One Fight at a Time (23 page)

Goodnight
Irene
goodnight...

“Gasheads,” Winston said.

“Not a version that Lead Belly would recognise,” Johnson muttered.

Winston was late recognising the man in the middle of the group. Bert Harker had his quorum this time. And all four of them unloaded on Winston and Johnson.

The sax player was the first to go down. He was swung round and hauled head first, into the stone wall to the left of the canopy. It took two men to do it, but it left Winston on his own. Two behind him, two in front of him.

Harker spat at him. “This time, Darkie, this time.”

The way back into the club was blocked. The men who had dealt with Johnson moved shoulder to shoulder and slammed into Winston’s back. He was propelled forwards into the arms of the other two. He managed to swing away and around Harker and give himself a split second to manoeuvre. He balled his right fist, raised it and chopped down hard on the bridge of Harker’s nose. There was a scream of pain and Harker staggered backwards, hands up to his face, blood leaking between his fingers. Winston had no time to do any more. The man to his left swung a leg and kicked him in the crutch. He yelled out, sucked in air and buckled to his knees. He looked up. In front of him, one of the party, was nursing Harker, trying to stem the blood. The last of the quartet was a step away. He raised his right hand. The brass knuckle duster caught a flash of light from the canopy as it arced towards Winston’s cheek. Winston swung his head, but not quickly enough. The knuckles missed his cheek, but arrived in time to rip into the left hand side of his neck. Winston felt the tear and sensed the skin on his neck open. Instinctively, he reached up with his left hand to protect the wound. Which put an end to the contest. The man who had kicked him did it again, aiming at the right hand side of his face. The toe of his boot made contact with Winston’s jaw, swinging his head back through ninety degrees. Winston spun on his knees and fell face down onto the cobbles. He managed to roll over and look up. Harker was on his feet, staring down at him.

“You fucking black bastard,” he hissed.

Blood danced off his nose and dropped onto Leroy’s face.

“Fucking black cunt.”

Harker kicked him in the left kidney. Winston rolled over to protect it. And was rewarded with a kick in the spine. Pain shot up to his neck and back down again. He braced himself for another kick, just as he heard Rachel’s voice, shouting from the club doorway. Then Xavier’s. Then Zampa’s. He saw feet running away, the sound of their boots amplified through the cobblestones underneath his right ear. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain.

*

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in jeans and his pyjama jacket, drinking tea. He looked at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. 1.25. He had slept for an hour or so around midnight. But now he was wide awake. He reached for the teapot again. He heard slipper shod footsteps on the stairs.

Ellie walked into the kitchen in her green woolly dressing gown.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Harry nodded. Asked his mother if she would like some tea. She said yes and sat down facing her son. He collected a cup from the sideboard, poured milk into it, filled it with tea and passed it across the table.

“We all know you didn’t go to the pictures last Saturday night,” Ellie said, getting straight to the point. “Your alibi won’t stand up in court. And the fact that you’re sticking to it, in order not to say what you were actually doing, only helps the prosecution case.”

Harry sipped his tea. Ellie watched him.

There were more footsteps on the stairs. Grover padded into the kitchen in shirt, trousers and socks.

“You couldn’t sleep either,” Ellie said.

“I heard you two get up.”

“Tea?” Harry asked.

“No thanks.”

He sat down at the table, in the chair next Ellie.

“I was going to leave this until tomorrow morning. But as long as the three of us are here...”

Harry got to his feet.

“I think I’ll take my tea upstairs. Hope you both get back to sleep. See you in the morning.”

Ellie and Grover watched him leave the kitchen. Listened to his footsteps until the sound died away. Ellie sighed.

“What were you going to say?”

“Just an idea I’ve had. But tomorrow morning will do.” He pushed the chair back and stood up. “Goodnight.”

Ellie sat at the kitchen table alone.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Harry woke up and looked at the bedside clock. 6.05. He stared up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, then rolled over and got out of bed. His jeans were on the chair in front of his table. A shirt hung over the back of it. He dressed, put on his socks and dark brown shoes. From the bottom of the wardrobe he pulled out the canvas holdall he had packed during the night. Light and easy to carry, but with enough capacity for a change of clothes, his sponge bag and his notebooks. He shrugged into a grey tweed jacket, left the bedroom, moved along the landing and down the stairs, stepping around the floor boards which creaked. He crossed the kitchen into the wash house, unlocked the back door and slipped into the yard. Walked down the yard, opened the yard door, stepped into the lane behind the house and closed the door behind him.

Arthur left for work at 8 o’clock. Ellie and Grover met in the kitchen half an hour later.

“Has Harry stirred yet?” he asked.

Ellie shook her head. “He’s got nothing to get up for, has he?”

She was tired. Sleeping badly every night, fear and uncertainty beginning to grind here down. Having Harry at home was the best thing of course, but he was not talking to her. Not really.

Grover was not on top form either. Harry had a date at the Assize Court in five days. Time was running out and Ellie had to be given something optimistic to cling on to. He left the kitchen and went back upstairs. He knocked on Harry’s bedroom door. There was no response. He opened the door and stepped into the room.

It was neat and tidy, the bed was made and there was nobody there.

He doubled back along the landing. Checked the bathroom. Empty. And there was a space in the wall cabinet where Harry’s razor, shaving brush and soap had been. Grover walked down the stairs and back into the kitchen. Ellie stepped in from the wash house, carrying a pan and the tea towel she was drying it with.

“Well?”

“Harry’s not in the house. He’s gone again.”

Ellie yelled out, “God Almighty!!”

She threw the pan across the kitchen. It dug a hole in the plasterboard wall opposite the wash house door, dropped and banged on to the floor. Misery and frustration took hold. She began to cry. Tears of rage.

Grover moved towards her. She shook her head and waved the tea towel at him. ‘Leave me alone’ the body language said. Grover stood stock still. Ellie turned, went back into the wash house and slammed the door.

The shop door clanged its double bell routine. Grover left the kitchen to see to the customer. And once Mrs Cotton had left, he locked the door, turned the open/closed sign around and went back into the kitchen. Through the window he could see Ellie hanging washing in the yard.

He picked up the phone receiver and called Neil Adkins.

“First of all, thanks again for last night.”

“Pleasure,” Adkins said.

He waited, knowing that this call was about something else.

“Do you know where Mark Chaplin lives?” Grover asked

“I can find out.”

“How long will it take?”

“Minutes. Where are you?”

“At the Morrisons.”

“I’ll call you back.”

The line went dead. Adkins was all business. Grover looked at Ellie again. She seemed to be working in slow motion, her shoulders and arms heavy with care. And she seemed to be smaller than the straight-backed elegant woman he had met again less than a week ago. This had to work out right.

The phone rang.

“Got a pencil?” Adkins asked.

“That was quick.”

“Local phone number 63251. Address in Clifton.”

Grover opened the sideboard, found a notepad and pencil. Asked Adkins to repeat the number. Adkins did and recited the address.

“It’s a one bedroom flat, but in a posh location.”

“What do you know about his father?”

“Made of stainless steel,” Adkins said. “Not a blot on his escutcheon.”

“I take it you mean he’s squeaky clean?”

“Not exactly. I mean that nothing has stuck, so far”

Grover weighed that up.

“Have you any reason to believe that there are potential sticky issues around?”

“Let me put it this way... I was discussing the merits of a certain person with a friend of mine recently. He put forward a proposition, about this person, that seemed outrageous. I said, ‘I don’t believe he’s bent’. The response from him was, ‘Everybody’s bent’. Ed, you don’t get to be a Chief Superintendent, by sending Valentines cards and handing out roses. Do you understand what I’m saying? Be careful.”

“Thanks Neil.”

“Pleasure. Keep me posted.”

He rang off. Grover was beginning to realise the strength of the allies he had in this business. Neil, Mel, and Zoe. Nobody but the best for Fincher Reade and Holborne.

He called Mark Chaplin’s number. It rang on and on. Ellie came back into the kitchen.

“I’m truly sorry Ed.”

She tried a smile that only just worked. Grover closed the call.

“You’ve got a great smile you know,” he said. “A little rusty round the edges, that’s the trouble.”

She smiled again.

“Much better... We have a lead. I’m going on the prowl. I’ll be back later.” He turned to go. “Do you want me to leave the shop door unlocked?”

“Please.”

Outside, he got into Salome, unfolded the street map and worked out the route to Chaplin’s address.

*

“Your friend, Fidel, hit the wall so hard, he fractured his skull. The top two cervical vertebrae – the atlas and the axis, which help the neck to move – have separated. There is nerve damage also. At the moment, we can’t tell how bad that is precisely, but he is likely to be paralysed from the neck down.”

Doctor Chapman was talking to Xavier in a small waiting room in A and E. Rachel had gone looking for some coffee.

“Mr Winston’s prognosis is better. He is in the recovery ward. He has bruised ribs and spine and he’s lost two teeth, but he’s going to be alright. In fact he can go home later today. You can visit both of them now, if you wish.”

“Good good, thank you. When Rachel comes back we’ll...”

He faltered into silence. The doctor waited a moment to see if Xavier was going to continue. It appeared he was not.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m on shift for another couple of hours. Come and find me if you want to know anything else.”

He left the waiting room.

Xavier leaned forwards, put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and interlocked his fingers. He stared down at the carpet. It was threadbare and in his sight line there was a group of dark stains, each about the size of a penny. Rachel walked in from the corridor with two plastic cups of coffee. She handed one to Xavier.

“Any news?”

*

Pembroke Close was a short, leafy cul de sac. Grover parked
Salome
facing the way he had come. Turning the jeep around with a horde of angry residents at his heels, should this eventuality occur, would take far too much time. Number 12 was at the end. No drive here, just a cast iron gate and a path to the front of the house.

There were no signs of life from the building. No open windows, no sounds of occupancy, no radios. There was an apartment – not flat or bedsit territory this – occupying each storey. Grover climbed the steps to the front porch. Mark Chaplin lived on the ground floor. Grover rang the doorbell. Which provoked no response. He went back down the steps and turned on to the path down the side of the house. A tall hedge on his right, hid the next door property from view. The hedge ran on and enclosed the whole of the small garden. The ground floor apartment had a rear door.

It was locked. But the casement kitchen windows had small horizontal windows above them. One was latched open. Grover wheeled a dustbin into position, climbed on it and took the window off its latch. He reached through the gap and down to the casement window latch. He tugged it free and the window swung open. He levered himself into the kitchen, climbed over the sink and dropped on to the linoleum.

He moved across the kitchen and into the hall, which ran the entire depth of the house, towards the front door. In front of him, the space under the stairs once running up to the first floor, had been commandeered for a bathroom. On his immediate right was a bedroom. The phone sat on a table in the hall. Beyond that was the doorway into the living room which looked out on to the front garden. From the window, Grover could see
Salome
parked out in the street about fifty yards away.

This was all new to him. Soldiering had taught him many things, most of them brutal and deadly. Simple breaking and entering should have been a piece of cake, but it terrified him. His heart rate had risen, there was a pulse thumping in his neck, his hands were shaking.

He looked around the room. The usual three piece suite arrangement so beloved of the Brits, shelves of books, a sideboard with sliding glass doors, a collection of glass objects inside it. The piece of furniture with the most potential, was a repro Victorian bureau. It was old mahogany, with two drawers under the desk section and barley sugar twist legs. Sitting on top of it, was a ten by eight, gilt photo frame. Grover studied the picture. Harry, Mark and Jerry Wharton smiling, posing in the sunshine, in front of the Punch and Judy booth.

Grover had come hot foot on this adventure without gloves, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He went through the drawers first. There was an Imperial portable typewriter in the bottom one, along with boxes of typing paper, carbon paper and other desk stuff, like a stapler, a pair of scissors, rubbers, pens and pencils. The drawer above, hosted a bunch of non-desk stuff. Including a small tool box with a set of spanners in it, a couple of screwdrivers and a plastic bag of curtain hooks. He transferred his attention to the writing section.

The embossed front of the bureau which pulled down and transformed into a desk top, was locked. It took him three minutes to find the key – on a ring with two others, in a tiny ceramic vase shaped like a tulip, on the end of the fireplace mantelpiece. He pulled out the two bars which supported the desk top, opened up the front and dropped it down. Stared into the bureau interior.

There were thin, long vertical compartments designed to hold sheets of paperwork; in this case, some bills, receipts, letters to the landlord, the electricity and water companies. Small, narrow drawers underneath to right and left, housed bits and pieces of family stuff – an old fob watch, a brooch and a gold ring with the initials HDC on the centrepiece. The drawer in the middle of the arrangement, nine inches or so wide and four inches deep was locked too. Grover tested another of the keys he had found, and opened it.

The important stuff was here. Chaplin had an account at Martin’s Bank. Cheque and payment books were lying on top of a pile of account statements. And underneath, was a white, eight by five envelope, the flap unsealed and folded back into the pocket. Grover picked it up.

There were eight postcard size, black and white photographs inside it. Featuring combinations of Harry, Martin Chaplin and Jerry Wharton. Two of them in each one. Naked, involved in differing stages of sexual activity. Presumably the third person in each case, was the photographer.

Grover put the pictures back in the envelope and replaced it in the drawer. He lifted the desk front, locked the bureau and stared again at the photograph in the frame. Taken on the beach at Weston Super Mare, presumably. Ellie had said Jerry would be there today, Saturday May 1st. His pitch shouldn’t be too hard to find. He returned the keys to the tulip vase.

*

Leroy Winston smiled at Rachel, then groaned in pain. His jaw had been stitched and the painkillers were only just doing their job. Rachel bent down and kissed him on the forehead. He asked how Fidel Johnson was. Quietly, word by word.

“He’s still unconscious,” Rachel said. “Still in IC. He has a fractured skull and some brain bleed they’re trying to sort out.”

Winston closed his eyes and sighed.

“Xavier is with him.”

Winston opened his eyes again.

“They say I can go home later today,” he said slowly. “As long as I have someone to look after me.”

“It will give me the greatest pleasure.”

Xavier met Rachel in the waiting room. Both of them were exhausted.

“The doctors have no idea how it will turn out,” Xavier said. “Fidel may wake up and, in spite of the fracture, be none the worse for wear. He might wake up and not remember anything. He make might wake up with permanent brain and nerve damage. Or he might not wake up at all.”

Rachel opened her arms and Xavier stepped into them. She held him close.

*

Grover climbed into
Salome
, checked his maps, located the A370, programmed the cross town route into his head, fired up the jeep and set out for Weston.

He turned
Salome
on to the sea front at 5 minutes past noon. He parked the jeep at the south end of Marine Parade and stepped on to the sand, stretching unbroken for a mile and a half, along the front and round the curve of rock at Knightstone. Past the line of holiday flats and boarding houses and the Grand Atlantic hotel. Past the town’s great Edwardian landmark, the Grand Pier, built in 1904 – four hundred yards long, with its magnificent two thousand seat theatre out in the sea. Music hall greats like Marie Lloyd had played there. Stage tours of Bernard Shaw and Jack Priestley. Even opera and ballet during the 1920s.