by David Carter
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Do you have children, Mr Ridge?’
‘Call me Vimy, please, and no, I don’t, not yet. You?’
‘Oh, yes, four, two girls and two boys. You must have children, Mr Ridge. What else is there?’
‘I will, just as soon as I find the right girl.’
‘Ah yes, the right girl, most important! You must find the right girl!’
Bulent laughed again and pressed the accelerator hard, as they overtook one of the Romanian lorries travelling westwards, heading for the ferry for Istanbul and Europe, and as they passed the truck Bulent pressed the horn, three short beeps, followed by one long. He repeated it several times as a warning to oncoming traffic, but more importantly, a cheerful jibe at the convoy.
The drivers sat in the cabs, the windows open, their arms drooping out over the door, their feet flat to the floor. They were smoking cheroots and grinning at anyone who dared pass, yelling Turkish obscenities at one another over the full-on radio, sipping French spa water from green glass bottles, and gesturing with free hands towards the fleeing orange saloon in front of them.
Bulent cursed happily back towards them and closed the window to keep the dust at bay. ‘And anyway,’ he said, ‘there’s something else I wish to discuss. I have another opportunity for you, another deal you could be interested in.’
Chapter Sixteen
THE OLDER WALTER HEARD the air brakes go on, as the single decker pulled to a halt in the Chester bus station. He opened his eyes and stared around. The usual early birds were present and correct on the bus, and were slowly filing off, most of them thanking the driver for doing his job, and doing it well.
The young Walter had left the building of Walter’s brain. They’d both return to thinking about Mandy Redfearn when the day was done. He was good at that, switching between cases and eras and people and places and crimes and court cases. But one thing they all had in common, there were still too many people walking the streets intent on making the lives of law-abiding citizens miserable. Probably always would be.
Walter’s mission in life was to alleviate misery, always had been, and that was what made him the officer he was. He was back at home at 8pm, feasting on Chinese takeaway and a four pack of Irish stout. When he’d eaten enough, he sat back in his favourite armchair and switched on the young Walter and that pretty kid Mandy Redfearn, and transported himself back to the eighties through the medium of his mind. She’d rung him in little over twenty-four hours, calling from a public phone in the hallway of the house that included her first floor studio flat.
‘I’ve thought about it, Walter. To tell you the truth, I can’t think about anything else. I can’t get that picture out of my mind of your young woman up that alleyway with those two bastards, high as a kite, most likely, and if I didn’t say and do something about it, I would never be able to live with myself, and because of that, I’ve decided to make a statement, and after that, take what comes.’
‘Well done, you’re very brave, I admire you.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I’ll still need all the protection you can offer.’
‘You’ll get it, I promise you that.’
‘I believe you, that’s why I’m going to tell you something else.’
‘There’s more?’
Mandy nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, it scares me to think about it.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘The knife, I know where it is, and no one would ever find it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I didn’t tell you everything I overheard.’
‘Go on. Where is it?’
‘It’s hidden.’
‘I guessed that, but where?’
‘It’s at Johnny’s girlfriend’s place. She has a huge fish tank; he often shows pictures of it in the office. Piranha, they are, you know, the man-eating beasts. On the bottom of the tank is four inches of sand and the knife is buried in there. He was bragging about it to Tony, saying how clever he was. No one would ever find it, because no one would be stupid enough to stick their hand in the tank.’
‘What’s the girlfriend’s name?’
‘Monica Fisk.’
‘And an address?’
‘She has a flat over the video shop in the high street. It’s about six properties along from the office. Johnny found it for her. So what happens now?’
‘I’ll arrange a raid on the flat. If the knife’s there, Monica Fisk will be arrested, and the Nesbitts soon after. Killing a police officer is as serious as it gets.’
‘When?’
‘Within the hour.’
‘Great... will they get bail?’
‘No chance! If everything you say is true, I doubt they will ever walk the streets again.’
‘That’s how I’d like it to be.’
‘As would I.’
THAT’S PRETTY MUCH as it turned out. Walter ignored Sergeant William Conlan and went over his head and the raid was organised. The knife was where Mandy said it would be, and though there was no blood or prints on it, it matched Suzy Wheater’s wound exactly. The Nesbitts were arrested and convicted and sentenced to life with a min/rec of twenty-five years.
Walter squished open another can of stout and sipped it straight. There were three postscripts to the Suzy Wheater case. Five years later, during one of the periodic investigations into police corruption, Sergeant Conlan was indicted. He had been on the Nesbitts’ payroll all along, and the messenger lad who delivered the pay-offs turned Queen’s evidence, and told the whole story with enthusiasm, and that nailed Conlan, and off to clink, he went. Walter wasn’t in the least surprised.
The second postscript was that six years after he was convicted, Tony Nesbitt was stabbed to death in Wormwood Scrubs over a card game argument, and two years later, Johnny Nesbitt died in mysterious circumstances, found at the bottom of some stairs with a nasty bang to the head. Walter thought that all too convenient, and after a little digging discovered the tobacco baron in that prison was a bookmaker, who it was widely rumoured, had lost a packet to the Nesbitts when backing Kingfisher’s Dreams in the Derby. What goes around comes around. Something vile and something evil, as Conlan had colourfully described them, had been terminated, and not too many people would grieve for them.
The third and final note on that whole business was more personal. Mandy Redfearn had fired something up in the young Walter, and after thinking about it for three days, he put in a call to the same payphone in the studio flat’s house. Mandy hurried to the phone.
Walter said, ‘Fancy going out for a drink one night, and maybe something to eat?’
‘I’m glad you’ve rung,’ she said. ‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ and they fixed a date for eight the following night at the local Berni Inn steak-bar.
He was there waiting; and she turned up a minute later. They found a quiet table in the corner, and ordered prawn cocktails and medium rare sirloins and chips with Black Forest Gateaux to follow, plus a bottle of Blue Nun, as Walter waited for her to tell him what was on her mind. He didn’t have to wait long.
‘My cousin Haley lives in New Zealand. She says it’s absolutely fab out there and she can get me a job anytime, so I’ve said yes, already bought the plane ticket. I am so excited. I can’t wait to get out of this place, there is nothing here for me.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘What about them?’
‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘Why should I? They have never once got in touch since I’ve been up here. They wanted me out of the house, and now they have their way.’
‘It’s their loss, but I still think you should tell them.’
‘You on good terms with yours, are you?’
‘My parents are dead.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s because my parents are dead that I think you should get in touch with yours.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ and they didn’t tal
k about that again, and at 10.30pm they went their separate ways, but not before she reached up and kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘Thanks for everything, Walter. You’ve been great. But for you I’d still be working in that crappy job on crappy pay with those dreadful men.’
He never heard from her again and occasionally wonders what might have happened to white boots Mandy. As for Suzy Wheater, he still thinks of her every day and scolds himself, too, for not taking any lunch on that fateful day. If he had, he wouldn’t have been hungry, and wouldn’t have left her alone, and he curses that football team who turned up at the takeaway place a minute before he did, and delayed him with their long and drawn out orders, and the damned Nesbitts too, for not coming out ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later, either time would have meant Suzy Wheater, with her bubbly hair and bubbly laughter, would still be alive.
At the funeral her miserable husband pulled Walter into a corner and whispered, ‘I never wanted her to work for your lot, I told her it would all end in tears, and it did. I want you to know that I hold you personally responsible for her death. If you weren’t always thinking of your damned belly, you wouldn’t have gone missing. You should never have left a vulnerable young woman alone like that. It’s entirely your fault, Darriteau. You should be ashamed of yourself. How do you sleep at nights?’
Walter opened his mouth to reply, though he wasn’t quite sure what. But before he could speak, the hubby slipped away to take all the condolences and sympathy going from Suzy’s three older slightly eccentric aunts, at least two of whom had taken a second look at Walter when they were introduced. Hard though it was to accept, Walter knew he was at least partly responsible for what had happened. But there was nothing he could do about that, except to make sure that nothing like it ever happened again.
Back in the modern world, every time he looks at Sergeant Karen Greenwood he sees something of Suzy Wheater, which is crazy for they are poles apart in every way. After going over that horrific business in his eighties mind, he promised himself he would never think about it and worry about it again. After all, there were hundreds of old cases he could dwell on and pine over. But he would, think of Suzy. That went without saying. He’ll always do that for as long as his brain continues to send vital messages to the right stations. But without question, that was the worst day in his entire service.
What he needed more than anything was a bloody good new case to get his teeth into, something that would occupy his mind and restrain it, and him, from revisiting past adventures, fantastic successes, and catastrophic failures alike.
Chapter Seventeen
LISA’S POOR WORK WAS being noticed. What little of it there was, was uncharacteristically inaccurate, and untidy too. Her supervisor cornered her in the tearoom. ‘Is everything all right?’ she said, frown lines thick on her face.
Lisa nodded; she had become resigned to telling Midge. ‘It’s the wedding coming up,’ she lied. ‘I can’t seem to keep my mind on work.’
Valerie nodded knowingly, though it was a problem she had never experienced, nor ever would.
‘You must try to keep on top of it. It’s affecting your work.’
Lisa agreed and apologised. Any more pressure and she’d burst into tears. ‘Thanks, Valerie, I’ll try my best.’
It was Valerie’s turn to nod, and she returned to her desk. Lisa had contemplated fleeing to London to have an abortion. She’d enquired over prices and bed availability. There hadn’t been a problem with that. There never was for desperate girls with sufficient resources. But she knew if she were to disappear on her own again, even for a few days, Midge would suspect something.
She decided to tell him everything, for she was desperate not to lose him. But she knew she could not live with a lie. She would tell him the whole sordid story, at least her version of it, and that night, too. Messine would be away at a fashion show in Manchester, Vimy and Laura were scheduled to attend a black tie dinner in Chester, and Persia would be out with her square-jawed wide-shouldered builder with whom she had but one thing in common. She hadn’t seen him for three nights and that meant she would be out late, if she returned at all. That left Coral, the youngest, who lived in a world of her own; as she flitted through Misnomer at hours the others rarely saw.
It would be the best opportunity Lisa was likely to get to set the record straight, and all afternoon she tried to summon sufficient courage, as she practised her story, refining it, manipulating it, and spinning it. Yet there would be no easy way to tell Midge what she had to say. She set off for home carrying a feeling of foreboding she had never experienced before, for she knew that by bedtime she might be out of Misnomer for good.
Coral had the sniffles and wouldn’t be going anywhere. But she helped Lisa prepare a meal of pasta and ham with white sauce. Afterwards, Coral made her excuses and retreated to her room, where she changed into black satin pyjamas, stretched out on the bed, and watched an old Harrison Ford movie. Lisa imagined it to be a good omen, Coral disappearing like that. Everything was falling into place; it would be fine, she assured herself.
Downstairs, Midge sat glued to the latest Champions League football match, occasionally tossing out an expletive at the referee, or the foreign centre forward, regularly rolling on the ground like a spinning top. Lisa sat close beside him, their arms entwined, her mind on anything but sodding football. They watched the ten o’clock news. Lisa yawned, and Midge picked up the signals. He never needed a second invitation to scurry to bed, and besides, he had an early start and busy day ahead.
They left the hall light on for the late-returners, and climbed the stairs. She sat on the side of the bed, listening to him sloshing about in the bathroom. Perhaps I’ll leave it till tomorrow, she thought, only to correct herself. No! She must tell him, it had to be now, or she knew she never would.
He was back in front of the dressing-table mirror, combing and re-combing his thick short hair, smoothing it with his hands, ruffling it a little, only to smooth it out again.
‘Midge?’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
She glanced up at him, at his bare wide back, his hands above his head still pampering himself. How was he going to handle this bombshell?
‘What’s that, lover?’
‘When I was in Greece...’
‘Yeah, what about it?’ He imagined she was going to say something about delaying the wedding. She had been acting strange since she’d returned, but he was sure it was prenuptial nerves; a natural reaction, especially for a highly strung girl like Lisa Greystone.
She took a deep breath, grimaced, and whispered, ‘I was raped.’
She looked away at the wall and let the sentence die on her breath.
‘What!’
He stopped combing his hair and turned round towards her, the brush hanging down in front of his waist. ‘What did you say?’
‘I was raped,’ she repeated, as she slowly turned to face him.
‘Hellfire!’
He slapped the brush down on the glass-topped dressing table. ‘What are you saying? Those marks, those bloody marks! I told you not to go alone, didn’t I? I told you not to go by yourself, but no, you know everything! You never pay a blind bit of attention to anything I say!’
His raised voice attracted Coral’s attention along the landing. The Harrison Ford film had finished, the television was off, and she was trying to doze. At the sound of loud voices, she skipped along the darkened landing. Midge’s door was slightly ajar. Soft light angled out. It was Midge’s voice making the noise, and that wasn’t like him, for he was usually so cool and calculating. She listened at the door.
‘Who did it? Who raped you?’
‘Oh my,’ whispered Coral.
‘His name’s Nicoliades, he runs a bar in Edris.’
Midge punched the foot of the bed so hard the mattress shook and hummed.
‘So why tell me now? You’ve been back a month, why bloody tell me now?’
Yes, thought Coral, you’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t you? Why spill the beans now? Bet I know.
‘I’ve been trying to tell you, Midge, honest I have, I just couldn’t find the right moment.’
‘Bloody hell! How did it happen?’
‘It’s a long story.’
He folded his arms across his chest.
‘Well? I’m waiting! I’ve got all night!’
‘There’s a beach on Carsos, it’s called the Perfect Beach.’ Lisa began her story, and once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. ‘It’s supposed to be the best beach in the Aegean. Nicoliades promised to show me the island, he promised to take me to see the Perfect Beach. But when we went out, instead of turning towards the sea, we headed up the hill. I thought that odd, but imagined he must have known a shortcut. Halfway up the hill, he opened the door to one of the houses and dragged me inside. There was no one there. It was cool and quiet, and before I knew it, he picked me up and carried me upstairs. I screamed and screamed, but no one came. I tried to fight him off, Midge, honest I did. But he’s a big powerful man, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t! I’m so dreadfully sorry!’
Midge’s right leg began trembling as he stared down at her. Her hands were clasped tightly between her knees as she swayed to and fro, staring at the wall. Her face was red, and tears were beginning to dribble down her cheeks. He thought of reaching out to her, of sweeping his arm around her shoulders. But he did not, for she hadn’t finished, and he wanted to know every goddamn thing.
‘Go on!’
She stared up at him; her face scrunched, her eyes frightened.
‘He handcuffed me to the bed, Midge, hands and feet. When he’d finished, he left me there, cuffed to the bed. A little later, I heard the front door open. I thought he’d come back to free me, but he’d sent his young nephew. I was his Christmas bonus, it was his turn.’
