The Legal & the Illicit: Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 5)

by David Carter

  ‘Really? How much would the Nesbitts clear on that?’

  ‘On big races it could be anything, tens of thousands, maybe more. If you know a horse is certain to lose, it’s like printing money, the sky is the limit.’

  ‘So why couldn’t Conlan and his crew prove it and nail them?’

  ‘Because they couldn’t find any stable lads or lasses to stand up in court and say so, because they’d be in big trouble if they did, both from the law, and maybe more frighteningly, from the criminal gangs. These are not gentleman gamblers we are dealing with. These are vicious criminals who will stop at nothing, and that includes murder, if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘You think the Nesbitts are murderers?’

  ‘Could be. Why not? If they are in it up to their necks, when push comes to shove, are they suddenly going to stop and say, that’s going a bit far. No, I don’t think so, once on the slippery criminal slope we all know there’s only one way that’s heading, and it’s down the greasy snakes. Desperate people are always capable of murder, anyone is, we know that. This is a dirty and dangerous case.’

  Suzy thought about that for a minute and came back with, ‘Do you think Conlan understood that?’

  ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘Could it be he got scared? Or maybe was warned off?’

  Walter smiled and said, ‘Now I ask you, Mrs Wheater, do you think our esteemed colleague, one Sergeant Willy Conlan, is the kind of man to get scared and backtrack on any investigation?’

  She rippled her eyebrows and glanced across the desk at her oppo. He’d adopted a neutral noncommittal face, but she guessed what he was thinking. Suzy said, ‘Too right!’

  ‘That’s my conclusion too,’ he said. ‘We’re at one on that.’

  ‘Not for the first time.’

  ‘True, and hopefully not for the last. Fancy a drink after work?’

  ‘Love to but can’t, sorry, he’s making a curry, more than my marriage is worth to miss it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Walter, when he’d liked to have said: your loss, girl.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS NEARLY TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon when Lisa ambled back into Nicoliades’ Bar. He was glass polishing and humming to the frantic Greek music spewing from the large old radio behind the bar.

  He sensed someone approaching and glanced up in the hope it might be the English, and it was. He smiled, and she smiled back. She’d changed her clothes. Gone were the natty pants, and in their place a skimpy short pink skirt and a thin white short-sleeved blouse. Nicoliades thought she looked like a cream cake, ready to be devoured.

  She heaved herself onto the high stool and said, ‘Surprised to see me?’

  ‘No. Not really. White wine?’

  ‘No,’ she said, touching her forehead; ‘I’m still feeling it from yesterday.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  Lisa nodded.

  He poured her an espresso and the steamy aroma curled away past her nose. He felt good; he was already fifty euro richer, but that was nothing, for he wanted her, this English girl who was different to his usual prey.

  He began tapping his feet to the music, raised his arms and closed his eyes and began singing loudly, showing off. The music stopped and the young DJ jabbered excitedly in Greek for thirty seconds, and then incongruously, an advert in English for Toyota cars blared out. TOY-O-TAH! The music came back and Nic returned to the dance. Lisa laughed, as he strutted to and fro like a caged cockerel. Why was it that most men couldn’t dance for nuts, yet always believed they could?

  He stopped dancing and left her for a moment. She watched him at the end of the bar, whispering into the ear of a man she hadn’t seen before. The guy seemed miffed over something, sulking like a spoilt schoolboy, but Nic reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out three ten-euro notes and slipped them into the front pocket of the man’s short-sleeved shirt, and tapped them for good luck.

  The man didn’t smile, or acknowledge the money, though his demeanour softened a tad. Nicoliades returned and without being asked, poured her a glass of wine.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Who else, princess?’

  Her father called her princess, no one else ever had, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She sipped the wine. The cold liquid refreshed her dry mouth and washed away the taste of the coffee. She gulped a mouthful, emptying half the glass, replaced it on the marble bar, and took a deep breath as if she’d never taken a drink before. All the while Nic watched her, wondering what she’d be like.

  He resumed glass rubbing and said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘Would you like to go for a walk? I could show you the island.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Why not? While we’re quiet. I have fixed it, to take the afternoon off.’

  So that was why money had changed hands. Bribery. He took a lot for granted.

  ‘I could show you the beautiful old town of Edris. I could take you places no one else could, for no one knows the island better than Nicoliades Emperikos,’ and he clenched his fist, breathed on it, and rubbed his chest in an unplanned gesture, a mixture of arrogance, self-praise, and premature triumph.

  She finished another drink and returned it to the bar. She had nothing planned; she rarely made plans when she was away. She went where the wind blew her, and she didn’t want to booze the day away. She had her figure to think of, and Midge wouldn’t thank her if she returned home with a boozer’s belt.

  ‘All right, if you’re sure.’

  He grinned and removed the cotton bar towel tucked around his waist and threw it under the bar.

  ‘I am ready, Nicoliades Emperikos is ready.’

  They left the bar and turned left and headed up the hill. The sun blazed down from a clear sky and she slipped on her locally made straw hat. The narrow road was enclosed on either side by ancient white stone houses, and Lisa noticed they seemed to be windowless. Perhaps the windows were set on the far side of the buildings, away from the street, out of the sun. Halfway up the hill they turned right into a narrow alleyway. Two cats were sleeping on a doorstep in the heat of the day. They barely stirred as the strangers ambled by. At the end of the alley they turned left again, and resumed their climb up the hill.

  He paused and turned and pointed, gesturing at the spectacular view across the tiled roofs of the neat houses, and down to the harbour. In the far distance the blue sea bore tiny white flecks, carrying occasional yachts, stretching away in all directions.

  They saw the afternoon ferry chugging away, leaving grey smudges in the sky like messages. Dotted on the horizon were several mountainous islands much like Carsos, and Lisa wondered if people were walking there, staring back at them, imagining who might be watching from across the sea.

  They continued up the hill. A youth on a Lambretta rushed down towards them, the engine humming like an angry hornet, the exhaust belching smoke like an ancient oil fired heater, as the helmetless rider glared unblinking, menacingly, as he hurtled towards them.

  Nic grabbed Lisa’s hand and pulled her away, as the scooter flashed by. He yelled at the rider in Greek and turned and watched the scooter rushing down the hill. The youth didn’t look back but cursed aloud and offered a single finger salute. It was the Constantinos boy and Nic would have a stern word with the boy’s father, and the boy too. He wouldn’t do that again. Not to Nicoliades.

  The scooter disappeared and the only sounds were the seabirds perched on rooftops, and goats and sheep bleating on the skimpy pasture further up the hill. Nic and Lisa continued climbing. The houses were slightly larger and grander yet still closely bordered the alley. He’d forgotten to release her hand, but she slipped free.

  ‘Madness,’ he muttered. ‘Some of today’s youngsters are out of control!’

  It was the first time she’d noticed Nicoliades wasn’t young at heart. He was definitely middle-aged, even if he hadn’t realised it. Another few years and he’d enter the sour world of permanent grumpydom.

  Minutes later he pulled a key fro
m his pocket and opened one of the oak doors to a house on the left side the street. He stepped inside. She stood and watched him return to the door, beckoning her in.

  ‘Come inside,’ he whispered, ‘out of the sun.’

  Was it a good idea?

  She stepped in and he closed the door behind her. A large square room and beautifully cool, sleek terracotta tiles beneath their feet, as she watched him kick off his sandals.

  ‘It’s nice,’ he said. ‘Cool. Take off your shoes.’

  She did, and the feeling of freshness on her soles made her gasp.

  ‘It’s good, yes?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she muttered, and nodded.

  The room was sparsely furnished. On the walls were huge rough paintings of local seascapes, all blues, whites and orange. She turned back towards him and saw him smiling, as he came towards her. He took hold of her head and pulled her face up to his and kissed her lips.

  Whoa! She pulled away.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I thought we were going for a walk.’

  He silenced her protests by kissing her again.

  She tried to pull away but his arms were around her back and waist, tugging her towards him, as passionate kisses rained down. She wanted to pull away; she knew she should pull away, yet she was on the brink of capitulation. It wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, she was in the hands of a well-practised expert. But should she go further? Perhaps a little way? What could be the harm in that? She was on holiday, and almost against her will found herself returning his kisses.

  He sensed the moment. She was his. The big green light. He’d knocked her over as easy as that, something of a surprise, but he wasn’t complaining. He kissed her again, and she responded. He reached down and swept her off her feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  There was no reply. He held her high from the floor in his arms, like an adult with a child, and carried her towards the wooden staircase, and slowly ascended the unbanistered steps.

  ‘No,’ she mumbled, as she thrashed her legs to and fro in a pathetic gesture of defiance.

  ON THE SMALL LANDING were two doors. He kicked open the left door with his bare foot, entered the room, and flicked the door closed behind him.

  She glanced around the room. It was a habit she had, checking available exits. The ceilings were high and sloping, the only windows four circular portholes set high on the walls, two on either side, too high to see out of, or climb through.

  ‘Nic,’ she protested, but he quashed her protest with another blistering kiss.

  On the far side of the room was a pine double bed with a pathetic bedside table on either side. On the bed was a thick mattress covered with a single white sheet. There were no covers and no pillows. There was something cell-like about the room, barren, thick walls, no usable windows, one way in, one way out, incarceration.

  ‘You’ve had your fun, put me down.’

  He lifted her higher still and dropped her in the middle of the bed.

  ‘You mean like that?’

  She fell onto her back, her arms outstretched to break the fall, her legs kicking in the air, revealing a flash of pink pants.

  Lisa said, ‘I’ll have to go, Nic,’ just like that, ‘I’ll have to go.’

  He laughed and didn’t reply but in his mind he said: You’re going nowhere, not for a long while! He reached across to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer, felt inside, and grabbed something metallic that glinted in the sunlight that filtered down from the portholes.

  She glanced mesmerised at the gleaming steel. For a moment she thought he’d picked up a gun, or a knife, but it was not a weapon, but a pair of stainless steel Greek Government issue police handcuffs. He snapped them to her left wrist and fastened them to the corner of the bed.

  ‘What are you doing? Enough is enough!’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing. I’m cuffing you to the bed. You love it.’

  ‘I don’t. You mustn’t. I don’t like it. Stop!’

  He’d retrieved a second set and locked them to her right wrist and the bed frame.

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but this has gone far enough.’

  He wasn’t listening; he didn’t have to listen to foreign girls in his own house, in his bedroom, on his damned bed. She could have said anything; it wouldn’t have made a fig of difference. More cold cuffs appeared, fixed in place.

  He stood up and gazed down at his helpless prey, and tore off his tee shirt and dropped his slacks. For a long moment he stood before her like a statue of an ancient Greek God, gazing down, admiring her, admiring himself, before ambling to the full-length mirror to inspect his body, noting the look of approval that masked his face.

  ‘I know why you English girls come here,’ he whispered, ‘and it’s so obvious. Your men are lousy lovers. They drink too much, they bring their wives and while the men are out drinking, the Greeks are entertaining their women. The English are drinkers. The Greeks are lovers!’ He laughed coarsely at his little joke and knelt on the end of the bed. ‘It is why you have come here, you may as well admit it.’

  The pains in her wrists and ankles had disappeared, for sensations in her body had taken over. She had a headache from over indulgence from the night before. She was in for a torrid afternoon. There was nothing for it but to lay back and wait for it to be over. She couldn’t escape even if she wanted to, and by then, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to or not.

  It was wrong, she was betrothed to Midge Ridge, Vimy Ridge’s son and heir, the commodity family’s pride and joy. They were to be married, and she wondered what he was doing at that exact moment, and what he’d think if he could witness events. ‘I’m to be married.’

  Her feeble protests were ignored. No meant yes, of course it did, in her case. She hadn’t screamed, she’d returned his kisses, and she was enjoying herself as much as any of them. No meant yes, in his experience, no usually meant yes. She was the kind of young woman who couldn’t resist him. A nymphomaniac, and he’d met so many nymphomaniacs in his time.

  The English women were the worst; you wouldn’t think it to look at them. So much frustration, for their useless husbands were fat and lethargic. The women weren’t satisfied, and it was left to the likes of Nicoliades and his friends to keep them happy. It was the main reason they returned to Carsos year on year. They could come to the island forever so far as he was concerned.

  His muscles relaxed. He closed his eyes and nuzzled into her warm body and dozed. Half an hour later he stirred and began dressing. Her hair was ruffled, her face red and devoid of any trace of make-up. She sported bite marks she couldn’t see, she probably didn’t know they existed and wouldn’t until they began to hurt, or she glanced in a mirror. If she had been a Greek girl, she would have had it far harder.

  He glanced back in the long mirror and noted his changed expression. He’d seen that look before on the face of the ram at the top of the hill. He ran his fingers through his hair, patted his head as if to remind himself what a wonderful lover he was, and let his mind wander. He imagined he was from another time, an ancient age where he, Nicoliades, would have been looked up to, respected and known as the great lover. He would have been famous. He was Greek, and proud of it. How dreadful it must have been to be born German, or worse still, English, and still he couldn’t wipe the smirk from his face.

  Lisa brought him back to the present.

  ‘Set me free!’

  He stood at the end of the bed and finished dressing, and waved from side to side.

  ‘I haven’t finished with you, not by a long way.’

  ‘Oh, come on, they’re beginning to hurt, the cuffs, and I want the loo.’

  He smiled down. ‘You can’t have the loo,’ mimicking her English accent. ‘You’ll just have to hold it in. If you lie still the cuffs won’t hurt.’

  ‘Nic!’ she protested, but he went to the bedroom door and pulled it open. Halfway through he turned back. ‘I told you, I haven’t finished with you, you
can stay there and imagine what’s coming later.’

  ‘I’ll scream!’

  ‘I don’t care. Do what you like. The walls in these houses are a metre thick. No one will hear.’

  He laughed crudely and closed the bedroom door. She heard him skip down the stairs, the front door open and close with a bang, and he was gone. Everything went deathly quiet. She tried to pull her dainty hands through the cuffs and strained hard to do so for ten minutes, before admitting defeat. She was stuck fast, at his mercy, and no one in the whole wide world knew she was there. She lay back, relaxed as best she could, and tried to sleep; for there was nothing else she could do.

  Chapter Six

  THE DAY THE SECOND World War broke out was the day Rocky Ridge signed up for the merchant marine. He put his business in mothballs and went to sea. Mary didn’t waste her breath trying to persuade him otherwise.

  She knew that once he’d made up his mind to leave, leave he would, and nothing would alter that. She made him promise he would look after himself and return safe and well.

  All through his life he’d anticipated events. He imagined Recruiting Sergeants hunting him down, dragging him off by force at short notice, and that wasn’t for him. He wanted to make his own decisions before others came to the door to make them for him.

  Within weeks he was serving with the same lascars he did business with. They were pleased to see him, though puzzled, and many wondered who would buy their bits and pieces now that Rocky was on the ship.

  Not for the first time he seemed to lead a charmed life. While freighters were torpedoed and sunk before their eyes, Rocky Ridge sailed serenely on. He was a lucky charm. If Rocky was on the tub, no harm would come to it, and when it was sunk by a single torpedo in the Bay of Biscay on a sunny July afternoon, a British Acasta class destroyer, HMS Ambuscade, was close by to scoop up survivors.