One Fight at a Time (7 page)

“Then we shall make it so,” Bevan said.

Sergeant Goole had never had a cup of Earl Grey tea in his life. But he responded to the ‘sit down on the fucking sofa’ stare from his boss. Bridge sat down next to him.

In the kitchen, Bevan arranged a selection of fairy cakes neatly, on a big white oval plate with a red rose design in the centre. The kettle boiled and he poured the water into a white teapot with an elegant curved spout and the same red rose on each side of the bowl. He took a bottle of milk out of the enormous American
Prestcold
fridge and decanted some into a matching milk jug. He collected a silver plated tray from a cupboard, arranged the cakes, the teapot and the milk jug neatly, creating the appropriate space for three cups and three saucers. He added three silver plated spoons, then paused and stared down at the tray.

“Do either of you gentlemen take sugar?” he asked.

Bridge and Goole, who had been riveted to the kitchen ritual, took a couple of moments to respond.

“Yes,” Bridge said.

“Me too,” Goole said.

Bevan checked the contents of a matching sugar bowl and re-arranged the tray. He picked up it, moved to the coffee table and put it down next to three books, carefully arranged to display their covers. One was a glossy
Heals
catalogue, another was a photo book about French chateaux, the third was a history of classic cars. He sat down on the sofa opposite the two detectives, dispensed the Earl Grey, then leaned back and waited for one of them to say something. Goole picked up a fairy cake and began to eat it.

Bridge got down to business.

“Tell me Roly, when did you last see Nicholas Hope?”

Bevan was momentarily confused. Bridge watched him. The reaction might have been genuine. Bevan took time to respond.

“Er... Thursday afternoon,” he said eventually. “I gave him a couple of days off.”

“Does he work for you?”

“He does.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever I ask him to do.”

Bridge stared at him. Goole picked up a second fairy cake. Bevan elaborated a little.

“This and that. You know how it is these days. One has to be flexible.” Goole swallowed and interrupted the conversation.

“These are very good,” he said. “Do you think Mrs Maltravers would give my wife the recipe?”

Bevan looked at him. “I’m sure she would.”

Bridge recognised the ploy. That was not a random contribution from his sergeant. Goole was endeavouring to ensure that Bevan stayed as relaxed as he was pretending to be. Making sure his guard stayed low enough for Bridge to make the best of his next question. Bevan raised his tea cup to his lips.

“So you don’t know Nicholas Hope is dead?” Bridge asked.

Bevan swallowed a mouthful of tea, put the cup back in the saucer and the saucer down on the coffee table. With no display of emotion whatsoever. There was a long silence before he responded.

“No. I did not know he was dead.”

There was another silence. The detectives watched Bevan. He stared at the rose on the tea pot. Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Bevan appeared not to hear it. Bridge nodded at Goole. He got to his feet and went off to answer the door.

“It’s a pity,” Bevan said. “I liked him.”

“He was killed in his flat. Your flat.”

Bevan rolled his shoulders.

“His throat was cut.”

Bevan stood up, skirted the coffee table and the sofa in front of him and moved to one of the windows which overlooked the Avon Gorge. He stared out of it. Goole escorted a fair haired young man in his early 20s in from the head of the stairwell.

“Visitor, Roly,” Goole said.             

Bevan turned back into the room.

“Michael,” he said quietly. “So pleased you’re here. These gentlemen are just leaving.”

Bridge got to his feet.

“Indeed we are. We’ll talk later Roly.”

He crossed the room to the stairwell, nodding at Michael as he passed by. Goole looked grumpy.

“Why are we leaving?” he hissed in a stage whisper, as Bridge led the way downstairs.

“Softly softly...” Bridge said. “Roly knows we’re serious.”

“So, let’s put a surveillance team on him for a couple of days. See what he does,” Goole said.

PC Walker saw Bevan’s front door open. He climbed out of the Wolseley, stepped around the back of the car and opened the kerb-side passenger door. Goole got in first and slid along the leather seat. Bridge followed. Walker climbed in behind the wheel, tilted the rear-view mirror so that he could see into the back of the car, and waited for instructions.

Bridge responded to Goole’s proposal.

“Likely to be a waste of time and man power. Roly will know that surveillance is probability number one. So he’ll be careful. And he’ll lead our men all over the place. Pubs, clubs, picture houses, variety halls, amusement arcades, dog tracks and God knows where else. It’ll cost a fortune in tickets and drinks.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“The key to snaring Roly Bevan once and for all,” he said, “is to let him make the running and, eventually, the mistakes.”

He looked towards the front of the car.

“Do you know where Gladstone Street is Walker?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Walker turned the ignition key. The engine fired immediately. He re-arranged the mirror, swung the wheel to the right, nosed the Wolseley into the road and set off towards the river.

Chapter Eight

“I’m truly sorry I gave the cops chapter and verse,” Grover said. “But I had no other explanation for being there.”

“I understand,” Ellie said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

She was in the process of cleaning the window displays either side of the entrance door. Grover asked Ellie where Arthur was. She explained that he played dominoes on Sunday afternoons.

“Dominoes?”

“You, you know the blocks with –”

“Yes I know what they are.”

“A big thing around here.”

A customer came into the shop. Ellie stepped behind the counter. Grover began taking stuff out of the display space right of the door, prior to dusting and cleaning. He lifted out the last carton of
Brillo
pads and stood it on the floor behind him. He picked up a duster. Two customers came and went, then they were alone again. Ellie stayed behind the counter, staring across the shop floor.

“This doesn’t look good for Harry, does it?” Ellie said.

Grover fiddled with his to duster.

“It’s not ideal.”

Ellie opened her arms, put the heels of her hands against the counter and dropped her head. Grover waited to hear if she was going to say something else. She blew out her cheeks. Grover ducked back into the window display space.

The police Wolseley pulled up outside the window. Grover reversed into the shop and straightened up again.

“They’re here.”

Ellie panicked.

“Oh God...”

Grover dropped the duster and moved across the floor of the shop. Ellie stepped out through the gap in the counter. Grover took both her hands in his.

“Stay cool. It’ll be okay.”

The doorbell rang behind him. He let go of Ellie and they both turned to face the detectives. Goole closed the door. The doorbell rang again. Bridge nodded politely at Grover and introduced himself to Ellie.

“We would like to talk with your son, if we may,” he said.

Ellie swallowed and cleared her throat.

“I’m afraid he’s not here,” she said.

Goole, still at the door, turned the open/closed sign around, pulled down the roller blind and locked the Yale.

“When is he coming back?” Bridge asked.

“I er... I can’t say. A day or so, maybe.”

“Is your husband in?”

Ellie shook her head. “No, he’s out.”

“Then may we talk with you?”

“Can Ed stay with me?”

“I don’t see why not. He got himself involved in this.”

Calmer now, Ellie nodded a thank you.

They stood in the centre of the floor, all four of them. Goole fished his notebook and biro out of a jacket pocket. Bridge let Ellie tell him everything he had already heard from Grover and then began asking questions. When did she last see her son? Why did she think he would be at Nicholas Hope’s flat? Did he stay there often? And what was his relationship with Nicholas Hope?

“He is, was, a friend. I don’t know any more than that.”

“Have you met Hope?”

“Not since he and Harry were at school.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Not much. I’m sorry Chief Inspector, but I can’t be –”

Bridge interrupted her. “That’s alright.

Goole looked up from his scribbling.

“Has Harry done this before? Disappeared I mean?” he asked.

“He hasn’t disappeared,” Grover said.

“You mean he’s just...” Goole paused for effect. “... Not here?”

“I mean he –”

Ellie put out her right hand and laid it on Grover’s arm.

“It’s alright.” She looked back at Goole. “My son has not disappeared. He has simply...” She searched for a way to finish the sentence. “...Gone somewhere.”

“Why, Mrs Morrison?” Bridge asked.

Ellie sighed and gave up.

“I don’t know.”

The two policemen stared at her. Grover intervened.

“Can you leave this, please? Mrs Morrison has told you all that she knows.”

Goole switched his attention to Grover. Bridge kept his focus on Ellie.

“Very well,” he said. “We won’t trouble you any longer today. But we will have more questions for you later.”

Goole put his notebook and biro back into his jacket pocket, rolled up the door blind, reversed the open/closed sign, unlocked the door and opened it. Bridge said goodbye, turned and walked out of the door. Goole followed, closing the door behind him.

The sound of the doorbell died away. Ellie took a deep breath. Her shoulders shook and she swayed on her feet. Grover put his arms around her and held her. She took another deep breath, then looked up into Grover’s eyes.

“What do we do now Ed?”

The doorbell rang again. Mr Wallace had arrived for his cigarettes. Ellie disengaged herself from Grover’s arms and moved behind the counter. Grover introduced himself to Mr Wallace.

“Ah, you’re the American I’ve heard about. When are you going home?”

“Don’t be so rude Mr Wallace,” Ellie said. “Ed is our guest.”

She took his one and three, tore a couple of pages out of his ration book and gave it back to him with the cigarettes. Mr Wallace received them as graciously as he was able. Grover opened the shop door for him and beamed at him as he left. He closed the door.

“I’ll finish cleaning the window space, then put this stuff back.”

*

Arthur Morrison got home at 5 o’clock. The three of them sat in the kitchen and had a council of war. They came to a consensus, uncomfortable though it was. Accepting that Harry did not kill Nick Hope, the realities then became confusing. Was Harry in the flat when the killing took place? If he was, what happened next? If he got to the flat after the killing and found the body, what did he do then? Both of those questions begged another. Why did Harry not contact the police? Which could be answered by the supposition that he did not need to, because he was never in the flat. Or at least, not in the flat around the time of the killing. So, finally... Did Harry know that Nick was dead? Maybe not. But if that was the case, then all supposition led back to the original double whammy. Why had Harry disappeared? And where to?

“A girl maybe,” Grover suggested.

“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Ellie said. “At least, no one I know of.” She turned to her husband. “Arthur?”

“He’s never talked to me about girls.”

Grover tilted his chair back, put his hands in his pockets and stared up at the ceiling.

“Trouble is,” he said, “the cops are in the driving seat. They may be as clueless about Harry’s whereabouts as we are. But they will have searched, photographed and printed the flat. They may have found something. They may already have some theories to work on.”

He tilted the chair forward again, sat up and looked across the table.

“We need an ace.”

Ellie got to her feet.

“We can think better on full stomachs. I managed to get some stewing steak today and made a casserole”

“A feast,” Arthur said.

“It just needs heating up,” Ellie said, then smiled. “I might even be able to find some peas.”

Sharing a casserole, which was mostly meat and gravy and a spoonful of peas, with people who were no longer strangers, focused Grover’s thinking. He was in this, whatever this was, for good or ill. And hell, he had already joined one war when the odds were stacked against him. What was one more skirmish? He decided he was going to stay in Bristol, find Harry and see this through. Providing the US Army would let him. He needed to go back to Fairford and work it out.

*

Grover left the shop just after 7 o’clock that evening, to walk to Temple Meads in time to catch the 7.35 train to Swindon. Drivers at the Bristol Omnibus Company were working to rule because of a dispute over a proposed reorganisation of some routes and consequently, hours of work. The result was not proving to be as chaotic as the local branch of the union had hoped, but services were unreliable and slow.

Dusk was settling, but the evening was warm. Grover walked north on to St John’s Lane and found his way to Victoria Park. He knew if he crossed the park, he would end up on the south bank of the river. And if he turned left there, it was just half a mile in a straight line to Cattle Market Road and Temple Meads. He warmed up as he moved on. He loosened his greatcoat and his uniform jacket as he crossed the park. The spring blossom looked gorgeous.

There were half a dozen buskers gathered at the eastern end of Victoria Park, in the glow shed by a streetlight which had just switched on. Playing a passable version of Glenn Miller’s
Moonlight
Serenade
. It was never likely to trouble the legend himself – wherever he was – but the music sounded as it should and the dozen or so people gathered round and listened, tapped their feet and swayed their hips. Grover stopped and listened for a while. Until he remembered he had a train to catch. He tossed a two shilling piece into the bandleader’s cap. The man nodded ‘thanks’ from the other end of his clarinet. Grover turned away and moved on.

*

He stepped down from the train in Swindon at 8.30. He called the Motor Pool from a public phone box. Whelan drove to the station to pick him up. Back on the base, the first thing Grover did was walk over to 21st Infantry Admin, to arrange a meeting with Lieutenant Berger.