One Fight at a Time (28 page)

He nodded at Grover and raised his right hand.

Grover held the notepad in front of Wharton and offered him the biro. Wharton took it in his left hand and wrote. Grover waited. Wharton looked at the signature.

“Close... close.”

He dropped the biro and looked at Grover.

“Give... the note... to the police... Swear.”

Grover nodded. “I swear.”

“Good. Now, call an ambulance.” He gestured at the door. “Phone’s... in... the hall.” Grover put the notepad down on the stained and grained coffee table, next to a new copy of
1984
. Wharton pointed to the book.

“Look... at the title page.”

Grover flicked through the front-leaf pages. Underneath George Orwell’s name, the author had written, in less than firm hand writing...
My
best
wishes
to
you
JW
.
Fight
on
.
Eric
B
.

“We met in Spain,” Wharton said. “He’s... ill too.”

“You fought in Spain?”

Wharton nodded. “I was... at Guernica. “Proud to... have fought with the... International Brigade.”

“Where did you say the phone was?”

Wharton tried to speak, but it was too difficult. He raised an arm and pointed at the living room door.”

Grover put the novel down, got to his feet and walked into the hall. Looked at his watch. 3.30. He located the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled 999.

Behind him, in the living room, he heard Wharton breathe deeply, choke and sigh.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The ambulance arrived at 3.38. Jerry Wharton was inside it and on oxygen in less than two minutes. Grover followed the ambulance in
Salome
.

He called DCI Bridge from the lobby of Weston General Hospital. Then went out into the sunshine and sat down on a bench under an elm tree. It seemed there was nothing else happening in the world. The suburban soundtrack of distant traffic noise, birdsong and gentle breeze, played like an underscore.

He fished Nick Hope’s address book out of his pocket and began to go through it. No surprises. Names and addresses, some with telephone numbers. Nothing unusual. Until some names became shortened to initials. Beginning with MC – no stretch to suspect that was Mark Chaplin. Altogether, there were forty something entries. Not many for a life lived over twenty-two years. But it was the number recorded by their initials which needed thinking about.

The noise of a two litre Wolseley engine seeped onto the soundtrack. The black 6/80 rolled to a stop on the other side of the green. Bridge and Goole got out from the rear seat. Grover put the address book back into his pocket and stood up to greet them.

“Around you, people die in clusters,” Bridge said to him, offering him the courtesy of a handshake nonetheless.

“It’s been that way since I landed on Omaha Beach,” Grover said.

He had intended the sentence to be lighter than it sounded. In response, Bridge cut his next funny line and got straight down to business. He told Goole to go inside and get a report on the patient’s condition. He gestured to the bench. The two men sat down together. Grover handed him the page from the notebook.

“You wrote this down?”

“It says so there.”

“Who is Jerry Wharton?”

“He’s a Punch and Judy Man. Has a pitch on Weston beach alongside the donkeys.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I met him a few days ago.”

“And now, here you are, the leading actor at his death scene.”

“He was a friend of the Morrisons. I wanted to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“An aspect of Harry’s defence.”

“Which would be?”

“A matter for his law team and no one else at this stage.”

Bridge looked Grover straight in the eyes. Saw nothing shifty or nervous in them.

“Wharton’s dying is he?”

“Pancreatic cancer he told me.”

Bridge read the note, a couple of times. Then read it again.

“And is that his signature?”

“As clear as he could get it.”

“Do you believe the words he asked you to write?”

“It’s a deathbed confession. I thought the law didn’t dispute those.”

Goole came out of the hospital entrance and walked to the bench.

“Mr Wharton is not expected to leave here this time. At least, not alive.”

*

Grover got to Blenheim Villas at a couple of minutes before 5 o’clock. Rachel let him in and conducted him upstairs. Winston looked better and was mobile enough to bend down, retrieve Nicholas Hope’s bank statements from under the sink unit shelf and hand them to Grover.

“Okay, here’s the story,” Grover said. “You found those while you were cleaning. You agreed to hand them to me, when I called to see how you were, because I believed they would be useful for the defence.”

“Okay,” Winston said. “That’s not exactly a lie.”

Rachel nodded. “Right...”

“I promise you they’ll be given to the prosecution as soon as Zoe is done with them.”

Rachel nodded again.

Grover stepped back to the door and then realised it was a real door and that the door frame had been re-constructed.

“Roly got onto that quickly,” he said.

“At the insistence of Zampa, I believe.” Winston said. “We had a couple of carpenters here all day yesterday.”

Grover wondered how insistence worked, Zampa style.

“Leroy’s going to be alright here,” Rachel said.

“I’m sure,” Grover said. “Don’t come down. I’ll see myself out.”

Downstairs, he found four pennies in a trousers pocket and called Neil Adkins at home. He was promised tea and scones if he cared to drop by.

Grover consulted the map in his head and pointed
Salome
in the direction of Clifton. He said hello to the girls – who were still convinced he must be in the movies – and enjoyed tea in the garden.

After which, the two men went into the study. Adkins looked through the address book. He picked out twenty-one names he knew. Grover looked at him with serious respect. Adkins shrugged.

“I’d be a crap Clerk to the Chambers if I didn’t have a fair section of the good, the bad and the dangerous logged away somewhere.”

The surprise in the book was Eric Marsden.

“Why the hell is he here?” Grover asked.

They counted the names of all those unrecognised and unknown. There were nineteen.

“I can make an educated guess with some of the initials,” Adkins said. You’re obviously correct about MC; that’s clearly Mark Chapman.”

“RP must be Rodney Pride,” Grover said.

“Rodney’s old drinking partner and long term fellow reprobate is here too.” Adkins said. He turned the book round, leaned towards Grover and pointed to Sam Nicholson’s name. “You remember him? At
El
Paradis
. The night you were there with Zoe. The two men were at the same table.”

Grover nodded. “A pair of real hard noses. Nick Hope may have aspired to a long and glorious life of crime. But he was in no position to take on Pride and Nicholson, surely.”

“Certainly not Pride,” Adkins said. “On his own, Nicholson might have been the more accessible target.”

“Okay, but his name’s in here. Not his initials. No attempt by Nick Hope to hide his identity.”

“So ask yourself why? Or better still, go and ask Nicholson himself. You’re big and strong. You might get something out of him. But I’d advise you to stay well clear of Rodney Pride.”

Grover spent the next couple of minutes telling Adkins about the attempt to drag the Gladstone Street shop into Pride’s protection racket, and the deal he struck with Zampa.

“He could tell you everything there is to know about Sam Nicholson,” Adkins said.

“But he won’t. Unlike before, I can’t point to anything I want him to get interested in. He’ll just tell me to butt out.”

“So…”

Grover took time to consider. He looked at the address book.

“If Sam Nicolson’s not at home, where do you think he’ll be?”

“I don’t know. But I know a man who will. Go and have some more tea with the girls. Give me a few minutes.”

Sarah and the twins were de-camping from the lawn. The day was winding down and the temperature with it. So they all had more tea in the dining room. Neil joined them ten minutes later.

“My man says try calling Sam Nicholson at home first. But he’s unlikely to be there after 6.30, which is the time he begins his Sunday evening pub crawl. Something he’s always done apparently, to say ‘goodbye’ to the weekend.” He handed Grover a piece of paper. “Try the pubs in that order.”

Grover turned down another cup of tea. Adkins took charge of Hope’s address book.

“Forgive me if I suggest this will be safer with me,” he said. “I’ll bring it to the strategy meeting in the morning.”

He escorted Grover to the front door.

Grover parked
Salome
in Gladstone Road, ten minutes later.

The Morrisons were gathered round the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating slices of a sponge cake Ellie had baked. A place was laid for Grover. He wondered about this Sunday afternoon tea thing…

Arthur asked where he had been. Grover told him. He ate his slice of sponge cake and re-arranged in his head, the explanation he had rehearsed on the drive back from Weston. The family gave him time to eat his cake and drink his tea. Grover decided to be precise, but selective, with his information.

“I found Jerry Wharton lying on his sofa, a step away from dying. I got him to hospital in Weston. The doctors said the end was close. Jerry left a note, confessing to the murder of Nicholas Hope.”

Around the table there was shocked silence. The colour drained from Harry’s face.

“He didn’t do it. Jerry didn’t murder Nick. He couldn’t.”

He got to his feet and left the room. Ellie called after him.

“Harry...”

She looked at her husband, then at Grover. He spoke again, before he was assailed with questions.

“I can’t tell you anything more right now. I have a meeting with Mel and Zoe tomorrow morning. After we’ve discussed everything in detail, Zoe will decide what must stay with her for the sake of the defence case and what it will be helpful to tell you.”

Ellie seemed about to say something. Grover held up his right hand.

“No Ellie,” he said. “What is it the cops say when they arrest you?
You
do
not
have
to
say
anything
,
but
anything
you
do
say
will
be
taken
down
and
may
be
used
in
evidence
. I don’t want to tell you anything the police, or the prosecution, can ask you about. And hopefully, within twenty-four hours, I won’t have to.”

She nodded. Arthur stayed dutifully silent. Grover continued.

“Now, is there another slice of cake on offer?”

Arthur looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“5.30,” he said. “It’s a bit early, but I think I’ll have a beer.”

*

Sam Nicholson decided he’d had enough and wondered how late it was. He tried to focus on the face of his watch. It took him a moment or two. 9.55.

“Best to call a cab,” the barman suggested.

Sam was drunk, but not that drunk. He was quite capable of getting to his car and home. As he usually was, when sensible reasoning gave way to ‘oh fuck it’. He made his way across the bar and towards the exit by the Gents.

He stepped out into the alleyway behind
The
Broken
Gate
and into the arms of a man he did not recognise.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

He tried to turn away. The man, at least a foot taller than Nicholson, threw an arm around his shoulders and spun Nicholson to face him. He raised two huge hands, clamped Nicholson’s head between them and pressed hard.

“Message for you Sam,” the man said. “Stop fucking us about.”

Nicholson’s temples began to hurt. He made an attempt to shake his head free. He tried to speak, but his cheeks were pushed into the centre of his face and his mouth would not open. Helpless, he looked up into the man’s eyes. The man lifted him clear of the ground, until Nicholson’s face was level with his and butted him hard on the forehead. He released his grip and Nicholson dropped onto his heels. He swayed back and then forwards again. The man stepped to one side. Nicholson’s knees buckled under his weight and he ended up face down on the concrete. The man walked away, swiftly and quietly.

Grover had been to
The
Blue
Angel
,
The
Dockside
, and
The
Victorian
Engineer
. He had not caught up with Sam Nicholson yet.

There were two pubs ahead of him on opposite sides of Cable Street. The one on the right was
The
Last
Round
, the sign brightly lit. He swung his eyes back across the road. A second too late to see Sam Nicholson stagger out of the alleyway to his left and fall under Salome’s front wheels.