‘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.’
The DI only wished he did and made a mental note to urgently get the records searched for the activities of a Josh Andersen eleven years earlier.
‘What happened next?’ growled Meirion Thomas, only half-willing to believe what Beran was telling them.
The Czech picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue as he considered his answer. He was getting perilously near the point of no return.
‘I rented cottage and a barn ten miles away, where stolen stuffs were stashed. Doyle paid the rent and one of his guys came down now and then to bring me new heists and pick up the money I made by sales. I also arranged for them to buy black-market food from farms, and spot places to steal animals, maybe fifty miles around. I used the van for all that.’
‘You were Doyle’s agent, then?’ summarized Hartnell. ‘But we haven’t heard a word about any dead body yet, so get to the point!’
This made Beran angry. ‘Look, you want me to talk, so I talk! And I already done two stretches for dealing in stolen goods, so you got no reason to bring that up again! Anything else like black market is years ago, and you got no evidence, mister!’
The detectives were unimpressed by his outburst, though the lawyer moved himself sufficiently to hold up a warning hand to his client.
Trevor Hartnell continued. ‘What about this Josh Andersen? How did he come to be dead, eh?’
Jaroslav seemed to deflate and he sank back on to his chair, then crushed out his half-smoked cigarette on the edge of the scarred table.
‘I said he had gone back, but a month later, two guys from Handsworth came late one night to my house. They had old Mercedes, which they said they’d nicked from a car park in Dudley. In boot was a body, trussed up like chicken, but with no head. They didn’t say anything much, except Mickey Doyle ordered me to get rid of it real good. They just dumped it in my back garden, and said that if it ever turned up again, Doyle would have me killed. Then they drove off and left me with the bloody thing.’
In spite of his earlier scepticism, Meirion Thomas felt that there was a ring of truth in the Czech’s voice.
‘So what did you do then?’
Beran looked sideways at the solicitor, who turned his palms up in despair, then plunged on with his confession.
‘What could I do? The guys went away and left me. I heard later they torched the Merc miles away, there must have been a pick-up car there for them.’
‘Are you telling us you buried the body on your own?’ grated Meirion.