Bernard Knight - Grounds for Appeal

‘All we could get from Franklin was the fact that one fellow he remembers from the Doyle days was known as “Yank”,’ reported Trevor.

‘But he says he can’t recall what he looked like and wasn’t sure he ever saw him, sir,’ added Rickman. ‘He thought he might have been involved more as an enforcer, rather than an armed robbery man.’

The DCI mulled this over. ‘It might fit with what we heard about the head being shown as a warning to anyone tempted to rip off Mickey Doyle, I suppose.’

‘And a Yank is more likely to know about Batman,’ said Hartnell. ‘So what d’you want to do about it?’

What the CID top brass did was to send both of them back down to Aberystwyth very early next day.

The three-hour drive got them there before mid-morning and Meirion Thomas, who Trevor had warned of his coming, gave them a substantial canteen breakfast while Trevor told him of the rather vague information they had dragged out of Olly Franklin. The local DI had been tempted to order Welsh laver-bread to go with the eggs, sausage, bacon and beans, but decided that boiled seaweed might hamper the cordial relations between the two police forces.

‘Any memories of a dodgy American around here in those days?’ he enquired as he attacked the food.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Meirion. ‘It was so long ago, I wasn’t even here then. And during and immediately after the war, the country was awash with Yanks.’

Hartnell sighed. ‘We’ll just have to play it by ear, then. Perhaps if he thinks that we know more than we really do, he’ll throw in the towel.’

The Welsh inspector doubted it. ‘Not if he thinks he’s being put in the frame for the murder. The prospect of a long drop at the end of short rope is a powerful incentive to keeping his mouth shut!’

James Brown, the former Jaroslav Beran, was not pleased to see them again, when they sat across the table from him in the dismal interview room. With his rather inert solicitor alongside him, he ranted in his fractured English about illegal imprisonment, threatening to sue everyone from the Queen downwards. Tom Rickman sat slightly behind the two detective inspectors and stared intently at the prisoner. As soon as there was a break in Beran’s tirade, the sergeant pointed a large forefinger towards the man.

‘I remember your face; they called you “Jimmy” around the boozers!’ he boomed. ‘When I was a beat constable in Handsworth, I helped nick you one night for drunk and disorderly. You were one of Mickey Doyle’s gang of thugs.’

Brown-Beran scowled, but made no reply, as the sergeant turned to Hartnell.

‘It’s him right enough, boss. A real nasty bit of work, he was.’

The solicitor opened his mouth to protest, then decided to close it again. Now Trevor Hartnell began the proceedings, referring to some brief notes before him.

‘Brown — or whatever you want to call yourself — you’re in deep trouble! Known to have been a criminal associate of Mickey Doyle in Birmingham, you’re found living within sight of a possible murder scene. In a van that belonged to you, we’ve found human blood, of a rare group that matches the dead body — and its head was found in the same part of Birmingham as that which witnesses say it was displayed by Doyle.’

He paused to let this sink in. ‘Now we have reason to suspect that the murdered man was another one of the same mob that you ran with, known as “Yank”, who seems to have vanished from Birmingham at about the time you came here.’

The DI was massaging the truth a little, but nothing he had said was actually false, and the lawyer found no objection to offer.

‘You attempted to escape from police questioning, which doesn’t fit well with your protests of innocence, so before you dig yourself deeper into the shit, I suggest that you tell us what you know.’

Beran chewed hard on his lower lip, staring down again at his big hands clasped before him on the table.

‘I want speak with this lawyer,’ he said abruptly.

Trevor Hartnell agreed, hopeful that this heralded a change of attitude. The police went into the corridor for a smoke, leaving him alone with the rather ineffectual young man who was supposed to be advising him on his legal rights.

‘Think he’s going to cough, boss?’ asked Tom Rickman.

‘He’s obviously thinking of it, or he wouldn’t be trying to find out from his brief which is the best way to jump.’

Meirion was scornful. ‘He won’t get much help from that chap — he’s hardly the smartest egg in the nest!’

The consultation was certainly short, as a few moments later, the constable who was standing inside the door of the interview room poked his head out to call them back inside.

The podgy, bespectacled solicitor addressed them as they sat down again.

‘Mr Brown is willing to make certain facts known, on the understanding that he denies any part in the death of the man found in Borth Bog.’

The Aberystwyth DI answered him, being the person technically the custodian of Jaroslav Beran.

‘We’ll hear what he has to say, but he can’t qualify it in any way. Anything he tells us will go on the record, whether to his favour or otherwise.’

This was another way of saying there were no deals on offer, and he turned to the Czech.

‘Right, just tell us what you know about this business. The sergeant here will be writing down all you say.’

Tom Rickman put his notebook and pen on the table before him and the solicitor had a yellow legal pad at the ready as Beran grudgingly began his story.

‘OK, I did some jobs for Doyle when I lived in Birmingham. I knew some other guys there; one was the Yank, as we called him.’

‘What was his name?’ interrupted Hartnell. ‘Was he really an American?’

‘We knew him as Josh Andersen, though God knows if it was his real name. Said he was from New Jersey.’

‘A deserter from the US forces?’

Beran shook his head.

‘He was a sailor who jumped ship in Liverpool in ’forty-two. Said he wasn’t going risk being killed on another convoy trip. So he just melted into wartime England.’

‘And like you, he turned to crime, working for Doyle?’

Beran stared sourly at Hartnell.

‘Not much crime, no heavy stuff. For two years, he was collector for Doyle, going round for protection money, tart’s takings and the cash from his gaming clubs.’

‘So where did you fit into all this?’ demanded Meirion.

Jaroslav hesitated; this was where he was entering dangerous territory.

‘Just before end of war, Doyle was easing off on the violent stuff like armed robbery and raiding shops. He went more for the black-market rackets and stealing from big houses out in countryside. He sent me down here to run a front business, with furnitures and stuff, so as to have an extra outlet for what was stolen.’

‘Like your shop here in Aberystwyth?’ suggested Hartnell.

‘Yeah, before that, I was moving around, like in fairs and markets, to be harder to spot by you bloody police.’

His accent became more marked as he became agitated, and he broke off to fumble in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. When he had drawn down his first lungful of smoke, he continued at a rush.

‘After a while, must have been late ’forty-four, Josh appeared here and I had to take him as assistant. I don’ know why, but Doyle wanted him out of Birmingham. I think police were making it too hot for him over something to do with protection money, maybe some punter complained too hard. Anyway, he stayed with me for couple months, then one day vanished back to the big city.’

He glowered at Trevor Hartnell. ‘You must know about his troubles, if you bobbies were breathing down his neck.’