One Fight at a Time (24 page)

Jerry Wharton had to be somewhere up ahead. Grover decided to leave the jeep and walk along the beach.

The sky was cloudless. The sand was dotted with kids, parents and grandparents engaged in bucket and spade engineering; and a game Grover had failed to get to grips with throughout his time in England. Cricket. He had watched Spitfire pilots play it on the squadron base through the glorious weather of the Battle of Britain summer. And English infantry platoons in the weeks leading up to D Day. A Flight Lieutenant, whose Spitfire later went down in a ball of flame over the Channel, had explained the rules to him one day. Something about one side going in and the other side trying to get them out and then going in and trying to stay in while their opponents tried to get them out. Both teams doing this twice apparently, unless rain stopped play or they ran out of time. Some matches, it appeared, took as long as five days. He had seen photographs of old guys in the crowds fast asleep. But he did learn what ‘it’s not cricket’ meant. And how the Germans got up to shabby Nazi tricks, derided by comics, because they didn’t play the summer game.

As he walked, Grover passed a series of billboards advertising the summer season variety show. About to open on Monday May 3rd and run for eighteen weeks until mid-September. He stopped to read the posters.

The turns on the bill were a Polish Acrobatic Troup The Lyczinskis, a juggling duo The Two of Clubs, and a seal act called Flipper and Archie. Music was provided by a touring section of the Joe Loss Orchestra and the Morton Frazer Harmonica Gang – an accordionist, five harmonica players and a dwarf. Grover had seen this act at Norwich Theatre Royal back in 1942. The musical comedy routine was based on one joke. The big guys played on and on, while the little guy tried to get in on the act, and for his pains got bounced all over the stage. Third on the bill was a radio comic called Frankie Howerd. Grover had heard him on
Variety
Bandbox
. He did an outrageous ten minutes, based on catch phrases and innuendo and the word ‘titter’, which he tidied up for the BBC. Presumably, at the end of the pier, he could let rip during the second house –
a
titter
ran
round
the
audience
,
until
the
manager
caught
him
and
threw
him
out
. The singers were a tenor called David Whitfield who closed the first half of the show and Alma Cogan –
the
girl
with
the
giggle
in
her
voice
. Top of the bill was a performer Grover had seen at the Pavilion Theatre Bournemouth, while the 21st was mustering in Dorset during the weeks before D Day. The brilliant Max Wall, dressed in a frock coat and black tights did a routine based on a piano, a piano stool, facial contortions, a funny walk and sequence of doubtful jokes –
I
am
Professor
Max
Wallofski
,
well
known
in
the
field
of
music
,
and
also
in
the
field
behind
the
gasworks
.

This was the working class English seaside. Weston in the sunshine. Welcoming, warm and glorious.

And famous for its donkey rides. Grover watched a couple of toddlers squeal happily as they were hoisted into tiny saddles. The donkeys, calm and serene and professional to the core, stood strong and still, unperturbed by the umpteenth change of jockey. Until with a ‘heyupp’ from their grooms, once again they began their amble along two hundred yards of beach.

Grover took deep breaths, turned his face to the sun and enjoyed the moment.

Jerry Wharton stepped up to his shoulder.

“You know, those donkeys have graced this beach since 1886,” he said.

Grover turned to face him.

“Good morning Jerry.”

“But then, the Weston donkeys are legendary. The quintessence of the British seaside holiday. A symbol of continuity, you see. The sort of thing we like in this neck of the woods.”

Grover looked into his eyes.

“Have you got time to talk?”

“Sure. You can help me set up as we do that.”

Behind them, built out onto the beach from the sea wall was the
Tropicana
. A castellated, brick wall of a place with no roof, which looked like a full size version of the toy forts you could buy in shops. Two plastic palm trees rose into the air behind the walls.

“What’s in there?” Grover asked.

“The palm trees,” Wharton said, “are as tropical as the
Tropicana
gets.”

He led the way towards the door of a storeroom, built into the wall. “There’s a swimming pool in there with a terrace all round it. Tables and sunshades, with exotic fruit painted on them. A couple of cafes and a souvenir shop. Doesn’t really aspire to be much more than that. But the tide on this coast goes out a long way, so if you want to swim...”

He pulled open the storeroom door.

“Stay there and I’ll pass the stuff out to you.”

He disappeared into the dark. Then back through his legs came hardwood battens, sections of painted canvas, pieces of aluminium frame and a plastic bag of brackets and screws. Finally Wharton himself, carrying a big cardboard box of puppets.

“That’s the way to do it,” he swazzled.

Grover imagined that beginning to irritate after a while.

They set up the Punch and Judy booth, after which, Wharton suggested a drink.

“My first show isn’t until 2.30.”

Grover said a drink accompanied by lunch ought to be the thing. Wharton shrugged.

“Okay. Fish and chips, cooked the old fashioned way. In dripping.”

“Dripping?”

Wharton looked at him with feigned surprise.

“How long have you been in this country?”

Grover switched the subject. “I ought to tell you something.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I told Mark to burn those pictures,” Wharton said. “I thought he had.”

The two men had not gone to lunch. They were sitting in Wharton’s store, on wooden crates. There was no electricity. The sun was slanting in though the open doorway and creating a dramatic slash of light across the stone floor.

“Has the relationship been going for a while?”

“A few months. It began after Harry first told me about Mark. I was doing a Saturday morning show at the Winter Gardens. He went along. It wasn’t a ‘confess or die’ moment by any means. I think he was just bursting to tell someone.”

“And so he told you?”

“Hey I’m a revolutionary. Everybody knows that. An entertainer and an outsider. A stager of protests. Along the line, I’ve probably done a number of things to get thrown into jail for. I am the safest confidante in the west country.”

“Are the boys together now?” Grover asked.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Wharton shook his head. Grover pressed harder.

“A second disappearing act is going to make him look guiltier than ever. He’s supposed to report to the Bedminster Police Station every forty-eight hours. Which makes his next visit, Monday morning. 9 o’clock”

Suddenly, Wharton looked tired.

“He knows that. And this is not a disappearing act. He and Mark just want a couple of days to themselves. Harry says he needs time to work out what to do.”

“He doesn’t have that luxury. If he fails to report, he will become a fugitive again. And he needs to tell the truth.”

“He did not kill Nick Hope,” Wharton said, emphasising every word.

“So we have to show that. Without dispute. Not with a flaky story about a trip to the movies.”

Wharton stared resolutely at the wall behind Grover.

“Come on, Jerry,” Grover persisted. “Help me get him off the hook.”

“I need a drink,” Wharton said.

He got to his feet. Matched by Grover, who got between him and the doorway.

“No, Jerry. You need to tell me where he is.”

Wharton could not look at the determination in Grover’s eyes. He sat down again.

“I will tell you where he was on the night of the killing. He was with Mark. At his flat.”

“Doing what?”

Wharton looked at him in disbelief. “Oh come on Ed... He was with Mark until 9 o’clock, or thereabouts. He left, to go to Nick’s. He wanted to pick up a note book.”

Grover nodded. “Yes I know.”

“He walked, so he must have got there around 20 minutes after 9. He found Nick’s body.”

“How do you know this?”

“He called me. In a panic. I picked him up outside Blenheim Villas. He told me he had called Eric. I drove him to Brean Sands.”

Grover sighed. “So that’s what he needs to tell the court.”

“No.” Wharton stood up again. Stepped close to Grover. “What he needs, is someone to find Nick Hope’s killer, before he has to go into court.”

Grover rose to face him. Wharton continued.

“Harry will stick to his
Blue
Lamp
alibi.”

“Even though he could be convicted of murder?”

“The truth isn’t much of an alternative. The choice is, lie to the court, or stand up and let the jury find out he’s a Nancy Boy. Queer. A poof.”

“And you and Mark by implication.”

There was a long silence. Wharton looked at Grover, dead centre.

“I don’t care about myself,” he said, without a trace of sentimentality. “Believe me. In all probability, I won’t see the summer out. I have pancreatic cancer. At best, I have three or four months.”

Grover said nothing.

“Those two boys have done no wrong. Except fall in love. For which, if the cards land face up, they will go to prison. And Harry’s already sampled that remember?”

“Then why the hell did you take pictures?”

“Yes, that was stupid. All three of us were pissed one night, sometime over the Easter holiday. Mark developed the pictures in his bathroom under the stairs.”

“Tell me about Mark,” Grover said.

“In any normal course of events, the two boys would never meet. Oceans of space between them on the social scale. Harry is from south Bristol, his father is a metal worker, his mother a shopkeeper. Mark’s father is a career copper, who married into money. The family house, up in Leigh Woods, was a gift from his father in law. Mark is an only child – the one thing he and Harry have in common. Indulged all through his young life by his mother. His father was never in the house. Too busy chasing felons, brown-nosing the people his in-laws introduced him to and rising through the ranks. He’s singled minded and diamond hard. He sent his son to Clifton College. Mark hated it. He found some solace in a group of four or five kids who discovered they were ‘different’. He did his national service at Catterick in Yorkshire then in the Rhine Army, in Koblenz – against all odds, the first experience he had truly enjoyed in his life. Away from home. He came back to find his father had got him a job with Faber and Wallace, financial brokers in Queens Square. He turned up and worked hard, but he hated that too. He finally got himself a job. By himself. Without his father pulling strings.

Grover interrupted him. “Yes, I know about that.”

Walton wound up. “Mark feels better about stuff now, but his father came close to making his life a misery.”

“How did you meet him?”

“A chance encounter. In a cafe, on Whiteladies Road. He was the only person at a table for four and the rest of the place was full. We said ‘hello’, we talked and... things went on from there.”

“How did Mark and Harry meet?”

“I introduced them. I’ve known the Morrisons for a long time. Harry loved being here when he was a kid. Used to help out. I’d like to think he might take this over. I’ve nobody else to leave it to.”

“Does he know you have cancer?”

“Yes.” He looked at Grover steadfastly. “You have to find out who killed Nicholas Hope, before the case gets into court. It’s the only way out of this situation. No murder charge means no court appearance and the rest goes untold.”

“Was Hope homosexual?”

Wharton shook his head. “No, he wasn’t.”

Grover got to his feet and stepped out into the sunshine. The donkeys had moved further along the beach. Wharton joined him.

“Harry and Mark are in a bungalow on Sand Bay, a couple of miles north along the coast road. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s away for a while. I’ll give you the directions.”

Sand Bay was a half-moon curve of sand, shingle and salt marsh. A curious eco system; the elements tied together by swathes of spartina grass planted before the war to stop erosion, by giving the sand something to cling on to. A narrow road ran around the bay, bordered on the landward side by bungalows built by their owners, all of them different shapes and sizes.

Blue
Seas
sat half way around the bay. On short, fat concrete pillars, in a sandy space surrounded by a chain link fence. A narrow wooden terrace looked out across the road to the beach. Harry and Mark sat in deck chairs, a low table between them with a radio sitting on it; the mains lead snaking out to it from an open window. Anne Shelton was singing
Be
Mine
.

Grover opened the gate. It creaked. Mark Chaplin looked up from the book he was reading. Deck chairs aren’t easy to get out of, but Chaplin left his like it had just burst into flames. Harry was wearing sunglasses and appeared to be asleep. Chaplin called to him as Grover walked towards the terrace. He woke up, lifted the shades above his eyebrows, focused on Grover and froze.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

Grover stopped and held up his arms.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “Mark, turn the radio off, then come back and sit down.”

Mark did as he was told and returned with an old bentwood chair. He planted it on the terrace and fell back into his deck chair. Grover sat down and stared at both of them.

“You guys will never make it on the run. You’re too easy to trace.”

*

Arthur Morrison clocked off at 1.15 on Saturdays. He was home twenty minutes later. He let himself in though the wash house door and walked into the kitchen. Ellie was just replacing the phone receiver.

“Ed’s found Harry,” she said, grabbed Arthur and hugged him. “He’s with Mark Chaplin.”

“At his flat?”

Ellie shuffled and switched her weight from one hip to the other.

“No... They’re at Sand Bay. For the weekend. In a friend’s bungalow.”

“Who do they know at Sand Bay?”

Ellie didn’t want to bother with add-ons.

“What does it matter?” she said, frustrated at Arthur not matching her mood.

“Harry has to report to the police station at 9 o’clock on Monday. Has he forgotten that?”

“No. Ed says he will be back tomorrow night.”

Arthur moved across the kitchen.

“I’m going to change,” he said.

“I’ll make some lunch,” Ellie said.

“What the hell is he doing at Sand Bay with Mark Chaplin?” Arthur muttered as he went into the hall.

*

Grover left the phone box at the north end of Beach Road. He climbed up the hillside behind it and followed the track out to Sand Point, trying to convince himself that everything was straight forward now. Harry had a genuine alibi, if he chose to use it.

In terms of knowledge, insight and reasoning, Grover had moved on.

Geographically, however, he appeared to back where he was four days ago. Directly in front of him was Wales. Again. He sat down on the grass and picked out the same landmarks. Suddenly all that insight and reasoning ebbed away and he became depressed. Had he known that Wales generated the same feeling in most people in this part of the county, he might have remained optimistic.

On cue, a monstrous grey cloud slid across the sun and suddenly the environs looked as dispirited as Grover felt. He got up, retraced his steps and walked along Beach Road, back to
Salome
.

He checked his watch as he drove through Ashton. He pulled up at a public phone box, fished four pennies from a trouser pocket and called Mel at home. She asked him how his trip to Weston had worked out.

“Harry’s alibi will save him. If he agrees to use it. He’s still insisting that he won’t.”

Mel moved on.

“Leroy Winston was beaten up,” she said. “In the early hours, outside
El
Paradis
.”

Grover processed this. Mel continued.

“Along with the saxophone player, Fidel, who is still in intensive care. Rachel called a few minutes ago. Leroy has been allowed to go home. She wants you to meet them both at Blenheim Villas. As soon as you can.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing... Zoe wants a meeting at 9 o’clock on Monday morning. For a strategy update, followed by a planning conference. So...”

She hesitated. Grover read the mood.

“Go on,” he said

“So do you have a strategy? And have you any plans you can share?”

“The strategy so far hasn’t yielded anything we can use,” Grover said.

“Right...”

“But I do have a proposition or two.”

“In other words you have neither strategy, nor plans.”

Grover was silent.

“Still, Monday is another day,” Mel said.

“Thank you Scarlett.”