Drink With The Devil

by David Woods

  “You’re Simpson, aren’t you?”

  “No, my name is Powell.”

  “Why did you hang up on me, then?”

  “I read about you in the papers and was frightened off.”

  Jim watched his face and eyes while he spoke. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “It’s true. Please believe me.”

  “Show me your driving licence, then.”

  Simpson’s expression dropped even further. “I can’t. It’s away for a change of address.

  Jim was getting angry and grabbed the man by his dirty shirt. “You’re a liar. Now tell me the truth.”

  “So, I’m Simpson. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Jim sat him on a chair and growled. “I want the truth about your involvement in the fire on my building site. And what you were doing on the school site, asking questions about me.”

  “I can’t say anything about the fire. If I did my life would be worthless.”

  “Your life’s pretty worthless now. You had to run away once. Are you going to do it again? How long before someone catches up with you?”

  Simpson looked down at the floor and nearly cried. “They’ll kill me.”

  “If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll save them the job.”

  “No. Please don’t.”

  “Speak up, then.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Right. I’m going to throw you out of this window.” In spite of his considerable weight, Jim picked up the man with considerable ease.

  Simpson struggled but had no chance, as arms like steel girders carried him towards the window. “I’ll talk,” he spluttered.

  Jim lowered him down, and watched as he mopped his brow and regained a certain amount of composure.

  “What d’you want to know?” Simpson croaked.

  “Firstly, who killed Bridger and set light to my show house?”

  “They’ll kill me,” Simpson persisted.

  “No, they won’t.”

  “It was Charlie Chatfield and his mate.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Brixton somewhere. Near the big pub in the main street.”

  “Does he drink in this pub?”

  “Yes, regularly.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Can’t remember. It may be the Dog and something.”

  “How were you involved with the murder?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “You were the intended victim.”

  “I know. But what part did you play?”

  “I supplied information to another party about your movements, and that was all.”

  “What other party?”

  “A man ’phoned and sent me money. I supplied him with the information on the ’phone, so I don’t know who it was.”

  “What about the previous time?”

  “Same arrangement.”

  “You’d better be telling me the truth.”

  “I am. I swear it.”

  Jim watched the frightened man shake with fear and felt sorry for him. “I believe you, but don’t move on, as I may want to talk to you again.”

  “I’ll have to move or Chatfield’ll kill me.”

  “I won’t tell him where you are, so stay put.” Pleased to have progressed so well, but sorry to have frightened the pathetic man, Jim pressed a fiver into his podgy hand and left.

  The next morning was a dark and foggy one, with not a puff of wind to move the moisture laden air, and Jim drove to Brixton. As he walked along the main street, he felt depressed at the sight of dirty cars and lorries travelling slowly through the murky air, and all the shops, buildings and roads looked filthy.

  He found what he thought must be the pub, a grey building with dirty windows, and he walked around the area deciding to have lunch in a cafe opposite. The food was greasy and cold and the tea yellow, so he ate a little and pushed it away. A few customers went through the pub’s black front door but not one he recognised. After lunch he drove to Central London where he found a shop selling theatrical costumes. He purchased a false beard, wig and plain glasses and put them on, not recognising himself. He kept the disguise on to visit the Brixton pub that evening.

  The barman gave him a strange look and served up a pint of shandy. He sat in a dark corner and observed his surroundings, which was difficult due to the poor light. The only illumination was above the bar, but when his eyes had adjusted he discovered the whole place was filthy. The floor had not been swept for days, the brown ceiling had business and visiting cards stuck to it with pins and the old wooden furniture was stained with liquor.

  A group of four men sat huddled together talking in low tones and, as the evening progressed, men arrived mainly in couples and sat together engrossed in each other’s company. The pub was filling up with only standing room left, and Jim was puzzled by the customers; all very friendly towards one another with not one woman amongst them. When he looked down at the dirty floor he thought I don’t blame them for not wanting; to come here.

  It was nearly closing time, and when Jim got up to stretch his legs and relieve his aching backside, a small man nudged him. “Hey, big boy. Come home with me.”

  Jim suddenly realised what sort of pub he was in, pushed the little fellow away and walked out into the thick fog. He stood outside and a man heading for the door bumped into him and apologised.

  “Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you.”

  Jim instantly recognised the voice. Sergeant Pratt! He stood aside and let the man into the pub. What’s he doing here, Jim thought, nearly following him inside but deciding it would be better to wait until drinking up time in ten minutes, when all of the men would come out. He stood in a shop doorway wondering why Pratt was visiting this pub so late —perhaps he was looking for Chatfield as well. After all, that was what he was supposed to be doing, and he convinced himself that was the explanation.

  He carried on watching the pub’s front door and, after five minutes, men started leaving, some walking hand in hand. Jim smiled to himself, thinking perhaps they thought no one could see them. Another five minutes went by, the last man left and Jim heard the door being bolted. He walked out of the shadows and, looking up at the pub’s first floor windows, he wondered where Pratt had gone. The lights were on but curtains obscured his view, and after a few more minutes the bar lights went out, but still Pratt had not emerged.

  Jim wondered if he was in trouble and walked around the side of the pub into total darkness, feeling his way along a brick wall until he came to a wooden door which opened with a creak. He walked down two steps to a back yard, a light in the pub’s rear kitchen partly illuminating the area, which was strewn with empty bottle crates, barrels and all kinds of rubbish. He picked his way carefully towards the window and peered through to see the barman was making tea. He placed three cups on a tray and then carried the teapot towards the back door, staring at the dregs as he swirled them around in the bottom. He pushed the door open and threw the tea leaves on to the ground. Jim seized his opportunity, grabbing the man’s outstretched arm and pulling him outside. He had no chance to yell, as Jim punched him hard under the chin and he collapsed in the rubbish.

  Jim walked in and picked up the tray, easily finding the stairs and walked up quietly making his way towards the sound of classical music. The floorboards creaked loudly outside a door from which the music was coming, and a voice called out. “Come on ’arry. Where ’ave yer bin?”

  Jim pushed the door open, walked into a large ornate bedroom and was shocked by the sight of two naked men lying on a bed.

  Chatfield shouted. “Who the ’ell’s that?”

  “Your tea, Sir,” said Jim mockingly.

  Pratt leapt to his feet and spluttered. “It’s that bastard, Grainger. I can recognise his horrible voice.” He bellowed and launched himself at Jim, who threw the tea and tray in his face. Pratt screamed as the hot sticky liquid got in his eyes and burnt his face, which he buried in
the bedclothes.

  Chatfield measured his attack and struck Jim on the shoulder with his heavy fist. As Jim leapt to one side he pulled off his beard, threw down his glasses and crouched ready for his opponents next assault, which came in the form of a blow to the side of his head. Jim fell on the bed dazed and Chatfield jumped on him, but Jim recovered and wrestled the man to the floor. The two big men grunted and struggled for a minute, but Jim’s superior strength overpowered his opponent and Chatfield was pinned down, helpless. Pratt lashed out with his foot, striking Jim’s ear, which dazed him and he toppled over, allowing Chatfield to recover. Jim looked up to find the two naked men staring down at him, and Chatfield grinned as he said, “I’m going to kill you very slowly.”

  Pratt’s high-pitched laugh brought Jim back to reality. His ear ached and the sight of the two men leering at him made him feel sick and frightened at the desperate situation he was in. Chatfield reached out and opened a small drawer in a dressing table. He pulled out a long thin-bladed knife, and as Jim’s right hand rested on a loose rug on the floor he pulled it sharply, the two men toppling backwards and allowing Jim to get up.

  Chatfield recovered first, the grin having disappeared from his face which was set firm with determination, and he crouched with the knife in his hand, ready to strike. Jim grabbed a pillow and moved slowly forward. Chatfield lashed out at the pillow, causing the feathers to scatter, and Jim threw the pillow with the remaining feathers at him, making him choke and splutter. Jim grabbed his wrist and thrashed it down on the dressing table. The knife fell to the floor and Pratt dived for it but misjudged Jim’s boot which landed behind his ear. Jim punched Chatfield hard in the stomach and watched him collapse. Pratt was recovering and managed to stand up before receiving a brain-jarring blow to his chin, and he fell on to the bed unconscious.

  Jim helped Chatfield to his feet before landing another heavy punch in the guts and he cried out as his legs buckled. Deciding that Pratt would be no further trouble, Jim stood back and looked at Chatfield lying on the floor clutching his stomach and groaning. Jim stood over him. “I want the truth about Bridger’s murder.”

  “Go to ’ell!” was the muted response.

  Jim grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back and then gripped his hand. “Now tell me the truth, or I’ll break your hand.” No reply. Jim squeezed the big hand until it cracked and Chatfield yelled. Jim relaxed a little and said softly, “The truth, or you’ll never use your hand again,”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “I was paid to kill you, but Bridger got it instead.”

  “I know all that. But who paid you?”

  “A fat bloke called Simpson.”

  “Oh yes. And who paid him?”

  “I don’t know, but I saw his car. A new Jag.”

  “Simpson says he didn’t pay you and I’d rather believe him than you.”

  “Go to ’ell, you bastard!”

  Jim squeezed the hand with all his strength and produced two more sickly cracks. Chatfield yelled again and said, “It’s true. Simpson set the deal up.”

  “I see. What about the Osborne murders?”

  “Nothing to do with me.”

  Jim dropped the broken hand and grabbed the other, applying considerable pressure. Chatfield nearly wept. “No, no, not again.”

  “The truth, Chatfield.”

  “I was there with the Briggs’ boys. We killed them.”

  “Okay. I believe you.”

  Jim kept the pressure on Chatfield’s good hand, twisted his arm up his back and forced him to crawl towards the bedside telephone. He rang the police and explained the situation, and then allowed Chatfield to lay face down on the bed beside Pratt, who was recovering and groaning. The two men lay close together, Pratt turning his head towards Chatfield and whimpering, “We’re finished.”

  Chatfield’s squeaky voice replied. “Yes, I’m sorry.” They lay still studying each other’s faces and Pratt with tears in his eyes. Jim looked away not wishing to intrude on their silent communication.

  They were still in this position when the police entered led by Chief Inspector Green, who looked at the naked pair and then at Jim. He grinned. “Friendly, aren’t they?”

  “You could say that.”

  The two men dressed in silence, Chatfield having difficulty, and the Chief allowed Pratt to help. Then he looked closely at Chatfield’s hand and remarked to Jim. “Must’ve got caught in the door. Shame!”

  “Yes. Nasty injury, that.”

  “And of course the other hand could get caught if we don’t get the truth.”

  “Very true.”

  The two frightened-looking men sat on the bed and made statements, Chatfield admitting he killed Bridger and naming his accomplice. He also admitted his part in the Osborne murders and robbery, while Pratt admitted shielding his lover from prosecution. Uniformed officers took the two men away and the chief inspector shook Jim’s hand.

  “Thanks for finding him. I didn’t suspect Pratt.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  “Now I must pick up Simpson. I take it you found him?”

  “Yes I did, but I need to talk to him before you lock him up.”

  “I’ll give you an hour’s start. Where does he live?”

  Jim gave him the address and directions, which the Chief noted and then said, “I suppose you want to find out who paid to have you killed?”

  “Exactly. But I’m not sure Simpson knows who supplied the money.”

  “He may not. Now Jim, I don’t want to find Simpson with a crushed hand when I get there. It wouldn’t look good if all the suspects appear in the dock with their hands in plaster.”

  “Not necessary with Simpson. He’s already scared stiff.” He walked downstairs to find the barman sitting in the kitchen nursing a sore chin. He left and ran along the murky street to his pick-up.

  The journey to Kingston was slow and demanded intense concentration through the dense fog, but at last he arrived outside the block of flats and ran up the stairs. He thumped on the door and listened, but not a sound came from inside. He thumped even harder, rattling the fittings, but still no one came so he shouldered the door open, breaking the lock. He looked around the living room, then marched through into the bedroom and turned on the light to find Simpson curled up in bed with a pillow over his head. Jim looked at the body under the bedclothes, trembling with fear, grabbed the pillow and pulled it away.

  Simpson’s eyes were tightly closed as he whimpered “Please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell him.”

  “I won’t kill you unless you tell me lies like the last time.”

  Simpson’s eyes opened slowly and he spoke with a shaky voice. “It’s you again. I thought it was Chatfield come to kill me.”

  “He’s safely locked up.”

  “Oh good.” His relief was visible as he sat and looked sternly at Jim. He spoke in a clearer voice. “Did you find him?”

  “Yes and I got the truth out of him.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Painfully.”

  Simpson winced. “What d’you want to know?”

  “The truth about who paid to have me killed.”

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  “Chatfield told me you were paid by a man driving a new Jag. Now tell me the truth or you’ll have your foot broken.” Jim fished under the bedclothes and gripped the man’s right foot hard.

  Simpson cried out in pain. “His name is Garry Osborne.”

  “How much did he pay?”

  “Five thousand in cash.”

  Jim released him and sat still thinking, as Simpson rubbed his foot. Then he broke the silence. “The police’ll be here in a minute. Chatfield named you in his statement.”

  Simpson groaned and stopped rubbing his foot. “Oh, my God,” he whimpered.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now listen to me. You will
not, under any circumstances, name Osborne as the paymaster. Tell them you didn’t meet and have no idea who he is.”

  “But why not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “I’d like to keep it secret myself. You never know when that information will come in useful in the future.”

  “I agree. Now get dressed.”

  The Chief Inspector arrived soon after with his men and took Simpson’s statement. He looked at Jim who was sitting in one of Simpson’s armchairs. “So you didn’t find out who the person is, then?”

  “No. He must have been very careful.”

  “Yes. And it means you’ll still have to be very vigilant.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Simpson seemed almost relieved to be escorted away. The Chief watched him leave and remarked. “I see Simpson has a limp.”

  “Foot and mouth disease, I expect.”

  “I gather it also affects hands?”

  “So I believe.”

  “Be careful, Jim.”

  “I will.”

  He drove home and parked as a glimmer of light began to filter through the fog. It was dawn and he was shattered. He washed, had a cup of tea and fell into bed thinking about the previous night’s events. He hoped Simpson would get off lightly and Chatfield a full life sentence, where he could do no more harm.

  His feelings about Chatfield were reinforced as he walked downstairs to an empty kitchen, where Rosie would have been cooking a superb meal if she were alive, and they would have chatted happily over a cup of coffee. He left the furniture and fittings exactly as Rosie liked them, with her favourite armchair still remaining in the best place by the fire. He spent the rest of the day doing odd jobs around the house, as he thought about his future and why Osborne would want him dead.

  Monday morning was bright and clear, with a few clouds moving slowly across the blue sky. Jim rang Osbornes, but was informed that Garry was at Blakesbuild. He thought about ringing there, but decided to go and visit him straightaway. He parked his filthy pick-up in the visitors car park and marched into the office. The receptionist looked him up and down, gazing at his large boots and working clothes.