by David Carter
He ambled over to the parked RSPCA van. The dogs barked hard and loud. Poor things, must be suffering. RSPCA men and women must experience semi-permanent headaches dealing with that row all day. Walter tapped on the passenger window. The guy buzzed down the glass.
Walter said, ‘What about the terrapins?’
‘Oh yeah. Forgot about them. Thanks, I’ll get ’em now,’ and the guy got out and walked back towards the house, as Walter shouted after him, ‘If the dogs tell you anything important give me a bell.’
The guy laughed and yelled, ‘You got it,’ and disappeared into the house.
Karen came back from another house call.
Walter said, ‘Any luck?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘There’s nothing more we can do here. Back to the nick and wait for the PM.’
‘What’s your best guess?’
‘I’m not into guessing.’
‘Yes, you are! You always have an opinion on everything.’
Walter smiled. Maybe he did.
‘OK. My gut tells me the guy died of natural causes, she couldn’t cope and OD’d, but I hope I’m wrong about that.’
‘There were loads of drugs in the house.’
‘Precisely. We’ll know soon enough, but either way it doesn’t smell like murder.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘I am not disappointed for the people involved, but maybe a little from the point of view of having a challenging case to investigate.’
‘Maybe the PM will throw up a surprise.’
‘Anything’s possible, come on, I need a coffee, and a butty.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
DUSK WAS FALLING LIKE a grey patchwork curtain, as Midge cut the cruiser’s speed as she approached Carsos. Several fishing boats and two smaller cruisers were all heading for the sanctuary of the harbour. The entrance to the port at Edris was narrow, and the approaching vessels lined up astern, well mannered and dead slow, as Midge cut the speed to five knots.
He’d flushed the rustiness from his fingers and would happily have cruised further afield. He’d forgotten what a superb machine the Cambria 50 was; so easy to handle a grown child could manage it. They slipped carefully through the narrow harbour mouth and swung to port, before edging in astern to berth at the jetty, aft on.
Coral stood on the stern tossing the mooring rope from one hand to another. She’d forgotten Midge’s clothing advice and still wore the bikini top and miniskirt. No man would miss that, and on cue two tall tanned Swedes who’d berthed a smaller cruiser minutes earlier, appeared on the quayside, admiring the cruiser, and the girl.
‘Hey, throw the line!’ said the broader of the two, with a slight accent, smiling up at Coral. She returned the grin and tossed the rope across the narrowing gap, and watched as the fit guy tugged the boat in and secured her expertly to the rusty bollard.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome. See you later?’
‘Maybe.’
She watched them ambling away down the quay, knowing they’d look back over their shoulders, and they did. In a different place and a different time she’d make it her business to get to know those guys, and maybe both of them. She giggled and watched them smile as they sauntered away, and turned and climbed the stairs to where Midge was carefully folding the charts and locking things down.
‘All done?’ he asked.
‘Yep, vessel berthed, Captain.’
‘Are you going like that?’
‘Won’t I do?’
He gave her the once over and nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re fine.’
They jumped down to the ancient stone quay and checked the boat one last time before turning down towards the town. The sunlight had gone and darkness was coming down like a swarm of locusts, as the lights in the bars and restaurants brightened. Midge squinted along the quay. A uniformed man was approaching. Midge guessed he was some kind of policeman. The guy was on the jetty to investigate reports of minor robberies from visiting cruisers and yachts. He’d spied the superb new cruiser slipping into the harbour, Corinth Cruising Company neatly painted in light blue letters below the gunwales. The robberies were probably the work of a busted backpacker on the lookout for funds to finance their next hit, and the sooner he put a stop to that nonsense the better. He’d watched Midge and Coral jump from the boat and amble towards him along the quay. The policeman stopped in front of the strangers and smiled. He’d never seen them before.
The first thing he said was, ‘You’re English?’
Midge said, ‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s not difficult, your body language. More businesslike than the Swedes, but not as serious as the Germans.’
Midge laughed and nodded. ‘You’re a clever man.’
‘Here on holiday?’
‘Not completely, we’re looking to operate a cruise business, we’re seeking a base,’ Midge glanced across the harbour, ‘but on first impression Edris doesn’t look big enough.’
It was the policeman’s turn to nod. ‘You’re probably right.’
He looked at the girl, prompting an introduction, and that worked.
‘This is my sister, Brenda Nichols,’ said Midge.
‘Charmed I’m sure, and you are?’
‘Brian Nichols.’
‘You’ll be looking for the harbour-master? To pay your berthing fee?’
‘Of course. Where can we find him?’
The Greek laughed aloud, he was an easy man to warm to.
‘At this hour, you won’t. Andreas will be slumped drunk behind some bar, but you can pay me, it’s thirty euros.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Midge, ‘we’ll find him later, or in the morning.’
‘No, you’ll pay me,’ insisted the Greek, ‘unless you’d prefer a two hundred euro fine for not displaying the relevant notice.’
Coral looked at Midge as if to say: For heaven’s sake, pay the fool. Midge produced a roll of notes from his jeans and peeled off three ten euro notes and handed them over in exchange for a hastily scrawled receipt on a pre-printed form. It was in Greek and Midge had the distinct feeling it was a car parking ticket, or a dog licence, or some other nondescript form unrelated to boats. They didn’t display it on the cruiser and the Greek didn’t seem bothered by that, for he had the cash locked away in his wallet.
Everyone smiled and nodded and said their goodbyes and the Ridges, who were now the Nichols, hurried away toward the bars. Music drifted from most of them and waved across the gentle water, not hard rock, but softer more romantic sounds, music for lovers and the loved. The hubbub of multilingual conversation drifted from the first restaurant and the sound of sizzling steaks and frying fish, all swirling together with smells of garlic and seafood and herbs and spices. A bout of raucous laughter would burst outside as if someone had told a wonderfully funny story.
It was getting busy. Neat couples appeared everywhere and began promenading to and fro, up and down, their arms entwined, checking out the competition, striving to outdo one another in their skimpy designer chic clothes and sunglasses, all blonde hair and tanned skin, white teeth and bright eyes. Working class trash mixing shoulder to shoulder with the rich, and for once, the two groups were almost indistinguishable.
They easily found Nicoliades’ Bar. It was exactly where Lisa had described. The blue sign outside announcing his name was rhythmically flashing on and off. A group of forty-something women were standing around outside, giggling and swapping cigarettes. When they finally decided to go inside, they almost knocked the door off its hinges. Midge and Coral hung about on the quay, rehearsing their plan in whispers.
‘Do I look OK?’ she asked.
‘You look great. Don’t worry about that. You know what to do?’
She nodded a quick and nervous nod.
‘Remember, any hassle and get your ass out of there.’
‘You can be sure of that.’
‘Ready?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.
’
She turned round and disappeared alone into the bar, as Midge lit a cigarette and ambled along the quayside. He touched the mobile phone in his back pocket to assure himself it was still there. Three grizzled locals were arguing animatedly on the quayside. One of the men glanced up and focused his tired eyes on Midge, and half smiled. Midge hurried by, wondering what was going down in Nicoliades’ Bar.
The restaurant was busy, but the bar was not. Coral placed her bag on the counter and sat on a stool and ordered a glass of retsina. An older man stepped forward to serve, but before he could do that a taller, broader man intervened. He muttered something in Greek and the older man looked disappointed and disappeared. She turned back to the new guy. It was Nicoliades, she was sure of it. Nicoliades Emperikos, bar owner, local celebrity, entertainer, and orchestrator of gang rape. Lisa’s description was perfect down to the last hair peeking from his right nostril.
He smiled and poured her a drink.
‘Will the young lady be eating?’
She thought he spoke as if he was talking about someone else. It was the moment she realised it would be so easy to accomplish their mission. She detested the man from the moment she set eyes on him. She’d been hit on and pestered by middle-aged men like him for the past five years, ever since school, middle-aged men who seemed to think she was easy meat. Men who thought they only needed to flash their eyes and wallets and she’d come a-running like a bitch on heat. Middle-aged men who thought they knew everything about young women, middle-aged men who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Middle-aged men who cast themselves as experienced men of the world, as if that expertise was in itself irresistible, middle-aged men who were married, yet lied about it with never a second thought. Middle-aged men who imagined pretty young girls were put there solely for their pleasure, for them to use and abuse, and prey upon as they saw fit, to be discarded like a lollypop wrapper in the street as soon as they had been devoured. Coral had met dozens of boring middle-aged men like Nicoliades Emperikos and it would be so easy, for this was pay back time. She hated middle-aged men with a passion; all of them, every last one, and she hated this one more than most.
‘Yes,’ she whispered breathlessly, fluttering her lashes. ‘I will.’
‘I’ll find you a nice table,’ he said, his eyes flashing like Venus and Mars on a clear night.
A moment later he returned, and led her to a small table by the wall. He thrashed the tablecloth with the clean white linen he carried everywhere. She imagined it was the same table where Lisa had sat, and she was right.
‘I’ll send the boy with the menu,’ he said. ‘You call me if there’s anything you need.’
She flashed her soft brown eyes in his direction, and he received the message loud and clear.
She sat down and took the menu from the boy who turned up within seconds, and she knew this was the boy. He should think himself lucky his card wasn’t marked too. He smiled and leered down at her, as if learning the ropes, Nicoliades’ true apprentice in all things. She smiled back for Coral had no difficulty in smiling warmly, falsely, whenever required. She never had, she possessed a real talent for it, and she couldn’t understand people who found false smiles difficult to find. It didn’t mean a thing. People who were taken in by smiles were schmucks. Think yourself lucky, lad!
She ordered the lamb as Lisa suggested, but before it arrived, she disappeared to the small Ladies’ room that lay just inside the main door. It was empty, the local booze not yet waterfalling through the customers’ systems. She hurried into the left of the two cubicles, sat down, locked the door, took out her phone and punched in text. Hi Bro. Met It. All wll. Ezy Pzy. C.
The text dumped into Midge’s trouser pocket with a muted jangle. He glanced at it in the blue light that flooded from an open bar door. Met It. He repeated: It! He liked that. It was in deep shit, and It didn’t know it.
Just as planned, Coral came out of the bar at eleven o’clock. Midge watched her out through the door and amble along the quay. He raced after her and fell in beside her and they headed back towards the cruiser.
‘OK?’ he said. ‘How did it go?’
‘Easy.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘It’s arranged, he’ll be there, but he’s not certain I’ll show.’
‘Well done, sis. Phase one, total success.’
She smiled across at him. ‘It was well done, and I deserve a decent reward for eating anywhere near that slime ball.’
She linked his arm, and they continued on their way.
‘Whatever,’ he said; thinking of what she might like.
BACK ON THE BOAT, MIDGE checked the mooring ropes and took a final look round before locking themselves in. He poured two large glasses of whisky. They drank them neat and despite there being three cabins; they cuddled up together in the king size bed in the luxurious master suite. The room reeked of calf leather and expensiveness, of hedonism and luxury, and he wondered who had slept there, and what had occurred. Some place to slip a miniature camera, and he wouldn’t put that trick beyond the sleazy owner, though on this occasion, if he had, he would be disappointed.
The sea air, the whisky, and the gentle rocking of the boat, as tiny waves slip-sloshed beneath them, swept them into a deep sleep. The last thing Coral remembered was Midge whispering, ‘Tomorrow sis, we’ll do him tomorrow. We’ll get even, for Lisa.’
‘Yeah,’ she sighed, ‘we will.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
VIMY RIDGE CHECKED into the Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane. He was shown to a spacious premium rate room on the fourth floor at the front of the building. The room had been redecorated and the smell of fresh paint clung to the walls. He threw open the windows, and the sunlight flashed across the room and bounced off the opposite wall.
In the corner of the room, sitting like a large brown pet, was the latest Philips television set. He snapped it on and flashed through the three channels. The first one was showing an air show from an RAF base in Lincolnshire, the next, a children’s programme featuring dopey singing clowns, and last, a programme on how to draw trees. He returned to the aerobatics with the sound turned low and began running a bath.
Rang the office and spoke to Diane. From two hundred miles away she sounded curiously breathless.
‘Anything happening, Di?’
‘Not much,’ she said, ‘everyone who’s anyone is away at the dinner. There’s a telex from Bulent Tarsus. Says he’s bought the cotton you wanted. Do you want me to write up the contracts?’
‘I’ll do that when I get back. I’ll be at the hotel until seven if you need me.’
He guessed she wouldn’t, and in any event she didn’t ring. Diane was more than capable of looking after the shop, and his absence gave her another opportunity to show it. He bathed and shaved, donned his tuxedo, flipped open his diary and dialled Laura’s work number.
‘Ya!’ she shouted down the phone, as if she was about to leave the office.
‘Have I rung at an awkward moment?’
‘Not really.’
‘Is the flap still on?’
‘You don’t know anything about that,’ she said like an agitated schoolmistress. It wasn’t the warmest greeting he’d ever received.
‘Would you care to dine with me tomorrow?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t sound too excited. Is that an OK you definitely want to, or an OK, you don’t really care one way or the other?’
‘Vimy!’ she protested, ‘I am busy, I’ve said yes. What more do you want?’
‘Where shall we meet?’
‘Outside the Shell Building at seven-thirty.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
Before he could say another word, the line died and he was standing alone by his bed staring at the slimline seventies green telephone.
THE FORMAL DINNER WAS long and duller than usual. The speeches were interminable, concentrating on the advantages of the green pound and the EEC. He found himself thinking of Laura, and he wasn�
�t sure if it was her feminine charms that interested him, or his desire to discover the cause of the flap he had stumbled across. He drank little alcohol for he didn’t want a hangover the following day, and after the meal he tagged along with some merry traders intent on making mischief in the Playboy Club on Park Lane.
Opposite him at the French roulette table was a tall Chinese girl wearing a tight fitting black dress. She was playing pound chips on the numbers twenty and twenty-one. She didn’t appear to notice the succession of drunken traders who stood close behind her, running their hands across her backside.
Occasionally, she’d glance up and across at Vimy. She half smiled at him as women sometimes did, as he stared back into her dark eyes. The silver ball bounced twice noisily around the wheel and dived into number twenty as if magnetised. Her eyes lit up and she let out a gentle squeal. Vimy smiled and nodded, a smile she didn’t see, for she was gazing down at the table and her big win.
‘Vingt-noir. Twenty black!’ called the croupier.
A murmur of excitement rippled through the bystanders.
Vimy glanced back at the table and at her four chips sitting proudly alone on twenty, and back at her. She was the only winner and a picture of happiness, as the croupier pushed four tall piles of maroon chips towards her. She leant forward and dragged them in with her delicate olive skinned hands, her perfume leaking across table.
A stranger appeared beside her, another man with rambling hands. He was older and bald with the beginnings of a belly.
