One Fight at a Time (19 page)

“You have to be over twenty-one and approved by me.”

“And?...”

“That’s all. You’re obviously over twenty-one. But your version of casual dress needs refining. The RAF flying jacket should go. You need to visit a tailor. The ‘Full Monty’ is still available I believe, at Burton’s.”

“The what?”

“You’d probably call it the ‘whole nine yards’. Montague Burton will suit a gentlemen entirely. A full three piece, plus a shirt, a tie and underwear. A cut or two above the demob suit and the fifty bob tailor.”

“My next port of call,” Grover said.

Zampa smiled at him. “We could be friends, you and me.”

That would be either a very good thing, or a very bad thing. It would take time to discover which. Zampa looked at his watch. A big silver face set into a studded silver wristband.

“12.35,” he said. “A reasonable time to have the first drink of the day. What do you think? On the house.”

“Something simple, like a glass of beer would be fine,” Grover said. “It’s too early for cocktails.”

Zampa stood up and motioned Grover towards the office door. They sat in the bar, at the table Roly Bevan had occupied two nights earlier. There were half a dozen lunchtime drinkers dotted around, taking no notice of them.

“No one talks to me if I’m drinking with a guest,” he said. “It’s a house rule.”

The barman arrived, with a beer for Grover and a large whisky for the Boss. He picked up the glass.

“And one drink only before 6.00pm,” Zampa said.

Grover raised his beer glass. “The future,” he said.

Zampa responded and took a sip of whisky. He put the glass down, waited for Grover to swallow his first mouthful of beer and set about him.

“Okay, let’s talk about the future,” he said. “You’re not here because you want to be a member. You’re here to see if you can connect me, or this club, or one of its clients to Nicholas Hope’s death. You’re trying to build probable cause – isn’t that the American term?”

Grover put his beer glass on the table. He looked at Zampa. The smile and the bonhomie had evaporated. The look in the dark grey eyes said ‘stop fucking me around’.

“I know that you are Fincher Reade and Holborne’s man on the street,” Zampa said. “I know you’re tough and can hand it out as well as take it.”

He paused and looked at Grover, dead centre.

“l guess, after six years in Europe, you’re just sentimental enough to care about the few people you like. And you deal with the rest of us, when we happen to cross your path, on a case by case basis. That’s efficient, but I suspect not the real you. Not deep down. Which may be why you haven’t gone home. A dose of reality awaits back in Tomah Wisconsin. Here, you can cherry pick your dos and don’ts.”

Grover was staring at him. How the hell did he know so much about him? Zampa knew he was uncomfortable, and to rub it in, segued back into user-friendly.

“I don’t blame you one little bit. You spent twelve relentless months on a killing spree, charged with rescuing tribes of strangers from the lunatic ambitions of the world’s most monstrous tyrant. For what?”

Grover was silent.

“To help replace Eastern Europe with another owner occupier. With an even bigger empire and ambitions as absolute.”

Grover stayed silent.

“You must hate the fact that some of us stayed at home and did well out of the war, while you and your comrades fought to stay alive. Christ knows I would. But those of us who did that, are way ahead of you now. It’s going to take you light years to catch up, unless you get on to the inside track.”

He paused for effect and let the idea of the unspoken proposition soak across the space between them. Grover decided to leave. He got to his feet. Zampa held up his hands, palms outwards.

“And now I’ve offended you,” he said. “I apologise. Unreservedly. Sit down again. Please.”

Grover sat down. Zampa pushed his drink to one side, leaned forward, and put his elbows on the table.

“Come and work for me. You won’t regret it.”

Grover re-joined the conversation.

“Yes I will.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Grover stood up again.

“This time I am going. But thank you for sorting out the problem.”

Zampa did not say anything. He watched Grover walk across the Axminster and out of the bar.

In the lounge, Rachel was talking to the piano player. Grover waved goodbye, walked through the lobby, out of the front door and into the street. The man, his brass plate polishing done with, had gone.

Chapter Twenty-One

The phone on Neil Adkin’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and took a call from Zoe.

“Where are you?” he asked and listened to the response. “How is our client?” He listened again. “Right. Yes, yes of course.” he said. “I agree, Judge Radwell would be first choice, but old Masters is available.” He made notes on the pad in front of him as he went on. “In that he lives up on Durdham Down. And every Wednesday he’s not in court he eats lunch at
The
Windsor
.” He listened to Zoe again, then nodded his head as if she was next to him. “Smoked salmon and Chablis. Every time. Followed by treacle tart when it’s available... Yes that’s right, treacle tart.” Adkins looked up at the clock on the wall. “Okay, get there at 1.45. Time it to the second and you’ll be three steps ahead of the drinks waiter when Masters waves him over to order the house Armagnac. Which you will pay for of course.” He made another note on the pad. “Leave that to me. Yes, later. Bye.”

He pressed the receiver cradle, released it and heard the dialling tone come back. He dialled a number and waited. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“Franco, it’s Neil Adkins... Thank you so much. How is the salmon today?... Good, good. And now, this is important. The treacle tart?... Bloody brilliant. I need you to be specially attentive to Judge Masters today... Great... Yes. I’ll be with you around six.”

He put the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the phone.

“Let’s fucking hope this works,” he muttered.

*

Ellie was serving behind the shop counter when the telephone rang from the kitchen. She apologised to Mrs Hodgson, who was taking her time over choosing between a blue woolly hat and a green one, and left the shop to answer the call.

Mel told her, that with a bit of luck, Harry would be out of prison after breakfast tomorrow. Ellie’s hand started to shake and she dropped the phone receiver onto the sideboard. Down the line, alarmed at the sound of clattering bakelite, Mel asked if she was alright. Ellie grabbed the receiver again, put it to her ear and confirmed that she was more than alright. Mel said “good,” wished her well and rang off.

Ellie walked back into the shop. Mrs Hodgson was now contemplating a black woolly hat.

*

Across the city centre, Grover was taking Zampa’s couture advice. He had located Burtons, in Broadmead.

“Such a pleasure to have an American in the shop,” cooed a lanky assistant, barely out of his teens. “What may I do to make your visit to Montague Burton of Bristol, a pleasurable and profitable experience?”

For a moment, Grover wondered which one of them was expected to enjoy pleasure and which one profit. He eschewed the full Monty and, instead, bought himself a tweed sports jacket, a couple of shirts, a pair of dark blue flannels and a pair of comfortable, soft soled shoes. Throughout, the effusive sales jockey waved his arms a lot and grew increasingly enthusiastic, as his customer’s wardrobe took shape. Then, when his charge was totally re-suited, he pursed his lips, pressed the palms of hands against his cheeks and nodded sagely.

“Most satisfactory,” he said. “You have made my day.”

Grover was happy to have been of service.

“Well thank you,” he said.

He asked his new best friend to put the clothes he had taken off into a sales bag, handed over nine pounds seven and six and left the store.

*

Adkins was chain smoking in his office, a replica in miniature of the chambers’ meeting room. Dark flocked wallpaper, polished mahogany furniture and his predecessors on the walls. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. 3.55.

He stubbed out the cigarette he was finishing in a silver plated ashtray full of cigarette ends, opened the lid of a matching cigarette box, changed his mind and closed the lid, changed his mind and opened it again, took out another cigarette, put it into his mouth and reached for the silver desk lighter. His lungs were saved another onslaught by the arrival of Zoe. She swung the office door open and began to choke.

“For God’s sake Neil... Open the window.”

Adkins got to his feet, turned to the wide sash window behind his desk, unlocked it, hauled the bottom frame upwards and swivelled back to Zoe. She was holding the edge of the office door and swinging it backwards and forwards as far as it would travel, making an attempt to disperse the fog of cigarette smoke. When she was satisfied she had done all she could to improve the atmosphere, she stepped into the room.

“Well?” Adkins asked her

“The old bugger made me work for it. Even though he pronounced his lunch the best for a long time.”

“The treacle tart paid dividends then?”

“I had to spend an hour on my knees, while he smoked his way through a Cohiba Esplendido and drank a small fortune in the best house Armagnac.”

She moved to the armchair in front of the desk, sat down in it and balanced her briefcase on her knees. She opened it, took out an envelope and a till receipt. She slid the receipt across the top of the desk. Adkins looked at it.

“Fucking hell...”

“Somehow the price of the old bastard’s lunch got on there too.”

Adkins, stored the receipt in a desk drawer. Zoe watched him do it.

“Remember where you’ve put that. I am seriously out of pocket.”

Adkins nodded.

“I take it our mission was crowned with success however?”

Zoe gave the envelope to him.

“He signed this half an hour ago.”

Adkins look at the paper.

“Great. We’ll get somebody round to Horfield at 8.30 in the morning.”

*

Bridge, with Goole behind him, walked into Roly Bevan’s office

“This is yours, I believe.”

He pointed the MAS-35 across Roly’s desk.

Bevan looked up from the late afternoon edition of the
Post
he was reading. Prepared to offer his smile of welcome, the intrusion notwithstanding. But the gun in the DCI’s right hand, wiped it clean off his face. He folded the newspaper neatly and placed on the desk

“Is it?”

“It’s not registered to you, but it’s got your finger prints all over it.”

Goole stationed himself in the office doorway. Bevan straightened up in his chair.

“Then it probably is mine.”

“Did you use it to kill Robbie McAllister?”

Bevan stared into Bridge’s eyes. Then he found some words to say.

“Mac?... No... I mean, no... He’s dead?”

“Did you kill him?”

Bevan had to concentrate again. “No. No of course not.” He looked at the gun. “He was shot with that?”

“That’s right. Your gun.”

Bridge waved the pistol at him. Bevan responded.

“Just a war souvenir. A present from one of the sparring partners. He took it from a dead Belgian, somewhere or other. I have never fired it. Or any gun come to that. I don’t have any bullets for it.”

Goole called from the doorway. “It has an eight round magazine. 7.6mm cartridges.”

“I will take your word for it,” Bevan said

“Where do you keep it?” Bridge asked.

Bevan looked down to his right. Pulled open the bottom draw in the desk pedestal.

“In here.”

“Do you keep that locked?”

“It doesn’t have a lock. And I don’t check the contents of the drawer on a regular basis. Mac could have taken the gun at any time.”

Bridge grunted. Bevan surveyed the faces of the two policemen.

“I don’t use the gun, how many more times?... I don’t have any bullets.”

“There were bullets in it yesterday.”

“If you say so.”

“One of which shot Robbie McAllister dead.”

Bevan shook his head in frustration. Bridge ploughed on before he had time to construct another sentence.

“Where were you at 10 o’clock yesterday morning?”

“Erm...” Bevan re-focussed. “In the traffic on my way here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

There was a hiatus. Bridge sat down in the armchair in front of Bevan’s desk. In the doorway, Goole transferred his weight to his right side and shifted his position. Bevan was in control again. He waited too.

“Did anybody see you yesterday morning, before you got here?” Bridge asked.

“Yes. My cleaning lady Mrs Bould. And Mrs Maltravers. Remember, the lady who comes in and bakes.” He looked across at Goole. “I must get the recipe you wanted.”

Bridge re-positioned himself in the chair. Bevan had recovered and was flowing now.

“I got up, as I always do, when Mrs Bould brought me my tea at 8 o’clock. She cleaned the kitchen as I showered and dressed. I went for a walk on the Downs. Returned just after 9. Had breakfast – Weetabix and toast. Mrs Maltravers arrived as I left the house.”

“What time was that?”

“A quarter to ten.”

“And you drove straight here?”

“Via my newsagent. Here at 10.30. Patsy Halloran will confirm that.”

Goole straightened up and took a step forwards.

“You took forty-five minutes to get here?”

Bevan focussed on Goole.

“The traffic was heavy. A trolley bus had broken down. I had to get here via Feeder Road, which was jammed up.”

Bridge got up out of the chair.

“We’ll check all that you understand.”

Bevan stood up too.

“Of course,” he said. “Check away.”

“When did you notice the gun had gone?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Did you look for it?”

“Only in here. Nowhere else in the building”

“You weren’t concerned at all?”

“Mildly,” Bevan said. “Is there anything else?”

Bridge considered for a moment, then turned and aimed himself at the door. Goole followed him out of the office.

The two detectives stepped out into the pub yard.

“If we say it wasn’t suicide, Bevan had time to do it,” Goole said. “Sion Hill to Leigh Woods in fifteen minutes, 10 o’clock. Five minutes before the dog found McAllister. And he could have made it here from Leigh Woods in the time left.”

The detectives crossed the yard to the Wolseley.

“Check all that trolley and traffic stuff he offered us. Knowing how smoothly Roly operates, it’s probably true enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Constable Walker, got out of the car and opened the nearest passenger door. Bridge and Goole slid onto the back seat.

From the window of his office, Bevan watched the Wolseley drive out of the car park. He took the stairs down to the pub lobby three at a time, kicked open the back door and charged out.

It was late afternoon and the gym was empty. Save for Patsy Halloran, who was sitting on the boxing ring apron, his back to the ropes. Bevan saw him as he came in the door. He slowed to walking pace and stepped across the floor. Halloran got to his feet.

“Do you know about Mac?”

Halloran nodded.

“So, why?... What’s been going on?”

Halloran’s eyes were misty and unfocused. He seemed to be staring straight at the wall behind his boss. Bevan took a couple of deep breaths, reached out with both hands, took hold of Halloran’s upper arms and manoeuvred him directly into his line of sight. Halloran closed his eyes and looked away. Bevan spoke quietly.

“Come on Patsy… Look at me.”

Halloran swung back to face him. “Mac had money troubles,” he said.

“Small money troubles, or big ones?” Bevan asked.

Halloran chewed at his bottom lip. He had promised to keep all this to himself. Bevan persisted.

“Come on Patsy. Nothing can harm Mac now.”

“He couldn’t keep up the payments on his car. He was two months behind with his rent. No money in the bank. And he couldn’t get a fight.”

Bevan sighed.

“So who did he go to?”

Halloran looked desperately unhappy. Bevan repeated the question. His ring boss shook his head in slow motion. Bevan glared at him.

“For the last time Patsy.”

Halloran cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“Rodney Pride,” he said.

“Jesus Christ!”

*

Rodney Pride had Sam Nicholson on the other end of the line.

“I’m ringing from the shed, courtesy of the GPO. The line’s working. The engineers have gone. And the entrance from the main road will be locked as soon as the taxis have delivered our first guests.”

“You didn’t waste any time.”

“I told you it would take no more than a few days.”

“How is Havers?”

“Bloody brilliant. You ought to come up here and have a look.”

“No thanks,” Nicholson said. “I’ll pass. I don’t want to be there.”