One Fight at a Time (14 page)

There were maybe fifty or sixty revellers in the lounge. And there were at least eight in the bar that he knew of. But then, 9 o’clock was early for a place like this. Zoe saw his eyes raking the room. She helped him out.

“There are a couple of Rotary Club members I know, a barrister I’ve come up against on a number of occasions, a sprinkling of local celebrities and a brothel owner. And see the first table front right of the stage?...”

“Yes.”

“A travelling salesman and a car dealer called Martin something or other. I defended him once. A charge of attempted rape. I knew he was guilty. Everyone in chambers did. But I needn’t have been in court. There was an inevitability about the verdict. The slimy bastard slid off the hook. There were nine men and three women on the jury. The final vote was, guess what?”

“Nine to three.”

“Actually ten to two. In the end, one of the women agreed. The Judge was forced to declare a miss-trial. Marty walked and the prosecution team never got him back into court. He sent me a bowl of fruit, a bottle of Bollinger and eighteen yellow roses. Obnoxious shit.”

She completed her scan of the room.

“The thick set bloke with the comb-over, two tables right of the entrance door. Do you see him?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the leader of the City Council, Sam Nicholson. He heads up the
Regenerate
Bristol
Committee
. Which hands out the contracts on offer to private companies.”

“Like Roly Bevan’s?”

“That’s right. Sam is old fashioned, council estate Bristol. But he’s come up in the world.”

“Which is why he can afford this kind of venue?”

“Perhaps. The over-weight brunette trying to look like Lana Turner is his wife. Next to her, with the ginger hair, is Rodney Pride. He runs a taxi firm,
Pride
Rides
. Most of the cabs south east of the river in fact. He has a contract with the city council to ferry committee worthies like Sam, out and about. Wheels within wheels, you might say. The woman with him will be a paid escort.”

“Know anyone else in the room?”

“Two tables to the right. A dark haired man with two women. He’s the editor of the
Evening
Post
. Bill Harris.”

Another man, considerably younger, arrived at the table, after negotiating his way from the entrance door, presumably returning from the
Caballeros
.

“And who’s he?” Grover asked.

“I’ve no idea. He doesn’t look old enough to be allowed out on his own, never mind in here.”

Grover watched him sit down. The woman nearest to him, reached out under the table and squeezed his thigh.

“How old do you reckon he is?” Zoe asked

“Nineteen, twenty,” Grover suggested.

“At the most. So, what is he doing in the company of two women of a certain age and a man old enough to be his father?”

“Getting some maybe. You can’t blame him.”

Zoe shook her head.

“Maybe, maybe not. There could be something much less savoury going on there.”

“Well, this place isn’t the Savoy Ballroom. It’s more like Rick’s.”

Zoe was staring across the lounge again.

“Right,” she said. “Of all the gin joints – ”

Grover grinned. “Yep, that’s it.”

“No, look. Over by the entrance.”

Grover looked. A man who had just come into the lounge was sharing a joke with the wide shouldered bouncer, who had opened the door for him. He was a couple of inches short of six feet, Grover guessed, wearing a neatly tailored light brown suit, a cream waistcoat and a chocolate coloured bow tie. “That is your man,” Zoe said. “Roly Bevan.”

Grover watched him thread his way through the tables, greeting just about everybody on the way. It was like watching a Swami pass among his disciples. Eventually he made it into the bar. Grover got to his feet. Zoe asked him what he was doing.

“I think it’s time we got properly acquainted.”

“Are you going to do something foolish?”

“Not deliberately. But whatever happens, it’s best if you’re not involved. You have a court case to win. Stay here. Try the
49
Chevy
.”

Zoe looked at her watch. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

Grover made his way to the bar. Zampa passed him, on his way out. He nodded briefly.

Thankfully the Spanish influence had not made it over the threshold. The room was an old fashioned brown oak and green tiles and dark flocked wallpaper sort of place. The bar ran the length of the shortest wall. Fifteen or sixteen feet. Roly Bevan had settled in the corner farthest from the door, from where he could see the whole room without turning his head. Like Bat Masterson in the
Long
Branch
Saloon
.

Grover counted twenty-five clients. Most of them at tables.

All human life was here and maybe some of it not so human. Grover hitched himself onto a stool where the bar curved back into the corner of the room, diagonally opposite Roly Bevan. A barman moved towards him. He ordered a Jack Daniels.

The barman came back with the bourbon, put a coaster under the glass and left a till receipt beside it. Grover decided not to look at it.

A thin, balding, be-spectacled man, dressed in what looked like a 1945 de-mob suit, tapped on the bar a few yards away. Beyond him, his companion, taller and measurably more attractive than he was, hitched herself onto the next stool. The man was clearly doing his utmost to impress her. She just looked bored. An evening of real sparkle lay ahead.

Grover turned his attention back to Roly Bevan. In his corner, he became aware of Grover’s eyes locked on him. Grover raised his bourbon in salutation – there was no point in appearing disinterested. Bevan acknowledged the gesture and raised his glass in response. Grover called the barman to him.

“What is Mr Bevan drinking?”

“Gin and tonic, sir.”

“Get him another will you.”

The barman dispensed the drink and another till receipt. Grover made his way to Bevan’s table. Bevan followed Grover’s progress every step of the way. He smiled up at him from his corner seat.

“Good evening.”

Grover put the gin and tonic in front of Bevan.

“Thank you. A lovely surprise. Sit down, please.”

Grover sat down. Placed his own drink in front of him.

“And you are?”

“Ed Grover.”

There was no discernible physical reaction from Bevan, apart from the fading smile. And a long silence. Grover waited. Bevan looked down at the gin and tonic.

“You are the person who found Nick’s body.”

“I am.”

Bevan looked up from the drink and straight into Grover’s eyes.

“Why did you go to the flat?

“I wanted to talk to Nick.”

“About what?”

“Something personal.”

“And that was?...”

“Nothing to do with you.”

Bevan shook his head, as if to demonstrate that was not the answer he required. Grover continued.

“At least that’s what I thought at the time.”

“And now?”

Grover picked up his Jack Daniels. Swirled the bourbon around in the glass.

“And now, I’m beginning to believe otherwise.”

He lifted the glass and drained it. Put it down and waited for Bevan to respond. Bevan sighed, looked beyond Grover, surveyed the room and came back to him.

“I see. Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

Bevan smiled.

“We’re not going to get anywhere if you continue to be so enigmatic,” he said.

“It’s a failing I know,” Grover said. “But over the years it’s been useful.”

Bevan leaned forward across the table.

“Look Ed... May I call you Ed?” Grover nodded. Bevan went on. “This is neither the time nor the place. Besides, the police believe they have Nick’s killer.”

“Only in the sense that Harry Morrison is in custody.”

“Harry?”

Bevan sat upright in his chair. Grover monitored the body language and the look on Bevan’s face. If his surprise was a sign of genuine concern, it was touching. If he was improvising, he was very good at it.

“You didn’t know Harry was the prime suspect?”

“This evening’s
Post
said that a person the police could not name had been arrested.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Harry, no. I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean?

“What is there about Harry that makes you –?”

Bevan raised his arms .

“Enough. A young man, who was both my tenant and my employee, has been murdered. I suggest we show the required respect and concern. And talk again, somewhere convenient, when we really have something to talk about.”

Grover stood up.

“I look forward to it Roly.”

“Then I will simply thank you for the drink and bid you goodnight.”

Grover went back to the bar and paid the exorbitant price Zampa was extorting from his clients for two fingers of Jack Daniels and thimbleful of gin.

Chapter Sixteen

The night was over for Robbie McAllister.

He had won round one. But Jake Baron had knocked him down in the first minute of round two. He took a mandatory count in the second minute of round three. Now, thirty-five seconds into the fourth, he was down again. This time on his face, with blood from his nose leaking on to the canvas. The referee was counting. McAllister got on to all fours by 6. On to his knees by 8. He swayed sideways, shook his head and sprayed blood in an arc across the ring. The referee counted him out. Contest over.

Mac sank back on to his heels and lifted his glazed eyes to his corner in mute apology.

Jake Baron raised his arms and took a tour around the ring, yelling out at the punters and acknowledging the applause.

Mac’s corner boss, Ernie Strong, climbed into the ring and moved to his man. He tried to staunch the blood from Mac’s nose. Mac buried his face into Strong’s chest and cried, in pain and humiliation.

*

Outside
El
Paradis
, Leroy Winston wished Zoe and Grover a safe journey home. They retraced their steps along the cobbles to the parked Riley.

“So...?” Zoe asked

“Now Roly knows we’re on his case.”

“And what do we expect him to do?”

“Deal us some sort of hand we can play.”

“And supposing he declines to do so?”

“It will be because I didn’t provoke him enough. In which case, I’ll keep at him until I do.”

“Have you considered he may have nothing to do with this?

“Yes. But only briefly.”

They reached the Riley. Zoe unlocked the driver’s door, then looked across the roof at Grover.

“You missed the vocalist.”

“Should I be disappointed?”

“While you were in the bar she gave us a rendition of
Melancholy
Baby
. Apparently Xavier drops the Latin thing when she sings.”

Zoe opened the car door and slid behind the front wheel. She leaned to her left and unlocked the front passenger door. Grover got into the seat next to her. She turned the ignition on and pressed the starter button. The engine fired. She engaged first gear, let in the clutch, released the hand brake and swung out into the road.

“I think you would have liked her,” Zoe said. “She’s good.”

She pulled the Riley up outside the shop five minutes before 10 o’clock.

“That wasn’t much of a night out,” Arthur suggested, as he let them into the shop.

“On the contrary,” Zoe said. “The club owner supplied cocktails on the house and Paul Drake here had an encounter with Roly Bevan.”

“Was it interesting?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Grover said. “You and the ladies need to talk. Have we any beer in the house?”

“No,” Arthur said. “But there’s an off licence, five minutes away, on the other side of Victoria Park. Open until half ten.”

In the kitchen, Grover canvassed the room. Ellie and Zoe opted for coffee. Arthur said he could do justice to a light ale.

“I’ll go and get them,” Grover said.

“You’ll get lost again.”

“Not on a walk across the park.”

The fine weather had held for the last couple of few days. The temperature had finally come to terms with the calendar and warmed up ten degrees. The evening sky was clear and star bright. The moon was full. Spring may have been AWOL for a week or two, but she was on the way back again and lurking somewhere around the corner.

Beer was not on ration. Had never been, even during the war. Hop growers, brewers and draymen were designated reserve occupations. The government realised from day one that beer was seriously important to well over half the population of the British Isles. If push came to shove, people would do without petrol and bananas and ice cream, but to close the pubs would be a grave mistake.

Grover had never been in an off license at any time during his ten years in and around Europe. This place was basically a newsagents. But because it had a sign above the door which said Walter Longworth was licensed to sell beers wines and spiritous liquors, the shop stayed open until 10.30, Monday to Saturday. A bit like a packed down home drug store, Grover thought. He asked for a couple of bottles of light ale.

“You’re an American,” Mr Longworth said.

“That’s right,” Grover said.

“You haven’t gone home yet then.”

“On my way.”

“Pints or halves?” Mr Longworth asked.

“Pints,” Grover said.

Mr Longworth produced two pint bottles of MacEwans India Pale Ale.

“That’ll be one and ten,” he said.

Grover gave him half a crown and received his eight pence change.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you for helping out,” Mr Longworth said as Grover opened the shop door, cradling the two bottles with his left arm. “We couldn’t have walloped Hitler without you.”

“It was a privilege Mr Longworth.”

“Safe journey back across the pond.”

Grover thanked him again and left the shop.

Halfway back across the park, he realised he was not alone. Ahead of him, the path swung right through some shrubbery, before it straightened out again and headed directly for the Grove Avenue exit. He was moving through an arrowhead shaped, grassy space, narrowing towards the point of the arrow. The bushes ahead came together to fringe the path. He looked behind him. The path curved away to the left. He looked ahead again. A few steps further, he would be among the shrubbery and totally screened from the perimeter of the park.

To his right, there was a cast iron park bench. He stopped beside it, put his two bottles on the seat and waited.

Nothing and no one stirred.

Grover called out, “Come on. Let’s do this. I’m looking forward to a drink.”

There was a rustling to his left at 10 o’clock and a man stepped out into view. He held up both hands, knuckles towards Grover and rotated his wrists. Silver and gold knuckle dusters caught the moonlight. To Grover’s right, at 2 o’clock, a man appeared holding an iron bar about two feet long. He threw it up into the air, let it twirl and caught it again. The action was supposed to impress. Ahead and blocking the path, was the biggest character of the three. He was holding a length of bicycle chain.

Grover, the trained killer, took stock.

The man with the knuckle dusters looked like he weighed more than the other two put together. But he was carrying too much weight and was probably slow. Face to face, one to one, he would go down easily. The juggler with the iron bar was tall, lean and possibly agile. He would be tougher, but Grover out-weighed and out-massed him and if he got inside the man’s reach, he would go down too. The bicycle chain hard case was too far away to properly assess, but he would be last into the fray. Grover had never come up against a swinging bicycle chain, but he reasoned it would get in the way in a group situation. The guy would have to hang back a bit.

The trained killer calculated the odds.

Even at three to one, his assailants were being optimistic.

Duster Man tried first. He came in on Grover’s left. Swung high and hard. Grover swayed back out of the way. Just enough. The knuckles came close. He felt the airstream brush across his chin. He straightened up and leaned forward. The force of Duster Man’s right arm had pulled his shoulder through ninety degrees. His weight was in the wrong place, way out to Grover’s right and he could not recover quickly enough. Grover bent his knees slightly, balled his fist and slammed it into Duster Man’s right kidney. He yelled and staggered away a couple of steps. As Iron Bar Man swung from Grover’s right, towards the side of his face. Grover ducked under the swing and charged, like the line backer he had been in Baker Company’s football team. And kept on going. Iron man back-pedalled into a rhododendron bush and dropped his iron bar. Grover picked it up. Duster Man was back again, closing on him from behind. He waited until he could smell the man’s sweat, then spun round one hundred and eighty degrees, transferring all his upper body weight and power into the swing. The iron bar hit Duster Man between the fifth and sixth ribs. Grover heard them break. Duster Man yelled again and flung his arms wide. Grover swung the bar upwards in an arc, like the follow through in a golf tee shot. The bar broke the man’s jaw, drove his bottom set of teeth into the roof of his mouth and whipped his neck up and backwards. He was out of the game. The rhododendron bush rustled and swished behind him. Iron Bar Man had got to his knees and he was on the rise. Grover brought the bar down hard on to the top of the man’s head. He was unconscious before he could feel the pain. He fell back into the rhododendron’s embrace and disappeared in the foliage.

So far, the man with the bicycle chain had made no contribution to the contest. In fact, he seemed not to have moved at all. Grover slid the iron bar forwards in his right hand until he got the balance he needed and stepped towards the last man standing. Stone paper scissors. Grover figured that iron bar might beat bicycle chain. So did the man in front of him, who backed away speedily, then turned and ran for the Grove Avenue gate.

Grover threw the iron bar into the shrubbery on his left, moved back to the park bench and picked up the bottles of India Pale Ale. The man with the knuckle dusters and the broken face was lying on his back groaning. Obviously in no condition to talk. The man in the rhododendron bush was unconscious. And was going to be that way for a while. Grover decided not to wait around.

He walked out of the park and was back in Gladstone Street five minutes later. He rang the shop doorbell. Arthur opened the door. Grover stepped into the shop and held out the bottles of beer for inspection. Arthur nodded his approval and closed the door.

“You look a bit flushed,” he said.

“Three guys jumped me in Victoria Park.”

“What?... Why?”

“Because we’ve annoyed somebody.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No. They were big and wide and thought they were tough, but they were second rate. I got two of them and the third one ran away.”

Arthur led the way into the kitchen. Ellie and Zoe were sitting at the kitchen table. Zoe had finished explaining what was likely to happen the following morning.

“The boy has just been attacked,” Arthur announced to the women.

Grover responded swiftly to the expressions on their faces.

“I’m fine.” He handed the pale ale to Arthur. “It’s actually good news.”

Zoe understood and nodded in agreement. Ellie pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.

“Why is it good news? I don’t understand.”

Zoe explained.

“We seem to have rattled somebody’s cage. It’s unfortunate that he, or she, felt impelled to send three employees to give a message to Ed. But it means that he, or she, no longer believes Harry’s murder conviction is a given, and is concerned we might get to the truth. There’s a hole in the evidence bag somewhere. We simply have to find it.”

Arthur put the bottles down on the sideboard, opened a drawer and rummaged around for a bottle opener.

“Won’t the police realise that too?” Ellie asked. “As soon as we report this to them.”

“They might,” Zoe said. “And it might give DCI Bridge pause for thought. But they will still feel they have enough to go into court with.”

“We are going to report this nonetheless,” said Ellie.

Zoe looked at Grover. He was silent.

“We are, aren’t we?” Ellie asked him.

Grover remained silent

Arthur gave up on his bottle opener search and joined in the lobby.

“We’re not, are we?”

Grover explained why.

“There’s no point. I’ve no idea who these men were, or where they came from. Meanwhile, Bridge is already suspicious of me. He doesn’t want me poking around in a live police case and I don’t want to add to my profile. A US soldier throwing his weight around in an English suburb, however defensible, will please neither the local cops nor the US Army. I’ll get sent back to Fairford and then home on the next plane.”

Ellie sat down again. Arthur resumed his search for the bottle opener. Zoe wound up the discussion.

“I’m hoping that tomorrow morning will be a reality check for Harry. Enough to make him tell the Magistrate where he was and what he was doing, last Saturday night.”

There was silence again, underscored by the rattling of cutlery in the sideboard drawer. Nobody wanted to push on with the question begging to be asked – what if Harry doesn’t tell the Magistrate where he was?

“Ah. Found it,” Arthur said.

Zoe reached across the table with her right hand and laid it on Ellie’s arm.

“We will do our best to make this work out.”

Ellie looked at her.

“We haven’t talked about your firm’s fee.”

“This is off the books until we see what happens tomorrow.”

Ellie swallowed, sniffed and stood up.

“Let’s have some more tea.”