One Fight at a Time (10 page)

Bridge took his time over the next few sentences.

“Be under no illusions Mr Grover, we do not have gumshoes in this country. Or vigilantes. If I discover that you’re freelancing in this case, there will be hell to pay. Is that clear?”

“As creek water, Chief Inspector.”

Bridge stood up and extended his right hand. Grover stood up too, reached across the table and shook it.

“Enjoy your leave, Sergeant Major.”

He left the kitchen, crossed the hall and went into the shop. Ellie was serving a customer, Goole was standing by the door. Bridge stepped through the gap in the counter and said ‘thank you’ to Ellie. Goole opened the door, the bell rang, the two coppers stepped out into the street, the door shut behind them and the bell rang again.

Grover climbed the stairs again, to search Harry’s bedroom. He was an old hand at this sort of thing. He had lost count of the hours he had spent in Berlin, fishing tins of spam and sardines out of mattresses; cigarettes out of boxes in attics; US dollars out of sacks in basements; medicines out of plastic bags hidden in toilet cisterns. He knew if the page torn out of the writing pad was in the bedroom, he would find it.

The wardrobe yielded nothing. He garnered the same result from the chest of drawers and the bedside cabinets. There were no edges or corners of carpet loose. He checked the books on the shelves, like Bridge had done. Opened them, spines horizontal, holding the back and front covers apart, waiting for the secret page to drop out. With no success.

But he was rewarded ten minutes later, courtesy of Ellery Queen. He checked the pile of mystery magazines, one by one, from the top down. He found what he was looking for, in the third volume from the bottom. Slipped between pages ten and eleven. A list of numbers.

He sat down at the desk table and studied the paper. There were six numbers at the top of the page, written on the first six lines. A letter in front of each one. A name initial? He sat back in the chair and stared at the wall. He focussed on the post card. He reached up, un-pinned it from the board and turned it over. There was no address and no message. Grover pinned it back on to the board.

As he was descending the stairs, the doorbell did its double ring once more. He walked into the shop. Ellie was alone in the middle of the floor, arms folded, staring through the left hand display window and out into the street.

“The cops missed something,” Grover said.

He put the page down on the counter. Ellie swung round to face him.

“Torn from Harry’s writing pad.”

“He’s writing a novel,” she said.

“He’s also writing down numbers,” Grover said. “Take a look.”

Ellie joined him at the counter and inspected the page.

“It was between the pages of one of his magazines. Nobody was supposed to find it. Telephone numbers, right?”

Ellie nodded. “But why make such a secret of them? Everybody has lists of telephone numbers.”

“Not numbers like these, obviously,” Grover said.

“Shouldn’t we hand them over to the police?”

“Not until we’ve called them ourselves.”

Ellie studied the page.

“I don’t recognise any of them,” she said.

“So we’ll have to ring them, one by one.”

The phone’s on the kitchen sideboard,” Ellie said.

“Okay,” Grover said. “Oh yeah, and where’s Brean Sands?”

Ellie looked puzzled. “Brean Sands?...”

“Harry has a postcard on the wall above his desk.”

Suddenly Ellie beamed from ear to ear. “Of course he has. Of course…”

She set off for the kitchen. Grover followed. A fat, black, bakelite telephone sat on the sideboard. Ellie picked up the receiver, held it to her right cheek and waited a couple of seconds. There was a buzz, a couple of clicks and the Operator came on the line.

“Number please.”

“Can you put me through to Directory Enquiries?” She smiled at Grover. “Brean. Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” She talked into the receiver again. “Yes please. Can you give me the number of Pontins Holiday Camp at Brean Sands?”

Ellie put her hand over the receiver mouth piece.

“Ed. There’s a pad and pencil here. Can you write down the number she gives me?”

Grover moved to the sideboard. Ellie spoke into the receiver again.

“Burnham on Sea 3527. I’ll just repeat that. 3527. Thank you.”

She depressed the cradle bar with the index finger of her left hand and then released it. Grover pushed the pad along the sideboard. She looked down at the number and spoke into the mouthpiece again.

“Operator. Will you get me Burnham on Sea 3527, please?”

The Operator repeated the number. The line buzz came back and some more clicks, followed by the distant sound of a phone ringing. It stopped and the Operator spoke again.

“Putting you through now.”

There was another click and moments later another female voice spoke.

“Brean Sands Holiday Camp...”

“Hello,” Ellie said. “I’m trying to contact the camp electrician. His name is... Marsden. Is that right, Mr Marsden?”

“Yes it is.”

“Is it possible to speak to him?”

“I will see if he is available,” the phone receptionist said.

Ellie waited a second or two and nodded at Grover. He mouthed ‘what?’. Ellie shook her head and listened a bit more. The phone receptionist came back on the line.

“There is a phone in the Electricians Office,” she said. “But Mr Marsden is not answering I’m afraid. Can I give him a message?”

Ellie took the phone away from her face and looked at Grover.

“Do we leave a message?” she asked quietly.

Grover shook his head. Ellie spoke into the receiver again.

“No thank you. I’ll call again later.”

She put the receiver back into its cradle.

“Well?” Grover queried.

“So stupid of me,” Ellie said. “I should have come up with this straight away... This Marsden chap is an old friend of ours. At least his father is. He works with Arthur. The son, I can’t remember his name at the moment, used to knock about with Harry and Nick, although he’s a few years older. He got the job at Brean Sands after he did national service. It’s a holiday camp. You know what that is?”

“Sure. Has Harry been to visit?”

“Three or four times, yes. And Eric... yes that’s his name Eric... is always happy to see him”

“So let’s assume he’s there now.”

He stepped close to Ellie and took hold of her arms.

“Get a map and show me where Brean Sands is.”

“There’s a box of maps upstairs in your bedroom.” She picked up Grover’s suitcase. “I’ll show you.”

Chapter Eleven

Brean Sands was exactly that. Sparkling crystal grains of dip your toes in sand. Unlike most of the north Somerset coast between Weston Super Mare and Minehead, which was not. True, it boasted names like Kilve Beach and Blue Anchor Bay and Porlock Sands, which were beaches certainly, but comprised, at best, of shingle, and in most cases of estuary mud. Brean was four or five miles south of Weston and nestled in almost a mile of bona fide, rolling sand dunes. Fred Pontin had recognised a good thing here and in 1946, selected Brean as the site of his first Holiday Camp. He took over a redundant US army base, complete with Nissan huts, canteen and living quarters. During the recent conflict, the place had been used by boffins and infantry specialists, who could experiment with bombs and fire bullets down the Severn Estuary, without hitting anything friendly. Now the echo of cannon shells had given way to the sounds of working class families from all over the midlands and the south west, having a jolly, cheap, and cheerful good time.

The common fun areas were the beach, the swimming pool, the dining hall and the ballroom, which also doubled as the resort variety theatre. Eric Marsden’s office was in a prefabricated shed behind the ballroom. His day job was to be the on-site repairer and fixer upper. Light bulbs and faulty plugs in chalets, camp avenue lighting, disfunctioning electrical cleaning and kitchen equipment. At night, he was living his dream, as the camp entertainment lighting designer. A fantasy of spotlights and Fresnels, gobos, flickering effects, glitter balls and coloured gels; nothing was beneath his attention or beyond his enthusiasm. Eric lit visitors talent contests, ballroom dances, swing band specials, shows put on by the Camp Host and the Bluecoats. All with the same generosity of spirit. Show business was in Eric Marsden’s DNA.

He was twenty-eight years old, short and as round as his national health spectacle frames. He always had time for everything and everybody. He had known Harry Morrison since his father had introduced them one night, in an air raid shelter. He was seven years older than Harry. Now he was looking after his friend, letting him use the other single bed in his staff chalet.

In return, Harry was working as an unpaid, acting, trainee electrician. And loving it. At some point his mother and father would have to know where he was, but not yet. As to Nick and Blenheim Villas and Roly Bevan, he reasoned he just had to keep a low profile for as long as possible.

Ed Grover was about to ruin all that.

The Commissionaire on the gate was wearing a blue uniform, the breast pocket sporting his medal ribbon bands from the Great War. Grover pulled up in
Salome
and told him he was looking for Mr Marsden the electrician. The Commissionaire told Grover that contrary to the opinion of many people, he liked Americans and had understood their initial reluctance to involve themselves in a second European undertaking. He directed Grover to take the first left and the second right and knock on the door of the pre-fabricated extension at the rear of the ballroom, which bore the legend
Eric
Marsden
–
Electrician
.

Marsden was not in his office. So Grover took a walk.

The sun had generously made an appearance. The afternoon had warmed up a degree or two and the holiday makers were out and about. Grover checked his watch. 2.30. The camp was busy. In a grassed quadrangle at the heart of the place, a troupe of Bluecoats was presenting an al fresco entertainment. One of them was on stilts and striding about among the campers with some accomplishment, casting bags of
Jelly
Babies
among the kids. On the green, three Bluecoats dressed as kids on the beach – two of them in short trousers held up by brightly coloured braces, the other in a short gingham frock – were doing a slapstick routine with a pile of sand, buckets, spades and some water. To roars of approval from the audience.

Grover found the entrance to the ballroom. Posters displayed on both sides of the double doors, promoted the Sunday night entertainment. A local skiffle group, The Westonaires, was headlining. There was a troupe of French gymnasts on the show, a dog act, a singing duo called Knight and Day and at the bottom of the bill, a comedian called Ken Platt. The doors were unlocked. Grover pushed them open and stepped into the lobby. There was a thick, red and blue flower pattern carpet on the floor. There was a dado rail round the walls. Below it, tongued and grooved, oak stained wood. Above it woodchip, painted to match the carpet. Something of a primary coloured nightmare. To the right and left, staircases led up to the balcony.

Grover crossed the lobby and pushed open the doors to the ballroom itself. This was the place Eric had fashioned for his purpose. Where he painted pictures in light. Fantasy Arabian nights, cityscapes, and sun-scorched Hawaiian beaches. Entertainment Central.

There was a pool of light in the centre of the cleared floor. Standing in it, was a zip-up lighting tower. On top of the tower, Marsden had just finished checking a huge glitter ball. He flicked a switch and the ball began to revolve. He yelled out.

“Dimmers two, three and four. Lighting states eight, nine and ten.”

A voice responded from the gallery stage left, muffled by the red velvet drapes and punctuated by the sound of dimmers locking onto a wheel.

“States eight... nine... and ten.”

There was a beat and then magic happened.

The pool of light faded to black and up came a festival of red, green and gold. The floor glowed into life. Sky scraper patterns snaked across it, creased by the gobos with lines of light and shade. Up above, the glitter ball revolved and sparkled.

Harry emerged from the wings and moved to centre stage. He surveyed the scene, lifted his right arm to shade his eyes and focussed on Marsden, who stood on the zip-up and spread his arms wide.

“Howzzat?” he asked.

“Magnificent,” Harry said.

Grover felt moved to say something too.

“Atmospheric,” he said and stepped towards the zip-up.

Marsden looked down at him.

“The ballroom’s closed right now,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Harry moved to the front of the stage. Grover spoke to him.

“I’ve been looking for you Harry. How are you?”

Harry stood rooted to the spot. Marsden began to climb down the zip-up. He got to the floor before Harry spoke again.

“Hello Ed.”

“Good to see you Harry.”

Marsden moved quickly and put himself between Grover and the stage.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Behind him, Harry spoke up. “He’s a friend, Eric.”

Marsden stepped to one side. Harry jumped off the front of the stage, moved to Grover and held out his right hand. Grover took it.

He looked at the young man he had last seen nine years ago. Harry was tall and straight, still with the alert, inquisitive expression on his face that Grover instantly recalled. Dark hair, blue eyes and a couple of day’s stubble on his chin. He was wearing a checked shirt, jeans and desert boots – a must own that had followed the 8th Army home from Libya. He let go of Grover’s hand and introduced Eric, who held out his right hand too. Grover shook it, then turned to look Harry square in the face.

“Do you know the cops are looking for you?”

“I imagine so.”

“Do you know why?”

“I imagine they believe I killed my friend Nick?”

“Did you?”

“No.”

There was a pause. Two pairs of eyes locked together. Grover stared at Harry, long and hard. Harry did not blink or waver. Marsden watched amazed.

“Am I in trouble?” Harry asked.

“You need to go home and talk to the police. Justified or not, you are probably their prime suspect. And if I can find you, then they can too.”

Harry thought about this. He put his hands into his trouser pockets and looked down at the floor. He swung round and stepped back to the stage. He completed the full three hundred and sixty degrees and leaned back against the apron.

Grover spoke across the space between them.

“Do you have a knife?”

“No,” Harry said. “Not now. I did have, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Where did you last see it?”

“At Nick’s flat. I kept it there. Mum didn’t approve of me owning a knife. So I made sure it was never in the house.”

“I mention this because –”

Harry interrupted him.

“It was most likely the murder weapon.”

Marsden decided to take a turn at the dialogue. He moved to Grover’s shoulder.

“Let’s not go through this here,” he suggested. “I’ll put the kettle on in the chalet.” He pointed to the stage. “Harry, go and switch off the power.”

The chalet was twelve feet square. One of twenty in an avenue reconstructed from a row of barracks. Two rows of ten rooms back to back, facing in opposite directions and looking across grassed walkways to neighbouring hut conversions, exactly the same shape and size. The chalet door was painted green. Inside, the walls were a pale, lemon colour. The window to the right of the door sported a plywood pelmet and brown and fawn patterned curtains. A small, double wardrobe stood in the corner to the right of the window. The floor was covered in a green and cream patterned carpet. Marsden had livened the place up a little with some framed costal views and a Bristol Rovers banner.

There was a sink unit to the left of the door, with another piece of plywood attached to it, covered in light green Formica - a work surface, screwed to the edge of the unit and sitting on a batten along the wall, with a leg at the front left corner, fashioned from a length of 2 by 1 timber. There was an electric kettle, a teapot, a half-full bottle of milk and a couple of mugs sitting on the Formica.

Marsden fished another mug out of the cupboard under the sink, filled the kettle, plugged the lead into the wall socket above the work surface and dropped two teabags into the teapot. He sat down on one of the beds. Harry sat facing him on the other. Grover settled in a faux leather armchair under the window.

Two mugs of strong tea and a plate of digestive biscuits later, Harry told Marsden and Grover about his relationship with Nicholas Hope.

“We were at junior school together. Met up again on National Service. When we got out, last autumn, Nick got a job with Roly Bevan. He took me along to the gym one evening. Roly bought us a drink in
The
Mighty
Albion
. Suggested I stay in contact with him, as he might be able to offer me some work. I got the job at the Hippodrome, so nothing came of that. But Nick and I have spent a lot of time together since.”

“What did Nick do for Bevan?” Grover asked.

“Odd jobs.”

“Such as?” Marsden asked.

Harry stared at him, then changed the subject.

“Look. I wasn’t in the flat when Nick was killed,” he said. He looked at both of them in turn. “I swear.”

“Were you there, before or after?” Grover asked

“Yes. Sometime before, earlier in the day. Then later in the evening. Before I came down here.”

“He arrived just after 10.30,” Marsden volunteered.

Grover stored that piece of information away. Dragged the conversation back to the body in the flat.

“So you found Nick dead on the sofa?”

Harry did not say anything. Just nodded.

“Then why this disappearing act? Why didn’t you call the cops? If you hadn’t gone missing and I hadn’t come looking, you wouldn’t be in trouble right now. You caused all this ducking and diving.”

Harry stared down into his mug, as if seeking inspiration in the tea leaves.

“Because I have no alibi for the time of the murder,” he said.

“Why is that? Where were you?”

Harry said nothing.

“Where were you?” Grover asked again.

Harry put the mug back on the table between the beds and took a long deep breath.

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

He let his breath out.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Are you protecting someone?” Grover asked.

“No. Well, myself perhaps.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The conversation stalled. There was a long silence. Eventually Grover attempted to frame a proposition.

“Supposing we go back to Bristol together and you present yourself to the cops.”

“I have nothing to say to the police,” Harry persisted.

“Perhaps not right now,” Marsden said, trying to help. “But they are looking for you. And you’ll be stuck with some explaining to do if they find you.”

Harry thought about this. He looked at Grover.

“When did the murder take place?”

“Early in the evening apparently.”

Harry took that in. Grover went on.

“According to your mother, you had the day off. What did you do?”

Harry took a long time to think. Then he spoke carefully. “If asked, I will say I spent Saturday evening at the
Majestic
, watching
The
Blue
Lamp
.”