The Legal & the Illicit: Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 5)

by David Carter

  She opened the outside security door with a chunky gold coloured key and they went inside. The door clicked closed behind them. The whole block smelt new like a new car, reeking of money, corporate wealth, an unmistakable stench. They rode the lift to the third floor, and he followed her along the corridor, where she opened the door to apartment eleven.

  Inside, the flat was spacious and furnished in the modern clean style, minimum of furniture, two low black leather sofas, glass coffee table, overseen from one wall by fierce orange three-dimensional wallpaper. On the far side of the room were sliding glass doors, similar to those in Vimy’s apartment back at the Cliff. She went to them and drew them open and night air flooded in.

  The view across the river was memorable, and at that late hour everything appeared deep blue, almost purple, in the bright moonlight and the yellow light that seeped from the government buildings on the far bank. The lights danced on the swirling water, everything appearing to move in splodges, the moon, the clouds, a group of tiny figures on the far side of the river like some impressionist painting. There was a dark boat on the black water and it splodged slowly by. He thought it a romantic picture, the perfect backdrop to kiss a beautiful woman, like an Italian movie. He would kiss her, regardless of what else happened, he would kiss her before the night was through, first date or not, whether she wished it or not, she would be kissed.

  The view reminded him of the picture postcard images he’d seen hawked on every street corner in tourist town, except everything was imperceptibly moving, shimmering in the night. An obese tugboat glided by, heaving a fat long low barge behind, probably carrying milling wheat, heading for the Tilbury Grain Terminal. He could never switch off.

  ‘It’s a great view,’ she said.

  ‘It is. I’ve a good view from my apartment too. You must come up and see it some time.’

  ‘Come up and see me sometime,’ she said grinning and mimicking Mae West.

  He laughed aloud, at her voice, her face, her actions, a loud rough laugh, the kind of laugh men would only utter when they felt at ease in a woman’s company.

  ‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please, black,’ and she disappeared.

  ‘So come on,’ he shouted after her in the vague direction of the kitchen, ‘tell me about your flap.’

  ‘My flaps?’ he heard her reply.

  ‘No! You heard what I said.’

  She came back and stood in the doorway, drying a mug with a Shell Oil Company tea towel. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you about that,’ she teased. ‘For all I know you might be an opposition spy.’

  She’d replied in jest, yet somewhere deep within her words he detected a grain of truth.

  She disappeared again, but only for a few seconds, and returned with two mugs of instant coffee, and set them down on the table before the sofa. The mugs were red and yellow and bore the logo of the Shell Oil Company. She went to the Pye record player and slipped on a dreamy Pink Floyd tune, but not loud, and returned to the couch. She sat to his left; close beside him, near enough to feel the warmth of her thighs through his trousers, and he wondered if she’d deliberately sat so close.

  ‘You think I’m on a retainer for BP?’ he asked, sipping coffee.

  She giggled.

  ‘How do I know what you get up to? Anyway, BP isn’t the hated competition. That honour belongs to Esso. BP is competition, yes, but in a curious kind of way. We treat them more as troublesome cousins, yet still somehow within the family, blood brothers, if you will. We can bully them occasionally and make them cry now and again, but we mustn’t hurt them too much. No doubt they will think the same of us. They’re kind of distant relations you don’t want to meet too often, but you smile politely when you do. With Esso it’s quite different. With them it’s out-and-out war, kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, because you know, given the chance, they would do the same to you. There’s big brownie points on offer if you can make Esso cry; believe me. Does that make sense?’

  He sipped more coffee. Her reasoning was sound.

  ‘I guess so.’ Come to think of it, it didn’t seem that different to the way he felt about Merignac. He liked to needle them. He’d like to reduce them to tears. Offer or no offer, he’d like to injure them again, after successfully bloodying Cordell’s perfect nose.

  ‘Can you excuse me a minute,’ he said, ‘I need the bathroom.’

  ‘Sure, it’s through there.’

  She pointed him in the right direction and he was away for a few minutes. The bathroom was tiled from floor to ceiling, hidden beige lighting, giving a contemporary feel. The lid to the toilet bore the Shell Oil Company logo. You could even crap on Shell, and he laughed so loud she could hear him in the sitting room. If Ridge Commodities ever became a giant, would he spend good money on Ridge Commodities’ lavatory seats? Hard cash? Honestly? He doubted it, no matter how much the accountants advised him to spend money. He washed his hands and combed his hair and returned to Laura. Whenever he looked at her, she smiled back, and whenever she looked at him, he always felt a smile appearing on his face.

  She was sipping coffee, but stopped and gazed at him. It was obvious something had amused him, but she had no idea what. He sat beside her and she linked his arm.

  She said, ‘Will we see each other again?’

  He leant forward and looked into her face.

  ‘Of course we will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When can you come up and see me?’

  ‘I don’t know, we’re so busy at the moment.’

  ‘Ah yes, the big flap.’

  She nodded, her brow furrowed, and he reached across and smoothed the wrinkles away with his thumb.

  ‘I could come down to London the weekend after next,’ he suggested. ‘How about that?’

  ‘No sooner? That seems a long way off.’

  ‘I can’t get away, not before then, we’re busy too.’

  ‘That will have to do,’ she said. ‘It’s a date. Promise?’

  Her keenness surprised him, though it shouldn’t have. Weren’t women always keen to be loved by Vimy Ridge? Far more often than not, it seemed, or was he surprised she was open with her keenness. Her philosophy seemed to be that time-wasting was a sin, or maybe it was because deep within her she instinctively knew how he felt. But whatever the reason, it was a huge turn-on when a woman appeared hungry for his company.

  He nodded and sealed their suggested arrangement by leaning across and kissing her on the lips. They were sweet and cold, and pursed slightly on contact. Yet in that brief touching of lips he sensed desire. It was as if all her life had been spent waiting for him to appear. He kissed her again, more passionately, and again. His head swirled, and each time he kissed her she returned those kisses with added intensity. He’d kissed dozens of girls, perhaps hundreds, and older, experienced women too. This was different.

  When they came apart, they were breathing heavy. He couldn’t see her face for it was resting on his shoulder. Her hands were locked around his arms like clasps. There was a brief silence before she whispered, ‘Will you stay tonight?’

  He hadn’t expected that.

  He had imagined he might stay the moment she had said: Would you like to come back for coffee? but he hadn’t expected it. How could he refuse? Yet bizarrely something told him to walk away and make her wait, play hard to get, never be easy. It often worked out better that way. As Errol Flynn used to say: if in doubt, don’t.

  But this time his whole thinking was different. What if he was knocked down by a bus, what then? And what if an oil sheik turned up on her doorstep in the next two weeks with gold and jewels, and silver and myrrh, and whisked her off to the beautiful and moody desert? Would playing hardball still seem a cute idea? He didn’t want to refuse her, and he wouldn’t because he couldn’t.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ he whispered.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I will.’

  They kissed again, for several minutes, each
time hungrier than before, and stood up, as she took his hand.

  ‘Come along, Mr Ridge.’

  He followed her towards the bedroom.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I make a habit of this,’ she whispered.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of seducing visiting businessmen.’

  ‘You’d better not!’

  They were standing in the bedroom beside the double bed. On the bed was a huge counterpane emblazoned with the Shell Oil Company logo. You could even make love on Shell. They kissed hard again, teeth clashing, his body taut. She felt dense muscles beneath his clothes, while he thought he was about to explode.

  ‘I never sleep with a woman on a first date.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ Her reply laboured, her voice husky.

  ‘In your case, I’ll make an exception.’

  It felt like a wedding night, like that wedding night from long ago in the Red Gables guesthouse. The first night, different people, but the same family, his family, his dynasty, his flesh and blood.

  Later, a ridiculous notion came to him, that somehow he was on trial, still being interviewed for the position of Laura Lancelyn-Biggs’ husband. The thought of how many candidates might have been that way didn’t bear thinking about. But this was his chance and come what may he must not fluff his lines, for the next, or the previous candidate, might have passed with flying colours. Failure wasn’t an option. Ultimately, he succeeded in all things. It was a talent he possessed, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste, not on their night of all nights.

  Surreal images flickered through his mind. Uncontrollable thoughts. The Shell Oil Company logo dancing across his backside, and the Esso logo too, sparring across the great divide. He saw the mighty Merignac boardroom table, and the pair of them entwined upon it, performing live, all inhibitions abandoned, before a startled and dribbling Jeb, and a contented Edson, sweating and breathless, dampening the oak, and somewhere in there was the blessed Chinese girl, looking longingly into his eyes. He tried to banish such images, but could not.

  He saw the faces of his unborn children, a boy and three girls, yet to be created, yet to see the light of day, yet to gasp their first breath, but unquestionably created living souls. How could that be?

  He was setting standards, laying down markers, they both were, and the funny thing was, they knew it too, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was no casual affair, no one-night stand, but a life-changing moment, and things would never be the same again.

  Later, much later, as they lay huddled together, their hair soaked, their bodies as wet as if they’d stepped from a warm shower, she whispered, ‘You’re an animal.’

  He took it from her gasped compliment that he’d passed the audition, and couldn’t stop a wolf-like smile sliding across his face.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘sometimes I am.’

  She kissed his cheek and whispered, ‘I love you, Vimy Ridge.’

  She said those words once, and fell asleep in his arms before he could reply.

  IN THE MORNING THE sun streamed through the windows as she hurried about making coffee and toast.

  ‘I have to go to work,’ she stuttered, rushing around in an effort to locate suitable underwear.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ he pointed out.

  ‘The world doesn’t stop because it’s Saturday! I thought you of all people would know that!’

  He kicked his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his pants. His body felt stiff and his bones ached as if he had been trampled by some crazy rugby team. He combed his hair, brushed his teeth with her toothbrush, slurped coffee, nibbled toast, and followed her out of the flat.

  They walked the hundred yards along the embankment arm in arm in the cold morning sunshine, as the city woke up, a secret smile never far from their faces. They stood in front of the Shell headquarters facing one another. He curled his arms around her and she did likewise to him, as he kissed her on the forehead. She smiled and kissed him back. She had never felt comfortable kissing in public. That morning she couldn’t have cared less. Fact was, she couldn’t wait for him to kiss her again. It had been the best twelve hours of her life, and she hoped he felt the same. Secretly, she knew he did.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ he repeated, through a tiny smile that only she could see.

  ‘You’re coming down in two weeks?’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘It seems a long way off.’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t.’

  ‘I must go,’ she said, sounding miserable and schoolgirlish. ‘I’m late as it is.’

  ‘If you must.’

  She kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘I have three little words to say to you, Mr Ridge.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ he smirked, knowing full well what was coming next.

  She stood on tiptoe and eased her mouth towards his left ear and pretended to whisper, but said nothing.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Don’t tease. Say it!’

  She took a breath and said the words, ‘The Soviet Union.’

  LAURA PULLED HERSELF free and didn’t look into his eyes again, turned about and skipped up the stairs and vanished into the monumental building without looking back, her words echoing around his dizzy head. The Soviet Union.

  Vimy turned away and jumped a cab to Euston Station. On the way he failed to hear a word the cabbie jabbered. At the railway terminus he collected his bag from the left luggage office and made his way to the platform where the Liverpool train was due out in thirty minutes. There was still time to buy an FT, grab a packet of worn out British Rail sandwiches, and take a double whisky in the bar. After that, he joined the growing queue for the Liverpool Lime Street train, and waited as British Railways shuffled the correct rolling stock.

  The carriages were clean and new, blue and cream, all compartmental, the ones he preferred. He found a seat halfway down the train in a compartment that seated six, but seven people had crammed in, eight with him, and the door was closed to dissuade anyone else from entering.

  The guard blew the whistle, and the train pulled from the station bang on the nose of eleven o’clock. A good start, thought Vimy, as he sat in the far corner of the compartment with his back to the loco. He glanced round their little room, checking out fellow travellers, as they were with him.

  Opposite, was an ageing travelling salesman who persisted in telling the same joke, ‘I travel in lavatories!’ To which he’d laugh every time. He wore the face of a boozer, red nose and eyes, a fact Vimy could confirm for he’d seen him in the bar telling his joke to the big black barmaid. She’d served him several gins in double quick time, and his boozy breath filled the cabin. Eight strangers locked together for three hours, never known before, never to meet again.

  The train picked up speed, and he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but could not. He was recounting events of the night. Had that really happened? It had, because she was still with him. He could feel her in his aching bones, smell her on his body, and see her in his mind. He shook his head to dislodge those images. What was it she’d said? The Soviet Union? What in hell’s name did she mean by that?

  Presumably the flap in Shell’s office involved the Soviet Union. But why? Were they buying oil, attempting to corner the market? It wouldn’t be the first time. He flipped open the FT and checked the oil prices. They were weak. If Uncle Leonid’s mob were buying oil, they sure as hell were doing it quietly for it had no effect on the market.

  Or could it be they were selling? Perhaps that was it, selling oil, perhaps oil and gas. Was that the reason markets were weak? But if they were selling, why? To raise cash? That made sense. Why raise cash? To buy, of course. But what? It couldn’t be grain, because they’d been a consistent seller of wheat for several seasons. Their wheat harvest had rocketed; their official stats said so. The silos in Birkenhead were chock full of unsold Russian wheat that no
one needed or wanted. So what, then? They must be looking to spend their millions on something. Why the hell hadn’t she been more specific?

  If not commodities, what else could a superpower be raising money for? Armaments, perhaps? Were they planning a first strike nuclear knockout? He shivered at the thought, and if that were the truth he’d stumbled on, he’d rather not have known. Commodity trading suddenly felt irrelevant. His mind returned to the sweet and wistful Emily Hurst from his youth. He wondered where she was and what she was doing, and whether she was married, and if she was still fretting about nuclear bombs falling on her head. Maybe she hadn’t been so school-girlish stupid after all.

  He hunted through the thick pink paper from cover to cover. searching for mentions of the Soviet Union, but there were none. He closed his eyes to think, and as he did so the Chinese girl flitted into his mind. Why hadn’t he given Laura the damned engagement ring? Come to think of it, why hadn’t he proposed marriage at that window when it seemed the perfect moment? He had a foreboding he might regret that.

  Vimy stood and excused himself. He made for the buffet car where he intended to sink several coffees. But when confronted with the jangling bottles set high on the shifting shelves, he bought and drank three bottles of Double Diamond. They helped him relax; he ordered cheese sandwiches, and sat in the corner where someone had abandoned a London newspaper. He annexed it, devoured it, cover to cover. Soviet Union: Absent. Bugger!

  IT WAS AN HOUR LATER when he returned to the compartment. He excused himself and stepped between his fellow passengers and settled back in his seat. The salesman was asleep and snoring and Vimy was grateful for that.

  He sat back and relaxed and closed his eyes, as the train rocked and rolled, dozing all the way to Liverpool, thinking of Laura, and what lay in store in the years ahead.

  It would be two long weeks before he saw her again, and he would think of her constantly, and of the things they would do and share, and when that moment arrived, he would chastise her for not being more specific with her silly whispered three words.