One Fight at a Time (26 page)

“You could have done it on behalf of a member of your flock.”

“I could have,” he said. “But I didn’t. And I’d be grateful if you would do me the courtesy of believing it.”

“Okay,” Grover said. “But tell me how it works. This relationship with your clients.”

Zampa shifted in his seat and leaned a fraction closer to Grover.

“I’m like a friendly society. I hold all the markers and the mortgages. I keep confidences. In difficult moments I tidy up, close the gaps, lend support, cover the financial holes.”

“Which sounds like you’re an executive class loan shark.”

Zampa looked hurt for a moment. Then brushed that from his eyes and replaced it with a look that would chill the coldest steel.

“Ed. We both know I am not your ordinary common or garden freelance. However, as you have experienced,
El
Paradis
clients do number among their ranks, breakers and enterers, fraudsters and forgers, bent accountants, tax dodgers, people whose deeds and personal preferences are frowned on by the majority of citizens, and many others with assorted histories. None is – so far anyway – a murderer. And all their secrets are safe with me. Unless, or until, they step out of line. At which point, the relationship is terminated with the minimum of fuss. I have no interest in drugs and prostitution, pushers and pimps. In fact, in the past I have been known to take a prominent stand against such pond scum.”

“So what do these clients have to do to receive your patronage?”

“Simply settle their bills on time and pay for their drinks.”

“In other words, you get a percentage of everything that grows in the garden.”

Zampa smiled, approving of the analogy.

“And I ensure that all the weeding is done properly and no one plants anything in the wrong spot. Nothing happens in this city unless I know about it and approve.”

“Did Robbie McAllister do something to incur your intervention?”

“Who?”

“The boxer found dead in his car.”

“Ah yes. He committed suicide. The police said so.” Zampa shrugged. “You need to talk to Roly Bevan about McAllister.”

“Why, if you’re the puppet master?”

He shrugged again, adding a dismissive wave of the arm this time.

“He was a second string welterweight. No more than a blip on my radar. Now he’s dead. End of story.”

“What was he doing that got everybody worked up?”

“Nobody got worked up, Ed. Except McAllister himself. He had no fights scheduled, no money, and more personal problems than he could shake a stick at. So he killed himself.”

“That comes off your tongue fluently, doesn’t it? That rationalisation. It mirrors the way you conduct Zampa Ltd. ‘A’ does something wrong. ‘B’ doesn’t like it. So ‘C’ does something about it. Cause, effect and result. So simple.”

“Simple is always best,” he said. “So I would be grateful if you would keep me informed of anything you discover, which might serve our mutual interest.”

“That could work I guess. As long as we get Harry out from under.”

“At which point you will go home?”

“I will have to. I’m an American GI. An alien.”

Zampa looked straight into Grover’s eyes. All business this time. No smile, no bonhomie.

“Then go back to your base and go home soonest,” he said.

He leaned forward and tapped Jonathan on the shoulder, who reached for the door handle to his left.

“Not on my account Jonathan,” Grover said.

He got out of the Humber and walked back to the jeep. James fired up the car and it pulled away. Grover climbed back into
Salome
, turned on the ignition, pressed the clutch, changed his mind and took his foot off it. The engine idled as he watched the Humber drive into the distance.

‘Our mutual interest’... Zampa had said that in the sort of tone officers had used when giving orders to take the next farm house, or the next village.
I
want
you
across
the
river
by
dawn
, was always made to sound like a reasonable alternative to sitting down and taking a rest.
I
promised
the
colonel
we’d
be
in
Nordhausen
by
tomorrow
night
. The order was always accepted with a salute and a tough ‘
Yes
SIR’
. Followed by two fingers from the rest of the platoon.

Grover pressed the clutch again and selected first gear. Smiled and wondered... Were the gloves on or off?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sunday morning, May 2nd, was clear and bright. Just before 11 o’clock, the sun squeezed through the clouds and the world began to warm up. Arthur had gone out and come back with the Sunday papers, but nobody at Gladstone Street was feeling relaxed or comfortable. Grover suggested they all pile in the jeep and go out somewhere. There were no takers. Then Ellie had an idea.

“Harry, why don’t you take Ed up to the Camera Obscura?” She turned to Grover. “It’s on the Downs, above the suspension bridge. You get amazing aerial views of the city.”

“The camera what?”

“Obscura. When you get there, you’ll see what I mean.” She looked at her son. “Well?”

Harry looked up from the sports page of the
Sunday
Mirror
. Straight at his mother’s ‘don’t you dare say no’ expression. He knew this was a set up. A way to get him and Ed alone together. But at that moment, he could not improvise his way out of it.

“Okay,” he said. Folded the paper and put it down on the kitchen table.

He and Grover grabbed jackets and went out to
Salome
. At the end of the street Harry gave instructions.

“First right, second left, then on towards the river. You know Coronation Road?”

“Yes.”

“When you get there, turn left along the bank of the river. Then, do a doh see doh, and take the road up the hill towards the south end of the suspension bridge.”

“Okay. Don’t give me any more directions. See if I can find the way.”

Harry sat back in his seat. He looked across at Grover.

“What does my mother expect me to tell you?”

“That’s the problem. She wants to know as much as I do. We both know the situation you’re in, she doesn’t. And she doesn’t deserve to be left in the dark. She’s hurting like hell Harry.”

He kicked the jeep engine down a gear and then down again. He turned north, towards Coronation Road. Harry stared resolutely ahead. Grover tried again.

“So... Let me tell your lawyer.”

Harry did not move in his seat.

“Okay. You don’t like that idea. Then let’s try something else. Tell me everything you know about Nick. Every single thing you can recall.”

Harry dipped his chin and stared down the front of his jacket. Grover went on.

“We have three days, four at most, in which to find a way out of this. So spend the next few minutes, thinking hard. Really goddam hard.”

Harry said no more during the rest of the journey, other than to give directions when Grover asked for them.

The Camera Obscura sat on Clifton Down, three hundred feet above Brunel’s suspension bridge. A defunct windmill, minus its sails, the building was shaped like a letter L lying on its back. The place became an artist’s studio early in the Victorian era, when the camera apparatus was built to give them panoramic views to paint. A five inch, convex lens was installed on the roof of the tower, pointing at a sloping mirror which projected the view downwards, into a darkened room on the floor below. Artists could then view the picture, on a circular table with a concave metal surface, five feet in diameter. There was a handle to crank the camera and mirror though a complete 360 degrees. The apparatus gave amazing views of the city, the suburbs and the surrounding countryside.

The caretaker was on duty and the building was open to the public. The sun was bright enough for the camera to take a clear, detailed picture. Harry identified Gladstone Street. Grover marvelled.

Afterwards, they sat on a bench on the hillside and looked down onto Clifton Gorge. Grover said nothing. Waiting. Inviting Harry to talk. Finally, he did.

“Nick had an address book. With all his contacts in it. I found it in his flat on the night of the murder.”

It wasn’t the lost ark, or even Schnozzle Durante’s lost chord, but Harry’s confession was as golden as the silence he had maintained thus far. Grover asked him where it was.

“Eric Marsden has it. In his chalet. I asked him to keep it safe.”

“Did you look at it?”

“Not in any detail. There were names I recognised in the book, but no one I could connect with anything I was doing. Except for Mark and Jerry.”

“So why have you kept this such a big secret?”

There was another long silence. Harry folded his arms, unfolded them, put his hands up to his face, massaged his eyeballs, put his hands back on his knees, changed his position on the bench, crossed and uncrossed his legs, raised his arms again, put them behind his head and interlocked his fingers. In the end, Grover could not take any more fidgeting. He offered the explanation himself.

“I know about your triangular relationship,” he said.

Harry looked at him, in turn shocked, saddened and frightened. Grover raised his right hand.

“I swear to you, this information will stay with me and your law team. No one else will get to know any of it. I promise.”

Harry sat up straight, like a man who had just allowed a huge weight to slide off his shoulders. And he began to unload what was left.

“Mark’s father is a Chief Superintendent. A real hard case. With a reputation as one of the toughest men in the city. He has a high profile and a passion for catching crooks. He’s a politician. And a headliner. Always good for the latest quote on his crusade for law and order.”

“Is Mark afraid of him?”

“Yes he is.”

“And so he’s also afraid of what will happen if he ends up associated with your court case.”

“Can you imagine the uproar,” Harry said. “The shame. If the son of one of Bristol’s top coppers is revealed as a queer?”

“It may not come to that?”

Harry shook his head, stared into space, then summed up the situation.

“If my defence is, I was with him on the night of the murder and Mark is called to corroborate that; do you think the prosecution will let it pass without digging into our relationship? Ed, it’s no distance at all from
How
long
have
you
known
each
other
? to
Are
you
having
a
homosexual
relationship
?”

Grover listened, letting Harry go on.

“There are two words that homosexuals will go to the ends of the earth not to hear.
Police
and
investigation
. Which is why they become prey to blackmailers. There is no other way out.”

“But blackmailers never stop, you know that,” Grover said. “They just go on upping the ante.”

“Makes no difference. What’s the lowest price on fear Ed? Fifty pounds a month. A hundred? Two hundred?”

“I’ve seen some of Nick’s bank statements. He was making more than that.”

“From who?”

“A number of sources, I guess. Which is why we need to look at his address book. In the meantime, tell me about him.”

“We were good mates. At least I thought we were. I stayed at his place. We talked about stuff. He introduced me to the gym. To Roly Bevan and Leroy Winston and Robbie Mac. And all the time he had this operation going. I mean, bloody hell...”

He sighed again. Suddenly started shaking. Grover reached out to him. Harry yelled out loud, got to his feet and began pacing around on the grass. He kicked at a piece of turf. It rose into the air.

“Shit,” he moaned. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

He kicked at another piece of turf. And another. Until he began to calm down. Grover waited for him. Harry stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and stared into the distance.

“There will be others, of a similar sexual persuasion, in Nick’s address book,” Grover said.

Harry nodded. “Yes, there must be.”

“People he was blackmailing.”

Harry did not move. Grover stared at his back.

“But not you?”

“No. I told you, we were friends.”

“Until when?”

Harry turned round to face Grover.

“Until Mark told me he had paid Nick fifty pounds and was going to have to do it again.”

“And when was that?”

“The night Nick was killed.”

It was Grover’s turn to take in the view again. He stood up, moved to Harry’s shoulder and looked down at Brunel’s miracle of engineering, sweeping across the Gorge. The rumble of traffic moving over it, drifted up the hillside towards the bench. He listened to it for a while, until he found something to say.

“How long had Nick been blackmailing Mark?”

“A month or two.”

“Which you didn’t know anything about?

“Jerry did. Mark talked to him. Jerry said he would try and fix it.”

That was not exactly good news, Grover thought.

“Do you know he’s dying?”

“Yes. He told us, Mark and me, at Easter.”

Grover nodded, without saying anything. Harry watched him, sensing he should wait. Grover was turning over an idea in his head. Then he snapped out of it.

“I’ll take you home,” he said. “Then go visit Eric again. We need the address book.”

“You go on,” Harry said. “I’m going to stay here for a while.”

Grover left him and walked across the hillside to
Salome
. He climbed in behind the steering wheel, sat still and stared back at the Observatory. Harry wandered away, out of view.

He switched on the ignition. Checked the fuel level. It was low. He pulled one of the jerry cans out from under the tarpaulin, unscrewed the fuel cap behind the back seat and filled the tank. In the driving seat again, he revved
Salome
into life, coasted down the hill, crossed the Cumberland Basin, drove along Winterstoke Road past City’s football ground, turned on to the A38 and headed southwest.

*

Sam Nicholson’s day had proved satisfactory so far. His wife was out of the way, visiting her sister in Didcot. He had taken most of the morning to read the
Sunday
Express
. And now he was treating himself to another brandy, after a decent enough lunch at
The
Belmont
Way
public house in Failand. He paid his bill, left a generous tip on the table – that’s the sort of mood he was in – and stepped out into the sunshine.

At which point it occurred to him that he wasn’t far from the back door to the hospital venture he had been pumping his money into. Perhaps it might be interesting to take a look after all. It was eight days since they had extorted their first five hundred pounds from their first clients. A couple whose son’s platoon had managed to walk ashore at Sword Beach, only to be met head on by the 23rd Panzer Division thundering up the road from Caen. It was a fierce and extremely bloody encounter. A lot of young men died on the road to Caen.

Sam had no sons, but he did have three daughters. All of them married and off his hands, at last. He could not recall much pleasure in the process of bringing them up. Not that his contribution had been extensive. It was woman’s work after all. And speaking of which… why not pay his maternity ward a visit?

He located the tiny gate leading on to the track through the wood. He drove a couple of hundred yards beyond it, manoeuvred the Rover up onto the grass verge, parked and walked back to the gate. He reached for the latch, then paused and considered again. ‘Stick with the original plan’ he told himself, ‘keep well clear’. On the other hand, the sun was shining, it had been a good day so far, and he was here…

Three or four minutes later, he walked into the clearing behind the hospital ward. There was a brazier burning; long yellow flames licking upwards. He moved on, into what now constituted the entrance foyer. The single room to his left was a store and laundry; stacked with sheets and towels and featuring two new Bendix automatic washing machines. Not easy to come by, Nicholson reflected. But then Pride probably had some electrical store owner’s neck in a headlock. Both machines were in business. One chugging through the initial wash; the second whirring away, its laundry barrel spinning.

Sitting on top of this machine, was a plastic laundry basket filled with blood-stained sheets and towels.

Nicholson knew a little short of nothing about being pregnant, but he could recognise when something was wrong. He turned round. Dr Havers came out of the birthing room. Nicholson looked at him, question marks in his eyes. Havers stopped in his tracks.

“Mr Nicholson…”

“What’s happened?”

“Er… We have had an emergency.”

“What sort of emergency?”

“One of the ladies… er…”

Havers faltered. Nicholson waited. Havers looked at Nicholson’s chin rather than into his eyes.

“There was a miscarriage.”

Nicholson did not know much about those things either. But he was bloody swift at recognising a crisis. He elbowed Havers out of his way and stepped into the birthing room. The place was empty, the bed was stripped and there was an ugly dark red stain in the centre of the mattress, with smudged lines stretching out from it like points of a compass. Behind him, Havers cleared his throat.