by Jim McGrath
‘Thank you. It’s kind of you to come.’
‘May I come in?’ Mrs Winston looked uncertain. ‘I won’t stay long, I promise.’
Mrs Winston opened the door and stepped back. Having a white woman come to her home was not something she was used to, especially a lady like Agnes.
Seated in Mrs Winston’s flat, Agnes could feel the pain and anguish that engulfed the woman. It flowed from her in dark waves and while it would ease in the years ahead, it would never leave her. It was clear from her hollow, haunted eyes that a part of her had died with her daughter and she would spend the rest of her life longing for the day they would be reunited.
Agnes recognised the symptoms all too well. It was exactly how she had felt when they told her that Simon had been shot down and presumed killed over the Channel in 1940. She’d known him most of her life. They had been childhood sweethearts and had decided to marry the day war was declared in September 1939. Less than a year later she was a widow and looking for a way, anyway, that she could gain some measure of revenge on the Germans.
‘Why don’t I make us both a cup of tea and you can tell me all about Simone, Mrs Winston.’
Surprised that a white woman wanted to make her a cup of tea, Mrs Winston nodded in agreement.
Two hours later, the women embraced on the doorstep and Agnes pushed her card in Mrs Winston’s hand. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘call me if there’s anything I can do to help. And please do let me have details of the funeral.’
Walking back to the car, Agnes hoped that the woman would call.
Collins was looking forward to his first night shift. He was a night person. When others were starting to fall asleep at 11 he was just getting his second wind. He’d always loved the night. The time when darkness obliterated the dirt of the streets and bright lights bathed them in cheap glamour. It was even better when snow covered the ground. He liked to think that within the shadows, there lurked dark secrets and the promise of adventure and romance. He put his romanticisation of the night down to seeing too many Jimmy Cagney and Humphrey Bogart films in the local flea pit when he was a kid.
Parade finished, Sergeant Ridley called Collins and Clark over. ‘The Superintendent wants to see you pair tomorrow at 4pm.’
‘Do you know what it’s about, Sarge?’ Clark asked.
‘No, but you’ve been the ones playing detective, so work it out yourselves. If it’s any help, York and Hicks will be there too.’
Outside, the weather was as cold as ever, and was made worse by a biting north-westerly wind that cut through gloves and coats and froze the face. ‘I wonder what the Super wants?’ said Collins.
‘From my extensive experience, a summons from the top brass can only mean one of two things. A pat on the back or a kick in the bollocks. As Hicks and York are going to be there, my guess is that this will be a pat on the back – but bring your box just in case.’
Collins wondered what a box was but stayed quiet. Changing the subject, he said, ‘Ruth tells me you speak German.’
‘She told yoe about how we met then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yoe should be honoured. She’s only ever told four people about that and two of them were me parents. She must trust yoe.’
‘What about speaking German?’
‘I picked a bit up in the war. It’s hard to interrogate someone if you don’t speak their lingo.’
‘Any other languages you can speak?’
‘French, Dutch and a bit of Polish and Norwegian. I worked a lot with foreign groups in the war. There were some great lads among them. The Poles were me favourite. There was no messing with them guys. They really hated Gerry. They could hardly wait to cut the bastards’ throats. Then, after the war, we betrayed them and handed them over to Stalin.’
‘So how is it that you were never able to master English?’
‘I walked into that one, dain’t I?’
‘Yep, but you know what they say about pride before a fall.’
Clark gave Collins a two-fingered salute and the pair walked on in companionable silence, the fresh snow crunching beneath their feet.
Whether it was the cold or something good on the telly, there was nobody on the streets when Collins and Clark started their beat at 10pm sharp. Two hours later, the most interesting thing they’d seen was a fight between an overweight ginger tom cat and a fox. The fox was younger and quicker but the tom had the experience, and one swipe of his claws had scratched his attacker’s nose and left eye and sent him yelping home. Content with his victory, the cat looked at them with unconcealed hatred, hissed viciously and disappeared down the side entry to a row of houses.
By 1.30 they were heading back to the station for a warm-up and some snap. They were near Rookery Road when they first heard the dog. Alternately barking then howling, the sound carried on the wind and set Collins’ teeth on edge. ‘Some ejit has left the dog out or else it’s a stray and it’s got stuck somewhere.’
‘Yeah, probably’, said Clark.
As they neared Foster Brothers, the sound got louder. It seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right of them. At the wooden front doors of Handsworth Market, Clark stopped and listened intently. Walking on a bit, he turned into the alley that ran along the length of the market and opened out into a stall holders car park at the rear. ‘It’s coming from behind the market. It might be Benny’s dog.’
‘Who’s Benny?’
‘Old soldier, old tramp, old drunk – take yoe pick. Lives in a shed at the back of the market. The stall holders slip him a few bob and he pretends to act as night watchman, but he’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Seeing as he’s always pissed. Come on,’ said Clark, and strode up the alley
Turning into the car park Collins’ torch immediately picked out the dog. She was sitting outside the shed, howling. He had never seen such an ugly dog before. It was entirely black except for a white ring around her left eye, short stubby legs, a barrel-like body covered in muscle that moved as she bounded forward and a set of jaws that belonged to a wolfhound.
He was about to draw his baton when Clark said, ‘Here, Sheba. Come on, girl.’ The dog ran straight past Collins and leapt at Clark, who caught her in his arms. Tail wagging, she started to lick his face.
‘What the hell type of dog is that?’
‘This, kidda, is pound for pound the best dog in the world. It’s a Staffie.’
Collins looked blank.
‘A Staffordshire Bull Terrier. If she’s out, sommut’s up with Benny.’ Clark strode forward still carrying the dog, who seemed overjoyed to see him.
Collins followed at a safe distance. He and dogs had never really got on.
Placing Sheba on the floor, Clark knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again and shouted, ‘Benny, are yoe there?’ He pulled the door open and shone his torch around. Benny was lying on the bed next to the small brazier that he used to keep warm and cook on. The fire was out and Benny was dead. What had killed him Clark had no idea. Maybe his heart or liver had given out. Maybe he’d fallen into a drunken stupor and died chocking on his own vomit. The pathologist would tell them.
Clark withdrew and said, ‘He’s dead. ‘Yoe stay here and play with your new friend, while I phone the station from the call box. See if yoe can find some food for her.’
Collins didn’t like the sound of that and was about to object, but Clark was already striding away. He looked down at the black monstrosity that was now standing quietly by his right foot. Turning her head sideways, she looked up at him with black pleading eyes. Despite his earlier misgivings, he smiled. ‘Looks like it’s you and me, girl. Let’s see if we can find you something to eat.’
By the time Clark returned, Collins had found a tin of corn beef and Sheba had decided that he was the best human she’d met in a long time. While they waited for the mor
gue van to arrive, they took the small brazier from the shed, added wood and coke from Benny’s small store and warmed themselves. Sheba curled up a foot from the fire and was asleep within seconds. Her job done.
Their shift was nearly over when Collins and Clark returned to the station with Sheba in tow. They took her into the canteen and ordered three bacon sandwiches – one for each of them. The lads waiting to go into Parade came over and patted Sheba. She responded by lying on her back and inviting all present to tickle her tummy. Collins laughed at her antics. ‘She may lack looks but she’s got plenty of personality.’
‘I’m glad yoe said that ‘cos if we send her to the dogs’ home, they’ll put her down after a wiek.’
Collins saw immediately what was coming. ‘Hang on, I’m in digs. I can’t have a dog.’
‘I’d take her, but Ruth works Tuesday to Saturday.’
‘I don’t want a dog and certainly not one as ugly as Sheba.’
‘Hush. If yoe hurt her feelings, she might turn nasty.’
Collins looked down. Sheba was lying across his feet fast asleep – again. ‘Yeah, she looks like a right killer.’
‘Yoe be surprised. As I said, pound for pound them’s the best dogs in the world. Look, I’ll take her today and yoe speak to Mrs Winters. If she says no, we’ll take her to the dogs home tomorrow. Fair enough?’
‘OK’ said Collins doubtfully.
Tuesday 19th February 1963.
Handsworth, 14.00hrs.
Collins emerged from his room at 2 then had a leisurely shave and shower, before donning his uniform in anticipation of his meeting with the Super at 4.
The kitchen was empty and he was able to cook and eat his lunch of scrambled egg, bacon, sausage and toast in peace. He was just washing up when Agnes entered.
‘You’re up and dressed a bit early for someone who’s not on duty until 10 tonight.’
‘True enough, but Clark and me have to report to the Superintendent at 4.’
‘Nothing to do with me and my meddling, I hope.’
‘No. I’m pretty sure it’s to do with closing the case down. Anyway, how’s Jamie doing? I haven’t seen him for a few days.’
‘He’s doing fine. I have him working on odd jobs around the house and garden. He spends most of his free time raiding my library. He must have read four books since he arrived. Gloria thinks he’s wonderful.’
‘And with her record of boyfriends and pimps, she’s a good judge of character, is she?’
‘I think she knows people.’
‘That’s probably true,’ Collins conceded. ‘Anyway, what are we going to do with him?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. He says there is no chance whatsoever that his father will take him back. I’m going to visit Mr O’ Conner to see if that really is his position.’
‘And if it is?’
‘I don’t want Jamie to go into a home. He has something. A sort of raw intelligence that, if nurtured, might even take him all the way to university.’
‘Well, you would know more about that than me.’
‘His handwriting is terrible and his spelling is worse, but he can write and he has a wonderful vocabulary.’
‘So if he’s not going home and he’s not going into a home, are you suggesting that he stay here?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking, yes. A friend of mine runs a day school in Harbourne. He’s already said that he will take Jamie if I support him with extra tuition at home.’
‘And you’re willing to do that?’
‘Oh yes. I think I would enjoy it.’
‘Well, I can’t think of a better place for Jamie to live.’
‘Neither can he.’
‘You mean he’s started to drop hints and suggestions already?’
‘He’s been doing that since the day he arrived.’
‘When are you going to see Mr O’Conner?’
‘Tonight, after he returns from work.’
Collins could think of no easy way to introduce a 28-pound bundle of muscle, teeth, evil black looks and a vivid personality into the conversation, so he jumped in with both feet. ‘Talking of waifs and strays, Clark and me had an interesting time last night.’ He was only three quarters of the way through the tale when Agnes said, ‘You want to know if you can bring the dog here.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Collins sheepishly. Not beyond trying to play on Agnes’s sympathies, he continued, ‘Clark says that if she goes to the dog’s home, they’ll put her down after a week.’
‘I’m not so sure. I have the women to think of.’
Collins saw the hesitation in her eyes and quickly said, ‘Just think of her as another female in need of help.’
Agnes looked at him and burst out laughing. ‘Is that your Irish charm and blarney at work, Mr Collins?’
‘Sure, I have no evidence to indicate that I possess any charm whatsoever, Mrs Winters, especially when it comes to the ladies. Mind you, I did find me way into Sheba’s heart with a tin of corned beef.’
Still smiling, Agnes said, ‘Alright. We’ll give it a try… for six weeks. After that, we will revisit the decision. Alright?’
‘Fine by me, Agnes.’
‘And so that we are absolutely clear about this: she’s your dog. You feed, train, exercise and clean up after her. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
At 4.02pm precisely, Inspector Hicks, Sergeant York and Constables Clark and Collins filed into Superintendent Hollis’s office. He had company. Assistant Chief Constable Morris was sitting beside him. Both looked pleased with themselves. All four men came to attention and saluted the ACC.
‘Come in, men. I’m sure you all know ACC Morris.’ Collins didn’t have a clue who he was, but nodded in agreement with the Superintendent’s statement. ‘The ACC will explain what this is all about.’
‘Thank you, Superintendent. Like you men, I usually have to deal with trouble of one kind or another, so it’s particularly pleasing that for once I’ve been asked to do something that is entirely pleasurable. The Chief Constable wants you to know that he’s very impressed with the speed and professionalism with which you solved the murder of the little half-caste girl. He particularly wishes to extend his congratulations to Constable Clark and Probationary Constable Collins, who Inspector Hicks tells us showed great initiative and commitment by working on their day off to uncover the vital evidence required to close the case. I’m delighted to say that you will all receive a formal commendation in due course.’
‘I, too, would like to congratulate you on a job well done. You’re a credit to the force and this station,’ said Hollis.
‘Thank you, Sirs,’ said Hicks, ‘but as I indicated in my report, there are one or two lines of inquiry that I’d like to follow up before signing off on this case.’
‘Good man, Inspector Hicks. Always the perfectionist. I’d expect nothing less from a man with your record,’ said the ACC. ‘However, I’ve had a word with Superintendent Burgess and he feels that his team are best placed to tie up the loose ends. I have to say I agree with him. So onwards and upwards to the next case and again well done to you all.’
Inspector Hicks laid four drinks on the table. A pint of mild for York, bitter for Clark, orange for Collins and a half for himself. The Endwood had just opened and the men were happily ensconced in the small snug behind the main bar, away from prying eyes and ears. The gas fire was on full and if anyone asked, they were just four friends enjoying a quiet drink.
But the atmosphere was flat. They all knew their investigation had been cut short. They waited for Hicks to speak. Pulling his chair away from the fire, he lit up another of his nocuous French cigarettes.
‘Lads, although they’re blowing smoke up our collective arses, I want you to know that you deserve the commendations coming your way.
Tracking down Young within a week was good police work. Well done.’ He raised his glass and there was a chorus of ‘Cheers’ around the table.
‘It’s just a shame we dain’t get to finish it, boss.’
Hicks looked at Clark, well aware of what he was thinking. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll let it go and get on with your jobs.’
‘Boss, I’m from the Black Country. Wem well known for strong arms and weak heads.’
‘It’s the same with the Irish, Sir. We’re famous for always getting into the wrong fights.’
‘Well, that’s very commendable, lads, but I’ve been here before.’
‘How so?’ asked York.
Hicks considered just how much he should say. When ready, he replied, ‘You’ve all heard the rumours about me – how I screwed up my last case at the Met. Well, essentially, I was set up.’ Hicks paused and took a sip of his half. None of the men rushed him. They knew he had to tell his story in his own time. ‘There was a right little shit on my patch by the name of Howe. He was a nasty vicious little bastard, responsible for a string of robberies that had left a lot of people in hospital. I was getting real close to him when word came down to lay off. Why, I had no idea. Anyway, I ignored the message and a few weeks later a crucial piece of evidence went missing in another case of mine. My name was in the evidence log as the last person to book it out.’
‘Did you ever find out why you’d been told to lay off, Sir?’ Collins asked.
‘Only a rumour. Howe ran a couple of gyms and apparently he supplied specially selected young boxers for swish city gents and others of similar ilk, who fancied a bit of rough.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said York. ‘Why did you stay in the force?’
‘I sometimes wonder myself. Anyway, I’m telling you this because Young smells just like Howe. Important people are involved, I’m sure of it. If you start stamping all over their little beehive with your size twelves, you’re going to get stung. I can’t afford to get another black mark against my name. The wife’s ill and my son is off to university in September, if the lazy bugger passes his exams. So if any of you decide to do your own private investigation, you need to realise what you’re up against. And while I’ll try to cover your back, I can’t promise you full protection.’
