by David Carter
Christos sniffed his approval. He watched Nicoliades reach for his wallet. The man removed a fifty-euro note and handed it across the bar.
‘For the cuffs,’ he whispered, ‘oh, and here’s another fifty for your time and trouble on the other matter.’
Sergeant Sharistes nodded slowly and glanced around. As far as he could tell there were no eyes on him, as he cupped his hand over the notes and slid them carefully into his pocket. It was why he liked him so much, for there were always little earners coming his way when Nicoliades was around.
Chapter Nine
IN 1970 ON VIMY RIDGE’S eighteenth birthday he was formally introduced as Norman Ridge’s new trader on the Exchanges. His voice had broken, he’d grown into a handsome young man and was universally accepted, more so than his father. Vimy knew how to speak, when to be complimentary, and when to keep quiet.
He was never rough-edged like his dad because he’d enjoyed an education, something that had passed Norman by. Vimy knew what was expected of him and fitted right in, whereas Norman would forever remain an outsider.
The girls waiting on table in the café’s and bars were bowled over by the striking young man who’d arrived amongst them. They hurried to serve him first; made eyes at him, and brush against his body when they returned to the bar.
He’d always known he possessed the magic, ever since primary school where at break times they would gravitate to where Vimy was sitting. They probably didn’t realise they were doing it. The teachers thought it amusing. Wherever he sat you’d find the prettiest girls, staring into his eyes, touching his naked arms, as if fascinated as to why they found him endearing. At lunch times they would argue over who would sit next to him. It wasn’t unusual for the tiddlers and toddlers to come to blows, and tears would be shed. He’d shrug his shoulders. It was only to be expected.
The other boys imagined him a little weird, more like a girl, for he rarely sat with boys, except when he was trading. It never once entered their minds that one day he would become an all conquering adversary, as they tumbled roughly about the playground, shouting and fighting, as Vimy exchanged biscuits and crisps and giggles with his adoring harem. Vimy was five.
At eighteen, he was a fixture on the Exchanges, trading with the heavy hitters and it was there he met Emily Hurst, green-eyed and dark haired, thick long hair that emphasised her milk-white face and red lipstick that shone like a doll’s. She was quiet and wistful and worried about nuclear war and for John Lennon’s safety. Vimy made it his business to find out all about her and for a while Emily Hurst entranced him, though it didn’t last.
When it came to business, his father’s instructions had been simple. ‘You keep your eyes and ears open and never speak of anything until you have something constructive to say. The successful trader is the one who understands what’s about to happen, not what’s happening now.’
Vimy loved his work because he was brilliant at it. He controlled everything in his head and knew the prices and spreads by heart, and belonged to the last generation before computers moved in and conquered the world.
At five o’clock he’d sign the contracts, and at six he’d leave the office and adjourn to one of the local watering holes to enjoy the company of fellow traders, or the latest girl who’d caught his eye, or both together.
Good years passed and the Ridge Company grew fast, as did Vimy’s reputation. They bought bigger trucks, opened larger warehouses, employed better staff, and shipped bigger consignments. They were gaining power and influence and inevitably, enemies too, for no one could enjoy such success without crossing people.
But things were about to go catastrophically wrong.
Out of nowhere conflicts appeared. His father wanted to sink a huge amount of money into buying a fleet of barges. Vimy hated the idea. He saw the coming of containerisation and container ships. His father abhorred everything to do with containers for he wanted to personally inspect the cargo in the ships’ holds, to stick his hands in it, to smell the goods. Perhaps it was natural to be conservative in late middle age and he wasn’t swayed by Vimy’s vehement arguments. They bickered over trivial things on a daily basis. They quarrelled in front of office staff and spent long hours apart, not communicating.
Vimy moved out of the family home and bought a swish high rise bachelor pad at the Cliff in New Brighton close to the Red Gables guesthouse, though he didn’t know it. His mother cried the day Vimy abandoned the family home. It took something unseen from her and she was never quite the same woman again. Norman blamed his son for the hurt Mary suffered, and their relationship plumbed new depths.
One afternoon they came to blows in the office. They’d independently bought large contracts of American maize, shipments that needed to be paid for in full on the same day. The bank balance wouldn’t stand it, and for the first and only time in his life Norman Ridge was forced to swallow his pride and go cap in hand to the Northern & Provincial Bank. If the bank said no, bankruptcy beckoned.
‘It’s not like you, Norman, to over-extend yourself,’ admonished the schoolmasterly Herbert Rodway, the short and skinny, weaselly faced bank manager. Mr Rodway would eventually grant Norman’s request, but he’d make a big issue of it, before agreeing additional borrowing, and not before he’d taken his pound of flesh. Hypothecation, a second mortgage secured by stock in hand, and Norman had been well and truly hypothecated; yet that didn’t satisfy Herbert Rodway.
‘You’ll have to sign over your house, you know that?’
Norman bit his tongue and nodded and signed the hastily prepared papers, cursing his son as he did so. It was an insult. It stuck in his craw for a man of his age and stature to be in the hands of the crooked moneylenders and charlatans he considered all bankers to be, and all because of their pigheaded son.
The moment Norman left the bank Rodway chuckled triumphantly. He sent a hastily worded telex to regional headquarters boasting of his triumph. To think that this man was once referred to as Rocky! How many of Herbert’s predecessors tried to gain authority over him? None had been successful, not until Herbert Rodway had come along. One more error and the bank would seize the business and the house, and Herbert Rodway would step in and dismantle the Ridge organisation.
He looked forward to the day when he could sack the ruffian and put him out on the street. Mr Rodway stood in his spacious office and peered out through the large coloured windows across Castle Street. Three mini-skirted office girls were giggling in the sunshine and walking arm-in-arm across the road. They were singing the latest Chicory Tip hit single, he could hear them from inside the bank, as he ogled their legs and laughed aloud, before turning back inside.
Norman hustled back to the office towards the final confrontation. What began as a heated row hurtled toward threats and violence, tempers lost, the two men came to blows. A smudge of blood seeped from the older man’s nose and dribbled into his mouth. Vimy’s normally immaculate hair stood on end like a dog’s hackles, his eyes blazing, all love abandoned between them, as they glared at one another like fighting dogs.
‘Get out of my sight! You’re fired!’
‘You can’t fire me! I resign! I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last person on earth! You’re finished! You’re a dinosaur! I’ll give you twelve months!’
Vimy emptied his desk, collected his coat, kissed the secretary, and fled the office, never to return. He would not speak a civil word in private to his father again.
NORMAN RIDGE’S BUSINESS survived by the skin of its teeth. Three months later at the first opportunity he gave notice to the Northern & Provincial Bank that he intended moving all his accounts to the Westminster Bank. Norman would not be controlled or beholden to anyone, and especially not to a banker, and most particularly not to the despicable Herbert Rodway. The man enjoyed five minutes authority over Norman Ridge but paid the price for losing the Ridge business with his neck.
He was sacked and returned to counter duties in a piddling branch in the Cheshire countryside, where he spen
t the remainder of his days dreaming of when he lorded it over the great and good in the big city, telling stories to his ever younger colleagues of how he used to run things. They thought him pathetic. With each passing year he became more bitter, seeking solace in the Lodge, where even there, his rise up the ranks had come to an abrupt and sorry end.
Back in Liverpool, Vimy Ridge was out of work and seeking employment, but he was not bereft of ideas. Creativity ran like flooding rivers in the minds and veins of the Ridge family. One thing was clear; he would not remain unemployed for long.
Chapter Ten
WALTER WAS STILL THINKING about the eighties and the Nesbitt case. He’d persuaded Suzy Wheater to work late on the evening shift. Hubby didn’t like it, by all accounts, but Walter didn’t care one jot about that. They’d parked the Renault Fuego on the opposite side of the road to Nesbitt’s office, about fifty yards away.
Walter peered along the row of shops. A travel agent, launderette, tanning studio, insurance broker, and even a rival bookmaker, but none of them were lit up. They’d all gone home. Walter glanced at his watch. It had just gone 9pm. Nesbitt’s office upstairs was lit up like Disneyland.
‘Someone’s working late,’ whispered Suzy.
‘Yep,’ said Walter. ‘Love to know what they are doing up there.’
‘Maybe that flighty reception girl is more than an office worker,’ suggested Suzy. ‘Extra curricula activities, and all that.’
‘Doubt that, somehow.’
‘She was giving you the eye, wasn’t she?’
‘Can’t say as I noticed.’
‘Ooh Walter, you are a liar.’
Walter hid a smirk and said, ‘Ring the nick; see if our friends have made any calls in the last ten minutes.’
Suzy checked in and checked out again.
‘Nothing, last call at 6.05, the one we heard earlier.’
Walter nodded and said, ‘The one checking on Chatham’s takings?’
‘Correct, but they are up to something. I can smell it.’
‘Yeah, but what?’
‘Maybe we should drop in unannounced.’
‘I wondered about that,’ said Walter. ‘Though I am not sure on what pretext.’
‘We don’t need one.’
‘No, maybe not, but it’s nice to have something ready.’
Walter’s stomach ran down large, echoing through the car.
‘Sorry ’bout that, I’m starving, haven’t eaten anything since noon. Should I nip out and get us both a supper?’
Suzy frowned. ‘How long are we planning on staying?’
‘Dunno, till the lights go off, I guess.’
‘That could be any time!’
‘No, I think they’ll be out in the next thirty minutes.’
‘In that case, I’ll pass on the supper. He’s making me something nice, and it’s always best if I am grateful and eat it. He hates wasting food, gets quite snarky about it.’
‘Is there anything he doesn’t get snarky about?’
‘Do I give that impression?’
‘Yep, most of the time.’
‘No, he’s not like that, not really.’
‘There’s a takeaway round the corner, won’t be a tick, if anything happens stay in the car.’
‘OK, Mr D, don’t get kidnapped by a giant sausage.’
Walter grinned and heaved himself out of the car, and Suzy watched him turn the corner and disappear. Two seconds later the neon lights in Nesbitt’s office flickered and went off.
‘Damn!’ she said. ‘Sod’s law.’
Less than a minute after that the narrow half glazed door between the travel agent and the launderette opened, and the Nesbitts came out, grinning and looking as if they’d enjoyed a brilliant day. Cocaine has that effect. They were buzzing. The taller one was carrying a fat briefcase. Suzy imagined it was crammed with used cash. They paused and waited for a red double-decker bus to hurry by, and crossed the road and headed up towards where Suzy was sitting in the Fuego.
‘Come on, Walter,’ whispered Sue, ‘get yourself back here, come on, man,’ but there was no sign of him, and the Nesbitts were rapidly approaching, only twenty paces away, hurrying along the pavement, silly smiles plastered on supercilious faces.
Tony glanced up and ahead and saw the Fuego, and the unmistakable visage of the big black perm behind the wheel, red lips glistening, that annoying tart of a copper who’d been following their every step, dogging their every move.
‘Copper bitch in the car,’ he snarled.
Suzy heard him through Walter’s half open window.
‘Fed up with this,’ Tony said, as Suzy saw him go into the road and round the front of the car to the driver’s door.
Johnny distracted her with his hand through the open passenger window. He flicked open the door, muttering, ‘Enough is enough!’
Before she could lock the doors, Tony had hold of her right arm. ‘Out of the car,’ he said, and he was strong, as he dragged her from the vehicle.
‘Don’t touch a police officer!’ said Suzy, ‘or you’ll be arrested.’
‘Shut it, bitch,’ said Johnny, taking her left arm, and in the next second they marched her up a narrow alleyway leading away from the main road. It was dark and dirty and stinking up there, lots of litter on the ground, spent takeaway detritus, empty super-strong plastic cider bottles, putrid odours in the still night air, patches of old oil on the sparse and rutted tarmac.
‘You’ve had your fun,’ said Suzy, ‘I’m arresting you both for assaulting a police officer.’
‘Hear that, Tone,’ laughed Johnny.
‘Silly cow,’ muttered Tony.
‘We’re under arrest,’ said Johnny, ‘can you believe it?’ and they giggled at the ridiculousness of the situation.
‘I don’t think we are,’ said Tony.
‘We’ve just about had enough of you and your colonial mate,’ said Johnny. ‘Every time we turn around there you are, the pair of you like stray dogs desperate for a meal, pulling faces and staring, and us, honest citizens, who pay our taxes and employ five hundred sodding people.’
Suzy went to speak. Tony smacked her hard across the cheek, the slap echoing up and down the alley.
‘Walter!’ screamed Suzy. ‘Walter!’
‘Walter, my arse,’ whispered Johnny, and he slipped a small knife from his deep trouser pocket and stabbed her in the stomach.
Time stood still.
Suzy stared at the pair of them, and down at the blood spilling over the top of her designer jeans.
‘What have you done?’
Johnny and Tony shared a cold look.
‘Did you have to do that?’ whinged Tony.
‘She’s been asking for it for weeks. Come on. Time to scarper.’
They turned away and hurried down the alley back towards the main road.
Suzy tried to shout again, but nothing came. Blood was everywhere. She fell over on her back, banging her head. Where was Walter? Where was her husband? And her mum and dad too? Wasn’t there a living soul anywhere who cared? She wanted to fall asleep and wake up from the worst nightmare imaginable, but knew she mustn’t do that.
WALTER CAME OUT OF the takeaway. It was busy in there because some amateur football team had just finished playing and eleven people and eleven dinners were stretching the capacity to breaking point. He’d finally received his liver and egg dinner and was hurrying back to the main road, a blue plastic fork in his mouth, end first, ready for action.
He glanced across the road and saw the lights off in the Nesbitt’s place and cursed and wondered where they’d gone, and hurried back towards the Fuego, though he couldn’t see Suzy in the car. She wasn’t in the car. The driver’s door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t closed either. His window was still half down. Where the hell had she gone, and why? Maybe she’d needed the loo, but if she did where would she find one in that area at that time of night? It didn’t make sense.
‘Suzy!’ he yelled, but to no avail.
&n
bsp; Two young guys approached, kids, only about eighteen.
Walter stopped them. Flashed his ID.
‘Have you seen a striking girl with a big black perm, red lipstick, tight jeans and a dark red jumper?’
‘No, hooker is she? Sounds like it,’ said one, and the other kid laughed.
‘Yeah, funny, funny,’ said Walter, ‘on your way.’
The vibes reverbing through his head were getting worse with each passing second. He opened the car door and set the steaming dinner in the footwell, and set off away from Nesbitt’s office. The first alley he came to was dark and dingy. He ran twenty yards up it, shouting, ‘Suzy! Where are you?’
And he found her there, lying on her back, motionless, as if asleep. He knelt down and touched her and felt blood on his fingers. She didn’t appear to be breathing, but that couldn’t be right.
He switched on his personal radio and called the nick.
‘Officer down! Request immediate assistance! Ambulance required. Like now! NOW! I’m in Raker’s Alley off the High Street.’
The ambulance station was only minutes away and three minutes later one appeared at the foot of the alley. Two police cars turned up seconds after that. Lights flashing, officers running, people shouting, all hell breaking loose. 9.30pm. North London suburbs. Another sad and senseless day that would live in the memory forever.
Chapter Eleven
THE FOYER IN THE PELIOS Hotel was small and grubby, as was the proprietor, who lounged behind the counter. He was unshaven and had forgotten to clean his yellowing teeth. It was still early and most of the tourists were sleeping off the effects of too much ouzo and retsina.
When Lisa appeared, his warning cough to Sharistes, the policeman was hardly necessary. Christos had been slouched in the cane chair in the corner, studying the back page of the Athens newspaper that had recently arrived. Olympiakos had won again, and he sighed aloud, for Christos hated Olympiakos.
