One Fight at a Time (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Grover rang Rachel’s doorbell at 3.45.

“We’ve found something,” Rachel said, as she led the way upstairs. “In the top flat.”

The place had been cleared of furniture, save for the bedside cabinets, the low table and the dining table and chairs. The paintwork looked better washed and cleaned, the floor was a huge improvement without the carpet and the kitchen sparkled – as well as it was able to, after hours of labour with Ajax. Winston was sitting, straight backed, at the table, examining the contents of a large white envelope. There was a big, multi-coloured bruise on his left cheek and below that a square of lint and cotton wool covering a stitched up wound, held in place by strips of Elastoplast. He looked better than Grover had expected.

“How are you?” he asked.

Slowly and carefully, Winston shuffled into a different position on the chair.

“In no state to do the lindy hop, but there’s nothing broken.”

“What about the Langley fight? Is that off now?”

Winston looked glum. “I’m in no shape to train, so...”

Grover sat down opposite him. Winston slid some sheets of paper across the table top.

“Nick Hope’s bank statements,” he said. “Rachel found them in this envelope. It was taped to the underside of the shelf under the kitchen sink. The crime scene team missed it.”

Grover looked across the room at the kitchen. Nobody examines the underside of a sink unit shelf, unless they expect to find something attached to it. The most you do is dig into the box of cloths and dusters, search through the packets of soap powder and bottles of cleaning fluid and check the contents to make sure they are as described on the label. Only the most zealous spring cleaner goes to work on the underside of the kitchen sink shelf.

Winston’s voice brought Grover’s attention back to the table.

“He wasn’t short of money.”

Grover looked down at the statements, covering the thirteen months since March 1949. There were a series of regular cash deposits paid into Hope’s bank account during the first and third weeks of each month. Always the same figures, the first payment £100, the second £150.

Winston reached across the table with his right arm and separated the sheets with his fingers, finding the last statement.

“Look at the balance. Over two thousand pounds.” He surveyed the room. “So why the hell did he live here?”

A question Grover asked himself in that same moment.

“Think about it,” he said. “Supposing a person you had known for a while, apparently scraping a living like everyone else around him, suddenly bought a new roadster and moved into a piece of upmarket real estate. What would be your first question?”

Rachel chipped in. “Where did he get the money from?”

Grover pointed at the statements. “Which leads us, in this case, to what presumption?”

“The gains are ill-gotten,” she said.

“By what means?”

Winston looked at Rachel. She shrugged back. Grover elaborated a little.

“How do you earn a quick buck with the odds on your side and the minimum of effort?”

“Blackmail,” Winston suggested.

“If I was putting my shirt on it...” Grover said.

Rachel spoke again. “You know what? I’m hungry. I’ve just realised we haven’t eaten since the hospital breakfast. What about you Ed?”

Grover’s reply was pre-empted by the sound of the phone ringing down in the hall.

“I’d better get that,” Rachel said. “My day to answer.”

She left the flat swiftly and clattered her way down the stairs. Grover looked at Winston, who shifted his weight carefully and leant back in his chair. “The tenants work a phone rota...”

“How well did you know Nick?” Grover asked.

“As well as any acquaintance. I saw him at the gym, maybe two or three times a week. He always seemed to be on business. I nodded at him and left him alone mostly.”

“What about Harry?”

“He turned up a time or two. I talked with him. He was interested in what went on in the gym. We went to a fight once. The welterweight bout between Dave Langley and Jimmy Wilson. Roly got us front row seats. Come to think of it, I guess I got to know Harry better than Nick.”

“Were you ever up here while Nick was in residence?”

The two men heard Rachel’s footsteps on the stairs again.

“No. Can’t say that I –”

Rachel came into the room. Winston saw her and froze into silence. She moved towards him, unsteady, as if trying to focus.

“What’s wrong?”

“That was Xavier,” she explained. “Fidel died fifteen minutes ago. Some internal bleed in his brain the doctors couldn’t fix.”

Winston got to his feet, wincing at the effort, and wrapped Rachel in his arms. She began to cry. Grover stared down at the table top. It was a while before Rachel’s sobs died away. Winston was the first to speak.

“I’ll break the bastard in two,” he said.

Rachel pulled back to arms’ length. “No,” she said. “Go to the police.”

“Maybe. Afterwards.”

Rachel appealed to Grover. “Tell him, for God’s sake.”

“This is no longer just plain assault,” Grover said. “It’s... what do you call it over here?”

“Manslaughter,” Rachel said.

“Right. So stay here and wait for the cops to call,” Grover said. “Console yourself with the notion that whatever you dream up to inflict on Bert Harker, won’t even come close to the punishment Daniel Zampa can dish out.”

Winston considered that and silently agreed. Rachel thought about it and looked alarmed. Grover pictured the possible extent of Zampa’s retribution and quickly blotted it from his mind. Harker was unlikely to turn up for work on Monday. Or maybe, not ever again. And Zampa would simply regard the treatment meted out as natural justice.

The doorbell speaker buzzed. The two men looked at Rachel. She stared inquisitively back.

Grover shrugged. “I don’t live here.”

“I can’t run up and down stairs,” Winston said.

Rachel left the room again.

Out of the pause that followed, Grover asked for Winston’s help.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Put the bank statements back under the sink. If the cops do call, don’t talk about finding them. I’d like this to stay between us for a day or two. I’ll share it with Harry’s law team, but no one else. If the paperwork turns out to be important, you can find it again and hand it over.”

“Okay.”

Winston put the statements back into the envelope.

There were footsteps on the stairs again. This time, more than just one pair. Rachel ushered Daniel Zampa into the flat. He spoke before the two men got over their surprise.

“So this is one of Roly’s restoration projects,” he said. “Sam Nicholson gave him folding stuff, for this?”

“It’s got a bathroom,” Winston said.

“Well, it’s one step up from a sink on the landing. But you can do better than this, surely?”

“It’s alright. I like it.” He looked at Rachel. “The neighbours are great.”

Grover stood up and offered Zampa his seat. He waved the generosity away.

“That’s okay, I won’t be a moment. But I would like you to step out onto the landing.”

Grover made his consideration of the proposal obvious.

“If you please,” Zampa said.

Grover moved across the room. In the doorway, he looked back at Rachel and Winston. “Glad to see you both well.” He looked at Zampa. “Later...”

He left the flat. Zampa waited until Grover’s footsteps could be heard receding down the stairs. Then spoke to his employees.

“Why was he here?”

“I like him,” Winston said. “I guess we’re friends.”

Zampa suggested he ought not to allow the relationship to get too close. Winston filed the request away and Zampa got to the point.

“Just a short piece of business. When the police come to talk to you about what happened outside the club, I want you to tell them you did not recognise anybody.”

Rachel opened her mouth to say something. Zampa raised an arm. He had the floor and wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings.

“You both know the rules,” he said. “You work for me. You leave me to fix things when they go wrong. Is that clear?”

Rachel and Winston nodded their acceptance.

“Good. That’s all.” He addressed Winston. “And if you want any help making this place habitable, let me know. I can send you some labour.”

“Thank you,” Winston said.

“Enjoy the rest of the weekend.” He turned to Rachel. “I’ll see you this evening.”

In the street, Jonathan and James were sitting in the front seats of a dark green Humber Super Snipe. A brand new Mark III four litre version. Beautifully styled and expensive, there were few of them around. The two men, ex-commandos, had worked for Zampa since the end of the war. They looked the business, unlike Roly Bevan’s bruiser with the broken face and Rodney Pride’s second string enforcers. They both wore light grey bespoke suits.

Grover nodded to Jonathan as he walked past the Humber towards
Salome
. He climbed into the jeep and sat waiting for Zampa to come out of the house.

Rachel ushered Zampa out of number 5. Jonathan eased out of the Humber, moved to the rear passenger door and opened it. Zampa nodded in the direction of the jeep. Jonathan left the car door open and stepped towards
Salome
. He bent down and looked under the roof.

“Mr Grover. Would you be so kind as to join us in the car?”

The man was cool and polite. Grover climbed out of the jeep.

Zampa slid into the back of the Humber. Grover followed. Jonathan closed the passenger door and returned to the front seat. Zampa and Grover sat by side, in silence, for some time. Zampa spoke first.

“Why were you in there?”

“I like Rachel and Leroy.”

“They like you too, apparently.”

Grover smiled. “Then all is well in the relationship.”

Zampa smiled back. “And what about our relationship?”

“I didn’t realise we had one.”

Zampa said something like ‘hmmm’, but appeared not to take offence.

“Ed. I made you an offer, if you recall...”

“I thought I made it clear it wasn’t my line of work.”

“Why? Your qualifications are exactly what the job needs.”

Grover sat still and said nothing. Zampa had said all he wished to say, for the moment, so he waited. Grover took a long look at him – tailored, grey pin stripe suit, with a maroon jacket lining, and matching waistcoat. His body language radiated ‘I’ve got all the time in the world’.

“Okay,” Grover said. “Here’s the thing. The US Army trained me to kill. For what I believed was a just cause. But somewhere in the maelstrom, I lost track of what that was all about. We all did. All those of us squinting through gun sights. Ironically, once we realised the rule was simply kill or be killed, we got even better at it. There’s no greater motivation than fear, and if you can’t go back to where you began, it becomes easier to go forwards. I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. A hundred, maybe more... I don’t know how that shapes up pro rata, but it’s enough. It’s my personal statistic. I’ve locked it in the ‘done and finished’ box and thrown away the key.”

Zampa watched, waiting for him to finish. Grover did.

“I’m out of business. And if I wasn’t, we’d be on opposite sides anyway.”

Zampa sat up a little. Leaned his neck against the seat head rest.

“What do they say?... Better to have your enemies inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.”

“Did you have Nicholas Hope killed?” Grover asked

The switch of topics stunned Zampa. The smile disappeared. He took a deep breath, sat upright in the seat and acknowledged the effort.

“That was a hell of a curve.”

“It’s a simple enough question,” Grover said. “And I ask, because I know Harry Morrison didn’t do it.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Oh yes.”

“And your brilliant barrister will make the jury see it that way?”

“Absolutely.”

That piece of dialogue was long enough for Zampa to recover. His body relaxed and the smile returned.

“My guess is however, that despite his parlous position, Harry is reluctant to use his alibi,” he said.

Grover took a second too long to reply. Zampa held up his left hand.

“He’s hiding from the cops, which means he’s frightened of what they’ll ask him. He’s not at home, which means he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“He doesn’t have to. He has talked about it with me.”

Zampa let another silence fill before he spoke again.

“I did not order the killing of Nicholas Hope. I had no reason to do so.”