by Jeff Dowson
The line clicked and buzzed. Pride took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it.
“Gutless prick,” he muttered and put the receiver back in its cradle.
*
Bevan was pacing the gym floor. He stopped and turned and glared at Halloran.
“Why didn’t he come to me? I mean Rodney Pride for Christ’s sake.”
Halloran stood up.
“You and Mac weren’t talking. He was angry. You wouldn’t get him a fight.”
“And you knew all about this?”
Halloran stared down at the floor. Bevan moved back to him.
“You should have told me Patsy.”
Halloran lifted his head again and shook it.
“Mac made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone. Most of all, you.”
“How much did he owe Pride?”
“He didn’t say. But I know it was a lot of money. And Rodney had run out of patience.”
There was a long pause.
“Do you think Mac committed suicide?” Halloran asked.
Bevan turned away from him. The sentence was left hanging in the air.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two freighters slipped into the floating harbour on Friday’s dawn high tide. A boat shipping bananas from Jamaica and MS Empire Trader bringing raw timber from British West Africa. Merchants Quay on the south side of the harbour and Palmers Wood Yard, directly opposite on the north, were working at speed with cranes and full dock crews.
It was Mark Chaplin’s first big solo test. He was twenty-two, fair haired, slim and good looking. A little vulnerable perhaps, but he had stood up to his father, Chief Superintendent Robert Chaplin – one of the city’s finest it was said, and not used to having his plans thwarted. Chaplin fils had quit the job his father had fixed for him, and presented to him with a lot of fuss and expectation, on his return from national service. At Francis Keene Associates, a high end accountants practice. Palmers Wood Yard was way below parental ambitions, but Chaplin liked it. Mainly because he had got the job himself and Gerald Palmer was impressed with him. And had recently promoted him to Crew Manager – a duty which included, hiring and firing, organising shifts and scheduling, budgeting and spending Palmer’s money as prudently as possible.
This morning there was a slight commotion and he was locked in a dispute with Bert Harker. Twice Chaplin’s age, with a huge head, his cheeks reddened by drink and his nose streaked by prominent veins, Harker had a temper shorter than his crew cut. He had spent the last two days on a solid drinking spree and had failed to turn up for work. Chaplin was trying to explain why he was going to lose the appropriate amount of pay. Harker was refusing to see his point and threatening to tear his arms off. Young Chaplin, shaking in his shoes, stood his ground and ordered Harker to leave the dock office, or lose more than just two day’s pay. Harker backed out of the office, threatening all sorts of retribution and slammed the door behind him.
He had sympathy from some of the dockers in the yard, but not enough for a quorum. He was angry and needed to take it out on somebody. He picked on the wrong man.
Leroy Winston was directing a crane hook swinging its cradle of roped timbers from the ship’s hold to the quayside. Concentrating on the cradle and the crane arm, he did not see Harker come up behind him. Making sure that his handful of disciples was watching, Harker stood behind Winston, stretched his arms sideways then looped them back to his body so that his hands ended pointing up into his armpits. He hopped from one leg to the other, making hooting noises.
Winston became aware of this as the cradle settled on the dock floor. He turned to face Harker, who jigged a second or two more then stopped. He grinned, then walked back to his mates. Winston was deciding whether some response was needed, when Harker pointed across the harbour, to the banana boat.
“You should be working over there, Darkie,” he said.
Winston ignored Harker and got on with freeing the leather belts binding the timbers. Harker took this personally and the moment Winston stepped back from the timbers he had freed, he closed in on him. He looked towards Hotwell Road, running parallel to the dock side, where a bunch of workman had spent two days pollarding the roadside trees. He walked around Winston to face him. He raised his thumb and jerked it in the direction of the trees.
“No branches. So how did you get to work today?”
Winston balled his right fist and punched Harker in the throat. Harker grunted in surprise and pain, then began to choke. Winston scooped him on to his shoulders, carried him to the stern of MS Empire Trader and threw him into the water.
He walked to the door of the dock office, where a stunned Chaplin was having trouble believing what he had just seen. He dredged up something to say.
“Leroy er... I don’t think you er...”
Winston glared at him and he dwindled into silence.
“Don’t give me any more shit,” he said. “In fact to relieve you of all responsibility, I quit. Right now. I assume I’ll get paid for the rest of the week.”
Chaplin wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well erm... Not necessarily... Because - ”
Winston grabbed Chaplin’s upper arms, picked him up and threw him into the office.
*
As Winston walked the few hundred yards back to his room in the boarding house, Mel and Grover delivered Harry to Gladstone Street. Ellie burst out of the shop doorway, pulled her son into her arms and refused to let go. Arthur managed to manoeuvre both of them into the shop. He looked at Mel.
“Thank you so very much.”
Mel smiled at him.
“We have things to discuss, but I’ll come back later.”
She and Grover climbed into the jeep and he drove to Fincher Reade and Holborne.
Zoe had no morning appointments. She sat in the meeting room with Mel and Grover and freshly brewed coffee and biscuits. Grover was beginning to realise why advocates from this practise were hired out at twenty-five pounds a day. Somebody had to pay for the chocolate bourbons.
He listened as the professionals went through what needed to be done, ticking the boxes one at a time. Eventually, Zoe became Grover specific.
“You have a single purpose Ed. To get Harry to tell all of us where he was last Thursday night. And then to gather enough evidence to make the case stand up in court. If Harry hangs on to his story about going to the pictures...”
Grover completed the sentence. “Then I’ll have to find out what he was doing, without his help.”
Zoe completed the instruction. “And we have seven days until we go to trial.”
The meeting room door opened and Neil Adkins walked in carrying a copy of the morning’s Western Daily Press. He put the newspaper on the table in front of Zoe and thumbed through to page five.
“What do you think of that?”
The headline said BOXER’S DEATH A SUICIDE. Zoe read the copy out loud for the benefit of Mel and Grover.
“The police now believe that local boxer Robbie McAllister, whose body was found by a couple walking their dog in Leigh Woods two days ago, took his own life, by shooting himself through the heart. It is expected that, later today, the coroner’s verdict will be suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.”
“Do we agree with this?” Adkins asked?
“It’s convenient,” Zoe said. “For all concerned. The police, the Zampa Bevan clan, and us.”
“No, not us,” Grover said. “Everything’s connected remember?”
“I’m sure Bevan is pleased to have McAllister off his hands,” Mel said. “Zampa too, possibly. But if we accept our ‘inclusive’ Zampa theory, we may have just lost a link in the chain. And if so...”
She left the ‘if so’ unfinished. Adkins looked round the table.
“Brains far greater than mine,” he said, then pointed to the paper. “I’ll leave it with you.”
*
Two uniformed constables rang the bell on the door of Mrs Ferrin’s boarding house, shortly after
11 o’clock. The taller of the two, asked if they could have a word with Mr Winston. Mrs Ferrin asked the policemen what Mr Winston had done. The short one said they weren’t at liberty to say.
“So is he here?” the tall one asked.
“Upstairs,” Mrs Ferrin said. “Top floor, left hand side of the landing.”
Winston was lying on his bed, staring at a crack in the ceiling, when the policemen knocked on his door and asked if they could come in.
“It’s not locked,” he called out.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat up as the constables stepped into the room. The tall one introduced himself as PC Maxwell and his shorter partner as PC Long. Winston looked at the combination and managed not to smile.
“You threw a gentleman named Bert Harker into the floating harbour earlier today,” PC Long began.
“Yes I did. You got me bang to rights.”
“Why?”
Winston stood up. “What colour am I?”
“You’re a negro.”
“And what colour is Bert Harker?”
“We’re supposed to ask the questions,” PC Maxwell said.
“Okay. Harker is an arsehole and a racist. He was hung over and pissed off because he had been threatened with the sack. He decided to share his misery with me. He called me a Darkie, did monkey impressions and suggested I got to work by swinging through the trees. I picked him up and threw him into the water.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“It wasn’t a bad joke actually. Coming from anyone else it would have been funny.”
PC Long summed up.
“No further action will be taken, at this time, Mr Winston. But may we suggest you don’t do it again?”
“I have no plans to do so.”
“Then that’s all,” PC Maxwell said. “Thank you for your time.”
The policemen left the room and closed the door. Winston lay down again. Two minutes later, Mrs Ferrin knocked on the door.
“I’m sorry Mr Winston, but I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
Winston got to his feet and moved to the wardrobe. Mrs Ferrin went on.
“It’s not you, please understand that. You’re a very good tenant and a charming man.”
Winston reached took his suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.
“But... I can’t have the police knocking on the door like that. I have to think about my other tenants.”
Winston swung his suitcase on to the bed.
“And the neighbours of course,” he said.
“Well... yes,” Mrs Ferrin said.
Winston smiled at her. A genuine smile.
“Don’t worry Mrs Ferrin, I’ve heard it all before. Black faces are bad business for boarding houses.”
“If it was just me Mr Winston...” she mumbled. “I mean I’ve no objection to coloured people at all... I’d be happy for you to stay as long as you like, but...”
Winston opened the wardrobe door and began to take his clothes off their hangers. He ferried a bundle of shirts and trousers back to the suitcase and dropped them in.
“Please Mrs Ferrin, don’t say any more. I’ll be out of here inside half an hour.”
“Well... You really don’t need to hurry, Mr Winston.”
He looked straight into her eyes.
“Yes, Mrs Ferrin, I do.”
She looked away from him and moved to the door. She paused, with her right hand on the door knob
“Under the circumstances,” she said, “I will of course refund you the balance of this week’s rent.”
“Don’t bother Mrs Ferrin. It’s fine.”
He went on with his packing. The landlady left the room and closed the door.
Winston left the house twenty minutes later. Mrs Ferrin was busy writing a card to put in the living room window. He knew what it would say.
Top Floor Room To Let. No Blacks.
*
Mark Chaplin picked up the phone in the wood yard office and took a call from Roly Bevan, who apologised for ringing on something other than business.
“Can I leave a message for Leroy Winston?”
“Er... yes you could Mr Bevan... However, Leroy is no longer here. We had a problem in the wood yard this morning.”
Chaplin told Bevan the story.
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea,” Chaplin said. “Home I guess.”
Bevan thanked him and ended the call. Pressed the receiver cradle with his left forefinger, released it again and dialled Mrs Ferrin’s number. Embarrassed, she tried to explain why Winston wasn’t there. Bevan rang off. He stared down at the phone for a long time. Then he smiled and picked up the receiver again. Called Daniel Zampa, who asked after his health. He asked if Zampa knew where Leroy might be. Zampa suggested he try Mrs Ferrin. Bevan said he had, then asked Zampa to get Leroy to call him as soon as he showed up at the club. Zampa asked if this was trouble. Bevan assured him it wasn’t. Zampa asked him to explain. Bevan did – what Zampa wanted, Zampa always got. Bevan told him the top flat in 5 Blenheim Villas was no longer a crime scene and he intended to offer Leroy the tenancy. Zampa said he would make sure Leroy called him.
In truth, Zampa knew exactly where Leroy would be.
*
At that precise moment, Winston was dropping his suitcase on to the carpet in Rachel’s living room. He told her what had happened.
“So stay here,” she said.
“And how long do you imagine we’d keep that a secret?”
“I don’t care if people find out.”
“And then what will we do? Go out hand in hand? Make some kind of inter-racial statement?”
“Why the hell not? The band knows. Daniel knows.”
“El Paradis is different,” Winston said. “It’s a house of fantasy. With a black doorman and black musicians. You’re a singer and that’s bohemian. Xavier and I are exotic. We’re all where we should be. In our place. But if we stray...”
“No no. We don’t have anything to fear.”
“Then what motivated Bert Harker this morning?”
“He’s not the majority of people in this city.”
“And why am I homeless?”
The phone rang in the hall downstairs.
“Mrs Rawlins is out,” Rachel said. “I’d better get that.”
Twelve seconds later, she was talking to Zampa, who asked if Leroy was there. Rachel called him, handed him the phone and went back to the flat. Winston was upstairs again a couple of minutes later.
“A message from Roly,” he said. “He has offered me the top floor flat.”
*
Grover got back to Gladstone Street at mid-day. Arthur had returned to work, but Ellie was still full of questions. Harry was insisting he did not want to talk about his 48 hours in prison. ‘How the hell can he?’ Grover thought, so helped him out.
“I think he needs time to enjoy being home,” he suggested.
Harry looked at him, ‘thank you’ in his eyes.
“What I would like,” he began. “I left a notebook at...” He stopped and shook his head, as if he trying to loosen something that was stuck inside. “At. Nick’s flat... It has lots of story ideas in it. I could work on it while we’re waiting... I mean I have to stay here, so...”
Grover helped him out again.
“I’ll go and get it. Do you know where you left it? What does it look like?”
“Like the one in my bedroom. It’ll be in a kitchen drawer somewhere.”
Grover drove Salome to Blenheim Villas. He was rapidly learning the geography of south Bristol and now beginning to get around without the aid of the street map.
He rang Rachel’s doorbell. Explained why he was there. She ushered him upstairs. Winston was in the top floor flat, gazing around, not altogether cheerful about moving in after all. He was having difficulty seeing beyond the mess, the hole in the carpet cut out by the police to examine the blood stains and the now cushion-less sofa. Rachel and Grover inter
rupted him.
“Mr Grover,” Winston said and held out his right hand.
Grover shook it. “Ed, please.”
“Roly Bevan wants me to take this over. I need a roof over my hand, but Jesus...”
Grover looked up at the ceiling.
“The roof is probably the one element you can trust. Chuck all this junk out, tackle the damp around the window, sort out the door... You’ll be fine.”
“In the construction business are you, back home?”
Rachel chimed in. “It will be great. And whenever you want me, just bang on the floor.”
She stepped to him, stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. Then they both looked at Grover, like two teenagers caught groping in the cupboard under the stairs.
“We’re an item,” Rachel explained.
Grover smiled at her. “Congratulations.”
Rachel smiled at Winston.
“See. He likes the idea.”
“He qualifies as an enlightened man. One in a hundred.”
“I think you’ll find the ratio’s a little better than that,” Grover said.
Winston curled his right arm around Rachel’s shoulders. They both looked at Grover, like they were posing for a photograph. Grover nodded in encouragement. Then Winston smiled at him.
“I apologise. I didn’t expect an American to empathise.”
Rachel said, “I’m going downstairs to make some coffee. Come down when you’re ready.”
She waltzed out of the room. Grover told Winston why he was here. Winston offered to help him find the notebook. The two men set about the kitchen cabinets and drawers, talking as they searched.
“My best friend since D Day,” Grover said, “has been a six foot black guy from Lubbock Texas, called Henry Whelan. He saved my life in France, I saved his in Belgium; he dug me out of a hole in Westphalia; my platoon helped him get three trucks back into the advance line on the road into Leipzig. We built Salome together. The jeep outside. The only thing I hate him for, is his magic with women. Actually, you seem to have that too.”
Winston grinned. “You know what they say...”
“Yes I know what they say.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Only when I’m really depressed.”
