One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  “And when was that?”

  “The night Nick was killed.”

  It was Grover’s turn to take in the view again. He stood up, moved to Harry’s shoulder and looked down at Brunel’s miracle of engineering, sweeping across the Gorge. The rumble of traffic moving over it, drifted up the hillside towards the bench. He listened to it for a while, until he found something to say.

  “How long had Nick been blackmailing Mark?”

  “A month or two.”

  “Which you didn’t know anything about?

  “Jerry did. Mark talked to him. Jerry said he would try and fix it.”

  That was not exactly good news, Grover thought.

  “Do you know he’s dying?”

  “Yes. He told us, Mark and me, at Easter.”

  Grover nodded, without saying anything. Harry watched him, sensing he should wait. Grover was turning over an idea in his head. Then he snapped out of it.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Then go visit Eric again. We need the address book.”

  “You go on,” Harry said. “I’m going to stay here for a while.”

  Grover left him and walked across the hillside to Salome. He climbed in behind the steering wheel, sat still and stared back at the Observatory. Harry wandered away, out of view.

  He switched on the ignition. Checked the fuel level. It was low. He pulled one of the jerry cans out from under the tarpaulin, unscrewed the fuel cap behind the back seat and filled the tank. In the driving seat again, he revved Salome into life, coasted down the hill, crossed the Cumberland Basin, drove along Winterstoke Road past City’s football ground, turned on to the A38 and headed southwest.

  *

  Sam Nicholson’s day had proved satisfactory so far. His wife was out of the way, visiting her sister in Didcot. He had taken most of the morning to read the Sunday Express. And now he was treating himself to another brandy, after a decent enough lunch at The Belmont Way public house in Failand. He paid his bill, left a generous tip on the table – that’s the sort of mood he was in – and stepped out into the sunshine.

  At which point it occurred to him that he wasn’t far from the back door to the hospital venture he had been pumping his money into. Perhaps it might be interesting to take a look after all. It was eight days since they had extorted their first five hundred pounds from their first clients. A couple whose son’s platoon had managed to walk ashore at Sword Beach, only to be met head on by the 23rd Panzer Division thundering up the road from Caen. It was a fierce and extremely bloody encounter. A lot of young men died on the road to Caen.

  Sam had no sons, but he did have three daughters. All of them married and off his hands, at last. He could not recall much pleasure in the process of bringing them up. Not that his contribution had been extensive. It was woman’s work after all. And speaking of which… why not pay his maternity ward a visit?

  He located the tiny gate leading on to the track through the wood. He drove a couple of hundred yards beyond it, manoeuvred the Rover up onto the grass verge, parked and walked back to the gate. He reached for the latch, then paused and considered again. ‘Stick with the original plan’ he told himself, ‘keep well clear’. On the other hand, the sun was shining, it had been a good day so far, and he was here…

  Three or four minutes later, he walked into the clearing behind the hospital ward. There was a brazier burning; long yellow flames licking upwards. He moved on, into what now constituted the entrance foyer. The single room to his left was a store and laundry; stacked with sheets and towels and featuring two new Bendix automatic washing machines. Not easy to come by, Nicholson reflected. But then Pride probably had some electrical store owner’s neck in a headlock. Both machines were in business. One chugging through the initial wash; the second whirring away, its laundry barrel spinning.

  Sitting on top of this machine, was a plastic laundry basket filled with blood-stained sheets and towels.

  Nicholson knew a little short of nothing about being pregnant, but he could recognise when something was wrong. He turned round. Dr Havers came out of the birthing room. Nicholson looked at him, question marks in his eyes. Havers stopped in his tracks.

  “Mr Nicholson…”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Er… We have had an emergency.”

  “What sort of emergency?”

  “One of the ladies… er…”

  Havers faltered. Nicholson waited. Havers looked at Nicholson’s chin rather than into his eyes.

  “There was a miscarriage.”

  Nicholson did not know much about those things either. But he was bloody swift at recognising a crisis. He elbowed Havers out of his way and stepped into the birthing room. The place was empty, the bed was stripped and there was an ugly dark red stain in the centre of the mattress, with smudged lines stretching out from it like points of a compass. Behind him, Havers cleared his throat.

  Nicholson heard him say, “We have not had time to clear up yet.”

  The lingering smell of blood made Nicholson’s stomach heave. He backed out of the room. Havers moved to one side, let him pass and shadowed him into the lobby. Nicholson looked at him, dead centre.

  “So there’s no baby?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But there was?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you done with it?”

  “We have incinerated it.”

  Nicholson flashed back to a picture of the brazier outside.

  “What?” He breathed in, heaved and choked back the bile rising in his throat. “Out there? Oh for fuck’s sake…”

  “Well that’s er…” Havers cleared his throat again. “More or less what happens at a crematorium.”

  Nicholson stared at him. “Yes. But with a few relatives gathered in fucking reverence, some flowers, a priest and a few prayers. Jesus Christ.”

  “We were prepared for this. We knew it might happen.”

  “Oh great… So that’s some consolation then.”

  Nicholson looked past Havers in the direction of the ward doors. Havers shepherded him away towards the other end of the lobby. Sam shook himself loose.

  “And how’s the mother?”

  Havers look at him, surprised. “Well she’s dead too, Mr Nicholson.”

  There was a long silence. Then Nicholson rocked back on his heels. He appeared about to collapse.

  “Can I get you a drink of water?” Havers asked.

  “I don’t want any fucking water,” Nicholson bellowed. Then somehow, from somewhere, he gathered some resolve. “Where’s Mr Pride?

  Havers looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think erm… It will do you any –”

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  Nicholson, now back in control of his limbs, was prepared to kick the shit out of Dr Havers. He stood and waited, standing squarely in front of the doctor who bowed to the inevitable.

  “We were prepared for this too,” he offered.

  Havers was a couple of inches taller than Nicholson, but he had no process in place for being thumped against the wall. His head re-bounded off the plaster. Nicholson let go of him and stepped back.

  “So… Where is Mr Pride”

  “Mr Pride is in the wood. Perhaps a couple of hundred yards…” he swallowed, “...in a straight line beyond the incinerator.”

  Pride was lighting a cigar standing on the edge of a grave being dug by Walter Scardale and Louis Williams. On the ground to his left, was the woman’s body wrapped up and roped in a green tarpaulin.

  A couple of feet below him, Scardale looked up.

  “Deep enough now surely,” he suggested.

  Pride blew cigar smoke in Scardale’s direction. “No. Keep digging.”

  Behind him he heard a stomping of twigs and ferns and the laboured snorting of a man out of breath. He swung round to face Nicholson.

  “Well well well. Couldn’t keep away in the end.”

  Nicholson had no response. He had only run two hundred yards through
the undergrowth, but that was enough. He bent forward, placed his hands on his knees and gulped in air.

  Scardale looked up at Pride, with ‘what shall we do with him?’ etched on his face. Pride raised his left hand, wiggled his wrist and gestured to Scardale and Williams to go on digging. He looked down at the top of Nicholson’s head and waited for him to straighten up. Eventually he did, and found some words to say.

  “You stupid, uncaring, evil bastard…”

  Pride grinned at him. “Oh right. So we have a conscience now. Where was it eight days ago when we started taking people’s money?” He gestured at the tarpaulin. “There were complications. She bled to death. But don’t worry, we’ve already made arrangements to re-fill the bed space.”

  Nicholson launched himself at Pride; who body-swerved, collected his partner and dumped him into the grave. Nicholson dropped on to Williams, rolled off his shoulder and landed on the edge of Scardale’s spade. It was not sharp enough to cut through Nicholson’s jacket, but it managed to crack a rib. Pride’s two employees heaved him out of the grave yelling out in pain, and sat him next to the body.

  Pride knelt beside him, pointed at the grave and asked a question.

  “Do you think it’s deep enough?”

  “Fuck off,” Nicholson spat at him.

  Pride grinned and straightened up again.

  Nicholson could not get to his feet. Pride did the honours, grabbed him and hauled him upright. He yelled out again. Pride waited for him to calm down. Scardale and Williams kept on digging. Nicholson shifted his weight from one hip to the other, in an attempt to get comfortable.

  “I don’t want to be involved in this Rod,” he said. “I mean…” He looked down at the tarpaulin. “This is...”

  He gave up. Pride stepped up to him. They stood toe to toe. Neither of them said anything. Nicholson blinked first. He shrugged his shoulders in apology.

  “It’s just that... I mean, you don’t need me, really. I’ll just go and… And forget about it all.”

  Pride stepped back a pace. Nicholson waited for the onslaught. Pride’s eyes never left his.

  “Okay,” Pride said. No emphasis, no menace.

  Nicholson found his voice again.

  “Oh good. Right...”

  “But breathe one word, just one fucking word, and the whole fucking city will get to know this idea was yours.”

  Nicholson swallowed. Now the menace arrived. Pride stepped forward again. Leaned into his partner’s face. Their foreheads touched.

  “I can make that stick,” Pride said quietly.

  Nicholson swallowed a second time.

  “You know I can,” Pride went on, his voice now barely a whisper. “Along with everything else. It’s a hell of a list. Wheeling and dealing, backhanders, all expenses paid weekends in posh hotels, handing out sweetheart deals, fencing stolen property... So, fuck off out of here.”

  Down in the grave, Scardale leaned on his spade. Nicholson turned to walk away.

  Pride grabbed his left arm and swung him round again. “No,” he said. “In a minute.” He turned and nodded at the grave. “That’ll do.”

  Scardale and Williams climbed out, grabbed at the ropes wrapped around the tarpaulin, swung the body parallel with the grave and threw it into the hole.

  Nicholson watched in horror. Pride closed in on him again.

  “Now. Now you can fucking go!!”

  Nicholson stepped back, turned away, dropped his head, leaned forward and threw up his lunch.

  Scardale and Williams began shovelling soil back into the grave. Pride watched Nicholson shuffle away into the trees. He called back over his shoulder.

  “Get somebody to keep an eye on him, Walter.”

  *

  The Commissionaire on the gate at Pontin’s recognised the GI in the jeep.

  “Mr Grover, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m good at remembering names.”

  Being the only American driving a jeep in this part of the shire probably helped too, Grover thought.

  “If you’re after Mr Marsden I think you’ll find him in the theatre.”

  Grover did. Eric was finishing the rig for the 2.30 show. He climbed down from the zip up tower. Grover cut to the chase.

  “I need the address book Harry gave you to keep for him.”

  Marsden looked a bit guilty.

  “What address book?”

  Deception was obviously not one of his strengths.

  “It’s alright,” Grover assured him. “Harry told me you have it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Oh come on Eric, we haven’t got time for this.”

  “Honestly. Jerry Wharton has it. I gave it to him yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked for it. Said it would be safer in his hands. To be honest I was glad to be relieved of the responsibility. I’m not good with secrets.”

  Grover drove Salome back to the gate.

  “That was quick,” the Commissionaire said. “Did you find him?”

  “Yes I did. Which is the best route to Weston?”

  “Left out of the gate, second right, then north on the A370,” he said. “Drive safely.”

  *

  Weston was just as it should be on a fabulous May Sunday. The sun was out and so were the visitors and tourists. Grover managed to get Salome parked a couple of hundred yards from the Tropicana. He got out of the jeep and walked along the beach.

  The donkeys were alone on their patch of sand. There was no Punch and Judy booth nearby. The door to Jerry Wharton’s store was locked. Alice, one of the two grooms at work, said she hadn’t seen Jerry all day. Kids and their mothers had been hanging around waiting for the booth to go up. Grover asked Alice if she knew where Jerry was. She said the person to answer that question might be Percy, the deckchair man a hundred yards along the prom. He was an old friend of Jerry’s.

  Percy was close to 70. Red cheeks, lots of dark hair and a moustache like Gerald Nabarro. He had spent every summer season since 1928 hiring out deckchairs, except between 1940 and 1944, when the beach was mined and closed and he was a sergeant in the Home Guard. He said he had noticed Jerry’s absence and obliged Grover with directions to his house.

  “A couple of miles that way,” Percy said, pointing south along the beach. “The other side of Uphill, just off the Bristol Road. Grange Farm. He has one end of the old stable block.”

  Grover drove Salome into the farmyard, nine minutes later. He got out of the jeep and looked round for signs of life. He was standing at the back of the big stone farmhouse. The working part of the farm was on the other side – the animals and the barns and the shit and the slurry. The yard was enclosed by a high stone wall with poplar trees behind it. What had once been the stable block was now two dwellings, sitting at each end of the long two storey building and separated by an arched space, which was used as a double garage. An old pre-war Ford Shooting Brake filled the left hand side of the space.

  Grover moved to what he presumed was Wharton’s front door and knocked on it. The door was un-latched and swung open. Grover stepped into the hall and called out Wharton’s name. There was no reply. Ahead of him, a hallway about four feet wide stretched to the back of the house – to what looked like the kitchen from where he was standing. There was a row of coats on pegs along the wall and an assortment of boots standing on the flagstone floor beneath them. There was a door to his immediate right which opened into the sitting room.

  Jerry Wharton was lying on the sofa. Although he was awake, his eyes were closed.

  Grover called to him from the doorway. Wharton turned his head to look at him. Grover realised Jerry was having difficulty breathing. He crossed the room and knelt by the sofa. Harry tried to smile.

  “This is what was always going happen,” he said. “Only it’s a bit early.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No. Not here. Get me to hospital.”

  “Okay.” Grover got to his feet.

  Harry waved feeb
ly at him. “But not until... until we’ve...”

  He spoke slowly and not too distinctly. His voice was hoarse and the rhythm uneven. He lifted his right arm and pointed across the room.

  “On the book shelf... next to the George Orwell... Nick Hope’s address book.”

  There were more ornaments than books on the bookshelf. Stuff that looked like family heirlooms and holiday souvenir pieces. Wharton had arranged the reading material, such as it was, in alphabetical order – beginning with four novels by Eric Ambler, Albert Camus’ The Outsider, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, a copy of the wartime broadcasts of J.B. Priestley, works by Karl Marx and Freidrich Engels and an edition of essays by George Bernard Shaw. The books out of place, or perhaps in pride of place on a shelf on their own, were George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, Animal Farm, and Road to Wigan Pier. The address book was next to them, propped up by a stone bookend.

  Wharton gestured to his left, tried to point with his forefinger. “Notepad and biro. Need you to write... ”

  With difficulty he shuffled his legs sideways and made room for Grover to sit at one end of the sofa. Grover picked up the pad and pen.

  “The date,” Wharton began. “Whatever it is... then underneath, begin... I, Jerry Wharton, am... unable to write. I am... dictating this to Ed Grover, who...”

  He swallowed heavily. Grover asked him if he wanted some water. Wharton shook his head.

  “On on...” he said. “Who is writing down, what I am saying... I confess to the murder of Nicholas Hope...” Grover stared at him. Wharton waved his arm again, anxious now. “Write it write it...”

  Grover nodded. “Okay okay...”

  “Nicholas Hope was a despicable human being... And deserved to die. I killed him, in his flat, with a flick knife I found in... one of the bedside cabinets. I am glad I did it.” He swallowed again. “I will now... try to sign the note. Accept whatever I write... as my signature.”

  He nodded at Grover and raised his right hand.

  Grover held the notepad in front of Wharton and offered him the biro. Wharton took it in his left hand and wrote. Grover waited. Wharton looked at the signature.

  “Close... close.”