One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

*

  Suzy sat next to Grover while he made his accident statement to a DC in the Traffic Division. Suzy nodded at Grover when he needed to answer; simply stared straight ahead when he ought not to. Grover told the DC he was in Bristol visiting friends, and that when the accident occurred he was on his way back to Gladstone Street after spending the day sight-seeing. He had not been drinking, other than cups of tea. The DC wrote all of that down. Grover went on to say he had taken up the morning with a visit to the Camera Obscura, spent the afternoon in Weston Super Mare, and early evening at the town hospital. Where he had actually talked with Detective Chief Inspector Bridge and Detective Sergeant Goole – the DC only had to check. Which he did. Then he inspected Grover’s passport and called Lieutenant Berger at Fairford. Swiftly, Suzy and Grover were back on the pavement outside. Ten minutes later, they walked into the meeting room at Fincher Reade and Holborne.

  Mel slid Nick Hope’s address book across the mahogany table. Zoe asked Grover how he had got hold of it.

  “If I tell you something which I swear is true, as my lawyer, will you believe me?” he asked.

  “Yes of course.”

  “Okay,” Grover said. “On Saturday, Jerry Wharton told me was holding on to the address book and, subsequently, gave it to me.”

  “Who gave it to him?”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “And is that the truth?”

  “Yes. I can swear on a stack of bibles, that Jerry Wharton did not tell me who gave him the address book. And that I did not ask him.”

  Mel grinned. Zoe nodded ‘well done’. Everyone was up to speed and aware of the questions to be avoided.

  “So, I think we can consider this address book legally obtained,” Zoe said. “And therefore may be introduced as evidence by the defence. We will have to disclose it to the prosecution, of course, but we can have exclusive use of it, until we decide to do so... Now the envelope.”

  “I called at Blenheim Villas yesterday,” Grover said. “Leroy’s on the mend. He and Rachel have been cleaning the place. They found the bank statements, taped to the underside of the kitchen sink unit shelf.”

  He passed the big white envelope across the table.

  “They show a series of regular cash payments into Nick Hope’s bank account.”

  Zoe looked at the first two sheets – details of March’s transactions – and passed the rest of the paperwork to Mel.

  “£100 pounds on February 3rd and £150 on February 23rd.”

  “It’s the same here,” Mel said. “March 4th and then March 24th.”

  “Month by month,” Grover said. “Those are blackmail payments, which Nick Hope collected from his clients on a twice monthly basis. I don’t know how many clients that money represents, but I’m hoping some sleuthing with the aid of his address book will give us the answers. If it does, we’ll come up with a fistful of people with motives to kill him.”

  There was a knock on the door. Neil Adkins poked his head around it.

  “May I sit in?”

  “Yes, of course,” Zoe said. “Might help keep us on the right track.”

  Adkins sat down next to her; the four of them, now two by two, on opposite sides of the table. Zoe opened the discussion.

  “So, we are all convinced that our client is innocent of murder?”

  .The three other heads nodded. Zoe moved on.

  .“However, we know his alibi is both false and a stinker. Because at the time of the murder he was with his friend Mark Chaplin. Something he refuses to testify to in court, believing, with some justification, it will lead to all sorts of questions about his sexual orientation and his relationship with the son of a senior policeman. The contribution from Jerry Wharton, although well intentioned, has served only to complicate matters. The police will take the deceased’s confession into account, but they might decide not to believe it; given that Mr Wharton was dying and never likely to be questioned about it.”

  She looked at Adkins. “Neil, if you were DCI Bridge, what is the first question you would ask concerning the death note?”

  “Is this death linked to anything else we are currently investigating?”

  “And the next question?”

  “Is there any person, linked to this and anything else we are currently investigating?”

  “And if so, that person is?...”

  She looked around the table.

  “Me,” Grover said.

  “And that might be enough for Bridge to start making connections. He’s a very bright copper. All he needs is a moment of doubt, or intuition”

  “And he won’t need either of those, if he begins to suspect that Wharton was protecting Harry,” Adkins said. “Which he will do, as soon as we disclose.”

  Zoe looked around again, inviting responses. Mel tossed a guineas worth into the discussion.

  “Once the evidence is out there and all relationships are known, there’s another question to ask. Why would Jerry Wharton kill Nick Hope and then be careless enough to implicate Harry?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Grover said.

  “We know that,” Mel said. “But the police don’t. As we’ve already discussed, they don’t know about the relationship.”

  “Not yet,” Zoe said.”

  There was a long silence. They had talked themselves around in a circle. The sound of a telephone ringing across the corridor, seeped into the room. Adkins weighed in with another idea.

  “The prosecution has neither the address book, nor the bank statements. So we’re still ahead.” He turned to Zoe. “For how long? What’s our deadline?”

  “Forty-eight hours. We have until the opening of business, Wednesday morning. At which time I need to prepare.”

  Adkins looked at Grover.

  “What do you think Ed?”

  Grover picked up the address book. “Depends on how many suspects we unearth, from this,” he said. “But I’ve got a plan to short cut the process.”

  He stopped talking. The others waited for him to go on. He said nothing more.

  “But you’re not going to tell us what this plan is?” Zoe said.

  “Only because it’s probably best you don’t know.”

  Zoe tilted her head to one side and breathed out. Grover ploughed on.

  “Hey come on. You’ve trusted my evidence gathering activities so far. Let me finish this on my own. That way, if for some reason something does go wrong, none of you will be implicated.”

  He looked steadfastly round the table. There were no objections. Grover looked at Zoe. Then at Adkins.

  “I’ve been going through all the contacts we don’t know,” Adkins said. “Made phone calls, pulled strings. Got the number down to fourteen. One of them, TD, might be Thomas Denning. The rest…”

  He nodded in Grover’s direction. Grover got to his feet.

  “I need all of those names and initials. But the book mustn’t leave the building. Neil, how many helping hands can you pull into this room now, to copy out the list? All names and addresses and phone numbers if they have them.”

  Mel raised her arm. Adkins looked at her.

  “The two of us. We’ll do it.” he said. “Along with a junior clerk if we need him. We’ll get it done and typed up in half an hour.”

  Zoe went back to her office. Adkins found his junior clerk and put him on standby. Grover went out to reception and asked to use a phone. He made a call. Waited. It was answered at the other end.

  “Hi,” he said. This is Ed Grover. Let me speak to the boss.” He waited again. Looked at the clock on the wall. He spoke again. “I need your help. I’ll be in your office by 10.30.”

  He went back into the meeting room. Sat at one end of the long table, reading through Nicholas Hope’s address book again. Between them, he and Mel and Adkins’ junior clerk triple checked the list.

  “So what now?” Mel asked

  “Go through all the names once again,” Grover said. “See if y
ou can come up with any current connection to Nick Hope.” He picked up the shortlist. “I’ll take these fourteen with me.”

  *

  He walked into El Paradis ten minutes later. Zampa offered him a drink. The barmen provided the best coffee black market money could buy, and Grover waited for Zampa to respond to his proposal. Zampa sipped at his cup and put it back in the saucer.

  “Do you intend to share any of the information you have uncovered with the police, any time in the near future?”

  Grover shook his head. “Not if we can do a deal. I won’t need to take anything to the police if Harry doesn’t go to trial.”

  Zampa took that on board.

  “All this fucking nonsense,” he said, “which began with the murder of Nicholas Hope, has done nothing for business. It’s dragged us into the spotlight and spread like some kind of plague among my associates. Fortunately, that appears to be under control. And I can assure you, none of us, are involved in whatever happened at Blenheim Villas.”

  He looked at Grover dead centre. Their eyes locked.

  “I give you my word,” he said.

  Grover smiled. “That’s good enough.”

  “I’ve tightened up security,” Zampa said. “I have just had a meeting here with a couple of miscreants who will now return to towing the line. And messages have gone out to others who may need reminding of the house rules. Are you with me so far?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So if we can come to an agreement, whereby you cease and desist from interfering in my business, I will give you all the help I can.”

  “That sounds like the beginnings of a deal,” Grover said.

  “Okay. Finish what you have to say.”

  Grover picked up his coffee cup, swallowed the contents and put the cup back in its saucer.

  “Okay. Cards on the table... I have encountered battalions of malcontents on my way to here and now. I spent twelve months with what was left of the Third Reich trying to kill me. And then another five years working in the mire of starvation, misery and fear left behind. Your operation would not register on that scale of atrocity at all.”

  He waited for a reaction from Zampa. Nothing. He went on.

  “I’m tired of blackmailers and black marketeers, two bit chancers, extortionists, fences, thieves and hit men. I’m not surprised by any of the rackets going on. This is a world in turmoil. Europe is full of rootless people with no homes and no meaningful lives to lead. The UK is crowded with men trained to kill, who’ve come back to what remains of the communities they knew, with Lugers they took from dead Germans. Only to discover this isn’t the home for heroes they fondly hoped it would be. That’s a cork still waiting to pop”

  He paused again. Still no reaction from Zampa.

  “As I said, all that I know has been shared with Harry’s defence team. No one else. If Harry does not have to climb into the dock on Thursday, the information will stay locked away and inaccessible”.

  Zampa stared at him. Grover sat still, waiting for him to call up James and Jonathan to throw him out. Instead, Zampa poured himself another cup of coffee and offered the pot to him. Grover shook his head.

  “No thanks.”

  Zampa added milk to his cup and stared at Grover again.

  “You’re obviously not intimidated by the thieves you have fallen among,” he said. “Which is courageous. And I’m flattered that you need my help.”

  “It’s a two way street,” Grover said.

  “Let me finish,” Zampa said. “You must also be aware that no one talks to me the way you have just done, without at the very least, getting a marker next to his name.”

  “I figure we’re both clear on who and what we are,” Grover said. “So neither of us needs to act tough.”

  Zampa smiled the familiar house smile again.

  “So?...”

  Grover took the address copies from his jacket pocket and waved them at Zampa.

  “Fourteen names from Nicholas Hope’s address book. The ones we don’t know anything about. You have most of the wannabes in this city neatly corralled. So we’d like you to identify them for us.”

  Zampa looked across the room. Asked the barman to come over and clear the table. That done, he took the three pages and laid them down side by side and scanned them one by one, taking his time. Grover stood up, went to the bar and asked for a glass of water. He meandered back to the table, sat down and drank as Zampa read on. After three or four minutes spent reading, he looked up at Grover.

  “Some of the entries are written in full. Names, addresses and telephone numbers. I’m aware of them. None are connected to any piece of chicanery I know about. Some of the names have numbers only. Again, a section of the community with a reasonable sense of right and wrong. Not nature’s noblemen I agree, but definitely not of a murderous disposition.”

  “Which leaves only those who are entered under their initials,” Grover said.

  “I can put names to four of them,” Zampa said.

  “Okay. So…?”

  “The first set of initials, TD, I don’t recognise.”

  “Neil Adkins couldn’t be sure, but he suggested that was Thomas Denning. He has two convictions for distributing pornographic material.”

  Zampa looked like he had eaten something distasteful.

  “Fucking pervert. He’s obviously not a member here.”

  “And the rest?”

  “DF, is probably Douglas French,” Zampa said. “BH, could be Bill Harris, the editor of the Post. I would suggest that RM, is the late Robbie McAllister. And WBS, can only be William Bullivant-Shaw.”

  He sat back in his chair.

  “BH and RM, okay,” Grover said. “Who’s Douglas French?”

  “He runs two pubs. He leases one of them from Courage Breweries and the other he owns. The Broken Gate. You know the place, I’m led to believe.”

  Grover watched, as in slow motion, his host’s face froze into a mask. If he had doubted Zampa’s claim to know everything about everything, he had no cause to do so now. For the first time in their relationship, Grover experienced real menace aimed in his direction. Powerful, implacable, no quarter given. Like on Omaha Beach. It took him several seconds to stop the pulse in his head pounding. Satisfied that his message had been received and understood, Zampa allowed the mask to slip.

  “Mr French is not a member of El Paradis.”

  “Bill Harris is,” Grover said, recovering some ground. “I saw him here, if you recall.”

  “He is, yes.”

  “What else is he?”

  Zampa stayed silent.

  “All the help you can, you said a few minutes ago.”

  “Bill Harris is not a murderer.”

  Suddenly Zampa smiled again. This time, like a nanny indulging the toddler in her care. Grover decided to move to more potentially fertile ground.

  “What about Robbie McAllister? Nothing you say is going to bother him now.”

  Zampa nodded.

  “He was a very conflicted man. With a chip on his shoulder and a head full of demons. It seemed he had promise as a boxer. Pat Halloran believed in him, but McAllister couldn’t control his temper, couldn’t focus when he needed to. He was always broke. Roly Bevan lent him a few pounds here and there. Until he lost patience.”

  “So, after the beating he took, in anger and desperation he shot himself. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Zampa shook his head slowly. “Robbie McAllister was a homosexual.”

  Grover sat back and looked at him.

  “He had the best cover available,” Zampa went on. “He was in the butchest of professions. No nancy boys in the ring.”

  “So if Robbie was homosexual, what of the others? Bill Harris, was in here with some kid, maybe nineteen or twenty.”

  Zampa moved in his chair. Crossed his left leg over her right, and looked down at the crease in his trousers.

  “Okay,” Grover said. “What about the last guy, WBS? Is he a client?”

>   “No. But I do know him. He used to come here when my father was running the billiards room. They were friends, back in the thirties. Until some business deal went wrong. Bill Bullivant hyphenated Shaw. He always insisted on the hyphen. Thought it gave him class. Not that he showed any. He claimed that his mother, Sarah Bullivant, had been an actress before she married. He was gassed during the first war. I remember he had trouble with his breathing. He was a special constable during the recent conflict.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Specials get appointed by local forces. They’re volunteers, expected to do around twenty hours a week on the beat. They take the police oath, get a uniform, a whistle and a truncheon. A lot of men who were too old for active service or didn’t pass medicals in 1940 and ’41, joined the specials.”

  “What does he do now?” Grover asked.

  “The last I heard, he was working as a caretaker in a children’s home. It shouldn’t be hard to find him. There are only two in the city. St Jude’s and St Christopher’s.”

  Grover swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “How old will he be?”

  “Late 50s I would have thought.”

  “Do you remember what he looks like?”

  “Not really. I haven’t seen him for years. I remember he didn’t have much hair.”

  Grover constructed his next sentence, word by word.

  “Nick Hope, spent most of his childhood at St. Christopher’s. Hating every minute of it.”

  Silence filled the office like air inflating a balloon. Zampa ended the conversation.

  “Over to you,” he said.

  Grover called Mel from the pay phone booth in the entrance hall.

  “Eric Marsden says he has no idea why he’s in Nick Hope’s address book,” she told him. “He won’t say any more to me, but he wants to talk with you. As soon as possible. It seems he trusts you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Forty-five minutes later, Marsden unlocked the door of his chalet and waved Grover past him. Grover stood in the centre of the room and looked around. It was as cheerless as he remembered it.

  Marsden gestured to the armchair. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  Marsden closed the chalet door. Grover sat down.