by David Carter
‘Not really, just some loon sticking their oar in.’
‘Which loon? Male or female?’
‘Oh, female, definitely female.’
Karen pulled a face. ‘Do tell.’
‘It’s a long story, you really don’t want to know.’
‘Try me, a problem shared... and all that.’
Walter had no intention of telling her anything, but then again, it was Karen who had sent him down that road in the first place, setting up his account on that blessed dating site, recommending it, telling him that everyone was doing it. Flattering him with remarks about his appearance and status. He was a striking man, a desirable catch, et cetera, OHAC and GSOH, which he had no idea what they meant back then. She assured him he would be in great demand with ladies of a certain age, a man like him with an interesting job, no money worries, and a dash of celebrity thrown in for good measure, been on TV many times, and by the time she had finished, it all sounded fine and dandy.
‘They won’t be able to resist you,’ she’d said with a smirk.
And good it had been too. He couldn’t deny that. He’d met four or five lovely women, aside from Jill Coningsby, though thinking about it, none of them had lasted more than two months, and he put that down to his unsocial hours, and the fact he didn’t possess a car. Either the women had to drive, or cabs had to be booked, or they didn’t go anywhere other than each other’s homes. Women seemed to adore cars. Maybe that was the thing that put them off, though there could have been any number of reasons he hadn’t thought of, and he didn’t want to speculate on what they might be.
In any case, some people did not like meeting and going out with police officers per se, everyone knew that, and he had on occasion tried to hide his employment. A memory flashed into his mind of Carrie the Cab. He’s gone out with her a few times, even went on holiday with her on a canal boat for a whole week, pootling up to Llangollen at 4 mph, with her brother and his wife whose names he couldn’t recall. Half in jest, he told Carrie he was a keeper at Chester Zoo, looking after alligators, “damned dangerous beasts”, he had said, and how she laughed at that. Though the truth came tumbling out in the end, as it always does.
Walter shook his head and on the spur-of-the-moment he told Karen everything about his meeting with Mrs West. Though he insisted Karen kept it to herself, and one thing the girl could be relied on, was keep secrets. She had proved that many times. She was his oppo, and a damned good one too, and a valued colleague he did not want to lose.
She listened and grinned and smiled and nodded, and finally said, ‘She seems to me to be a sandwich short of a picnic, this Jill Coningsby person.’
Walter grinned too, bobbed his head, and said, ‘You can say that again.’
‘Are you going to do as Mrs West suggested and delete your profile?’
‘Guess I’ll have to. I don’t want to, but I told her I would.’
‘Fear not,’ she said, smirking. ‘There’s ways and means around every little glitch to do with the internet.’
‘Really?’ said Walter, not sure whether he wanted to know any more.
‘Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll set something new up for you. Easy peasy. We’ll find someone nice for you, don’t worry about that.’
He wanted to blurt, I’m ready now! But restrained himself and muttered, ‘OK, thanks. I’ll let you know.’
‘Deal,’ she said, going back to studying crime reports.
Walter muttered, ‘Any more on this blessed Post Mortem?’
‘Not yet.’
Walter pulled a face and muttered, ‘I am sure that old fool of a doctor is getting slower, or is it just me?’
‘You could be right, but generally speaking I never comment on the working practises of older men,’ a comment she issued with a peculiar smile.
Right on cue, his phone rang.
It was Doc Grayling with the preliminary PM findings, and they’d chew the cud over that for quite some time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS pub at the mouth of the River Mersey in New Brighton lay just off the promenade, and had become Vimy’s local watering hole. It was a traditional pub with serious drinkers, but the brewery, mindful of numerous local nightclubs, had spent cash on the place, and the Dam, as it was affectionately known, had become trendy.
From Thursday to Sunday the bright young perfumed things would pile into the Dam from half-past eight until chucking out time at half-past ten. They’d top up on Dutch courage, before they went a-prancing and a-dancing in the heaving discos around the corner.
After they’d gone the locals would reclaim their pub. Peace would return, the doors locked, and the hushed drinking would continue until midnight. During the lock-ins no money would change hands because that was against the law. It would be a private party, and therefore quite legal, and they could drink for as long as the landlady permitted.
She kept a notebook under the bar; neatly handwritten in pencil, and the owners of the slates would be presented with them before they headed home. The tabs would be slipped into pockets or palms with the minimum of fuss and a wink and a thank you. Everyone settled their bill for they valued their place in the after hours Dam, everyone except Ronnie Cox. He was a weasel of a man with a scar in the middle of his forehead. He was barred and never seen again.
Sheila Phelps was the landlady of the Dam and she was fifty, yet told everyone she was forty-three. She’d been forty-three for several seasons, but no one seemed to notice. She’d expelled her short-time husband four years earlier for gambling the profits, and had embarked on five affairs with five regular customers. All the liaisons soon turned sour and none of the gents returned to the Dam. The penny dropped in Sheila Phelps’ mind. She must stop seducing her patrons or she’d run out of customers.
Yet there was one regular drinker she had the hots for, and she dreamt one day he would make his move. His name was Vig and like all her fleeting lovers, was a good deal younger than her.
When Vimy began drinking in the Dam he did so alone. That suited him because it gave him rare thinking time. He never had a problem with keeping his own company and as he became better known he gained entry into the clique. He told them his name was Vimy, which was instantly shortened to Vim. Someone, it might well have been Ronnie Cox, began calling him Vim and Vigour, and that stuck for a few days, until Vim was dropped and he became Vig.
Sheila Phelps liked Vig a lot, his broad chest and flat stomach, his neat butt, muscular arms, and big hands. She dreamt of those arms around her and his hands inside her dress. Sheila was not unattractive. She had retained her figure; possessed perky boobs, and a round behind she showed off by wearing tight fitting patterned cotton frocks with plunging necklines. Many a drunk would slobber over the bar, their eyes zeroing on Sheila’s famous attractions.
She wore her hair on her shoulders, straight but with a gentle wave at the tips, and a fringe. Strawberry bottled blonde, woefully old-fashioned in the puffed up seventies, she looked as if she’d stepped from a forties or fifties black and white movie from a more romantic age, maybe from her youth, yet it remained oddly alluring to her clientele. Sheila yearned for romance, and if that featured Vig, so much the better.
He became accepted in the Dam and it was the only local pub he used. He preferred to stay in town, central Liverpool, but when he drank in the Dam he was known to stand his corner, possessed a dry sense of humour; was never short of money, and everyone knew he was not a man to be messed with.
Sometimes, an old regular would tap him for a loan, and he would oblige with a smile and an enquiry of their ailing wife. They would repay him without hesitation. No one ever defaulted on Vig, but if Sheila Phelps saw him being pestered for cash by some worthless skinflint, she would intervene. She’d reprimand the borrower, and afterwards corner Vig and say, ‘You should know better!’
She enjoyed her five minutes of power, scolding the young man of her dreams. ‘You must be stronger,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t go lending
money to riff-raff!’
The size of Vig’s bankroll had been commented on too, and but for the fact he clearly knew how to handle himself, one or two drunks might have fancied their chances after closing time. No one came close to trying.
It was rumoured he’d acquired his money in an inheritance from an old aunt who lived in a big house up on Warren Drive, though Vig never commented on that. His silence served to confirm its authenticity, and was soon accepted as gospel. He rarely discussed work, and no one knew he was the head of a successful business.
The Dam boasted one busy pool table and a trendy jukebox that blared out rare David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Roxy Music and Cockney Rebel records. Vig never threw his money in the jukebox but he would play pool. He’d become a decent player capable of beating the best, but lacking the consistency and dedication of a champion.
The sweep of giggling youth spilled in, and flowed out like the tide over the Mockbeggar sandbank, leaving Vig stranded alone at the bar like a shellfish without water, at the mercy of the gulls, uncomfortably close to Sheila Phelps, as they watched two young guys playing pool. He’d seen them before. They were on nodding terms and occasionally shared a joke. The blokes acknowledged him, happy in knowing someone else would pay for the next game.
They dressed identically and unfashionably so. Not for them the modern style of flared trousers, platform shoes and girly hair. Andy Freeman and Derek Garner kept their dark hair short and side-parted, wore black suits, white shirts, neat narrow black ties, and shiny black shoes. It wasn’t unusual for them to be mistaken for police cadets or squaddies on leave, and it was easy to see why. They seemed as if from a different age, perhaps the fifties, or maybe trainee undertakers, very different from everyone else, and way out of line in the flared and curly seventies.
The girls liked them, but they weren’t available as both boasted a pretty wife at home, looking after two toddlers apiece, a line-up that kept the wives busy and tired, leaving Andy and Derek to play out more than they should. They were early twenties and inseparable, and though Vig was only twenty-eight, he seemed to come from a different generation. Andy was the brighter of the two, Derek four inches taller.
When the In Crowd flowed off to the nightclubs, occasionally Andy and Derek would tag along, hunting fresh company, but that wasn’t often, and they weren’t the worst sinners on the peninsula. Usually, they’d resist temptation and stay, play pool and crack jokes, and exchange news of their beloved Everton Football Club, and poke serious fun at anyone they suspected of being a Liverpool fan.
They were always complaining, cheerfully perhaps, but moaning nonetheless. They complained of their wives, though why they should was a mystery as both were married to slim, attractive blondes. Vig had once spotted them shopping together in Liscard village on a Saturday morning. They complained about Liverpool Football Club when they won a match, which happened most weekends, a never ending whinge, they complained of the price of beer, the crap records on the juke box, (they were American sixties soul fans), they whinged about the Conservative Party, the Labour Party, Americans, Russians, films, food, television, heavy metal, glam rock, the local bookmakers, the beer, everything, but most of all, they complained about their jobs.
They worked together in Wallasey Town Hall in the housing department on Brighton Street, the same Town Hall barely ten minutes drive from the Dam, where they moaned non-stop as they played pool. Vig noted they bitched about work and everything to do with it, their greedy boss, their dull and smelly office, scruffy frilly workmates, the filthy coffee machine, but most of all they bellyached about poor pay.
Vig was playing pool. Andy had beaten Derek on the black ball and Derek was having a minor sulk at the bar, swigging the last of his pint, and worrying if there was enough loose change swilling around his trouser pockets to buy another round. David Bowie was on the jukebox, Panic in Detroit, live edition, an atmospheric driving number of a B-side, and one of the few contemporary records Andy and Derek liked.
Vig slapped a red ball into the centre pocket and smiled. He struck the ball too hard, and the cue ball bounced across the table and jinked a yellow into the opposite pocket. Foul shot. Cockney Rebel’s live version of Sebastian was floating across the boozer. Sheila liked the tune and joined in on the chorus.
‘Two shots!’ muttered Vig.
Andy laughed and made his way past Vig to take his turn.
‘If you hate your jobs so much,’ said Vig, ‘why don’t you change them?’
‘We would if we could,’ whined Derek, breaking off from whispering a filthy joke into Sheila’s ear, as he piled up his small change on the bar.
‘It can’t be that difficult,’ said Vig.
‘It bloody is, if you want to stick together, like we do,’ said Andy, lining up a long yellow into the far corner.
There was a short silence and Vig said, ‘Why don’t you come and work for me?’
Andy laughed. ‘Doing what?’
‘Commodity trading.’
‘Eh?’
‘What the hell do we know about commodity trading?’ muttered Derek, as he waved at Sheila to set the drinks up.
‘Nothing, I guess, but what did you know about housing before you started there?’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Andy, chalking his cue. ‘Not that Derek knows anything about it now!’ Adding, ‘Are you serious?’
Vig nodded, ‘Sure.’
He was back on the table, another long shot to the far corner. He thrashed it and it bounced in and out of the jaws, before sliding horribly away along the cushion.
‘You’re bright lads, I could use you, so long as you’re eager to learn. What are you earning now?’
‘Three grand a year,’ fired back Derek.
Vig guessed he was exaggerating but in the same circumstances he’d have done the same.
‘I’ll double that, plus commission, and throw in a brand new Ford Escort Estate.’
Derek choked on his beer.
‘Bugger off!’ said Andy. ‘You’re talking bollocks!’
‘I’m not.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘It’s a competitive business with unsociable hours.’
‘How unsociable?’
‘Eight at night till four in the morning.’
‘Eh? You must be joking. That’s not unsociable, that’s plain crazy.’
‘Just because people are asleep it doesn’t mean trading comes to a standstill.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Derek, coming back to life. ‘You want someone to do the night-shift like when the market’s closed in London it’s still trading in Tokyo and Sydney. I’ve seen that kind of thing on the telly.’
‘Something like that,’ confirmed Vig. ‘Here’s my number. If you’re interested, give me a ring at five o’clock on Saturday. If you don’t ring, I’ll know why.’
He pulled a handmade card bearing his telephone number from his pocket and slipped it into Andy’s hand.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
Vig shrugged, the pool game was over, and he’d lost.
‘Sure. I never joke about work. I’m off now, guys, see you around.’
‘See ya, Vig.’
‘Night, Sheila.’
‘You off then, Vig? See you tomorrow?’
Vimy didn’t answer. He was already outside and striding back toward the Cliff, mulling over the can of worms he’d opened.
ON SATURDAY, VIMY WILED away the afternoon watching David Coleman on Grandstand. As the clock ticked round towards five, he glanced at the telephone. He was confident the boys would ring and his judgement was about to be confirmed. At five on the dot the phone rang.
‘Yep?’
‘It’s Andy.’
‘I know.’
‘We’d like to talk to you.’
‘Now?’
‘If you like.’
‘Can you be outside the Dam in thirty minutes?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll pick you up there.’
>
Vimy brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and backed the BMW out of the garage. When he reached the Dam, the lads were standing in the doorway, talking animatedly. He touched the horn, and they ran across the road and jumped in, Andy in the front, Derek in the back.
‘Nice car,’ said Derek.
He figured you could tell a lot about a man from the wheels he rolled around on.
They turned left at the foot of Rowson Street, cruised along the promenade, the tide was way out, and on towards the open spaces of the dips and roundabouts where that season’s learner drivers were practising their steering and snarling, and three point turns.
At the far end they turned left heading for the dual carriageway, but almost immediately Vimy turned right onto a narrow road barely wide enough for the big car.
They came to a fork in the track and took the left prong, and the lane twisted away through high sandhills covered in browning marram grass.
‘Never been down here,’ muttered Derek.
‘Me neither,’ said Andy, glancing around at the oddly bleak landscape.
The lane curled to the right and opened out into a large rectangular car park overlooking the sea. The only other car there contained a pair of middle-aged adulterers who were miffed at being disturbed. She eased herself off him, grinned guiltily, as he started the car and drove away in search of solitude elsewhere. The tide was miles out, literally so, exposing a huge swathe of rutted wet sand, where an occasional dog chased a thrown broken branch, barking happily as it went.
Vimy drove to the far side of the car park and stopped overlooking the beach. He turned off the engine and before he could say a word, Andy said, ‘We’ve been thinking. This isn’t legal, is it?’
Vimy sent stale air down his nose.
‘I’m a commodity trader. I buy cargoes from all over the world, cotton, wheat, tinned fish, you name it. Sometimes I receive cargoes I need specialised help in shifting.’
‘I knew it!’ said Andy smiling. ‘What did I tell ya?’
