by David Carter
The girl wore tight jeans and a long-sleeved white blouse. Over her shoulder was a black and red hiking bag. She was a looker, and he found himself imagining her and Nicoliades together. What had caused the trouble between them? Had she rejected his advances, or, as was often the case with Nicoliades, had she been too demanding?
He pulled himself from the chair and prepared to introduce himself. She was in a hurry to get away from the proprietor’s halitosis, from the Pelios Hotel, and most of all, from the island itself. Christos said hello and tried a smile, but the smile was not returned.
‘Are you leaving the island today?’
‘What if I am?’
‘I’ll accompany you to the ferry.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘I insist. Please don’t deny an old man the pleasure of walking through the town with a beautiful woman. It will do wonders for my reputation.’
She paid her bill, and half smiled without showing teeth, and hustled from the building.
‘I don’t suppose I can stop you,’ she muttered, as Christos hurried to keep up like a faithful pet. They walked briskly down the hill and around the harbour. A small dog ran past their ankles followed by a larger beast, a wicked expression set on its face, as if it knew the mischief it would make that day.
Sharistes watched the dogs trotting ahead, occasionally stopping to anoint corners of buildings, as they went about their business, or pause to scoff the last remnants of yesterday’s takeaway meals lying in the gutter. The harbour was busy; the fishermen making their boats ready to sail. Ozone filled the air as the sun crashed down from a cloudless sky. The thermometer was already showing three figures Fahrenheit. Sharistes mopped his brow and breathed out heavily. What he’d give for a cold beer.
The old ferry was busy taking on passengers and a small number of cars. They could smell it before they could see it. The rust, the oil, diesel fumes, undisturbed rotting rope, and as they approached the quay, a blast of hot oily air blew from every orifice of the ship. The deckhands were jabbering away in a mixture of Greek, pidgin English, and hastily learnt and improvised German. It paid dividends to learn languages; it always had, ever since before the Romans came calling.
‘Last call for Piraeus! Last call!’
They approached the wide, rickety timber slatted gangplank as Sharistes reached out and clasped the girl’s arm. She glared at him. He leant across and whispered in the vague direction of her ear, ‘I wish you well, but it would be better if you didn’t return.’
‘Piss off!’ she snapped back, her eyes staring unblinking at the fat slob of Greek officialdom. He was taken aback, and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. She made as if to skip up the gangplank, but at the last moment paused and pulled up her sleeves.
‘That’s Nicoliades’ work!’ she screamed. ‘Perhaps you should investigate that...’
He stared down at the heavy red welts that encircled her wrists. He’d seen such things many times before, but rarely outside a police station. They were cuff marks, welts made by cuffs he had provided.
She completed her sentence, ‘Before someone gets killed!’
She skipped up the gangway and disappeared amongst the early morning travellers without glancing back. The gangplank screeched as it was tugged up and chained in place with a rattle and a bang, and the old ferry announced its departure with one raucous belch of the foghorn, before slipping away from the quay.
THE OLYMPIC AIRWAYS flight arrived in Manchester two hours late due to French air traffic controllers’ latest bout of summer sulkiness. Lisa hurried through the throng of dallying travellers, eager to catch sight of Midge. She wanted his strong arms about her and his breath on her hair and face.
A large crowd waited beyond the barriers, and yet she spotted him instantly. He wasn’t tall, yet he had an aura about him, a presence that drew her eyes to his. He smiled a smile that took her breath away. She dashed through customs, ran towards him and threw herself into his arms with such gusto he had to take a step back to prevent them falling over. She felt his bear-like chest envelop her, and he smelt so good, and she felt like crying.
‘My God, what’s all this?’ he said.
She didn’t reply.
‘Have you missed me?’ he asked.
Still, she said nothing, but Midge felt her head gently nodding as it rested on his left shoulder. When she did speak it was to ask, ‘Have you thought about me?’
‘Nope,’ he teased, before adding, ‘only all the time.’
She smiled. ‘Me too. Are we still getting married?’
‘Of course. You know that.’
‘That’s all I need to know.’
They kissed a deep kiss witnessed by those waiting there. Some were prepared to pause to be almost part of the passionate scene, envious they would never have the nerve to show such a public display of desire. When they came apart, he grabbed her bag and arm and led her away on the long walk back to the Mercedes coupé.
Before he started the engine, he leant over and kissed her again, and as before, it made her back tingle and her shoulders shiver. She wanted him so much. He had always had the ability to make her tingle in all the right places, ever since she’d first met him in Rupert’s nightclub in Birkenhead.
Her mind flashed back to that night. She’d caught him watching her from the far side of the room as she talked with friends. He was leaning on the wall, a bottle of pilsner in one hand, when he’d raised his free hand, palm to the floor and pointed towards her. He’d turned his hand slowly over, curled his index finger, and beckoned her towards him as a teacher might a naughty pupil, or a shepherd a well-trained dog.
She’d gone without hesitation; much to the amusement of her friends. It was as if her previous life had been spent waiting to be summoned. She’d crossed the dance floor entranced, and had remained that way ever since, which made it all the more difficult to explain how she could have done that crazy thing on Carsos. She hid behind the excuse of alcohol and too much sun, and tried to banish it from her mind, but knew that wasn’t the whole story, and how she hated herself.
On the drive back to the Wirral, they barely spoke. Midge put it down to the long and tiring journey and a delayed flight. He watched the needle on the speedometer as it licked over the hundred figure before retreating into the nineties. He scanned the mirror for signs of police but the only vehicles were green buses and maroon wagons, Ridge wagons, carrying Ridge commodities, all travelling backwards into the distance as he left them behind.
The Mercedes accelerated, as they dropped down into Preston Brook, where the M56 crosses the canal. She caught a glimpse of the basin, full of coloured narrowboats and for a second they reminded her of the boats in the harbour at Edris where she had walked that morning. That reminded her of Nicoliades and the problem she’d wrestled with since boarding the plane. How could she explain the welts on her arms and legs? Or worse still, the teeth marks on her breasts and body.
Lisa owned a modern apartment in affluent Heswall. It was convenient for work. She was a trainee solicitor studying with Dawson & Hughes in the village, yet she spent far more time, and nights, with Midge in the Ridge’s mansion down near the sea at Caldy. He’d been without her for three whole weeks and there was no way he’d not want her when they arrived home. That was probably the reason he was accelerating the car westward. He wouldn’t wait longer than necessary.
She thought about making excuses by saying it was her time of the month, but he knew her body clock almost as well as she did. She was as regular as a metronome, and was still ten days away. She caught him catching a sly glance towards her.
‘Penny for them?’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m just thinking how happy I am to be home.’
He smiled and reminded himself how lucky he was. They crossed the River Weaver and skirted Frodsham Hill. In the distance, the mountains of North Wales beyond the Wirral peninsula came into view. Midge flicked on the radio, but not for music. Midge wasn’
t a music person. He was after the evening news, and the closing prices.
Misnomer looked just as it always did. Large, impressive, and well cared for, as Midge buzzed open the high metal gates and swept the sports car up the curling drive, chucking gravel into the begonia beds bordering the sweeping lawns that old Davis doted over. The house was originally built to the specific demands of a Liverpool cotton merchant by the name of Charles Newberry in 1877. The giant window frames had been especially constructed from Amazonian teak and were as draught proof as the day the Lancastrian craftsmen had installed them.
Charlie Newberry had been a famous cotton merchant in his time, a man with a reputation. He was one of the first Liverpool merchants to open an office in Richmond, Virginia, an unheard-of thing to do, from where he shipped cotton and tobacco to Liverpool.
The coincidence of the cotton trading connection wasn’t lost on the Ridge family, and precious pictures of Charlie Newberry had been acquired at some cost, and hung in the hallway and on the stairs as icons to the past. By all accounts he was a man of humour and enterprise, full of stories, and loved a drink. He would have fitted right in with the Ridge gang. He could almost have been one of the family, a direct ancestor, and as time went by, they adopted the Newbury heritage as their own.
Midge and Lisa strode through the parquet-floored hall and on towards the dining-room, hand-in-hand, where an early dinner was being served. Lisa was grateful for that. It gave her thinking time. She hurried across the dining-room and pecked Laura, Midge’s mother, on the cheek.
‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘Lovely thanks, Mrs Ridge, but I’m glad to be home.’
‘How many times have I told you? Call me Laura.’
Lisa smiled self-consciously and glanced across at the girls. Midge’s father, Vimy, wasn’t there. He was probably still in Liverpool, striking deals in some tatty bar while eyeing the barmaid. The three sisters were present, seated around the table and staring up. Messine, Persia, and Coral, all in their twenties, blonde and beautiful, yet quite different. They smiled in unison like three cute puppies, eager to learn of Lisa’s unaccompanied trip to the fleshpots of the Greek islands. They couldn’t wait for the news because gossip was undisputed king in Misnomer, that, and money and sex.
Two places had been laid for the latecomers. They sat down and pulled their chairs in and helped themselves to lasagne. Just once Lisa erred and stretched across the table to collect the dish. It was enough for Messine to glimpse the marks on her wrist. She smiled knowingly at Lisa. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how they had occurred. She wondered if Midge knew, as she revelled in knowing something the others did not. She guessed he didn’t, judging by his jaunty demeanour. Messine half expected him to excuse them and tug Lisa from the room and hustle her up the stairs, and it probably wouldn’t be long before he did.
‘So? Go on then,’ teased Messine, ‘tell us about Greek men. Were they as luscious as everyone says?’
Lisa grinned. ‘Well, if you must know...’
She’d known she wouldn’t get away without saying something, and had concocted untrue stories, as she idled away a couple of hours on the Olympic flight, of appalling characters with suitably disgusting habits, and they drained from her brain especially for the girls. Midge closed his ears and glanced at his mobile. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to know; he was simply more interested in an anomaly he’d spotted between wheat and barley prices, and his mind was racing as to how he might exploit it.
‘So what did he do then?’ asked Persia, amongst an expectant silence and open mouths.
‘You’ll never guess!’
‘Go on, tell us!’ said Messine, as her mother looked on blank faced and speechless.
‘He pulled a cucumber from his trousers and gave it to the girl!’
There was a barrage of girly laughter, and that was too much for Midge. He excused himself, picked up the paper and headed for the cable TV in the other room, and CNN’s evening report. She’d be his later, and he could wait a wee while longer. Lisa was in for a torrid night. They all knew that.
Chapter Twelve
THE DAY AFTER VIMY Ridge fled his father’s office, he strode into the new Corn Exchange building in Liverpool and rented an office on the eighth floor. From there he could look down on his father’s second-rate outfit in the National Bank building.
Vimy set about building his empire from the bootstraps up. He’d always suspected the day might come, and perhaps it was advantageous to start as early as he had. He was twenty-one. He sold the meagre bonds and stock holdings he possessed to raise necessary seed capital, and introduced himself to venture capitalists who were always hanging around the markets looking to make a deal.
It wasn’t long before he’d struck an agreement with a Scottish outfit to push start-up finance into his fledgling business. They were amazed at his track record, his results, and projections. Perhaps they thought he was being over optimistic, but no matter. They bought a third of the new company, a business that hadn’t yet traded a bean, and injected a quarter of a million pounds into the new enterprise.
Vimy advertised in the Liverpool Echo and took three of Norman’s best people, and how that must have grated. He employed four glamorous women to oversee the administration. No dumb blondes, all sharp minded, well qualified young women who had been hopelessly overlooked in the ultra-chauvinistic shipping and trading businesses of the time. He bumped their pay and gave them maroon Mini Coopers emblazoned with his new company’s logo and name, Ridge Commodities Limited, everything bearing the striking jagged upward sloping logo, a cross between a tick and a healthy sales graph.
When he saw his father in the street, he’d cross the road and walk on by. On the Exchanges, when they met face to face, they would speak civilly, but in private, never a word passed between them. The two companies would trade but never directly, and always through a broker. They would usually use little Freddie Fotheringay, as most of the trading houses did. Freddie had brokered on the Liverpool Exchanges since he’d left school in 1915. He’d never really done anything else, except during World War II when he was decorated at Arnhem as part of his four-year stay in the Royal Lancashire Regiment.
A year later, Freddie brokered a cargo of South African maize between the different Ridge companies, and after finalising the contract he spoke to Vimy. ‘Why don’t you trade directly between yourselves? Don’t get me wrong, I value my commission, but it seems such a waste from your point of view.’
He’d previously asked the same question of Norman and had received the same reply.
‘My door’s always open, if he wants to apologise.’
They would both wait a long time for that to happen.
VIMY RIDGE MOVED ON. He was planning a buying trip overseas. He was counting the traveller’s cheques his assistant Diane Shearston had deposited on his desk. He barely glanced at her, for he was thinking of the long journey through Egypt and Turkey, looking at cotton and locust beans, and he planned to leave the next morning.
A succession of deals and ideas crashed through his head. Diane smiled down at her boss. It wasn’t returned. But she didn’t care, because she knew his mind was elsewhere. Truth was, she was looking forward to him being away because in his absence, she would control everything.
Chapter Thirteen
WALTER GLANCED AT THE digital clock. Two minutes to six and light was filtering through his thick curtains. He hadn’t slept a wink and that wasn’t a surprise, for his brain matter had switched back big time to the eighties, and Suzy Wheater.
The poor girl never regained consciousness. Seemed hard to believe, but even after all the intervening years it still didn’t feel right. She didn’t have the chance to say a final word to Walter, or to anyone else.
It seemed an open and shut case to him. The Nesbitts had done it. He was certain of that, but no matter how much he went on about it, nothing convinced Sergeant Conlan or any of the others in the station they were responsible.
�
��Look!’ said Conlan. ‘The Nesbitts have a cast-iron alibi. They were playing snooker all evening in the Consulate Club. There are five witnesses who will swear to that.’
‘Do me a favour!’ Walter said, struggling hard not to lose his temper. ‘Surely even you don’t believe that crap!’
‘Watch your tone, Darriteau. Plus, they have a good explanation for their office lights being switched off just after nine. The cleaner finishes then, she turns them off and lets herself out. The cleaner will swear to that, and confirm there was no one else in the office, and hadn’t been for the ninety minutes it took her to clean the place.’
‘Very convenient! She’s either paid off, or frightened as hell, and probably both.’
‘You didn’t see them there, did you?’
‘No, I wish I had. But I bet Suzy did. They’re guilty, and I’m going to prove it.’
‘You can think what you like, Darriteau, but the Nesbitts have cast iron witnesses willing to testify in court to their innocence, and you have damn all!’
‘What about Suzy’s blood spatters on their clothing? There must have been some.’
‘Ah well, none were found, were they?’
‘No! But a bloody big wash had just been done at Johnny Nesbitt’s place, late at night, doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘Not really. They are very busy guys. Sometimes I sling my kit in the washer when I get home. Seems plausible enough.’
‘What? A business suit, I don’t think so. Don’t you think you are giving them the benefit of the doubt a little too often?’
‘Innocent until proven guilty, you know that well enough, Darriteau; there is no case to answer. No weapon was ever found. You’re pissing in the wind.’
‘You sound like Nesbitt’s brief!’
‘That’s enough! I want a successful prosecution for the murder of officer Wheatland just as much as you do. But we have to find evidence to convict criminals, and you and me and everyone else have found bugger all!’
