Extract:
BY the time I returned to my seat the last fight was under way, the bell just sounding for the end of Round One. Judy had guessed something was up.
‘What kept you? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Unscheduled fight. A one-round knockout.’
Judy looked at my unmarked face. ‘I assume you were the winner.’
‘I wasn’t involved. Well, not directly. Got there just in time to pick up the pieces. Of Hayward, that is. Someone’s beaten him to a jelly.’
‘Did you send for the police?’
‘No, he didn’t want me to. Nor an ambulance. He must know who did it and be planning to take matters into his own hands. Either that or he’s scared stiff.’
‘Have you any idea?’
‘None. The doctor’s with him at the moment. He’s ringing for an ambulance anyway, very much against Hayward’s wishes.’
‘Well, tell me all about it later. I’ve got news for you. I think I’ve solved the problem of why Laura wanted to come to the fight. And who her boyfriend is, come to that.’
I glanced across at her. She was chatting excitedly to all around her, clapping furiously and blowing a kiss to the fighter in the Blue Corner, a muscular tattooed guy with stubble and shaven head, who sat breathing deeply while one of his seconds flapped a towel at him and the other proffered earnest advice. This, it seemed, was ‘Chopper’ Canfield. His opponent, phlegmatically listening to his voluble chief second, was a tall black youth with an Afro hair style. According to the programme his name was Leroy Scott.
‘You could be right,’ I said.
‘I know I am. You should have seen her when they were introduced. And him, come to that.’
‘Who won the first round?’ I asked.
‘Not a lot in it. Laura’s bloke if anything.’
The bell clanged for the start of the second. Scott was several inches taller and had the advantage in reach, besides showing some fancy footwork, but on the occasions that he landed Canfield seemed the stronger puncher. Neither struck me as championship material, not that I know a lot about the fight game. For what it was worth I gave the second round to Scott by a narrow margin. Laura nevertheless again stood clapping and cheering, whilst her companion sat applauding politely.
‘Elaine seems less than fascinated by the evening’s entertain-ment,’ I said.
‘Might have known you’d notice her. Can’t say I find it too riveting, either. I’m not one of those females who get a buzz from seeing two muscle-bound oafs beating the hell out of one another.’
‘I should hope not,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the punch-up in the Gents is more likely to be relevant to our enquiry. Hayward just said it was a yobbo who thumped him for no reason at all.’
‘Is it possible Hayward was doing a spot of cottaging, or whatever they used to call it?’
‘The same thing occurred to me, and the doc. But no, I don’t think so. Even if he was that way inclined, which I doubt, he’d hardly try it on at one of his own promotions, guaranteed the full glare of publicity if he were discovered.’
‘But you think he was singled out?’
‘Oh, yes. He knew his assailant, I’m sure. Some sort of private grudge.’
The third round was the best so far, and I scored it even. Scott stayed out of serious trouble and scored a few points early and late, whilst Canfield had the better of the middle stages.
‘Who’s your money on?’ asked Judy.
‘Canfield, I’d say. He looks the stronger to me. The other fellow’s likely to run out of puff.’
In the background I could hear the sound of an ambulance siren approaching. ‘For Hayward, presumably,’ I said.
Nobby and Tilson must have overheard some of our conversation, for the latter turned in his seat and enquired wearily, ‘What have you been up to now, Danzig?’
‘Punch-up in the bogs. Somebody duffed up the promotor, Ken Hayward. Nothing to do with me. It was all over by the time I got there.’
Tilson sighed and said something to Nobby, who nodded, grinned wryly and made his way towards the Gents.
So far as the scheduled fight was concerned my prediction seemed vindicated. In the next round Scott was noticeably slower on his feet, and took a fair amount of punishment. Laura was jumping up and down in excitement, hands clapping above her head, and breasts bouncing as she urged her hero on. At the end of the round Scott, with an attempt at a swagger, made his way unsteadily to his corner, where his seconds sat him down hurriedly, poured water all over him, attended to a cut below his right eye, and shouted desperate advice. He sat gasping and nodding.
Jennings had reappeared during the course of the round, though not Hayward. Presumably he’d been removed by the ambulance, whose siren was sounding a receding note.
The fifth round was predictably one-sided, Scott being floored early on by a wild right hook, after which the result was never in doubt. He rose at the count of nine, though whether he was in a position to defend himself seemed doubtful. The referee took his time ordering Canfield to a neutral corner, told Scott to wipe his gloves, and generally wasted another five or six seconds before allowing the fight to continue. It made little difference. Half a minute later, the crown baying for blood, a flurry of blows sent Scott to the canvas again. At the count of seven he got to his knees, keeled over as he tried to rise, and the count was completed. Either his legs had gone or he wasn’t keen to continue, probably a bit of both.
Trying to make himself heard over the usual excitement occasioned by a bloody end to a fight, the MC announced the result in the traditional loud and laboured style. ‘The Win-Ner! And Still Un- Bea-Tern!! The Castle-Town Ker-Unch. AN-DEE! “CHOP-PER”!! CAN-FIELD!!!’
The traditional applause was then given for the gallant loser. One of those scrambling into the ring to congratulate the victor was Laura. Most of the invaders were competing to get as close to him as possible, but the winner’s entourage shoved them aside to clear a path for her. Canfield threw an arm around her and kissed her a couple of times even as he grinned and waved in acknowledgment of the plaudits of the crowd.
‘And that,’ I said, rising and removing my coat from the back of my chair, ‘would seem to conclude the entertainment for this evening.’
Tilson appeared at my elbow. ‘That’s what you think,’ he said. ‘I need a statement.’
I shrugged. ‘Hayward doesn’t want to make a complaint.’
‘Well, he’d better, or I’ll do him for trying to pervert the course of justice. He’s got a couple of cracked ribs, a busted nose, and he’s lost three teeth. That’s at the very least; could have a broken jaw as well. May need reconstructive surgery on his face, from what the paramedics say. A punch-up’s one thing, but this is more like GBH in my book.’
‘He’s not saying I did it, surely?’
‘He can’t, or won’t say who did it at present. Let’s have a look at your hands.’
He inspected them carefully. The knuckles were unmarked. ‘Fair enough, you’re in the clear. But I still want a statement.’
‘Not much I can say. It was all over by the time I arrived. I didn’t notice anything till after I’d had my pee and was washing my hands. Then I heard Hayward groan from inside one of the cubicles.’
‘See anyone leaving as you arrived?’
‘Middle-aged chap I didn’t know brushed past me in the doorway. Didn’t really notice him. Seemed to have the wind up. Very unlikely that he was responsible, I’d say. More of the pass-by-on-the-other-side type.’
‘Along with about ninety-eight per cent of people,’ said Tilson glumly. ‘Or ninety-five anyway. Do the best you can for a description. He could be a witness to something at least.’
‘Medium height and build. Could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. Perhaps even more. Dressed in a darkish jacket. That’s about it.’
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘Almost certainly not.’
Tilson gazed around at the crowd, by now rapidly dispersing. ‘No chance of picking him out of that lot, anyway. You’re not a brilliant witness, you know.’
‘Do you look at people closely when you’re going into the bogs?’
‘No, that’s a point. It’s the one place where most people try to avoid eye contact. Which reminds me – d’you reckon Hayward might have been the victim of a bit of gay-bashing? It might explain why he isn’t keen on saying anything.’
I shook my head. ‘We’d thought of that,’ I said, indicating Judy. ‘So did the doctor. Very unlikely, I’d say.’
‘I bloody well hope not. Otherwise I’ll have to fill in another lot of forms. Nearly as bad as racism. Anyway, drop in at the station tomorrow morning and give Nobby a formal statement.’
‘Right you are.’
‘Any ideas?’ asked Judy as Tilson departed.
I shook my head. ‘Not at the moment. But I still reckon Hayward knows who it was attacked him, and won’t say.’
‘Why not?’
I donned my jacket, and giving way to my usual neurosis, checked for my car keys. They were there, as ever. I shrugged. ‘All I can think of is that he doesn’t want his assailant interviewed by the police. In other words, he’s got something to hide.’