by David Carter
Somewhere along the line he’d lost his Ulster accent and acquired a disk jockey mid Atlantic drawl that he thought killingly attractive to women. It might have been too, but it sure as hell irritated Vimy Ridge, and now Cordell Mulroney was waiting on his telephone. Vimy’s phone. He snapped down the fourth key on his grey key and lamp unit and said, ‘Hel-lo.’
‘Hi!’ jumped in Cordell. ‘How are you doing, Vim?’
Cordell was one of the few people who called Vimy ‘Vim’, and he didn’t care for it much.
‘I’m fine. Yourself?’
‘I’m crispy mate, totally crispy.’
Cordell sprinkled his telephone calls with irrelevant words like crispy and crusty, croaky, cranky, fluffy and flaky, and occasionally they gave his conversations a surreal edge.
‘My spies tell me you are looking to piss with the big dogs.’
Vimy gently laughed. ‘Come again?’
‘Word on the street has it you’re in the market to buy a big slug of maize.’
Vimy couldn’t make up his mind whether that was a question or a statement, and whichever it was, he wasn’t happy about it. No one on earth knew how much maize he needed to buy, unless they’d broken into his locked desk drawer overnight, but he knew he couldn’t keep his large open position a secret from the big beasts for long.
‘I might be looking for some,’ confirmed Vimy. ‘If the price is right.’
‘That’s what I figured, pal. That’s why at our morning meeting when we agreed our new reduced prices, the man I thought of was you, Vim, only you. You’re my first call of the day, pal, and if we can do a deal right now, you’ll be my last. It’s a sunny day and Birkdale golf course beckons.’
Vimy did not like Cordell Mulroney.
It wasn’t the toothpaste advertising teeth, or the big Robert Redford hair, it wasn’t the permanent fake tan that maybe wasn’t so fake, or even the phoney Atlantic drawl, Vimy didn’t care for phoney Mulroney because he didn’t trust him. Not a bushel, not a peck. His reputation went before him. If Cordell could slit your throat while smiling deeply into your eyes, he would, and everyone knew it.
‘And the price is?’
Cordell relayed the numbers, and added in a rush, ‘But only if you buy 40,000 tonnes in one slug. It’s a wonderful price, fella, d’wanna trade, or d’wanna trade?’
‘Just a sec.’
Vimy glanced at the figure he’d scribbled in his diary. Cordell’s price was undeniably attractive. Vimy’s mental arithmetic told him the 40,000 would net him a cool £1,040,000 profit, and he’d still have 5,000 tonnes to buy to cover his open position. It was the million quid phone call all traders dreamt of taking, or making. In one slash, it would annihilate his risky open position and lock in a big cash pile, but at the last moment, Vimy saw the proposition for what it was. The questions crashed into his mind. Why did Silver Sword want to sell so much corn, nearly half the cargo of the Shikoku in one hit? There could only be two reasons. One: they must have a huge amount of corn unsold, and Two: Silver Sword, and it followed the parent company too, the mighty Merignac Corporation, believed the market was heading one way. Down! They sure as hell wouldn’t be selling weight like that if they thought otherwise. In that instant, Vimy saw the market trend clearer than he had ever done before. It was crashing.
‘Thanks for the offer, Cordell, but I am not a buyer today.’
‘Your funeral, pal!’
The line went dead and Vimy was left staring at the silent handset, Cordell’s parting words ringing in his ear. Your funeral, pal!
In Silver Sword’s office across the city, Cordell was heard to slam the phone down, something he did frequently. He snarled and yelled, ‘The prick! I’m gonna break that guy. If he thinks he can mess with Cordell, he has pain coming, severe pain. The schmuck! Mark the motherfucker’s card! He’s my bitch!’
Several of the staff noted the comment, one or two sniggered, and still more exchanged glances as if to say: this could be fun.
THAT AFTERNOON THE traders watched the opening of the U.S. markets with more trepidation than ever. Chicago Soya, Maize, and Wheat futures opened for trading at 3pm U.K. time. Vimy put in a direct call to a Chicago broker. Cordell kept an open line to Merignac’s Chicago office. On the opening bell, soya opened well down, as did wheat. Maize opened limit down, and remained locked in at limit down all day. Trading in maize was again suspended. Vimy was right. The market was like a beetle on its back. It was desperate, it was surrendering, it was goosed, cooked, knackered, fucked, fecked, shagged, dead, belly up, buggered, shafted, and all the other colourful adjectives grain traders used to describe a market totally without hope.
Every time the maize market traded limit down Vimy’s financial open position improved by a whopping £88,000. That afternoon he sold an additional 2,000 tonnes of maize he didn’t possess. He wouldn’t have to deliver any of it for three months and he still believed prices had further to fall. He’d added to the downward pressure.
Vimy thought of Cordell’s face, and couldn’t resist a belly laugh. It’s your funeral, pal! Yeah, right.
He knew there was nothing gentlemanly about commodity trading. He’d laugh aloud when he heard the industry described as a place for city gents. He knew better. When the market was down and lying on its back, you put the boot in as aggressively as you could, regardless of whom you hurt or the damage you did. Vimy and other astute traders did just that, and ensured the following weeks and months would be electrically exciting for some. For others, it could mean a slow and painful death, and that was part of the excitement, too. It got him out of bed in the morning, earlier and earlier, until some nights he didn’t sleep at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE MANAGER’S NAME at the Greek boatyard was Boreas Damaskinos, and he was busy ticking boxes on his pre-printed checklist, as he showed Midge and Coral around the cruiser. They’d loaded provisions and the light baggage they possessed. Boreas started the engines and went through the controls of the sleek and powerful vessel.
He was happy knowing the young Englishman could handle the boat; he’d assured him he’d piloted one before, and he sure knew where everything was.
All the while Coral hovered in the background, smiling at passers-by on the quay and across the harbour, as cruisers and yachts of all shapes and sizes came and went, heading to and from the open sea. The sun was climbing high in the sky and the temperature was rising fast.
‘Sign there,’ said Boreas.
Midge scribbled B. Nichols on the duplicated forms. Boreas handed him the top copy and tucked the other into his back trouser pocket, before passing Midge a spare set of keys. He turned away and climbed carefully down to the jetty as if expecting acute arthritis to strike, unfastened the aft blue polystyrene rope, ambled to the bows, slipped the second rope from the bollard and tossed it onto the deck. He nodded without smiling, as Midge, high on the open rear control deck, gently pulled the accelerator. The engines hummed to life, the propellers caught and whirred, and oily rainbow-coloured water zipped from the stern, as the 53-footer eased away from the quay.
Coral waved at Boreas with just her fingers as she pulled past him. He didn’t return the wave or the come on smile, and in the next minute the boat was gone. He watched his precious cruiser slipping down the channel towards the sea. They avoided two incoming craft, and they’d not made the usual beginner’s mistake of starting too quickly. Boreas was happy enough; anxious as always when one of his babies sailed out of sight. He turned and ambled back to the office, content in being 10,000 euro richer, and who cared if they were drug running, so long as they took it back to England. It was nothing to do with him. The English could have their drugs. They deserved each other.
On the open sea, Midge gradually increased speed. The twin Volvo engines hummed like a sports car, begging to be given their head. Midge had chosen the Cambria not simply because he’d piloted one before, but because she was quick, capable of 35 knots, which was more than fast enough to outrun all but t
he butchest of police patrol craft. She boasted a decent range of 350 nautical miles, enough to take them to Carsos and back without re-fuelling.
He settled the boat at twenty knots, conscious of the need to save juice, and glanced down at the charts Boreas had pulled out. There was no direct route to Carsos because of the many islands strewn across their path. Some of them were small and extremely dangerous, barely breaking the surface, while others, like Paros and Naxos, were much larger. Midge decided to follow the well-marked ferry route towards Rhodes. Once there, they would pass Amorgos and turn south for Carsos, 175 nautical miles distant. He settled back into the sumptuous Captain’s chair and adjusted his sunglasses. It would be a long trip; eight or nine hours, and it would be nightfall before they arrived off the island.
Smaller boats scuttled from the path of the Cambria like startled waterfowl. Midge liked that. Occasionally, for the sheer hell of it, he felt the urge to accelerate on unsuspecting yachts, and he might have done too, but for the need to keep a low profile.
Coral busied herself unloading provisions in the gleaming stainless steel galley. She unpacked their few clothes and hung them in the oak panelled wardrobe in the master state cabin. After that, she opened cold drinks, and joined Midge on the higher of the two control decks. The sea was calm, picture postcard blue, and the dazzling sun bounced off the waves and played tricks on the eyes. The Sunskipper sliced through the water as if she were a hydrofoil producing little sea going motion. Midge promised himself that one day he would buy a boat like it, and cruise the world in search of adventure.
Coral sat in the seat beside Midge in the sunshine, and closed her eyes and imagined the tan that would soon be hers.
‘Won’t she go any faster?’
‘She’ll go almost twice as quick, but I’m saving fuel, there’s no actual hurry, so long as we arrive before the restaurants close.’
‘You’ve thought of everything. So what’s the plan?’
Midge scratched his chin and slightly adjusted course to avoid a returning ferry.
‘When we arrive on Carsos, we’ll revert to being brother and sister. As far as Nicoliades is concerned, you have to be available. Stop drawing attention to yourself. Cut out the bikinis, mini-skirts and flirting. Wear trousers and as dowdy a top as you can manage. The fewer people who notice or remember us, the better, OK?’
Coral nodded without opening her eyes.
‘Don’t have your photograph taken, don’t smile or greet passing sailors, deckhands or anyone working on the quay. Understand?’
She nodded again. ‘I get it, I’m to be plain miss dull face.’
‘I know it’s difficult for you,’ he smirked.
‘I can do dull,’ she said, donning a juvenile pout.
He slurped his drink and said, ‘That would be a first.’
‘I’ll need to make an effort for Nicoliades,’ she said, perking up at the thought.
‘That’s different. For him you’ll look your enticing best.’
She glanced across at her brother and saw him smiling back. Thinking ahead, there was no denying the excitement she felt playing the femme fatale, luring the beast to his doom. There was a five minute silence as they imagined how it might be, before she said, ‘How are we going to play it?’
‘You’ll eat at his place tonight, alone and obviously available, just as Lisa did. Take your mobile phone. Text me with updates whenever you get the chance. Visit the Ladies if you have to. Don’t make a date, play hard to get, but flirt, try to find out if he’s there tomorrow, and if he is, you go back tomorrow afternoon, just as Lisa did. Don’t forget, you’re here with your brother cruising the Aegean. I’m looking at setting up a cruising school, we’re seeking a suitable base, we’re checking the harbour at Carsos, and remember, your name’s Brenda Nichols.’
‘Brenda Nichols,’ she repeated, ‘Brenda Nichols. I am Brenda Nichols. Then what?’
‘My guess is he’ll try to take you back to the same house. He probably uses those same cuffs every time, but don’t worry, while you’re eating, I’ll check out the lie of the land. When it comes to it, I’ll be there.’
‘I sure hope so.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll have two knives, just in case, I’ll have the others, and you’ve got the pepper spray?’
‘I have.’
‘If he tries anything, and for any reason I’m not there, don’t hesitate to use it, and get the hell out of there. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘No risks, none at all, and make sure your mobile’s fully charged.’
‘If he takes me back to the house, where will you be?’
‘I’ll be there, don’t worry, before the door closes, I’ll barge my way in. Just take your time before you enter the building. Act reluctant, the more you dally, the easier it will be for me.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll do the business, no sweat, straight in, straight out, no delay, no second thoughts, no discussion, kaput, job done, back to the boat and away.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yeah, course. Why not? It’s what we came for, isn’t it?’
‘No second thoughts?’
‘Nope. None at all. I just have to think about what he and his filthy family did to my fiancé.’ Midge shrugged his shoulders and continued, ‘Can’t see a problem. Any real man would do the same.’
‘Aren’t we going to leave fingerprints?’
‘There’s nothing we can do about that. We can hardly wear gloves. Try not to touch things unnecessarily. Neither of us has any record, so the prints aren’t traceable. They’ll be looking for Brian and Brenda Nichols, people who don’t exist, fingerprints that aren’t in any data bank. When we return to England, we’ll shoot down to Newquay. A friend of mine, Jamie Waters, he’s having a big bash down there, an engagement booze-up week. He’s marrying that Camilla, the horsey bitch from Chester. We’ll put ourselves about a bit, get seen by all and sundry. After a week of partying, no one will know whether we joined the party on the Monday, the Wednesday or the Friday. Everyone will be too stoned to remember. They’ll just recall we were always there, partying away. Umpteen witnesses, umpteen alibis, Jamie owes me a favour, and just for good measure, he’s agreed to give us a cast-iron alibi that we stayed at his place. We’ll be OK, sis, don’t worry about a thing.’
‘You’ve thought of everything. The only thing I worry about is watching you stab the guy, that’s all.’
‘Let me worry about that. Why don’t you take a nap for an hour or two, perhaps make some food after that?’
‘Whatever you say, bro,’ and she kissed him on the top of his head and made her way below deck, wondering what the next twenty-four hours might bring.
Chapter Twenty-Three
1974. THE FIRST SHIPMENT of Turkish cotton arrived in Liverpool by road, and it delighted the spinners. Vimy sold every strand at a great price within an hour of trying. When he returned to the office from the Cotton Exchange, he sent Bulent Tarsus an urgent telex:
COTTON SOLD WELL. TAKE UP OPTION OF FURTHER THOUSAND BALES. BUY ADDITIONAL THOUSAND BALES – SAME QUALITY – SAME PRICE. SAME TERMS. STILL EVALUATING OTHER PROPOSALS. WILL REVERT ASAP. REGARDS, VR, RIDGE COMMODITIES.
DESPITE THE SUCCESS of the cotton trading, it was his open maize position that dominated his thinking. In his mind, he’d begun to spend some of the huge paper profit that was coming his way. He shouldered the risk; he’d spend the profits. He thought about buying a house; he’d seen a rambling property in Caldy and had fallen in love with the place. It was a huge pile of a run-down mansion that hadn’t been lived in for two years. But if you looked beyond the dust and filth, the musty smell, peeling Edwardian wallpaper, derelict greenhouses and unkempt gardens, the property had great potential, even though the West Kirby agents were asking an extortionate £188,000 for it.
It needed a new kitchen, new bathrooms, a rewire, new heating, and God alone knows what else, but Vimy could see way beyond that. Retur
ned to the modern standards of the seventies, it would be worth a fortune, though it wasn’t the money aspect that interested him. He was seeking a home in which to rear children, a happy place echoing with laughter that would be a delight to return to at the end of a stressful day.
He thought to buy it and restore it to its original glory, a project, his project, where he could set down roots. True, it could be a cash drainer when it came to necessary works, but that thought didn’t deter him. He had visions of finding a pretty girl, the prettiest girl anyone had ever seen, and filling the place with cute kids, and he had an idea who that girl might be, and all his plans were seemingly falling into place.
He sat in his apartment alone and gawped at the television but saw nothing. He was debating whether to amble down to the Road to Damascus, as the music for the BBC Nine o’clock News brought him back to the apartment. He changed his mind and thought it was time to ring Laura.
He hurried to the bedroom and retrieved his diary from the inside pocket of his jacket and sat down and dialled the Winchester number. The phone rang three times. A woman answered, an older woman, definitely not Laura.
‘Is Laura there please?’
‘She’s not back from work, who’s speaking?’
‘Vimy Ridge.’
‘Vinnie?’ said the woman, her high-pitched voice spitting into his ear.
‘No, Vimy, Vimy Ridge.’
‘She’s going to be late back, there’s some kind of flap on.’
Vimy wondered what kind of flap was going on in the head office of the Shell Oil Company. On such intelligence titbits, fortunes could be made.
‘What time do you think she’ll be back?’
‘Who knows? Could be any time.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try again tomorrow.’
