One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  “I’ll finish cleaning the window space, then put this stuff back.”

  *

  Arthur Morrison got home at 5 o’clock. The three of them sat in the kitchen and had a council of war. They came to a consensus, uncomfortable though it was. Accepting that Harry did not kill Nick Hope, the realities then became confusing. Was Harry in the flat when the killing took place? If he was, what happened next? If he got to the flat after the killing and found the body, what did he do then? Both of those questions begged another. Why did Harry not contact the police? Which could be answered by the supposition that he did not need to, because he was never in the flat. Or at least, not in the flat around the time of the killing. So, finally... Did Harry know that Nick was dead? Maybe not. But if that was the case, then all supposition led back to the original double whammy. Why had Harry disappeared? And where to?

  “A girl maybe,” Grover suggested.

  “He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Ellie said. “At least, no one I know of.” She turned to her husband. “Arthur?”

  “He’s never talked to me about girls.”

  Grover tilted his chair back, put his hands in his pockets and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Trouble is,” he said, “the cops are in the driving seat. They may be as clueless about Harry’s whereabouts as we are. But they will have searched, photographed and printed the flat. They may have found something. They may already have some theories to work on.”

  He tilted the chair forward again, sat up and looked across the table.

  “We need an ace.”

  Ellie got to her feet.

  “We can think better on full stomachs. I managed to get some stewing steak today and made a casserole”

  “A feast,” Arthur said.

  “It just needs heating up,” Ellie said, then smiled. “I might even be able to find some peas.”

  Sharing a casserole, which was mostly meat and gravy and a spoonful of peas, with people who were no longer strangers, focused Grover’s thinking. He was in this, whatever this was, for good or ill. And hell, he had already joined one war when the odds were stacked against him. What was one more skirmish? He decided he was going to stay in Bristol, find Harry and see this through. Providing the US Army would let him. He needed to go back to Fairford and work it out.

  *

  Grover left the shop just after 7 o’clock that evening, to walk to Temple Meads in time to catch the 7.35 train to Swindon. Drivers at the Bristol Omnibus Company were working to rule because of a dispute over a proposed reorganisation of some routes and consequently, hours of work. The result was not proving to be as chaotic as the local branch of the union had hoped, but services were unreliable and slow.

  Dusk was settling, but the evening was warm. Grover walked north on to St John’s Lane and found his way to Victoria Park. He knew if he crossed the park, he would end up on the south bank of the river. And if he turned left there, it was just half a mile in a straight line to Cattle Market Road and Temple Meads. He warmed up as he moved on. He loosened his greatcoat and his uniform jacket as he crossed the park. The spring blossom looked gorgeous.

  There were half a dozen buskers gathered at the eastern end of Victoria Park, in the glow shed by a streetlight which had just switched on. Playing a passable version of Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade. It was never likely to trouble the legend himself – wherever he was – but the music sounded as it should and the dozen or so people gathered round and listened, tapped their feet and swayed their hips. Grover stopped and listened for a while. Until he remembered he had a train to catch. He tossed a two shilling piece into the bandleader’s cap. The man nodded ‘thanks’ from the other end of his clarinet. Grover turned away and moved on.

  *

  He stepped down from the train in Swindon at 8.30. He called the Motor Pool from a public phone box. Whelan drove to the station to pick him up. Back on the base, the first thing Grover did was walk over to 21st Infantry Admin, to arrange a meeting with Lieutenant Berger.

  Chapter Nine

  Bob Bridge was sitting at the dining room table, scraping marmalade on to his second slice of toast. The plan for the day was simple. Up early and into the office. Paperwork done by mid-morning. Then let the afternoon do its worst, so long as he got to Ashton Gate at 6.30.

  It was a derby game. Rovers’ away fixture against City, who they had outsmarted at Eastville earlier in the season. There would be grudges galore to settle. With two games to go until the end of the season, City were 15th in the table. The Gasheads were rejoicing in a much better effort and if they won on this day in history, they were likely to move up into the top six. Too late to challenge for promotion to Division 2, but nonetheless, a triumph over their bitter rivals.

  As he bit into the slice of toast, the phone rang.

  “The forensic pathologist wants to see us,” Goole said.

  Bridge looked at his watch. 7.45.

  “Right now?”

  “He’s done the post mortem. He said the results need to be discussed soonest. Asked us to meet him at the morgue.”

  Bridge took the receiver away from his cheek and stared at the wallpaper. At the other end of the line Goole spoke again.

  “You still there?”

  Bridge put the receiver back to his ear.

  “Yes, yes...”

  “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll take my own car. Meet you there in half an hour.”

  He put the phone receiver down and stared at it accusingly.

  “Bollocks.”

  *

  Walter Pilkington, Professor of Pathology at Bristol University, was one of the cleverest blokes in the city. Well into his sixties and built like Oliver Hardy, there was little he did not know about the human body. Although, recently, he had begun to ruminate on the unfortunate happenstance that the only bodies he worked on these days, were dead. He had been married four times. He had seven children and twelve grandchildren, with another two on the way. He could just about afford to retire – his definitive work on nerves and muscle structure was still in libraries and still selling well – but the stipend Bristol Constabulary paid him was worth the hours he had to put in. Even in the miserable operating room; an asbestos clad, corrugated iron roofed cavern behind the abattoir on the Bath Road Industrial Estate.

  “Good morning gentlemen,” he said, as Bridge and Goole walked in.

  “Hi Prof,” Goole said.

  “Walter,” Bridge managed to grunt.

  There was a peculiar, offensive smell in the place. The Prof pointed to the window at the end of the room. Beyond it, smoke was rising into the sky.

  “The abattoir has just fired up,” the Prof said.

  The window did not shut properly, the latch was broken. Bridge stared out at the smoke and shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “That is my Tuesday morning, disappearing over the horizon with its arse on fire.”

  The Prof waited until Bridge turned back to him.

  “Well actually...” he began, then gestured at the body on the slab. “This man’s... arse... is what I want to talk to you about.”

  Goole looked at Bridge. His boss stared at the sheet covering the body. “Ready?” the Prof asked.

  There was no response from either of the detectives.

  “Then I will begin,” he said. “Mr Hope was possibly homosexual. Either that, or he was normal and hiring out his arse for money. Or, God help him, he was sodomised without his consent.”

  The silence went on and on. The Prof waited. Goole spoke first.

  “How do you know this?”

  “The forensic examination indicates –”

  Bridge held up his hand and pointed at the corpse.

  “Is this... I mean... do you usually conduct so personal an examination?”

  “In cases like this, yes.”

  “Cases like what?” Goole asked.

  The Prof stepped to the table and pulled back the sheet. Nicholas Hope lay face down on the
table. He had been tidied up and washed, but the damage was there to see. The skin on his back was torn. There were dark heavy bruises across the buttocks.

  “I found congealed blood around the anus,” the Prof said. “And swollen tissue inside. There are no traces of semen, but... well, something has been in there.”

  He looked at the two detectives. Waited for them to absorb the information so far. They stared steadfastly back at him. He pointed to the bruises on Hope’s back.

  “Consistent with force applied by a hand, or smooth object.”

  He moved to the other end of the table. Reached down into the hair above Hope’s left ear.

  “And there is a shallow wound here. Not a gash or a tear. A kind of small crater.”

  “Inflicted by what?” Bridge asked.

  “The proverbial blunt instrument. The blow was rendered by something smooth, rather than sharp. But severe enough to render him unconscious.”

  Bridge, turned away from the table. Goole looked up at the Prof.

  “So?...”

  “I would say, he was knocked unconscious, beaten and then sodomised.”

  “Okay,” Goole said. He took a deep breath. “And can you tell...er...” He paused. Gathered his discomfort into another question. “Did all this take place before or post mortem?”

  “I am confident it all happened before he was killed. The throat wound was the cause of death and it was the last thing that happened to him.”

  “How do you know?” Bridge asked from across the room.

  The Prof reached down and manoeuvred Hope onto his back. He turned the upper part of the torso first, then the hips and the legs. The detectives were offered their second viewing of the slashed neck. The Prof pointed his right index finger at the wound.

  “He was alive until that was done.”

  Bridge stepped back to the table, in slow motion. The Prof continued.

  “So... Questions?”

  There was a long silence once more. Until Goole ventured an opinion.

  “Is it possible Nicholas Hope liked to be hurt and therefore consented to whatever was done to him?”

  “Go on...” the Prof said.

  “If the answer to that is yes, then...”

  Bridge, still staring down at the body, re-joined the conversation.

  “Was this done by someone Hope knew? Who then took him by surprise with the blow to the head? Or was he beaten, buggered and then killed by a person he didn’t know?”

  The Prof nodded at him. Goole caught up.

  “If that’s the case, the next question must be, did one person do all that alone, or did he have help?”

  “There’s no evidence to support that,” the Prof said. “His arms were tied behind his back at some point, but if he was unconscious at that time it would have needed no force. Merely the strength to move the body about. There are no other marks which would indicate he objected to what was happening and attempted to defend himself.”

  He looked into the faces of the detectives.

  “Potentially, there is a very unpleasant scenario here. A lot happened to Mr Hope in a very short time. All of it violent, sadistic and perverted. I have no wish to tell you how to do your jobs, but all this...” He looked down at the body once more, “... Needs thinking about.”

  Bridge leaned down close to the table and studied the neck wound seriously for the first time. It was five or six inches long, the neck sliced open from side to side. The flesh bordering the cut had curled back and crisped like an over baked pie crust. Empty veins and arteries had retracted deep into the wound cavity.

  “That slice was a swift, professional job,” Bridge heard the Prof say. “Done hard and fast. The knife blade was long and extremely sharp. Wielded by an expert.”

  “The killer knew what he was doing?”

  “Undoubtedly. Someone practised in the art. Not a random slasher.”

  “So, it’s reasonable to assume,” Bridge said, “that Nicholas Hope’s death was pre-meditated, regardless of the events which preceded it?”

  The Prof considered for a moment or two.

  “It is reasonable to assume so, yes. Oh, and something else. The killer was left handed.”

  Both detectives looked at the Prof. He grinned in delight and went on to explain.

  “The cut runs from right to left.”

  “Can you be sure of that?” Bridge asked

  “Yes. The cut is deeper where it begins, then becomes shallower as the knife blade stops travelling and is pulled away from the throat. The deep end is to the right.”

  Bridge nodded and looked down at the wound again. Goole dredged up another question.

  “But doesn’t that assume Hope was facing his killer when it happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose he wasn’t? Suppose he was cut from behind. Slashed by the killer’s right hand. From his left to the right. From our right to left as we’re looking at it.”

  The Prof shook his head.

  “Let me demonstrate.” He looked along the bench behind him and picked a wooden ‘ahh’ stick from a box. “We use these to poke around in mouths,” he said.

  He held the stick in his left hand and stood in front of Goole.

  “Take your jacket off and unfasten your tie.”

  Goole did as he was told. The Prof pressed the stick into the left hand side of Goole’s neck – his right as he looked at it – and stroked it horizontally.

  “How did that feel?”

  “It went from strong pressure to light.”

  “Correct. Now turn around.”

  Goole did. The Prof transferred the stick to his right hand, reached around the sergeant’s shoulders and pulled the stick across his neck from left to right.

  “And that time?”

  “If anything, the pressure was stronger at the end.”

  “Right,” the Prof said. “The blade pressure increases as the slice goes on because the right handed killer pulls the knife back towards him.”

  He flicked the ‘aah’ stick onto the bench.

  “I assure you gentlemen, Mr Hope was facing his killer. Who was left handed.”

  Goole began to fasten his tie again. The Prof had a final piece of advice to impart. He began by asking how much blood was at the scene.

  “A lot,” Goole said.

  “Was there a pattern to it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The Prof explained.

  “The blood comes out of that kind of wound under tremendous pressure. Even if the victim is unconscious. There’s a lot of bits in the neck. Carotids, jugulars...”

  “There was blood all over the sofa cushions,” Goole said

  “Pools of it, or patterns?”

  “Erm...” Goole tried to conjure up the picture.

  “Have you got your crime scene forensic reports yet?”

  “Promised for tomorrow morning,” Bridge said.

  “So bear this in mind when you’re reading them. Blood doesn’t seep out of a wound like this. It sprays out. Like water out of a shower head. You’ve seen a dog shake himself after coming out of the sea. The water arcs through the air and leaves patterns where it lands. The blood from Mr Hope’s neck would have done that. Check it out. The poor sod must have bled out on that sofa. So bear in mind, whoever did this, must have got blood on himself as well. He would have needed to clean himself up, go home and wash, then to be secure, burn everything he was wearing.”

  “So the chances are,” Bridge said, “regardless of how careful he was, he must have left some signs of his presence in the flat.”

  “More than likely, I would say.”

  The Detectives shook hands with the Prof and left. In the street outside the morgue, they sat in Bridge’s car.

  “These people aren’t normal,” Goole said

  “Murderers come in all shapes and sizes and states of mind.”

  “I mean queers.”

  Bridge stared him. Goole corrected himself.

  “Homosexuals...
I mean, fucking somebody up the...”

  He stopped. Bridge continued looking at him and saying nothing. Goole took his time and finally constructed a reasoned sentence.

  “It’s against nature and against the law.”

  “Against the law certainly,” Bridge said. “But what the hell is normal these days?”

  “Not that surely?”

  “You ought to try and widen your horizons Tom.”

  Goole looked at his boss; bemused by his attitude. There was something else here.

  “Have you come across a case like this before?” he asked.

  Bridge nodded. “Once. My first case as a DC. Twenty years ago.”

  “Christ... Some introduction to the job.”

  “There was a difference or two. To begin with, the man hanging upside down from a meat hook was not homosexual. He was a deranged ex-forger, who thought he could make some money by blackmailing a couple of queers. Had to be simple, he reasoned. A couple of nancy boys would cough up. They’d be too terrified not to. It backfired on him. One of them was the second cousin of a gang leader, Charlie Powers.”

  “And he fixed it?”

  “Cheered up the crime figures too. Crimes involving homosexuals and blackmailers dropped to zero.”

  “Is he still around? Powers I mean.”

  “Died in Broadmoor during the war.”

  Bridge looked at his watch. 20 minutes past 9. The day was marching on and he was way behind schedule already.

  Goole changed the subject.

  “What about Harry Morrison?” he asked. “We ought to check out how much evidence there is of him in the flat.”

  Still looking at his watch, Bridge responded. “Yes, we should do that.”

  He was working through his projected time table. Goole was working on something else.

  “And we ought to go round to Gladstone Street again. Search Harry Morrison’s bedroom. Might find something.”

  Bridge was now looking out through the windscreen.

  “Boss?...”

  Bridge blew out his cheeks. He thumped the steering wheel.

  “What’s the matter?”