourth possible reason for why the Albion’s nickname was the Baggies when he was interrupted.

  York nodded at Collins and said, ‘Get the Inspector a cuppa.’

  Hicks waited until Collins returned with his tea before beginning, ‘I spoke to Inspector Knowles and he had a word with his Super. They want to do a bit of work before picking him up at work on Monday morning. Seems he has friends on the council and knows the local MP, so they want to get their ducks in line before they act. They’ll pick him up at his shop mid-morning. We’re invited to attend.’ He paused, before continuing, ‘I’m sorry, lads, but there’s only room for me and York.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Collins, though it was hard to mask his disappointment.

  The Club, 21.10hrs

  The party was just starting when the Major arrived at the Club. A local TV reporter was kissing a small girl in the hall, his hand up her skirt. In a corner booth, a teenager was on his knees, his head buried in the lap of a well-known MP who had made his reputation denouncing the collapse of family and moral values in modern Britain. He seemed to be enjoying his own lapse in morality and was encouraging the boy to ‘Take it all the way in, you gorgeous boy.’ One or two other tables and booths were also occupied, but other than a bit of groping their occupants appeared happy to wait until one of the bedrooms become available.

  The Major became aware of someone standing behind him and a familiar voice said, ‘Good evening, Major. Just arrived?’

  ‘Yes, your Lordship, and how are you?’

  ‘Damn glad to get away from the South of France. It’s a beautiful country, but shame about the people who live in it. Did you bring anything for me?’

  ‘Of course, a very nice redhead. Twelve years old and still in need of breaking in. Trevor is bringing her later.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll give you a full report afterwards.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ At sixty-eight and nearly 20 stone, the Major doubted that Lord Rattenburg would get up to much. His preference was for the girls to sit on his face while he played with himself. Still, he made a mental note to seek out his Lordship later and ask his expert opinion of the girl. A little flattery was a small price to pay for the numerous houses, flats and offices he made available for the Club’s use, not to mention his contacts and influence.

  Looking up, he saw Trevor enter with the girl. She was still blindfolded from her journey and Trevor was holding her firmly by the arm. If the army had taught the Major anything, it had been the need for security. That’s why he insisted on blindfolding all the “young guests”. That way, none of them knew the exact location of a party – just in case they were ever inclined to talk – and that’s the way he wanted to keep it.

  ‘Your guest has arrived, your Lordship,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the door.

  Lord Rattenburg looked around and smiled. ‘As always, Major, you have excellent taste. Won’t you introduce me?’

  The Major led the way and made the introductions. When the girl realised that her “date” for the night was a 20-stone tub of lard who smelt like the perfume counter in Rackham’s, she turned to Trevor with a silent plea in her eyes. He dug his fingers into her arm and pushed her towards his Lordship. She smiled grimly and was led away.

  Watching her go, Trevor said, ‘You can’t really blame her. Who the fuck would enjoy having that lard arse as a bed fellow.’

  ‘You mean you don’t believe in the possibility of true love, and beauty being more than skin deep?’ asked the Major, straight-faced.

  ‘No, I believe in the ability of money, power and position to make even the Hunchback of Notre Dame appear attractive – in the proper light, of course. Will you be playing tonight?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We need to take care of Andrew. It can’t wait. The police were at Carver’s today. They have a description of Andy and a piece of jewellery that he gave the girl.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly. So stay sober and we’ll slip away around 2.30. OK?’

  ‘Fine. It has to be done.’

  Sunday 17th February 1963.

  Handsworth, 12.30hrs.

  Collins was feeling content. He’d been to an early mass and was now enjoying a late breakfast and reading Agnes’ copy of The Sunday Times in his room when he heard the phone ring. Moments later, Agnes was knocking on his door.

  ‘Michael, it’s the station. It sounds important.’

  Collins jumped up, almost dropping his last piece of toast. What the feck do they want? he thought, as he hurried down the stairs.

  ‘Constable Collins here.’

  ‘Collins, this is York. Get your arse in gear and get down here fast. Your Mr Andrew Young has been found dead in his home. Seems like he killed another girl, then topped himself. Inspector Hicks and I are leaving in thirty minutes. If you’re here, you can come along for the ride.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Collins hung up and ran up the stairs two at a time, shouting to Agnes as he went, ‘Agnes, can you give me a lift to the station please? I’ll explain on the way.’

  Seven minutes later, Collins was in his uniform and sitting beside Agnes in the Rover 100. It was the third time he’d been in the car and it confirmed his previous opinion. The ride was incredibly soft and reminded him of bobbing about on a boat in rough weather. It made him feel queasy. It was not a car he’d ever buy. Fortunately, the journey was short. Shouting ‘Thanks’ over his shoulder, he ran up the station steps. He found Hicks, York and Clark in the Inspector’s office.

  ‘I thought that you and Clark deserved to be in at the kill, but there will be no great satisfaction with this one. It looks like Young was our man. He killed another young girl and, for whatever reason – maybe he panicked – he topped himself. Come on, let’s get going.’

  Hicks led the way to the rear yard where his car was waiting. ‘York, you drive.’ He said and climbed into the front passenger seat. Collins and Clark slid into the back.

  The journey led Collins through parts of Birmingham that he’d never seen before. Many still showed the scars of the intense bombing that Birmingham had suffered during the war. The Birmingham Blitz had gone largely unreported, for fear the Germans would learn of the damage that it was doing to vital aircraft and munitions factories. However, the reality was that the bombers had left their indelible mark on large swathes of the City that still lay derelict and unused. The damaged shops and factories had been demolished to ground level and most of the bricks carted away for hardcore. However, that still left the unfilled cellars, underground storerooms and basements for kids to explore and get lost in.

  Once past Shirley, the suburbs gave way to a winter landscape that took Collin’s breath away. Fields, hedgerows and trees were uniformly dressed in a cloak of thick snow that was 4 foot deep
in many places and virgin white. There wasn’t a breeze to disturb the frozen branches and this enhanced the silence that the snow had brought to the entire countryside. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined when Inspector Hicks lit one of his stinking French cigarettes. It was York who broke first and opened a window.

  Young had lived in a small hamlet of six houses, 5 miles north of Stratford-upon- Avon. Turning off the main road, Collins found himself in a tunnel of snow. Without the constant flow of traffic, the side road had been reduced to a single lane and 8-foot banks of snow overhung the track. Signs were covered in thick ice with icicles hanging from their edges, making them all but unreadable. Collins wasn’t surprised when York missed the final turning. With no room to turn around, he drove on for nearly a mile before they came to a junction and he was able to turn back.

  Collins was impressed by his first sight of Young’s house. Approached by a long S-shaped drive, it sat in 4 acres of land. He guessed that the original house had been built sometime in the 18th century. There was a clear demarcation between the pale soft sandstone that had been used for the original building and the red brick extension that had been added during the Victorian age. Nearby stood a barn, which Collins correctly identified as the garage.

  There were two police vans and a police car in the drive. York parked up and, with Inspector Hicks in front, the four men headed for the house. If possible it felt even colder here than in Birmingham and Collins pulled his collar up. As they neared the house Collins caught Clark’s eye and nodded in the direction of the front door. Above the door was a small plaque that read Pan House.

  Hicks showed his warrant card to the officer on the door and asked where he could find Inspector Knowles.

  ‘Inspector Knowles isn’t here, Sir. Superintendent Burgess is in charge. I think he’s still in the bedroom. Just turn right and up the stairs.’

  Hicks’ eyes briefly reflected his puzzlement at the mention of a Superintendent leading the inquiry. It was not normal practice, even if Chief Superintendent Lockhart did lead every case in No Hiding Place. He recovered quickly and, nodding his thanks, led the small party into the house. The staircase gave way to a gallery that overlooked the front hall.

  Superintendent Burgess was standing outside the main bedroom. He was a big man, well over 6 foot and weighing close to 18 stone. Despite the layer of fat, Collins had no doubt that there was a frame of muscle and bone beneath. He’d seen farmers built like Burgess in Ireland. Men who could throw 112 lb sacks of potatoes around all day long as if they were juggling a small ball. However, while he looked like a big honest bear of a man, there was something about his eyes that bothered Collins. They were small, dark, hawk-like and hinted at ruthlessness.

  Holding out a great ham of a hand, he said, ‘Inspector Hicks. Good to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Alfie Thomas over the years.’

  ‘Well, he never had anything good to say about me to my face,’ Hicks said and forced a smile.

  ‘That sounds like Alfie,’ said Burgess. ‘Anyway, it looks like Inspector Knowles was wrong to think that picking Mr Young up could wait until Monday. From what I understand about the first murder, I’m certain he’s your man. We don’t know who the girl is yet, but she can’t be any more than fifteen. Like your girl, she was strangled by a long thin strip of material – in this case, a piece of velvet.’

  ‘Why do you think he topped himself?’ Hicks asked.

  ‘My guess is that this was either another accident and he felt remorse, or he thought he’d never get away with two killings. Who knows what goes on in the minds of such scum?’

  ‘Any note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who discovered the body?’

  ‘The cleaning lady. It seems she left her purse here on Saturday and called in for it on the way to church today. Otherwise we wouldn’t have known about it until Monday. She called us straightaway.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Call came in about half seven.’

  Hicks looked at his watch. It was 3.20. The call to Thornhill Road from Warwickshire police had been logged at 12.10, nearly five hours after the bodies had been found. ‘Mind if we have a look?’

  ‘No, go ahead. The doc’s been in and the photographer has finished taking his pictures. He’s just dusting for prints now.’

  The girl lay on the bed dressed in the top half of a baby doll nightie. There was no sign of her panties. A large bruise spread down the left side of her face. The velvet strip was still in place. Unless she had been unconscious from the blow, Collins realised that she’d must have died looking her killer in the eyes as he snuffed out her young life. The bed was soiled – her small body diminished further by death.

  Young hung from the partially open en-suite door. He was naked. His neck had stretched during the time he had hung on the door. His tongue, deep purple and hideous, lolled obscenely from the left of his mouth. His eyes were bulging, open and sightless. Collins looked at the scrawny body, the floppy blond hair and could hardly believe that this pathetic individual had been responsible for killing two girls.

  Clark walked over and, ignoring the body, inspected the door, running his hand down the panels and looking at the carpet beneath. Only then did he look at the body, checking each hand in turn.

  ‘Mind if I have a butchers at the bathroom? I’ve not seen one of these en-suite dos before.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Superintendent Burgess.

  Collins followed him in and, with his back to the door, silently mouthed, ‘What the feck?’

  Clark shook his head imperceptibly and turned to the wash-hand basin where he picked up a pair of nail scissors and inspected them, before returning them to the glass shelf next to a large bottle of Old Spice. Next, he turned his attention to the rope tied to the door handle and examined the knot. Satisfied, he straightened up.

  Returning to the bedroom, they found York bent over the young girl. His hands were gently examining her neck. Standing up, he turned to Inspector Hicks and nodded.

  ‘Well, many thanks for your co-operation, Sir, said Hicks. ‘We’ll get out of your hair and let you wrap this up. You’ll be in touch?’

  ‘Of course.’

  A morgue van entered the drive just as the four men walked back to the car in silence. Slipping into the front passenger seat, Hicks slammed the door shut and said, ‘Get me the fuck out of here. Then find me a café where I can have a cuppa to help me swallow all the bullshit I’ve just heard.’

  Twenty minutes later, the men were sitting in a truck driver’s café watching the few vehicles that were trundling along the A34 on that bleak Sunday afternoon.

  ‘We’re off the clock now, lads,’ said Hicks, producing a hip flask from his inside pocket. ‘Who wants a tot of the hard stuff?’

  York and Clark pushed their mugs across the table. Collins placed his hands over his and said, ‘No thanks, Sir. I’m teetotal.’

  ‘Struth,’ said Clark, ‘now I’ve heard everything. A teetotal Irishman.’

  Ignoring Clark’s outburst, Hicks asked, ‘What did you make of that?’

  Collins kept quiet. It had been his second murder scene and certainly much worse than finding Simone’s frozen body. He’d spent much of the time trying not to puke at the smell of recent death and Young’s elongated neck. But he’d definitely sensed that something was wrong, but what it was he had no idea. All the time he’d been in the house, he’d had the feeling that an elaborate charade was being played out between Hicks and Burgess. And what the feck had Clark been doing in the bathroom?

  ‘We’ve always thought that the Winston girl was killed by accident,’ said York, ‘but this one was hit, possibly knocked unconscious, before she was strangled, so no accident this time. It makes me doubt that he did it, unless of course the first murder gave him a taste for it. But if that were the cas
e, why did he top himself?’

  ‘Fair points. What do you think Clark?’

  When Clark spoke, his voice was low and edged with anger. ‘If he committed suicide, then me Auntie has a pair of brass balls.’

  Collins head snapped up.

  ‘Go on,’ said Hicks.

  ‘He’d been boarded. I seen it a couple of times during the war. When the resistance or special ops wanted to kill an informer but avoid Nazi reprisals, they’d help him or her commit suicide.’

  ‘How?’ asked Collins.

  Clark took a slurp of his tea, ‘First, yoe get a piece of wood about the size of a door and a noose. Yoe wait until the guy is asleep or, better still, pissed. Then you slip the noose around his neck and before he can wake up, you slide him onto the board. Once on the board, yoe just have to stand it upright and pull on the rope. Works a treat.’

  ‘Then, when he’s dead, you transfer him to an actual door?’ said Hicks.

  ‘That’s right, Sir.’

  ‘Why are you so sure that’s what happened?’ asked Hicks.

  ‘As yoe know, Sir, when someone is hanged they usually shit and piss themselves, but there were hardly any mess on the door or the floor beneath him. There was a big wet patch near the bed, though, which looked like someone had washed the carpet.’

  ‘They had,’ said Hicks. ‘The patch smelt of soap. Someone had cleaned up after the killings.’

  ‘Well, I dain’t get close enough to smell it, but it were wet. On top of that, even if yoe want to kill yourself, you struggle when the noose tightens. However, there were no scuff marks on the door where Young would have kicked, hit the door and smeared his own mess.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He was a leftie.’

  ‘How do you know he was left-handed?’ asked Collins. Then, before Clark could reply, he continued, ‘Of course. The scissors was a left-handed pair. I should have seen it.’