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

by David Carter

  He quit the merchant marine in the spring of 1946 and couldn’t wait to return to his wife, home, and business. There had been plenty of time to perfect his plans, being tossed up and down in his hammock, shelled and torpedoed outward bound across the Atlantic, and worse on the way home. He’d made contacts and friends across the globe and planned to create a commodity business like no other.

  Mary fussed over him like a favourite cat for weeks; she was his wife, and he the provider, and Mary gave more love and affection to Rocky than any man deserved.

  In Britain, food was still rationed. Business was slowly reviving, and in 1948 Rocky Ridge launched his new enterprise, Norman Ridge & Company, Commodity Merchants, a proper business with no backhanders and bent deals, no smuggled goods from the docks by night, no running from the coppers and fistfights in the streets. He dropped the name Rocky. He’d grown tired of it; he was looking for something more establishment sounding, and he’d grown to like his christened name.

  Mary was unsure of the name change but accepted it. She would no longer whisper Rocky into his ears in tender moments, but nibble his ear and breathlessly whisper, ‘Oh Norman!’

  He rented a small office on the fourth floor of the National Bank Building at the top of James Street in central Liverpool after the old Corn Exchange had been blown to smithereens in the Nazi blitz, ordered two telephone lines, and rang old pals.

  Tragically, his brother Jackie hadn’t survived the war, sunk on the SS Walkford. She’d gone down in less than four minutes with all hands west of Saint Lucia in 1943. That was the hardest blow; young Jackie going before him, and he missed him terribly. Worse still, there was no body to bury, but Norman provided sufficient funds for a small marble plaque, a tombstone without a tomb, to be erected on the wall at Orrell Park Cemetery. Jack Ridge. 1924 – 1943, it read, Protect Them Where So ’ere They Go. Dead at nineteen.

  He’d lost another sibling too, to the dreaded TB, but it was Jackie he would forever miss. His family was shrinking, and he knew it was for him to do something about it. He was trying hard, no man could have tried harder, but they hadn’t clicked and Mary remained stubbornly barren.

  He called in favours and barged his way into becoming a member of the Trades Associations, hallowed places that would never have accepted a ruffian like him before the war. They were short of members and even shorter of cash. Rules were relaxed, standards lowered, and Norman rushed into the vacuum. Some contemporaries were dead, others retired, and many had disappeared into the maelstrom of World War Two. But there were still enough furrowed faces to play commodity trading, pass the parcel for grown ups. The music had started and goods began to move, and woe betide anyone left standing when the music stopped.

  Norman had contacts no one else enjoyed, and he cabled them, inviting offers to his new Liverpool office. He set a target. He must make fifty pounds a day, and would not return home until he’d reached his goal. Many nights in the early days he wouldn’t arrive back at the semi-detached house he’d bought in Endbutt Lane, Crosby, until nearly midnight. But whatever time he arrived home, Mary would be waiting, fresh and smart, her body clean and ready, in case he wanted her, his dinner hot and appetising, and never spoiled, for she was a magician in the kitchen.

  On Mary’s birthday he took her to the local British Legion Club. On the door was a skinny rat-like man named Gallachan who’d spent his war sitting on his backside in the Pay Corp. He knew Norman Ridge and knew that Norman had spent his time in the merchant marine. But Gallachan had a surprise for the Ridge couple.

  ‘Armed forces personnel only, Norman, surely you know that,’ said Gallachan, a supercilious look on his face, as he barred the way as if Norman Ridge carried the plague.

  ‘I saw far more action than you ever did, and far more fellas killed!’ protested Norman, but Gallachan wasn’t interested.

  ‘I’m sorry, but rules are rules. If we make an exception for you, we’ll be letting them all in. It’s Armed forces only, and frankly, I’m surprised you should think otherwise.’

  He’d emphasised the word armed, and he was treading on thin ice. Norman lost his temper, something he rarely did; for he saw it as a deliberate slight. He smacked the guy in the mouth, splitting his lip as if he were crushing a walnut at Christmas. Mary’s mouth fell open for she had never seen her husband strike anyone before.

  ‘Armed forces indeed!’ he muttered, glaring at the rat. ‘What do you think I was on, my bloody holidays?’

  Norman Ridge did not often swear, but he did that night, several times. ‘Come on Mary, I know where we’re not wanted!’

  Gallachan retreated to the yard at the back of the prefabricated building where the empty beer barrels were stored, a half-empty packet of Woodbines in his scrawny hand, to lick his wounds and grin callously over his minor victory over the ruffian, Ridge.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY NORMAN received a cabled offer from St. Johns, Newfoundland, from a guy he’d drank with many times in Canada. His name was Archibald O’Hanlon and Archie had formed his own company trading as Newfoundland Canneries, specialising in canned fish and meat. He’d put together a consignment of tinned hams and figured that Norman Ridge was the man to shift them, because in England, if the Newfoundland News was to be believed, the people were going hungry. It seemed hard to believe, what with England being on the winning side, but that was what the newspaper reported.

  When Norman first set eyes on the price, he thought it must be a mistake. It seemed ridiculously low. But the price was checked and verified, and Norman set about purchasing two tons of half pound canned hams. He scraped together every last farthing, paying for the consignment with an irrevocable letter of credit. It was the biggest deal he’d ever done, and it was with great trepidation that he rushed home to Crosby with the first tin to test with Mary. He’d had a nightmare the hams would be lousy and that the whole consignment was nothing but a trick, and he’d be bankrupt before his first year was through.

  Mary seemed to take an age, mucking around in the small kitchen, opening the can. Norman was mighty jumpy as he watched her sniffing the contents like a wary cat.

  ‘Well, woman?’

  ‘Smells OK,’ she whispered, as she emptied it onto a plate, took off two slices, and served them with a slice of buttered crusty bread. They began eating, yet by the end of that first slice they were laughing uncontrollably. It was the tastiest and juiciest tinned ham they’d ever eaten, best Canadian quality. Hurray for Canada! They polished off the lot.

  ‘Archie O’Hanlon, I love you, God bless ya!’ beamed Norman, as Mary crossed the room and kissed him on the top of his head.

  ‘What were you worrying about, silly?’

  In half starved Britain the hams flew off the shelves as if they were gold bars. The local Co-op took a third of the consignment and within days were back for more. They were a great customer and would remain a client of Norman Ridge & Co for years. But they couldn’t have more hams. They’d all gone.

  With the profits he bought a truck, a new ERF tipper. With his own lorry he could schedule deliveries, giving him more control. Everyone said Norman Ridge was a rough neck, and they knew where he had come from. But no one refused his name on a contract, for the Ridge name had become synonymous with reliability and quality. His reputation for trading in damaged goods had gone forever.

  He bought a new detached property in Stanley Road, Hoylake, across the water where the nobs lived, and moved his wife and home to the Wirral peninsula.

  He employed people who grafted hard because they saw how hard he worked, and recruited a neat girl with wispy blonde hair and blue eyes, named Hyacinth Jenkins, who promptly fell in love with her boss, telling him how she felt through her clear eyes.

  Norman couldn’t miss the signs, but never once kissed her for he hadn’t developed a taste for outside skirt, though his wife’s baffling failure to fall pregnant was creating stress lines in the marriage. One sunny Friday evening, Hyacinth smiled at Norman and mentioned they were going for a drink at the M
ecca, and would he like to tag along? He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t tempted, but declined. He’d give Mary another year to come up with the goods. After that, he’d scatter his seed to the wind. The decision had been made, and the clock was ticking.

  That jumpstarted events and he didn’t have long to wait. In 1952 the child they’d longed for was conceived and delivered, a healthy eight pound eight ounce boy who they christened Vimy. He was named after the First World War battle where Norman had lost two uncles, and the business name of Norman Ridge & Company was hurriedly amended to Norman Ridge and Son. Vimy arrived on September 10th 1952, and Norman looked forward to the day when he could add another S to the Son.

  There was never a doubt where young Vimy would find his destiny. He was a natural. He began buying and selling marbles in the primary school playground. No one taught him to do so, he just did. His father noticed his entrepreneurial skills and smiled contentedly and offered a little advice, not that Vimy needed any.

  The boy was sent to the smart school on the curious promenade at Parkgate that overlooked the sea-grass meadows, where he enjoyed modest educational success. But he couldn’t wait to reach fifteen and leave and join his father in the Company. His parents tried to persuade Vimy to move up to higher education but the kid would have none of it. He’d gained his education in the playground, buying and selling, and that was enough. He wanted to trade with the big boys, to show them what he was made of.

  In 1967 he walked through the school gates for the last time. It was the summer of love and Vimy couldn’t have cared less for he wasn’t remotely interested in music. He was devoted to his Gods of money, trade and power. He joined the firm and expected to trade from the first moment. But Vimy Ridge was to receive a rude awakening.

  He was too young. The other hard-bitten traders who’d seen and done everything, who’d fought and defeated Hitler, even if they’d achieved that from inside a warm corn mill, refused point blank to deal with a fifteen-year-old kid.

  ‘Look, Norman,’ they’d say, ‘no offence, but if he makes a mistake with his prices or offerings, we’d feel obliged to put it right. He’s still a child, we can’t be confident in anything he says. We can’t take him seriously. Perhaps in a year or two? But not now.’

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Vimy suffered another embarrassment. His voice hadn’t fully broken. On the telephone he sounded like a girl, and a desirable one at that. The callers imagined him to be the sexy secretary they could fantasise over. They propositioned him, and that wasn’t welcomed.

  ‘Hello, what’s your name? I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking to you before. What are you doing on Friday night, gorgeous? I’ll be in the Slaughterhouse pub at 6.30. Why don’t you come along and meet me. My name’s Horace Compton. See you there!’

  Vimy found it difficult to correct callers who’d formed the idea he was a girl. He would be addressed as, ‘Hello, sweetie,’ or ‘Hello, sexy,’ a subject of which he knew little. One oats trader grew progressively lewd. He would seek out the new hot thing on the phones at Norman Ridge’s.

  ‘Why don’t you come round to my office later and I’ll show you something amazing?’

  It was too much. He lost sleep. He dreaded work, and it wasn’t supposed to be that way. He’d lock himself in the bathroom and scream himself hoarse to lower his voice, to break it once and for all, and that might work for a day or two, but it would soon return to the cathedral choirboy pitch that he hated. His introduction to the trading floors would be put on hold, and he was reduced to administrating his father’s contracts in silence.

  Vimy bit his lip, sometimes literally, stopped answering the telephones, and for three long years devoted himself to studying market intelligence. The business prospered; the pair of them were too talented to fail, but Vimy was not trading, and he was not happy.

  His father tried to comfort him.

  ‘When you’re young, you want to be old, but when you are old, you so desperately want to be young. Enjoy your youth for it will soon pass.’

  The age-old advice that fathers have passed to their sons since biblical times, and like everyone before him, Vimy hated it. He understood it, but he hated it. The world moved on, and things were about to change for the better.

  Chapter Seven

  WALTER’S BIG BRAIN was still stuck in the eighties, thinking of the Nesbitts. He and Suzy had finished trawling through the files and on a bright morning they left the nick in a maroon Renault Fuego that looked the part, though it was only a matter of time before engineering let it down, not that either of them considered that, for neither of them were car crazy.

  ‘I’m driving,’ declared Suzy, grabbing the keys, pulling the seniority card. She’d been in the service two months longer than Walter. She’d not long learnt to drive and took every opportunity to practise, even when at work. Walter wasn’t bothered by that. He could drive fine enough, but he was also aware the person in the front passenger seat was invariably seen as the boss.

  The Nesbitts operated their business out of a suite of first floor offices in North London, a base they considered their nerve centre. The ground floors were a mixture of shops and high street businesses, a travel agent, launderette, tanning studio, insurance broker, and even a rival bookmaker had cheekily set up shop six doors along. The Nesbitt boys rarely visited their high street shops, preferring to delegate that duty to minions, for shop visits inevitably included bollockings and reprimands, and strife and bad blood, duties they considered beneath them.

  At their office Walter said, ‘We’d like to see Mr Nesbitt, both of them.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ asked the made up to the eyes girl on reception, a question issued with a flickering smile.

  ‘No,’ said Walter, ‘but we have the authority.’

  It wasn’t unusual for police officers to be kept waiting on appointments, both scheduled and off the cuff. Crooks and criminals derived satisfaction from that, but the Nesbitts were so cocksure nothing unnerved them, and Walter and Suzy were shown into their large private office within a minute.

  One man was sitting at the desk, the other standing behind and to one side, in front of a wide window. The sitting guy pointed at two chairs set before the desk and Walter and Suzy sat down.

  Suzy adopted a pleasant face and checked them out.

  So this was Johnny and Tony Nesbitt, but which was which?

  Walter kicked things off by saying, ‘I’m DC Darriteau and this is DC Wheater.’

  The sitting one smirked and glanced round at the standing guy and said, ‘See they’ve sent the big hitters this time, Johnny. Must be something deadly serious.’

  The standing guy grinned and said, ‘I am sure you know who we are, but for good order’s sake I’m Johnny Nesbitt and this is my brother, if in name only, Tony.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tony, ‘so what can we do for an odd looking couple like you? Oh, don’t get me wrong, we are always keen on supporting the police, aren’t we, Johnny?’

  ‘We sure are, Tone.’

  Walter said, ‘We’re looking into fixed horse races.’

  Tony pursed his lips and took in a breath, making a heavy hissing sound as he did so.

  ‘Ouch, dodgy ground there, my man. Nasty business. Fixed races, if such a thing exists. They can play mayhem with our figs.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Johnny, ‘and Tony gets right bad tempered when his figs are up the wall, don’t you Tone?’

  Tony pulled a face and nodded like Mill Reef.

  ‘They exist,’ said Walter, ‘as I am sure you know, and we were hoping you might be able to point us in the right direction so we can stop it.’

  ‘Now there you have us,’ said Johnny Nesbitt, ‘you clearly know far more about it than we do. I don’t think we can help you.’

  Suzy said, ‘Where did you get the twenty grand to buy out CTA?’

  ‘My God!’ said Tony. ‘Big perm speaks.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Johnny, ‘but I don’t like what it says.’

 
Walter said, ‘Respect the lady, please. It’s a fair question.’

  ‘Savings,’ said Tony, ‘we’re very frugal, aren’t we, Johnny?’ glancing behind as if for confirmation.

  Johnny nodded and scratched his chin.

  Walter couldn’t remember what else was said that day, but he did recall they were there quite a while, and he also remembered the girl on reception smiling at him as they left. They didn’t expect to learn anything that day, and they didn’t. It had been a shot across the bows exercise, a little reminder the Metropolitan Police hadn’t given up on the Nesbitt brothers.

  Driving back to the station in the Fuego, Suzy said, ‘That was a complete waste of time.’

  ‘No,’ said Walter. ‘Not entirely. It’s our opening gambit.’

  ‘Not into chess.’

  ‘I’ll teach you.’

  ‘Don’t think hubby would approve. So what now?’

  ‘We keep the pressure on. We watch, and we let them see us watching them. We note who goes in and who comes out, follow them around, turn up at Epsom and Sandown and Windsor and Ascot on race days, and get inside their heads.’

  ‘That should be fun, attending the race meetings, though I’m not sure Sergeant Conlan will approve.’

  ‘Leave Conlan to me. What I’d really like to do,’ said Walter, pausing for thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tap their phones.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Suzy. ‘Fat chance! Are you serious? Hundred to one you don’t get permission for that.’

  ‘The way I look at it is simple, either the powers that be want us to solve this case, or they don’t, and if they do, they must give us the tools for the job.’

  ‘And if they don’t,’ said Suzy, thinking on every word, ‘maybe we should be asking ourselves why?’

  ‘Correct, Wheater.’

  WALTER ROLLED OVER in his fab bed and glanced at the digital clock. 5am. No sleep yet. Probably none coming. May as well give the brains their head. He tried to remember what happened next, and then it all came back to him. How could he forget? Kingfisher’s Dreams!