by Jeff Dowson
Grover opened the Chevy driver’s door and held out the car keys. Hammer Man glared balefully at him. Mel stepped to Grover’s side and looked at Hammer Man, who was now attempting to get the ignition key into the lock.
“I know him,” Mel said. “Walter Scardale.”
Scardale muttered “Fuck off” and slammed the driver’s door closed.
Mel went on. “He works for Rodney Pride. Rodney has three American cars. The Chevrolet, a Buick and a Pontiac Torpedo Coupe. That one he drives exclusively. The others are used to impress his customers and make his competitors nervous. And for work, by Walter and his mates.”
The Chevy fired up. Scardale gunned the motor and the Chevy roared away, cutting the corner at the end of the street. The back of the car fishtailed out of sight.
Grover turned back to Mel. Then nodded at the shop door.
“Protection,” he said.
“Yes.”
Mel led the way into the shop. She asked Ellie how far the negotiations had got.
“A demand for money,” Ellie said. “Seventy-five pounds a month. Which was followed by the demonstration there.”
She nodded at the broken glass. She was still in a state of shock.
“Hot strong, sweet tea,” Mel said. She ushered Ellie out of the shop and into the kitchen.
Arthur arrived home five minutes later.
He joined Ellie, Mel and Grover in several cups of tea. Arthur suggested they should phone the police. Mel agreed that was the accepted thing to do and looked meaningfully at Grover. He picked up his cue and said there was a low profile, but more pro-active, thing he could do. Ellie looked alarmed. Grover smiled and waved at her gently.
“Don’t worry. It’ll work out.”
Mel changed the subject.
“I have some news. Robbie McAllister is dead.”
The name was new to the other three. Mel handed Grover the afternoon edition of the Post. The story was on the front page, accompanied by a photograph of the Triumph Mayflower.
“Why do you think this has got something to do with us?” he asked.
“It may have no connection whatsoever,” Mel said. “But it’s another link to Roly Bevan.”
Grover looked at the newspaper again, read the article, then sat back in frustration and looked at the others.
“Save for the recent encounter, all of the events of the last four days seem to be glued to Roly Bevan,” he said.
He looked down at the newspaper still in his right hand and rapped it with the knuckles of his left. He spoke to Mel.
“Can we get the police to tell us how he died?”
“Only if it’s germane to a case we are briefed for,” she said.”
“It probably is.”
“And then, only if we explain to the police, in triplicate, why we want it.”
“In which event,” Grover said, “we will no longer be operating freely and unknown to the police.”
Mel looked at Grover in admiration.
“I’m a fast learner,” he said.
Arthur interrupted.
“So... The police have something you don’t know, but would like to know. Only you don’t want them to know why you would like to know. But unless you tell them why you would like to know, they won’t tell you anything.”
“Precisely,” Mel said.
Grover nodded. Ellie looked confused and miserable.
“I don‘t know what you’re all going on about,” she said. “I just want my son back home.”
Arthur reached out and put an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” he said. “Not the right time to be smart.”
Mel tried to be constructive.
“So let’s look at the whole picture. Harry was a long-time friend of Nicholas Hope. Who was rescued from St Christopher’s Childrens Home by Roly Bevan. Nick became Roly’s tenant and sometime employee. He went to Roly’s gym frequently. Where he came into contact with McAllister, who was one of the boxing stable.”
“And a sparring partner of Leroy Winston,” Grover said. “Who also works as a bouncer at El Paradis.”
“Of which Roly is a member,” Mel said.
“Along with a regiment of potential vagabonds and cutthroats. Everything is connected.”
Mel nodded. “Lenin said that. When he was asked by one of his KGB colonels how deep some conspiracy went.”
“Which means,” Grover said, “that despite how complicated or hopeless all this seems, if we stick to our task and continue to believe that Harry is not guilty of murder, we’ll get to the truth.”
He looked at Ellie.
“I promise.”
Ellie smiled at him, reached across the kitchen table and put her left hand on his arm.
Mel said, “I have to go.”
“I’ll see you out,” Grover said.
He got to his feet. Mel said goodbye to Arthur, and Ellie and Grover escorted her outside to the Morris Minor. He examined the car again.
“Rose taupe,” Mel said. “The colour. It is derived from the Latin name for a French mole. Talpo Europaea. A sort of lavender grey.”
Grover looked at her. She went on.
“You seemed to be interested.”
“Not at all.”
“The colour is supposed to be soothing.”
“Then consider me soothed.”
Mel unlocked the car, opened the driver’s door and slipped into the driving seat. Grover reached out and held on to the door.
“Are we really going to work this out?” he asked.
Mel looked straight at him. “Don’t you believe it?”
“I have to. I’ve grown to love these people. And I said I would fix it.”
“Then we will,” Mel said.
She switched on the ignition, pulled the starter and the engine fired.
“Later,” she said.
Grover released the door, Mel closed it and the Morris drove away from the kerb.
Chapter Twenty
On Rachel’s bed, Leroy Winston pushed his hips upwards and yelled out as the climax exploded. Rachel, sitting astride him, arched her back and gave herself up to the sensations. Five seconds, ten, fifteen... The orgasm rippled on and on, the contractions coming and going, until exhausted, she slumped forward onto Leroy’s chest.
Neither of them said a word. They were too concerned with breathing. They lay still, sucking in air and letting their heart rates throttle back. Eventually, Rachel eased herself upright again, raised her hips and let him slip out of her. She rolled over on to her back and lay down alongside him. He murmured something she did not catch. She looked at the bedroom curtains, morning sunshine filtering through the cotton. The clock on the bedside table said 9.25.
*
Harry was trapped in a corner of the D Wing latrine in Horfield Prison. Helpless, as three fellow inmates closed in on him.
He knew two of them. They were from the same landing as him. The third, a man he did not know, unfastened the button on the waistband of his trousers. Harry looked across the room. A fourth man had stationed himself by the door into the corridor. Harry found his voice and yelled for help. Cut off a second later by the man to his left, who stretched out a huge hand and punched him in the Adam’s apple. Harry choked into silence. He was dragged to a wash basin, spun round and held bent forward, with his face pressed against the wall in front of him. The third man forced his legs apart. Harry pushed them together again and tried to straighten up. The man who had punched him in the throat, punched him in the right kidney.
Harry gave up the unequal struggle.
The third man, now directly behind him, grabbed the waistband of Harry’s trousers and hauled them down to his ankles. Harry’s automatic reaction was to straighten up. He was forced back into position. The top of his head thumped into the wall. The third man smeared his erect penis with KY Jelly, closed up, skin to skin against Harry, manoeuvred into position and pushed hard.
It hurt like hell and it took ages.
&nbs
p; The trio left him slumped on his knees. He tried to get up, but could not find the strength. He leaned over and fell onto his side. He rolled over on to his back and managed to sit up. He reached forwards, took hold of the trousers and pulled them up to his hips. He lifted his backside off the floor, slid the trousers as far as he could and got back to his knees. He grabbed the edge of the nearest washbasin and levered himself upright. He stumbled across the room to a toilet, dropped back to his knees, dipped his head and threw up into the toilet bowl.
He started to cry.
*
“Does Roly know about us?” Rachel asked.
She felt the mattress bounce on the other side of the bed. Winston rolled on to his side to look at her.
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should tell him?”
“No.”
“So, how long are you going to continue letting him think you’re a potential conquest?”
“It’s not like that. Exactly...”
“Yes it is. Exactly.”
“I don’t want to rock any boats... hurt his feelings...” Winston was having trouble with this. “Roly likes me...”
“That’s the point isn’t it?”
“And he’s looking to get me a fight.”
Rachel stared at him. He went on.
“Okay,” Winston confessed. “That’s the thing here. I don’t want to blow my chance to get in the ring.”
“Roly’s a pro,” Rachel said. “He knows a boxing prospect when he sees one. You’re it. His new man. He’ll forgive you. And he will adore me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Homosexuals do. They need people to talk to, when things get bumpy. We have a couple of boys in the band. They confide in me. I’m a good listener and I empathise. And in this particular case, with Roly. Tell him. Soon. Before things get to the stage when explaining will really hurt him.”
Winston looked mildly terrified.
On her side of the bed, Rachel threw back the covers
“Don’t get up yet,” Winston said.
“Got to,” Rachel said, “I have a band call in half an hour. Xavier wants to run through some new numbers.”
She eased off the bed and walked naked out of the room. Winston watched her flow through the doorway and out of sight. He rolled on to his back, took a deep breath and counted his blessings.
*
Neil Adkins walked into Zoe’s office without knocking. Irritated, she looked up from the papers she was reading. She opened her mouth to object to the lack of ceremony. Adkins beat her to it.
“Phone call from Suzy,” he said. “Harry’s in trouble.”
*
Grover reversed Salome into a space a few yards from where Zoe had parked the Riley two nights earlier.
Outside El Paradis, a man in blue jeans and a grey shirt was sweeping the pavement under the street canopy. He was short, with a figure like a yard and a half of tap water. As Grover arrived, he propped the brush against the wall to his left and picked up a tin of Brasso and some polish wadding from the step behind him. He inspected the nameplate to the right of the doorway. Grover interrupted the work.
“Is the boss in?”
The man looked up at him. He was six inches shorter than Grover.
“You’re that American,” he said.
That was a statement rather than a question. Which could be construed as a step forward. Grover repeated himself.
“Go in, but go quietly,” the man said. “The band’s rehearsing.”
Grover stepped into the lobby. A smoky contralto voice singing Stay As Sweet As You Are and accompanied by a piano, seeped through the doorway in front of him. He opened the door and slipped into the shadows at the back of the lounge.
Xavier was sitting on edge of the stage listening for the slightest wrong cadence or untimed note. There were none. Rachel was good. As good as any singer Grover had heard in a long while. He slid an upturned chair off the nearest table, righted it and sat down to listen. On stage Rachel wound up the coda. Xavier purred with delight. He got to his feet as she finished.
“Terrific baby,” he said. “Terrific.” He looked at the piano player. “Have you got The Touch of Your Lips ?”
The pianist stood up, rustled the papers on top of his piano, found the dots, sat down again and propped the sheet in front of him.
“Give us four bars in to the vocal,” Xavier said.
Rachel swung into the song with all the confidence of a great vocalist. Grover sat and listened. And to the song which followed – a rumba version of Begin the Beguine. After which, Xavier called for time out and coffee.
Grover got to his feet and picked his way through the tables in front of him. Rachel saw him from the stage, stepped down on to the dance floor and greeted him.
“Ed Grover. What a pleasure. I heard you were still around.”
From behind her, Xavier called out.
“Who is this guy?”
“A music lover,” Rachel called over her shoulder. “It’s all right.”
“Okay,” Xavier said.
“Do you want to see me?” Rachel asked Grover.
“I didn’t know you were the vocalist. I came to see the boss.”
“Then I’ll introduce you.”
“No need. We’ve already met.” He pointed at the door marked ‘Private’.
“He in there?”
“Yes. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Nice to see you again,” she said. Turned round and stepped back on to the stage.
Grover walked over to the office door and knocked on it. From inside the room, Daniel Zampa called “Come in”.
He stood up behind his desk. At his gracious best and smiling broadly. Wearing a bespoke wool suit and as relaxed as anyone Grover had encountered, although he knew that one wrong move could change everything. He looked round the office.
“What do you think of the decor?” Zampa asked him.
That was a safe enough opening. The place was straight out of Beautiful Offices. The shelves and the cabinets were made out of the latest laminates faced with wood. Sapele, apparently, imported from South Africa – the up market alternative to the ever present, and cheaper, mahogany. His desk was a beautifully crafted, circular affair, supported on a central tubular steel column with splayed feet. The chair he was sitting in had black leather covered cushions inside a steel mesh shape, like a scooped out egg. The narrow back curved as it stretched upwards, to support the occupant’s spine, the arms curved up and out as if the chair had ears. The sofa against the wall Zampa was facing had six inch steel legs, which flattened into small plates where they rested on the carpet. The minimalist wood frame, the cushion seats and the arms were black leather covered too.
Moustache notwithstanding, Grover decided this was clearly the lair of a man with more class, ambition and clout than the average hard case. He told Zampa he was impressed. His host acknowledged the compliment and waved him to the sofa. Grover sat down. Zampa got up out of his chair, moved around the desk and joined him. There was a slight, but distinctive, smell of after shave – subtle, low key and probably as expensive as the deodorant Zampa was wearing when the two men first met. He looked straight into Grover’s eyes and offered the nuclear powered smile again.
“I gather you’re now working for Zoe Easton,” he said.
*
The clock on the office wall said 11.20. Sitting behind his desk, the Governor of Horfield Prison was getting an ice cold bollocking from the city’s foremost advocate.
“What the hell was my client doing on D Wing?” Zoe asked. “He is supposed to be on remand, not in danger”
“There was no space in the remand block.”
“So you put him on the same landing as a bunch of recidivists. Muggers and buggers to a man.”
“We did the best we could, under the circumstances.”
“No you didn’t.” Zoe stepped close to the governor’s desk. “So here is how you will make amends
. You will find a copy of whatever form you use to recommend bail, based on your personal assessment of my client’s situation. You will sign it and give it to me to take to a judge. For that service, Fincher Reade and Holborne will stay quiet. If you don’t do this, I will stand outside every office in the city centre with a loud hailer and broadcast, in detail, what happened to my client this morning, to anyone who will listen. Then, I will haul you and the Home Office over the hottest coal fire I can stoke up.”
The governor opened his mouth to say something, could not find the words and closed it again.
“Do we have a deal?” Zoe asked him.
The governor, swallowed, nodded and agreed. She stepped back a pace and folded her arms.
“Any time in the next second or two. I’ll wait.”
*
Grover had locked in to Zampa’s edgily pitched modus operandi and was beginning to relax. Zampa had asked about him, he had asked about Zampa. And with the small talk over, the host got down to business.
“So what can I do for you, Ed?”
“Rodney Pride has just made a move to extend his business. He sent his chief enforcer Walter Scardale to Gladstone Street.”
Zampa gave this the best of his attention.
“What did he do?”
“Not a lot, in fact. I stopped him mid menace.”
“So where is he now?”
“I last saw him driving away on the wrong side of the road.”
Zampa absorbed the information. Grover waited for a response. It arrived soberly.
“Did you call the police?”
“No. The Morrisons have enough on their hands. They don’t need another investigation piling on the agony. The cops don’t have to know about it, if Rodney Pride is made to see sense.” He paused for all that to register, then went on. “He is a member here right?”
Zampa said nothing, just nodded.
Grover was just as brief. “So?...”
“You feel that if I drop a word or two in his ear, he might re-consider this foolishness.”
“The Morrisons and I would appreciate that.”
Zampa leaned forward and picked up the phone receiver on his desk, dialled a number and waited. The phone was answered at the other end.
“Jonathan,” he said. “Rodney Pride is being tiresome again. He sent an employee to Gladstone Street earlier. Pay him a visit, and remind him who looks after his interests and keeps the peace. If he grumbles, deal with that as well. Thanks.”
