by Hugh Fraser
After an hour or so I follow the truck onto the M45 to Coventry and then the motorway ends and I haven’t a clue if we’re going to Birmingham or Bombay as we drag through endless suburbs and then along roads with factories and warehouses and into a poor area with dirty streets, small terraced houses and a bad smell of gas. The truck makes a couple of turns off the main road and slows down. I get the feeling we’re at the end of the journey so I stay well back. The truck stops and I pull in behind a van, look out of the side window and see a massive gas holder silhouetted in the moonlight.
The door of the truck opens, the driver’s mate gets out and walks across the street to a pair of iron gates that look like the entrance to the gasworks. He goes up close to the bars and says something to a man who’s slumped on a chair inside the gate. The man jerks upright, gets to his feet, unlocks the gates and swings them open. As the truck drives through the gates I can make out the vans and trailers of the film unit in the headlights. Once the truck’s parked and the driver and his mate have come out of the gate and gone into a pub on the corner of the street, I start the car, drive past the gates and a sign that says Saltley Gas Works.
My throat’s parched and I could murder a drink but the local pubs could be playing host to members of the unit and I don’t want to be noticed. The area I’m driving through is nothing but mean streets and small factories and I’m wondering how I can find a decent hotel when I see a phone box and stop. I dial Lizzie’s number and after a few rings she picks up.
‘I’m in Birmingham,’ I say.
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Don’t ask. I need somewhere to stay. Do you know a decent hotel?’
‘I did a punter there a while back in a good one that was near the station.’
‘Can you remember what it was called?’
‘Hang on, I’ll have a look in my diary.’
I hear her put the receiver down and while I’m waiting I notice a man standing outside the phone box, wearing an old mac and a cloth cap. He’s holding a bottle, swaying a bit, and grinning at me.
‘It’s the Grand Hotel, in Colmore Row,’ says Lizzie.
‘Thanks.’
‘There’s a good club there as well, if you’re going out.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s called the Elbow Room. I saw George Best there.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘When are you back?’
‘Couple of days I reckon.’
‘Take care, darling.’
‘You too.’
We make kissing noises and I put the receiver down. As I open the door of the phone box the man in the cloth cap lurches towards me and tries to grab my tits. I shove him off me and give him a kick in the knee. He drops the bottle, it smashes on the pavement and he falls over and rolls into the gutter. I get into the car and leave him whimpering.
I drive until I see a pub and stop and ask directions to Colmore Row. The landlord’s just closing up, but a bloke who’s leaving tells me it’s in the centre of town and points me in the right direction. I get well lost on the way but I ask again and finally find Colmore Row. The Grand Hotel is on a corner at the end of an elegant terrace of fine white buildings. It looks a bit posh and pricey but money’s no problem at the moment and I feel like a bit of luxury. I park in a side street off the main drag and walk along the side of the building to the main entrance, wishing I’d brought a toothbrush. The clerk looks up from behind the reception desk and smiles politely as I approach and ask for a single room. He says he’s got one available and I give him a false name and address and ask if room service is still going. He tells me it closes at midnight and I look at the clock behind him and see that I’ve got half an hour. He asks me about luggage and I tell him it’ll be arriving tomorrow. He gives me the key to a room on the fourth floor and I ask him to send up a bottle of whisky.
I make for the lift on the other side of the lobby and as I pass the entrance to the bar I hear a familiar voice and then laughter. I linger beside the door and look inside. Ed, the assistant director, is at a table on the far side of the bar with the cameraman, Jean the continuity girl and Mike the director. Ed’s telling a story of some hilarious episode and the others are laughing and chipping in. I take a detour to the lift so they don’t see me.
Soft music plays as I’m wafted up to the fourth floor and I walk along the carpeted corridor to my room. There’s a double bed with the covers turned down that looks really inviting, an armchair and a dressing table with a TV set on it. The velvet curtains are closed and I’m delighted to find I’ve got my own bathroom. There’s a knock at the door and a young bloke in a busboy’s uniform comes in and puts a tray with a bottle of Bell’s whisky and a glass on the dressing table. I sign the bill, remembering to use the false name I gave at the desk, tip him two bob and he thanks me and leaves. I pour myself a drink, look at the room service menu, pick up the phone and order a hamburger, then I turn on the TV and sit in the armchair. All I get is the weather forecast and then the BBC closes down for the night and leaves me with the National Anthem and the test card. I switch to ITV but that’s over too, so I turn on the radio and the vicar doing The Epilogue tells me that the Lord is going to “preserve my going out and my coming in”, which I reckon is nice of him. I twiddle the knob, find Radio Caroline and Dusty Springfield sings that she only wants to be with me, which is much more like it.
As I’m pouring my next whisky there’s a knock at the door. I turn off the radio and ask who it is. I’m told it’s room service and I open the door to a quietly beautiful young girl, in a uniform and apron, holding a tray with a silver dome on it. She comes in and puts the tray down next to the TV. She turns, gives me a warm smile, takes a pad and a biro out of her apron pocket and offers them to me. I sign the bill, pick up my jacket off the bed, find a ten bob note in the pocket and give it to her. She looks surprised and then pleased. ‘I haven’t got any change.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say.
‘That’s really kind. Thanks.’
She puts the note in her pocket and seems to hesitate. ‘Will you be staying long?’
‘Only a couple of days.’
We share a look for a moment longer and I’m tempted to ask her what time she finishes, but I remind myself that I’m here on business and go to the door and open it for her. As she walks down the corridor, she senses me watching, turns and gives me a fleeting smile.
I drain my whisky glass, lift the silver dome and set about my hamburger.
• • •
The bed was as comfortable as it looked and when I turn over and reach for my watch on the bedside table I see that it’s nearly nine o’clock. I roll out of bed, go into the bathroom, have a long hot shower and shampoo my hair. I discover a little tube of toothpaste and a brush in the cabinet above the wash basin and make full use of them, before drying my hair. I give the bra and pants that I washed in the basin last night a final whoosh with the hairdryer and get dressed. I order breakfast from room service with the faint hope that I might see the lovely girl again, but it turns out to be a young lad with a cheeky smile who arrives with a tray of scrambled egg and toast.
I try to decide what time I should go to the set to find Brindle. I need to catch him when he’s finished filming for the day and I need to know when that’s going to be. I remember seeing Jean in the bar with the others last night and I realise that I know her second name because it was written on the folder she showed me that day. It’s a long shot that she’ll be here, but I pick up the phone and call reception. A woman answers and I ask for Jean Craven. There’s a pause while she looks the name up and connects me but after a couple of rings Jean answers. She remembers me and I tell her that I’ve got something I want to give to Brindle and ask if he’ll be filming in the afternoon. She tells me that they are not working today as they moved up from London last night but they are doing a night shoot at the gasworks later and that he’s in the first scene and should be finished by about midnight. I thank her and ask her not to s
ay anything to him, as it’s a surprise.
I go down to reception and ask for a street guide of the city and a local paper. I’m given the Birmingham Post and an A to Z street map which I take back to the room. I make a cup of coffee and settle down in the comfy armchair. I find Colmore Row and the hotel on the map, then Saltley Gasworks and plot the best route to get there. I’ve got hours to kill before I go to the set and I’m wishing I’d brought Rebecca to read. Maybe I’ll go out and buy another copy when I’ve had coffee.
I look at the newspaper and read that there are local elections on the way and there’s a picture of the MP for Wolverhampton on the inside page and some quotes from a speech he’s made about the dangers of immigrants outnumbering English people in Handsworth and other places. He looks like a right miserable sod, with a ratty grey moustache and a mean look in his eyes. I turn the pages and notice a story about an accident in a factory called Aston Chain and Hook and there’s a picture of the inside of the place which looks as if it might be right for what I’ve got in mind. There’s a Birmingham phone directory on a shelf beside the bed. I look up Aston Chain and Hook and find that it’s in Bromford Lane, which I see from the A to Z runs off Tyburn Road, a bit north of the city, and it’s only a short drive from the gasworks.
I put on my leather jacket, take the lift to the ground floor and walk along the street to my car. Once I’ve studied the route on the map, I set off round the one-way system. As I leave the city centre and drive along Aston Road, I pass a dilapidated building that looks like a warehouse, with a faded sign that says Aston Chain and Hook, on the right hand side of the road. It’s nowhere near the address I found for the factory but I decide to stop and have a look. I pull over, get out of the car and cross the road. The building looks deserted, so I walk along a passageway that runs down the side of it, go round to the back and find a set of double doors that are padlocked. I check that I can’t be seen, take out my picks, do the lock and ease the door open. I put my ear to the gap and when I hear nothing I slip inside and close the door behind me. There’s a mess of old packing cases, piles of rusty metal, a counter at the far end and filing cabinets with the drawers hanging open. When I look up and clock the solid metal beams above, I know I’ve seen enough, so I get out of there and lock the door. On the way back to the hotel, I buy a length of rope, a pencil torch, a roll of gaffer tape and a copy of Rebecca. When I get to my room, I run a bath, pour myself a whisky, slide into the warm water and get back to Manderley.
By the time snobby, skull-faced Mrs Danvers has finished showing her disdain and dislike for our newly married girl and her humble origins, told her how beautiful and talented and accomplished the first Mrs de Winter was and generally made her feel small and unworthy of the position she’s married into, it’s time for me to get moving. I can’t help reading a bit more and I’m glad to find that hubby Maxim is being good to her, Frith the butler seems a friendly sort and she’s enjoying the beauty of the great house and grounds.
I close the book, load the .38, put the safety on and slide it in behind my belt. I take the coil of rope I bought earlier, cut about ten feet off it, with the blade I brought with me, and put it inside my jacket. I put the torch and my lock picks in my pocket and the rest of the rope back in the bag with the gaffer tape. I check the route to the gasworks on the map, pick up the bag and leave.
14
I park the car in a dead end street near the gasworks and walk to the gate. The security man lets me in and tells me they’re shooting round the far side of the gas holder. The trailers are parked in a row beside a long shed near the fence. I approach Brindle’s, look round to make sure there’s no one about and knock on the door.
‘Hang on,’ he shouts from inside.
Moments later he opens the door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got something you might want to see.’
‘Is it done?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why haven’t I heard?’
‘No one knows yet.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because he’s in the boot of my car.’
‘You got George Preston into the boot of a car?’
‘I didn’t say he was in one piece.’
‘What the fuck did you bring him up here for?’
‘To show you it’s done and so you can help me get rid.’
I turn and walk towards the gate and Brindle follows me. He nods to the security man and we go along the street towards my car. As we get near and I can see there’s no one about, I hand him the keys. ‘Help yourself.’
He bends to unlock the boot and fumbles with the key for a moment before getting it into the lock. When the lid opens, I take out my gun and smash the butt down on the back of his head. He falls forward, I grab hold of his ankles and stuff him head first into the boot. I have another look round to make sure I haven’t been seen, then I get the rope from my pocket and tie his hands behind his back. I turn him over, take the gaffer tape out of the bag, tear a strip off and stick it across his mouth, then I shut the boot lid and lock it.
The journey to Aston Chain and Hook takes about ten minutes and I don’t hear any thumping or bumping from behind on the way. I drive the car onto the pavement, back up close to the passageway beside the building and open up the boot. He’s still out cold, so I take out the bag with the rope and the tape and tie it to my belt. After I’ve checked for sightseers I lift Brindle out onto the pavement. I put one end of the rope that’s binding his wrists over my shoulder, drag him along the passageway and leave him by the back door, while I go back to the car and park it properly. When I get back to Brindle, he’s moaning and twitching a bit so I give him another whack on the head with the gun and put him out again. I take out my picks, do the lock, pull the door open, drag Brindle inside and lock up again.
There’s enough light from the street coming through the front windows for me to make out the piles of metal and old packing cases that are lying about. I leave Brindle by the door and drag a filing cabinet that’s lying on its side into the middle of floor, until it’s directly underneath one of the metal beams, and stand it up. I find a couple of empty packing cases of different sizes, put them next to the filing cabinet and climb on top of it. When I stand up, the metal beam is about three feet above my head.
I go to where I’ve left Brindle and take the coil of rope out of the bag. I make a noose at one end with a slip knot, put it round his neck and pull it tight. I take him by the shoulders, drag him to the packing cases and manage to lift him up and sit him on the smaller one, then I bend low, pick him up in a fireman’s lift, climb up the packing cases and lay him on his back on top of the cabinet. I get up beside him, grab him by the collar, sit him up and throw the end of the rope that’s round his neck up and over the beam. I catch the end and pull it tight enough to hold him sitting upright. I keep hold of the end of the rope and climb down off the cabinet just as he opens his eyes. He looks wildly around him, tries to turn his head, feels the noose round his neck and screams into his gag. He twists his body about as if to shake it off and then he sees me below him and becomes still. I show him the rope in my hand and give it a tug, which pulls his neck. He looks up, sees the rope over the beam above him and gets the message.
‘I’m going to take that tape off you and you’re going to tell me where Dawn is,’ I say.
He nods his head as much as he can and makes a sound like a pig in labour. I tie the rope off on one of the drawer handles, climb up to him and rip the tape off his gob. He gives a gasp of pain, takes a couple of deep breaths and looks at me with pure hatred in his eyes.
‘Well?’ I say.
‘You fucking slag.’
I pull on the rope and his head jerks forward.
‘All right!’ he squawks.
‘Yeah?’
‘Lozells.’
‘What?’
‘She’s in fucking Lozells!’
I remember seeing it on the map now, and thinking it was an odd name.<
br />
‘Where in fucking Lozells?’
‘Burbury Street.’
‘Number?’
‘Forty-nine.’
‘What’s there?’
‘Fran.’
‘What?’
‘My Auntie Fran.’
For a moment, I’m looking down at the little boy from the orphanage who’s desperately lonely and just trying to get noticed by the world and I almost feel sorry for him, then I think what he’s done to Dawn and what he’d do to me if he had the chance. I turn his face to mine, reach behind his head and tighten the rope. His eyes bulge and he goes a deeper red.
‘If she’s there and she’s all right, I’ll be back to get you. If she isn’t, I won’t.’
I let the rope go, put the tape back over his mouth, make sure his wrists are tied tight and climb down onto the floor. Once I’ve checked that he can’t move without hanging himself, I open the door, let myself out and lock it behind me.
Burbury Street in Lozells is mostly small terraced houses, with a couple of factory yards and a pub called the Queens Head on the corner, where I leave the car. There are no lights on at number forty-nine as I walk past and I can’t see a way of getting round the back, so I decide to take a chance. I put my hand on my gun and knock on the door. There’s no answer, so I wait a bit and try again. Eventually a light goes on and I hear a woman’s voice. ‘Who is it?’
I bend down and open the letter box. ‘Fran?’
‘Who is it?’
‘I’ve come from Johnny,’ I say.
I see a pair of mules approaching and I shut the letter box. The door’s opened by a little old woman with a round face and a frizz of grey hair.
‘Who are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m Noreen. I’m sorry to get you up but it’s Johnny.
He’s down the Elbow Room and he’s asked me to come and get Dawn and take her to join him there.’
She sighs and puts a hand on her hip. ‘That boy’ll be the death of me, he will.’
