One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  “It’s alright. I like it.” He looked at Rachel. “The neighbours are great.”

  Grover stood up and offered Zampa his seat. He waved the generosity away.

  “That’s okay, I won’t be a moment. But I would like you to step out onto the landing.”

  Grover made his consideration of the proposal obvious.

  “If you please,” Zampa said.

  Grover moved across the room. In the doorway, he looked back at Rachel and Winston. “Glad to see you both well.” He looked at Zampa. “Later...”

  He left the flat. Zampa waited until Grover’s footsteps could be heard receding down the stairs. Then spoke to his employees.

  “Why was he here?”

  “I like him,” Winston said. “I guess we’re friends.”

  Zampa suggested he ought not to allow the relationship to get too close. Winston filed the request away and Zampa got to the point.

  “Just a short piece of business. When the police come to talk to you about what happened outside the club, I want you to tell them you did not recognise anybody.”

  Rachel opened her mouth to say something. Zampa raised an arm. He had the floor and wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings.

  “You both know the rules,” he said. “You work for me. You leave me to fix things when they go wrong. Is that clear?”

  Rachel and Winston nodded their acceptance.

  “Good. That’s all.” He addressed Winston. “And if you want any help making this place habitable, let me know. I can send you some labour.”

  “Thank you,” Winston said.

  “Enjoy the rest of the weekend.” He turned to Rachel. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  In the street, Jonathan and James were sitting in the front seats of a dark green Humber Super Snipe. A brand new Mark III four litre version. Beautifully styled and expensive, there were few of them around. The two men, ex-commandos, had worked for Zampa since the end of the war. They looked the business, unlike Roly Bevan’s bruiser with the broken face and Rodney Pride’s second string enforcers. They both wore light grey bespoke suits.

  Grover nodded to Jonathan as he walked past the Humber towards Salome. He climbed into the jeep and sat waiting for Zampa to come out of the house.

  Rachel ushered Zampa out of number 5. Jonathan eased out of the Humber, moved to the rear passenger door and opened it. Zampa nodded in the direction of the jeep. Jonathan left the car door open and stepped towards Salome. He bent down and looked under the roof.

  “Mr Grover. Would you be so kind as to join us in the car?”

  The man was cool and polite. Grover climbed out of the jeep.

  Zampa slid into the back of the Humber. Grover followed. Jonathan closed the passenger door and returned to the front seat. Zampa and Grover sat by side, in silence, for some time. Zampa spoke first.

  “Why were you in there?”

  “I like Rachel and Leroy.”

  “They like you too, apparently.”

  Grover smiled. “Then all is well in the relationship.”

  Zampa smiled back. “And what about our relationship?”

  “I didn’t realise we had one.”

  Zampa said something like ‘hmmm’, but appeared not to take offence.

  “Ed. I made you an offer, if you recall...”

  “I thought I made it clear it wasn’t my line of work.”

  “Why? Your qualifications are exactly what the job needs.”

  Grover sat still and said nothing. Zampa had said all he wished to say, for the moment, so he waited. Grover took a long look at him – tailored, grey pin stripe suit, with a maroon jacket lining, and matching waistcoat. His body language radiated ‘I’ve got all the time in the world’.

  “Okay,” Grover said. “Here’s the thing. The US Army trained me to kill. For what I believed was a just cause. But somewhere in the maelstrom, I lost track of what that was all about. We all did. All those of us squinting through gun sights. Ironically, once we realised the rule was simply kill or be killed, we got even better at it. There’s no greater motivation than fear, and if you can’t go back to where you began, it becomes easier to go forwards. I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. A hundred, maybe more... I don’t know how that shapes up pro rata, but it’s enough. It’s my personal statistic. I’ve locked it in the ‘done and finished’ box and thrown away the key.”

  Zampa watched, waiting for him to finish. Grover did.

  “I’m out of business. And if I wasn’t, we’d be on opposite sides anyway.”

  Zampa sat up a little. Leaned his neck against the seat head rest.

  “What do they say?... Better to have your enemies inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.”

  “Did you have Nicholas Hope killed?” Grover asked

  The switch of topics stunned Zampa. The smile disappeared. He took a deep breath, sat upright in the seat and acknowledged the effort.

  “That was a hell of a curve.”

  “It’s a simple enough question,” Grover said. “And I ask, because I know Harry Morrison didn’t do it.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And your brilliant barrister will make the jury see it that way?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That piece of dialogue was long enough for Zampa to recover. His body relaxed and the smile returned.

  “My guess is however, that despite his parlous position, Harry is reluctant to use his alibi,” he said.

  Grover took a second too long to reply. Zampa held up his left hand.

  “He’s hiding from the cops, which means he’s frightened of what they’ll ask him. He’s not at home, which means he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “He doesn’t have to. He has talked about it with me.”

  Zampa let another silence fill before he spoke again.

  “I did not order the killing of Nicholas Hope. I had no reason to do so.”

  “You could have done it on behalf of a member of your flock.”

  “I could have,” he said. “But I didn’t. And I’d be grateful if you would do me the courtesy of believing it.”

  “Okay,” Grover said. “But tell me how it works. This relationship with your clients.”

  Zampa shifted in his seat and leaned a fraction closer to Grover.

  “I’m like a friendly society. I hold all the markers and the mortgages. I keep confidences. In difficult moments I tidy up, close the gaps, lend support, cover the financial holes.”

  “Which sounds like you’re an executive class loan shark.”

  Zampa looked hurt for a moment. Then brushed that from his eyes and replaced it with a look that would chill the coldest steel.

  “Ed. We both know I am not your ordinary common or garden freelance. However, as you have experienced, El Paradis clients do number among their ranks, breakers and enterers, fraudsters and forgers, bent accountants, tax dodgers, people whose deeds and personal preferences are frowned on by the majority of citizens, and many others with assorted histories. None is – so far anyway – a murderer. And all their secrets are safe with me. Unless, or until, they step out of line. At which point, the relationship is terminated with the minimum of fuss. I have no interest in drugs and prostitution, pushers and pimps. In fact, in the past I have been known to take a prominent stand against such pond scum.”

  “So what do these clients have to do to receive your patronage?”

  “Simply settle their bills on time and pay for their drinks.”

  “In other words, you get a percentage of everything that grows in the garden.”

  Zampa smiled, approving of the analogy.

  “And I ensure that all the weeding is done properly and no one plants anything in the wrong spot. Nothing happens in this city unless I know about it and approve.”

  “Did Robbie McAllister do something to incur your intervention?”

  “Who?”

  “The boxer found dead in his ca
r.”

  “Ah yes. He committed suicide. The police said so.” Zampa shrugged. “You need to talk to Roly Bevan about McAllister.”

  “Why, if you’re the puppet master?”

  He shrugged again, adding a dismissive wave of the arm this time.

  “He was a second string welterweight. No more than a blip on my radar. Now he’s dead. End of story.”

  “What was he doing that got everybody worked up?”

  “Nobody got worked up, Ed. Except McAllister himself. He had no fights scheduled, no money, and more personal problems than he could shake a stick at. So he killed himself.”

  “That comes off your tongue fluently, doesn’t it? That rationalisation. It mirrors the way you conduct Zampa Ltd. ‘A’ does something wrong. ‘B’ doesn’t like it. So ‘C’ does something about it. Cause, effect and result. So simple.”

  “Simple is always best,” he said. “So I would be grateful if you would keep me informed of anything you discover, which might serve our mutual interest.”

  “That could work I guess. As long as we get Harry out from under.”

  “At which point you will go home?”

  “I will have to. I’m an American GI. An alien.”

  Zampa looked straight into Grover’s eyes. All business this time. No smile, no bonhomie.

  “Then go back to your base and go home soonest,” he said.

  He leaned forward and tapped Jonathan on the shoulder, who reached for the door handle to his left.

  “Not on my account Jonathan,” Grover said.

  He got out of the Humber and walked back to the jeep. James fired up the car and it pulled away. Grover climbed back into Salome, turned on the ignition, pressed the clutch, changed his mind and took his foot off it. The engine idled as he watched the Humber drive into the distance.

  ‘Our mutual interest’... Zampa had said that in the sort of tone officers had used when giving orders to take the next farm house, or the next village. I want you across the river by dawn, was always made to sound like a reasonable alternative to sitting down and taking a rest. I promised the colonel we’d be in Nordhausen by tomorrow night. The order was always accepted with a salute and a tough ‘Yes SIR’. Followed by two fingers from the rest of the platoon.

  Grover pressed the clutch again and selected first gear. Smiled and wondered... Were the gloves on or off?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sunday morning, May 2nd, was clear and bright. Just before 11 o’clock, the sun squeezed through the clouds and the world began to warm up. Arthur had gone out and come back with the Sunday papers, but nobody at Gladstone Street was feeling relaxed or comfortable. Grover suggested they all pile in the jeep and go out somewhere. There were no takers. Then Ellie had an idea.

  “Harry, why don’t you take Ed up to the Camera Obscura?” She turned to Grover. “It’s on the Downs, above the suspension bridge. You get amazing aerial views of the city.”

  “The camera what?”

  “Obscura. When you get there, you’ll see what I mean.” She looked at her son. “Well?”

  Harry looked up from the sports page of the Sunday Mirror. Straight at his mother’s ‘don’t you dare say no’ expression. He knew this was a set up. A way to get him and Ed alone together. But at that moment, he could not improvise his way out of it.

  “Okay,” he said. Folded the paper and put it down on the kitchen table.

  He and Grover grabbed jackets and went out to Salome. At the end of the street Harry gave instructions.

  “First right, second left, then on towards the river. You know Coronation Road?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you get there, turn left along the bank of the river. Then, do a doh see doh, and take the road up the hill towards the south end of the suspension bridge.”

  “Okay. Don’t give me any more directions. See if I can find the way.”

  Harry sat back in his seat. He looked across at Grover.

  “What does my mother expect me to tell you?”

  “That’s the problem. She wants to know as much as I do. We both know the situation you’re in, she doesn’t. And she doesn’t deserve to be left in the dark. She’s hurting like hell Harry.”

  He kicked the jeep engine down a gear and then down again. He turned north, towards Coronation Road. Harry stared resolutely ahead. Grover tried again.

  “So... Let me tell your lawyer.”

  Harry did not move in his seat.

  “Okay. You don’t like that idea. Then let’s try something else. Tell me everything you know about Nick. Every single thing you can recall.”

  Harry dipped his chin and stared down the front of his jacket. Grover went on.

  “We have three days, four at most, in which to find a way out of this. So spend the next few minutes, thinking hard. Really goddam hard.”

  Harry said no more during the rest of the journey, other than to give directions when Grover asked for them.

  The Camera Obscura sat on Clifton Down, three hundred feet above Brunel’s suspension bridge. A defunct windmill, minus its sails, the building was shaped like a letter L lying on its back. The place became an artist’s studio early in the Victorian era, when the camera apparatus was built to give them panoramic views to paint. A five inch, convex lens was installed on the roof of the tower, pointing at a sloping mirror which projected the view downwards, into a darkened room on the floor below. Artists could then view the picture, on a circular table with a concave metal surface, five feet in diameter. There was a handle to crank the camera and mirror though a complete 360 degrees. The apparatus gave amazing views of the city, the suburbs and the surrounding countryside.

  The caretaker was on duty and the building was open to the public. The sun was bright enough for the camera to take a clear, detailed picture. Harry identified Gladstone Street. Grover marvelled.

  Afterwards, they sat on a bench on the hillside and looked down onto Clifton Gorge. Grover said nothing. Waiting. Inviting Harry to talk. Finally, he did.

  “Nick had an address book. With all his contacts in it. I found it in his flat on the night of the murder.”

  It wasn’t the lost ark, or even Schnozzle Durante’s lost chord, but Harry’s confession was as golden as the silence he had maintained thus far. Grover asked him where it was.

  “Eric Marsden has it. In his chalet. I asked him to keep it safe.”

  “Did you look at it?”

  “Not in any detail. There were names I recognised in the book, but no one I could connect with anything I was doing. Except for Mark and Jerry.”

  “So why have you kept this such a big secret?”

  There was another long silence. Harry folded his arms, unfolded them, put his hands up to his face, massaged his eyeballs, put his hands back on his knees, changed his position on the bench, crossed and uncrossed his legs, raised his arms again, put them behind his head and interlocked his fingers. In the end, Grover could not take any more fidgeting. He offered the explanation himself.

  “I know about your triangular relationship,” he said.

  Harry looked at him, in turn shocked, saddened and frightened. Grover raised his right hand.

  “I swear to you, this information will stay with me and your law team. No one else will get to know any of it. I promise.”

  Harry sat up straight, like a man who had just allowed a huge weight to slide off his shoulders. And he began to unload what was left.

  “Mark’s father is a Chief Superintendent. A real hard case. With a reputation as one of the toughest men in the city. He has a high profile and a passion for catching crooks. He’s a politician. And a headliner. Always good for the latest quote on his crusade for law and order.”

  “Is Mark afraid of him?”

  “Yes he is.”

  “And so he’s also afraid of what will happen if he ends up associated with your court case.”

  “Can you imagine the uproar,” Harry said. “The shame. If the son of one of Bristol’s top coppers is reveale
d as a queer?”

  “It may not come to that?”

  Harry shook his head, stared into space, then summed up the situation.

  “If my defence is, I was with him on the night of the murder and Mark is called to corroborate that; do you think the prosecution will let it pass without digging into our relationship? Ed, it’s no distance at all from How long have you known each other? to Are you having a homosexual relationship?”

  Grover listened, letting Harry go on.

  “There are two words that homosexuals will go to the ends of the earth not to hear. Police and investigation. Which is why they become prey to blackmailers. There is no other way out.”

  “But blackmailers never stop, you know that,” Grover said. “They just go on upping the ante.”

  “Makes no difference. What’s the lowest price on fear Ed? Fifty pounds a month. A hundred? Two hundred?”

  “I’ve seen some of Nick’s bank statements. He was making more than that.”

  “From who?”

  “A number of sources, I guess. Which is why we need to look at his address book. In the meantime, tell me about him.”

  “We were good mates. At least I thought we were. I stayed at his place. We talked about stuff. He introduced me to the gym. To Roly Bevan and Leroy Winston and Robbie Mac. And all the time he had this operation going. I mean, bloody hell...”

  He sighed again. Suddenly started shaking. Grover reached out to him. Harry yelled out loud, got to his feet and began pacing around on the grass. He kicked at a piece of turf. It rose into the air.

  “Shit,” he moaned. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

  He kicked at another piece of turf. And another. Until he began to calm down. Grover waited for him. Harry stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and stared into the distance.

  “There will be others, of a similar sexual persuasion, in Nick’s address book,” Grover said.

  Harry nodded. “Yes, there must be.”

  “People he was blackmailing.”

  Harry did not move. Grover stared at his back.

  “But not you?”

  “No. I told you, we were friends.”

  “Until when?”

  Harry turned round to face Grover.

  “Until Mark told me he had paid Nick fifty pounds and was going to have to do it again.”