by Jeff Dowson
“The son of the couple who own the shop...You remember the shop?”
“Yes.”
“Their son Harry is in trouble.”
“Serious trouble?”
“He’s been charged with murder.”
Zoe sat upright in her chair and looked straight into Grover’s eyes. He matched the look, not blinking.
“A friend of his,” he said. “A guy he’s known a long time.”
“What have the police got?”
“The murder weapon, Harry’s knife. His blood-stained finger prints on his friends’ shirt. A bloody shoe print which matches the sole of Harry’s right boot.”
“That’s not good,” Zoe said.
“And it’s not all. The killer was left handed. So is Harry. And he has no alibi for the time of the killing. Or rather, he’s making one up. An evening at the movies. Whatever he was really doing...”
“Assuming that he did not kill his friend...”
“Yes... Whatever he was really doing, he doesn’t want to explain.”
Zoe took a couple of breaths.
“If Harry won’t help, this could be what you and your fellow countrymen call a done deal,” she said.
Grover swallowed another mouthful of Golden Badger.
“Will you defend him?”
Zoe picked up her gin and tonic and drained the glass. She stared beyond Grover, towards the basin and the traffic.
“Ed...” was all she managed to say.
Grover waited a while, then he tried again.
“We’ll do this properly. Instruct whoever we have to instruct to hand you the gig. Your chambers, is that the right word?”
“Chambers yes.”
Zoe continued to stare past him. Grover waited and watched. It seemed this would take forever. In the end, she switched focus back to him.
“Three things...” she said. “The man is called the Clerk to the Chambers and the court you refer to is the local Assize Court.”
She stopped talking. Grover picked up his cue.
“That’s two things. What’s number three?”
“Yes. I will defend Harry.”
Grover breathed in, dropped his chin onto his chest, breathed out, then looked up again, into Zoe’s eyes.
“Thank you,”
“Providing,” she said, “we can make something out of this alibi nonsense. Without a story the jury can be coerced into believing, we may as well not bother. Where is Harry right now?”
“He’s in a cell at the Bridewell.”
“And presumably he appears before the Magistrates in the morning.”
“So I’m told yes.”
“Who will boot it straight up to the Assize Court.”
“The what court?”
Grover looked puzzled. Zoe considered how best to explain.
“Erm... Like the circuit judge in the westerns,” she said. “Turning up in Tombstone every couple of months and setting up his courtroom in the saloon. In this case, the Assize Court.”
“And every case ends up going in that direction does it?”
“Every serious one, yes. And the next Assizes schedule opens nine days from today.”
“So that’s how long we have to prepare Harry’s defence?”
“You have seven days. I need a couple of days to get everything into shape. So... I will talk to my favourite solicitor. She will formally accept a request from the Morrisons to work for them. She will then offer the defence to our Chambers. The Clerk will give the brief to me and pass whatever was on the way to my desk to another barrister. All this will take a day or two.”
“Can we get Harry out on bail?”
Zoe shook her head.
“Not from the Magistrates Court. Bail can only be granted by a Judge. Murder is a capital offence, so we will have to wait until Harry is on his way to the Assize Court.”
“And we’ll have a chance then?”
“No more than that. Bail is never granted to someone charged with murder, unless the Judge believes there is no risk of the offender disappearing or committing another offence in the meantime.”
“Harry’s not been in court before.”
“That might help, but don’t count on it. And the police will oppose bail regardless.”
Grover downed the rest of his beer with some purpose.
“Right,” he said. “What can I do?”
“Support the family and persuade Harry to talk.”
“I can do more than that. I can be the gumshoe.”
“The what?”
“The shamus, the private dick. Paul Drake. The guy who –”
Zoe waved at him.
“Alright, I understand. He’s the private investigator who digs up the stuff that Perry Mason goes into court with. But he’s not real.”
“A lot of Americans believe he is.”
Zoe picked up her glass, drained it and looked straight at him. “Alright Ed... I can’t instruct you in the way I can an outdoor clerk, but I can lend you one. Off the books.”
“A what?”
“An outdoor clerk.”
“Works outdoors I guess.”
“On chambers business. On direct instructions from the barrister, in this case me. Take advice from him before you do anything. And if you find something relevant to the defence, take it to him. Don’t do anything unilaterally. Don’t take the law into your own hands and don’t tamper with evidence. At best, you’ll render it inadmissible, at worst, you’ll be charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. Capiche?”
It was Grover’s turn to smile. “Roger, wilco.”
“So what positives do you have to offer at this moment?”
“A list of telephone numbers I found in Harry’s bedroom. Hidden away. The cops missed it.”
Grover pulled the folded sheet of paper from a jacket pocket and passed it across the table. Zoe unfolded it, scanned the list and took a long look at the initials.
“The easiest way to find out who these people are would be to ring the numbers. However, I presume we don’t want to do that.”
“We may have to,” he said. “But not until we’ve figured out how to deal with surprises.”
“How many of those numbers do you think belong to citizens without a stain on their character?” Zoe asked.
“Probably none of them. Given that the list was not supposed to be found.” He downed the remains of his IPA. “Okay, you’re the brains. Start us off.”
Zoe looked at the list again.
“Alright, the first one. H. It’s reasonable to assume that’s Nicholas Hope’s number. Yes?”
“It’s probably the number of the coin box in the hall at 5 Blenheim Villas.”
“And the second one, B...”
“Could be Roly Bevan.”
“Who? The Roly Bevan?”
“Unfortunately.”
Zoe looked at Grover with a degree of concern.
“What does Harry have to do with Roly Bevan?” she asked.
“No idea. But Nick worked for him.”
“Doing what?”
“Anything he was told to do apparently.”
“And Nick was Harry’s best mate,” she said. “It’s not difficult to make a connection is it? But Roly Bevan...”
She looked at the list again.
“Surnames beginning with C, F, Z and W,” she said. Then something clicked into place. “The last but one number... There’s a night club behind the Colston Hall. El Paradis. The owner operator is a Maltese called Daniel Zampa.”
“Why would Harry have that number?”
“There you go. That’s a job for Paul Drake.”
“Are you a frequenter of night clubs?” he asked.
“No. But I deal with people who are. I have prosecuted and defended all sorts, from boardrooms to back streets. In this world, Ed, there are heroes and villains. And then there are members of El Paradis. The place is a hangout for the high and the low and the denizens of underground Bristol. It is more exclusive than a
Freemason’s lodge. And Daniel Zampa is a keeper of secrets.”
She stood up.
“We need a copy of the Business Pages. The pub will have one.”
She led Grover into the lounge and borrowed the landlord’s directory. They sat at a corner table and looked through it. Checked out night clubs. There were two numbers for El Paradis. One of them was the number on Harry’s list. Zoe looked at Grover.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“What do you recommend?”
“An introduction to El Paradis. I’ll organise a couple of guest tickets.”
“You can do that?”
Zoe shrugged.
“I’ve managed to keep a significant proportion of Zampa’s membership out of jail over the years. My credit rating is five star. You can be my new best friend, on his best behaviour. As opposed to a gumshoe looking for a lead.”
“So are you asking me out on a date?”
“If that’s what it takes to get you in the door.”
“Dressed like this?”
“Is it the best you can do?”
“It’s all I can do.”
She looked at him long and hard. Then she led Grover back to the bar and asked the landlord if she could use his phone. She picked up the receiver, dialled a number and leaned against the bar.
“Neil,” she said. “How tall are you?”
She listened to the response, looked at Grover and asked him how tall he was. He told her, she relayed the information to Neil, then looked at Grover again.
“Chest?”
“Forty-two.”
Zoe passed that on and listened again. She said “Good,” then asked Grover for his collar size.
“Er... fifteen and a half.”
Apparently that was alright with Neil too. There was another request.
“Inside leg?”
“What?”
“Inside leg.”
“I don’t recall. Thirty-three, thirty-four”
Zoe took a step back and examined Grover from the waist down.
“Yes, probably.” She spoke into the receiver again. “Thirty-three or thirty-four.”
There was another two bars rest, then she looked back at Grover.
“Shoe size?” she asked.
“Nine,” Grover said.
“Nine,” Zoe repeated down the phone.
She listened again, nodded a couple of times and smiled.
“Thank you Neil.”
She put the receiver in its cradle and pushed the phone back along the bar.
“Who was that?” Grover asked.
“Neil Adkins. Clerk to the Chambers.”
“I take it, he’s lending me a suit and a pair of dancing shoes.”
“I’ll pick you up at half eight.”
Chapter Fifteen
Against the odds, Grover managed to look presentable in his borrowed suit of clothes. He did a twirl in the kitchen at Gladstone Street. And looked again at Zoe in her little black dress.
“You look like a Duchess about to go out to dinner with the gardener.”
“Not the man about town exactly,” Zoe said. “But a fair imitation.”
“You’ll do,” Ellie said.
“The braces have done the trick,” Arthur said.
Grover opened his jacket, undid the buttons on his waistcoat and spread his arms wide. To reveal the pair of braces he had borrowed from Arthur, holding the waist band of his trousers up as far as his ribcage. Zoe was completely unfazed.
“Just don’t do that at any point in the evening,” she said.
“Have a good time,” Ellie said.
Zoe turned to her.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then we’ll go through what you can expect tomorrow morning.”
Ellie stepped close to Arthur. He put an arm around her shoulders. She nodded at Zoe. Arthur said ‘thank you’. Zoe ushered Grover out of the kitchen.
El Paradis was at the end of a row of dwellings running from the Colston Hall stage door towards the top of Christmas Steps.
The owner operator, Daniel Zampa, was in his mid 40s. Tall and wide shouldered, with jet black hair, black eyes and all the confidence of a very smooth operator. And a look on his face which said ‘Don’t argue, this is how it is’. Born in Valetta, the only son of a Bristol nurse and a Maltese con artist who met in 1915. The family left Malta for Bristol when Daniel was five years old. Zampa père did well between the wars. Converted a two roomed billiards hall into a basement drinking den and set up a protection business; which flourished until the night he was bludgeoned to death in an alleyway behind the Gaumont cinema on Baldwin Street.
Zampa stepped into his father’s shoes and made them fit. He was as bright as his father had been frightening, and those who had ordered the killing were found swiftly and dealt with. He converted the billiards hall into a night club, and as soon as the war arrived, did the place up, re-painted the front door and jacked up the prices. Nothing like a war to boost the entertainment business. The beer was watered down and the whisky far more expensive than the pretensions of the place justified.
Despite being half Maltese, he was called up in 1942. Whereupon, he paid £250 to the examining doctor to stamp his certificate unfit for service because of a heart murmur. Giving no thought to the heroics of his aunts and uncles and cousins in the middle of the Mediterranean, managing to put up a hell of struggle against Hitler’s dive bombers.
Zampa was an equal opportunity exploiter. Membership of El Paradis was open to anyone with money to spend; regardless of class, creed, culture, skin colour or sexual orientation. ‘No one gets turned away from here,’ he would say. ‘High or low, bent or straight. But everyone pays for his drinks.’ All the punters knew what he meant. No questions were asked as long as their money was good. The lights were low and the nature of the clientele never an issue. Discretion was assured at all times, but the implied threat was clear. And nobody, but nobody, welched on their tab.
Zoe parked the Riley and led the way uphill along the cobbled back street to the door of El Paradis. There was a red and gold striped canopy over the payment stretching from the club door to the edge of the road. Six feet wide and all of four feet long. Leroy Winston, dressed in black trousers, matching double-waisted jacket, white shirt and a big winged bow tie, was standing underneath it. He smiled at Zoe and Grover.
“Good evening Mrs Easton.”
“And to you Leroy.”
Zoe introduced Grover. Winston inclined his head gracefully, stepped back, pushed the door open, stepped aside and waved his clients into the club.
The lobby was ten feet square, wood panelled and painted dark red. There were two doors to the right. One featured a central panel with a lady flamenco dancer in a swirling red skirt above the word Bailaoras. The other, her dancing partner in a tight black suit and Cuban heels, bore the legend Caballeros. To the left was a cloakroom counter. Behind the counter a Hostess, the flamenco dancer opposite made flesh. Behind the Hostess, two metal curtain racks on castors with coats on hangers. And behind the coats, a mural of a stubby-grassed hillside dotted with long spiky cacti, Mediterranean palms and white walled villas. The management had really gone to town on the Spanish theme.
Grover had no coat. Zoe gave up hers and was handed a cloakroom ticket with a nuclear powered smile. The custodian of the double doors leading into the lounge was much less attractive than Leroy and the Hostess. His jacket fitted his massive shoulders well enough, but his face looked like he had run into a wall at speed. He grabbed the right hand door, pulled it back and nodded Zoe and Grover into the lounge.
Which was a riot of faux Spanish fantasy.
The mural on the cloakroom wall paled into insignificance. There was another one in the lounge, encompassing the whole three hundred and sixty degrees of all four walls, doors, entrances and exits. The terraces of a bullfight arena, in a kind of trompe l’oeil. The excitement happened on what was supposed to be the floor of the arena. Dancing in the centre, tables on th
ree sides and the band stage against the fourth wall. There were two doors in the corner to the right of the band stage. One had a green emergency exit sign above it, the other a plate on the face, saying ‘private’. The doors to the bar were on the wall to the left of the stage. Xavier Carrera and his seven piece Rumba Band were swinging their way through Mambo Jambo. Six of the musicians were black. The drummer, the base player, the saxophonist, the guitarist, the banjo player and the pianist. The sole white guy played clarinet. Xavier, real name Elijah Eugene Carson, was a huge Trinidadian in a white tuxedo, swivelling his hips centre stage and conducting with a pair of maracas. A couple of years earlier, he and four of his black compatriots had stepped off the Windrush and straight onto a series of trains to the West Country. Where they had linked up with the drummer, an American cousin, who had been in the 101st Airborne during the war and had subsequently settled in Bristol.
“Xavier thinks he’s Edmundo Ros,” Zoe said into Grover’s left ear. Probably the only other Trinidadian born bandleader in England, Ros had successfully challenged the British class system and become Britain’s number one acceptable ‘spade’. He was an accomplished musician, whose work had stormed the colour bar and who currently had residencies in London. At Mayfair’s Embassy Club and Picadilly’s Bagatelle Club during the week and Regent’s Street’s Coconut Grove at the weekends. The Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret had danced there. Recently, Edmundo had blitzed the British Isles, touring dance halls with Carmen Miranda.
Lindy Hop was blue collar. Latin American was up-market and the heartbeat of posh club land.
The band swung into I Yi Yi Yi I Like You Very Much. And the rest of the clientele at the tables, rose and flooded on to the floor. Xavier was knocking them dead in Bristol, like Edmundo was in the Metropolis.
A Hostess, dressed like a Tiller Girl, tapped Grover’s elbow. He and Zoe followed her to a table in a half moon shaped alcove between the stage and the doors to the bar. They shuffled behind the table and sat down on the padded red banquette. Grover had never been in a place like this before. He supposed that ordering drinks came next. He wondered what kind of drinks a place like this pedalled. The Hostess solved the problem for him.
“Your drinks are on their way,” she said and swayed back across the lounge.
