One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  The Mighty Albion gym was a converted car workshop behind the pub. It had been there since the twenties; a back street, unlicensed fights venue, where local hard men could earn themselves a week’s drinking money, providing they won the bout. Bevan had taken over the place when the previous owner retired to live with his son-in-law in Newport. He had invested some money in it, put in a seventeen foot ring, secured permission from the city council to operate and a licence from the British Boxing Board of Control to promote fights.

  One corner of the gym worked as the weight management centre, with a string of weight pulls and scales and press benches. In the space running left towards the next corner, there were three heavy bags and a couple of speed balls, hanging from an iron ceiling bar. A series of wooden cupboards containing head guards, hand wraps, gloves, medicine balls, chest exercisers and first aid kits, stood ranged along the opposite wall. And there was a glass fronted cabinet, which housed the trophies won by members of the gym, past and present.

  The ring was in the centre of the floor.

  Robbie McAllister, was inside the ring with his sparring partner – a black Jamaican would-be welterweight, Leroy Winston. McAllister looked the part, but he was prone to doing too much dancing and not enough punch throwing. He had a weak left lead and if not a glass jaw, one that was too soft for even a regional championship contender. The Jamaican was actually a much better prospect. In his late twenties, a docker and short of ring training, but a natural southpaw. He had come to England in June 1948, one of the passengers on the Empire Windrush. In east London, he had fallen into bad company and spent a night or two in a Bow Street police cell. So he followed a friend down to the west country, got himself a job in Parsons Timber Yard in the Floating Harbour and a room in a house in Southville which did not have a sign on the door saying No Dogs, no Irish and no Blacks.

  Roly Bevan liked him. Whatever else he was, Roly was no racist.

  He called a halt to the exercise in the ring. McAllister took off his head guard, Halloran gave him a towel and Bevan shepherded him into Halloran’s office.

  McAllister listened to what Bevan had to say. He made a couple of half-arsed attempts to defend his corner. To no avail. He threw the towel across the office, wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him. Halloran and Winston watched him cross the gym and go into the changing room. From whence, a moment or two later, came the sound of banging tin locker doors. Bevan came out of Halloran’s office.

  “Pat,” he said. “See if you can calm him down, will you?” He smiled at Winston. “You look in good shape.”

  Winston gave his towel to Halloran.

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said.

  Bevan watched Winston cross the gym floor, waited until he disappeared from sight, then he turned back to Halloran.

  “I’ve got to go out,” he said. “Things to do.”

  *

  PC Walker reversed the Wolseley into the only remaining parking space in front of Roly Bevan’s three storey regency house on Sion Hill. He shifted the gear stick into neutral and switched off the ignition. From the back, Bridge opened the nearside passenger door and climbed out onto the pavement. Goole did a reprise of his Blenheim Villas car exit and stepped out into the road. He looked across the roof of the Wolseley, towards the beautifully glossed green door of number 23.

  “Just a bit grander than the accommodation he offers his tenants. Not short of a bob or two is he?”

  Bridge grunted. “He had a good war.”

  He closed his car door. Tipped back the rim of his dark grey trilby and stared at Roly Bevan’s piece of up-market real estate.

  “We’ll get the bastard one day,” he said. “Meanwhile, let’s see if he’ll put the kettle on.”

  Bevan was not there to put the kettle on. In fact, he arrived as Goole was ringing his doorbell. He knew the two men on his doorstep were detectives. The trilbies and the cheap suits were a dead giveaway. He smiled. He was getting tapped up again. He slowed the Austin, stopped in the middle of the road, parallel to the Wolseley and wound down his window.

  “What is it this time gents?”

  Bridge turned and looked at him.

  Bevan’s smiled slipped a little, then dissolved. He knew DCI Bridge. And all about him.

  “We’ve just popped round for tea and scones,” Bridge said.

  Bevan stayed as cool as he could manage.

  “I’ll park this round the back and I’ll let you in.”

  Bridge and Goole, waited patiently in front of the green door. A couple of minutes later it opened. Bevan inclined his head and waved the detectives into the hall.

  “This must be your first visit Chief Inspector,” Bevan said.

  Bridge stared at him.

  “I know who you are,” Bevan said. “Everybody does.”

  Bridge ignored the testimonial.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Goole,” he said.

  Bevan nodded to Goole.

  “Sergeant...”

  Bevan closed the front door and bade the policemen follow him upstairs to the first floor.

  The house had a dress circle view of Brunel’s sensational suspension bridge. To take advantage of this, Bevan had paid huge sums to have the interior re-designed. The basement, actually hewn out of the cliff-side rock under the house, was divided into two rooms. One of them a substantial wine cellar, monitored by a thermostat and kept at a constant fifty degrees Fahrenheit; the other a twelve seat home cinema, graced by armchairs with red crushed velvet upholstery, a 16mm film projector and a screen which was, effectively, the fourth wall of the room. There were three guest bedrooms on the ground floor. The first floor was a kind of grande salle. A laundry and kitchen, accessed directly from the stairwell, flowed into a dining area, which seamlessly dissolved into a living area. Dominated by two Eames aluminium framed chesterfield sofas, looking at each other across a matching coffee table. There were floor to ceiling bookshelves along one wall, stacked with books Roly had not read and was never likely too, but the collection looked impressive. His own bedroom and en-suite bathroom boasted the best views and along with his dressing room and office, completed the top floor facilities.

  The whole house was neat and reverentially tidy. There was nothing out of place. As if the designer had established the mise en scene as a lasting interior statement and nothing had been moved since.

  Bevan pointed the detectives in the direction of the sofas and moved into the kitchen.

  “Scones I can’t do,” he said. “But we do have some fairy cakes. Mrs Maltravers bakes twice a week. Small luxuries, I know. But in times of austerity...”

  Goole looked at Bridge, then opened his mouth to enquire where Mrs Maltravers got enough eggs and flour to bake twice a week. Bridge raised his right hand to stop him.

  “Tea and cakes... Thank you,” he said.

  Bevan picked up a brand new, chrome electric kettle, filled it from the tap and plugged it into a point on one of the expensively tiled walls.

  “Indian, Ceylon, China?” he asked. “Earl Grey perhaps? Or just plain ordinary grocer’s tea?”

  Goole was all for strangling the slimy bastard. Bridge shot him a severe look of restraint.

  “Sergeant Goole would like Earl Grey tea,” he said.

  “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.