by David Carter
‘Heart attack?’
‘If you want to call it that.’
‘Brought on by?’
‘I am a doctor not a seer or a soothsayer. But in my judgement, it would be reasonable to suggest that what happened to her long-time husband could be enough to provoke such an event. In any case, I believe that is the view the coroner will take.’
‘In other words, she died of a broken heart?’
‘If you want to be a little more romantic or sentimental about it, then, yes. As far as I can tell she died at almost the same time as her husband. Not before, but not long after.’
‘She’s nursing her husband through his final days, knowing the end is nigh, and is dreading the prospect, and when he dies, maybe in her arms, maybe she has a smoking fag in her mouth as he departs, and soon afterwards her brain asks her if life is worth living, and the answer comes back negative, and she lays down on the opposite sofa and dies. Is that it?’
‘All a figment of your fertile imagination, of course. I much prefer to act and deduce on proven facts alone, but yes, it may have happened that way.’
‘It’s surprising how many couples end their lives within days or even hours or minutes of each other.’
‘That is sadly true, though maybe it is not so surprising. People who are close for such a long time can find it incredibly hard to cope with the loss of their life partner, though it’s not something that is likely to happen to you or I.’
Walter grunted and muttered, ‘And maybe that’s for the best.’
Doc Grayling ignored the comment and said, ‘She was not ill in the conventional sense, or at least I could find nothing that said she was, but remember, these are prelim results. The full PM might throw up something else. But clearly smoking thirty cigarettes a day for thirty years is almost certain to curtail one’s life, and that would have been a contributing factor here, in my opinion.’
‘And the flesh wounds to forearm and face?’
‘Definitely canine activity, I am afraid. I can also confirm all the feeding was done by the larger of the mongrels. It would seem the smaller, younger one stood by and watched, or was not allowed near the food source by the big one. That old thing of guarding one’s food supply, but that too is mere speculation. Either way, the younger one is innocent, Guv, and the bigger one is banged to rights.’
‘Kept himself alive by any means, I guess.’
‘A She, actually, and yes, that is only natural. If the roles had been reversed, we would have eaten the dogs in a heartbeat.’
‘Not an image I’d care to take to bed with me.’
‘Indeed. The picture that keeps returning to my mind is the one of the younger dog refusing to eat, even if the big one would let it, through love and loyalty to its master. Who knows? Maybe it even suggested to the bigger one to leave off. But power and pecking order sorted that out.’
Walter sniffed and said, ‘So we can be 100% certain there is no foul play, and no crime committed?’
‘Science is rarely 100%. 95% certainly, but I suppose if you wanted to create other scenarios that might have constituted criminal activity, there are other possibilities that could have occurred.’
‘Such as?’
‘Maybe shortly before the deaths, the Terringtons had a visitor who perhaps threatened them over something, and I suppose it is possible that it brought on Mrs Terrington’s later heart failure, but what are the chances of that? A thousand to one, maybe.’
‘There’s no evidence of anyone else having been there, and no sign of forced entry.’
‘Quite. No, I know that in your line of business you see and imagine murderers everywhere, but in my humble opinion, there is no crime here, and I will be concluding that both deaths can be put down to natural causes, unless...’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless the full PM throws up some startling new evidence, and I really can’t see that being the case.’
‘And how long will that be?’
‘Some time, I’m afraid, there’s something of a traffic jam in that direction. Now, if you could rustle me up three or four more qualified people to help unblock the jam, I would be eternally grateful.’
Walter sighed and said, ‘No can do, but thanks for...’ and for a second he found the correct words hard to come by. ‘Thanks for the good job you always do.’
‘Good grief, Darriteau, you’re not getting magnanimous in your old age?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Walter, a smirk on his face.
‘Oh well, normal service has been resumed.’
‘Thanks again,’ said Walter, and he cut off.
Karen said, ‘No crime there, then?’
‘Looks that way. Unless we unearth an intruder who frightened them to death, or at least one of them.’
‘Odd isn’t it, two people dying at the same time.’
‘Yes, but as I said before, it happens more frequently than you think. It’s the risk you take for having a deep and life-long relationship. You’re so into someone that when they die you want to stay with them, and the only way you can do that is by dying, too.’
‘Not something that is ever going to happen to me,’ she said through a cold voice that Walter hadn’t heard before.
‘Nor me,’ he said, ‘but you’re still young. Who knows what life has in store for you?’
‘Not that,’ she said, ‘I won’t let it happen.’
‘Pity though,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Just for a minute there I thought we might have landed a case that is best suited to our talents. Let’s face it, we really could do with something more challenging than the drip-drip-drip of flashy missing Mercedes Benz, or some office bound charlatan fiddling the accounts.’
Karen grinned, sat back in her chair, and glanced across at him. He really would have preferred it to have been a double murder. But no doubt there would be a more serious case coming up soon. In her admittedly shorter experience than his, there invariably was.
Chapter Forty
THE YOUNG VIMY CALLED Diane to his office. She sat confidently before him, her body language suggesting a decent mood. Grain prices hadn’t moved, but the more she studied them the more convinced she was they were set to skyrocket.
She’d secretly launched an enterprise of her own, Shearston Securities, and had sunk every penny she possessed into the new venture. Diane registered the business in Cardiff, and had been covertly buying grain futures on the London markets through Ricky Glavin at Technical Trading. Ricky could keep a secret. There was nothing illegal involved, it might not have been ethical, but was everything in business ethical and above board? She knew it wasn’t, and was determined to grab a slice of the pie.
‘Continue studying the Soviet Union,’ Vimy said, rapid fire speaking, as if he had pressing things on his mind.
‘OK,’ she said, only too pleased to do that
He seemed unusually nervous, and that wasn’t like him. He nodded and changed the subject, speaking in a throwaway type line, ‘I’m getting married... in Winchester Cathedral.’
Momentarily, she was lost for words. It was generally accepted he was at his happiest playing the field. There had been no hint of any possible marriage, and why was he telling her? She paused for ten seconds and said with a grin, ‘Missed my chance, have I?’
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Words spoken on the spur-of-the-moment as if in jest, and a moment later she said, ‘Congratulations,’ and after that, everything was reset to normal.
‘Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Her name’s Laura. I met her on the flight back from Turkey. Eight weeks time... the wedding.’
Diane pulled a face. ‘So soon?’
‘Yes. You might as well know, you’ll find out soon enough, we’re having a child.’
Diane exhaled, two surprises in two minutes, and a shotgun wedding too. The times they are a-changing. She didn’t say anything else, contenting herself with that special smile only women posse
ss when hearing of another woman in the family way.
‘Congratulations twice over,’ she said, ‘an heir for the firm?’
Vimy smiled and muttered, ‘Something like that. You’ll really like her,’ as he stared down at papers, ‘and you’re invited to the wedding.’
He had surprised her in more ways than one. Mister Confidence almost lost for words. To her knowledge that had never happened before. But she couldn’t envisage liking the new Mrs Vimy Ridge, and as for attending the wedding two hundred and fifty miles away, she doubted that.
‘Great,’ she said, ‘I’ve loads to do. Do you mind? and she pointed to the door.
‘No, you carry on.’
THE HAPPY COUPLE WERE married in Winchester Cathedral before the great and good on a bright Friday morning. ‘Down the High Street and turn right at King Alfred’s monument,’ he’d heard his new wife-to-be say countless times to people requiring directions. ‘You can’t miss it.’
Vimy invited his mother and father, but Norman would have nothing to do with the marriage, and worse still, barred Mary from attending. Not until an apology was forthcoming, he would growl, and there was never a chance of that. Mary defied Norman, the only time she did, and attended. She was still on the right side of sixty yet Vimy was shocked at her appearance, at the lines on her face and slightness of her body. She had always been slim, but now she was thin, emaciated, even, her smart expensive dress hanging from her shoulders as if it were draped over a metal clotheshorse.
Vimy expressed concern, but she told him not to worry, that everything was fine, and especially with his news that she was soon to become a grandmother. It was the news she had yearned for, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
They spent their honeymoon in the Lakes where it rained every day, so they cut it short and travelled home, eager to press on with overseeing the transformation of Misnomer. The work was progressing well. The nursery was planned and ready, only the sex of the baby would determine the colour.
The day after they returned from Windermere, as they were eating dinner, Laura glanced across the table and said, ‘I have an idea.’
She’d been waiting for the right moment.
He smiled at her and couldn’t help noticing how radiant she looked.
‘Oh yeah? What about?’
‘I’m going to leave Shell when I’m five months gone.’
‘Whatever you think best.’
‘And I’m never going back.’
‘I’d rather taken that for granted,’ said Vimy, as he jabbed another potato onto his plate.
‘I’m not going back because I want to head up the new branch of Ridge Commodities in London.’
The eating stopped. He dropped his knife and fork.
‘You have to be joking!’
‘I’m not. Don’t you see, it’s just what we need? It will give the business huge additional kudos. You can come down whenever you want. You can trade wherever you are. We could spend the week in London together and drive back to Misnomer at weekends, and now the motorway network is finished, we can zoom up and down in no time. You could spend one week with me in London and one week in Liverpool.’
‘I don’t much like the sound of that.’
‘Don’t rule it out before you’ve thought it through. It’ll work. It’s a great idea.’
‘But you don’t know anything about commodities.’
Laura laughed derisorily.
‘Don’t be absurd! What do you think oil is?’
‘What about the child? You’re pregnant, remember.’
‘I won’t work right up to the end, and anyway we Lancelyn-Biggs...’
‘Yes, I know,’ he interrupted, ‘you LB’s have always been great breeders!’
She went quiet for a second and said, ‘We are. Always have been. I’ll be fine. Don’t rule it out without sleeping on it. I have a good feeling about this.’
Vimy pulled a face and muttered, ‘There is no way we are opening an office in London, and that’s final!’
RIDGE COMMODITIES LONDON office opened for business five months to the day after their baby was conceived. They took a four-room office suite just off Finsbury Square, and enjoyed painting it in primrose over one rainy weekend. When they’d finished they stood in the corner and embraced and kissed, spattered in yellow paint, and for some reason that made them shriek with laughter.
They employed a typist from Shell who detested working for a particular guy there, a competent grain trader who’d been sacked from Merignac’s for drunkenness, a former filth trader, Failed In London Try Hong Kong, plus a cuddly administration woman by the name of Claire Walters. She’d come highly recommended by a friend of Laura’s, and the initial team was completed by a rapidly enlarging Laura Ridge, plus every second week, Vimy himself.
They cracked open a bottle of good champagne and toasted future success. Laura never harboured a doubt about the idea, whereas Vimy professed deep misgivings. Secretly, he was becoming more enamoured of the project. He had his own agenda, and could see benefits everywhere.
Chapter Forty-One
MA WILKINS LIVED ON the fourteenth and top floor of Arlington Towers in the middle of the Streakside council estate on the outskirts of Chester. It was comfortably the least desirable place to live in the city.
She was known for the rough orange woollen coat she wore in all but the hottest weather, a garment that matched the colour of her wild short hair, and her unshakeable desire for success.
Beneath the coat protruded bright red jeans that sat on the tongues of a pair of chunky pink and white trainers. She boasted a masculine figure, broad shoulders straight down to ample hips. Wild tales persisted she concealed all sorts beneath that bulky coat, and she never contradicted rumours.
She’d produced three children, all working full time in the family business, except on alternate Wednesday mornings, when they were required to attend the Job Centre, sign on, and prove they had attempted to find genuine work. Ronnie was the eldest, twenty-three, as bright as a button, in total contrast to Ricky, twenty-two. He had been hiding behind the door when brains were dished out, but what he lacked in reason; he made up for by being totally fearless.
Both of the boys wore their hair short to the point of baldness, scruffy blue jeans, heavy polished brown boots, and more often than not, an Unknown Pleasures tee shirt. They weren’t twins, but to look at them, you’d swear they were, and unsurprisingly, they soon became known around the estate as The Krays.
Their younger sister Paula was twenty-one. Her mission in life appeared to be to test the family firm’s products to destruction, and get laid by every puffed up weightlifting steroid filled scally the estate specialised in producing. Her mother called her a waster. She told her mother to, ‘Eff off!’ and regularly at that.
It was rumoured Ma Wilkins possessed a five bedroom mock Tudor house at the top of the hill in Hawarden, where she could glare down on the Streakside estate five miles away. But if she did, no one had ever seen it. Her husband disappeared more than ten years before, and gossips muttered that Ma Wilkins’ role in his disappearance was not limited to the grieving abandoned wife.
The family recruited a veritable army of spotters who resided on the edge of the estate. They would ring the Wilkins’ flat every time police made a token attempt to infiltrate the area. No one refused to assist, not after Harry Norton had objected two years before. Three days later he was mysteriously run down by a hit-and-run driver, shattering both legs below the knee. He never walked properly again. After that, everyone cooperated.
If the spotter system failed, which it occasionally did, Les Kinsey, who lived on the ground floor of Arlington Towers, would come to the rescue. He was a former fitter at the Ellesmere Port car plant, and could disable all three lifts within two minutes by removing one simple piece of machinery. It was always worth his while to do so, Ma Wilkins saw to that. When the coppers arrived at the block, the residents would blame it on the Bloody hopeless lift company, we’ve just about had enough,
and they’d submit another claim for compensation.
If that wasn’t enough to persuade the filth to retreat to their cars, the fourteen floor twenty-eight flights of stairs usually did the trick. If they ever made it to the top, breathless, red faced and cursing, any illegal products would be long gone, sometimes down the lavatory, once memorably transported to the top of a neighbouring tower block by remote controlled model aeroplane, and occasionally beneath the cute twins that belonged to the seventeen-year-old Haley Smith, who lived in her own flat two doors along from the Wilkins clan.
Her immaculately turned out infants would sit proudly in their shiny black pram and gurgle at passers-by and melt any heart. The Wilkins family kept a close eye on Haley Smith, especially Ronnie, and Haley wanted for nothing.
VIMY RIDGE HAD FINISHED dinner as he chased his happy dog across the hall of Misnomer. He opened the door into the sitting room where a large fire bloomed, and the dog trotted inside and lay down. The front doorbell rang.
‘Can you get that?’ yelled Laura from the kitchen. ‘I’m up to my eyes in dishes.’
Vimy shouted at the front door, ‘Just coming... won’t be a tick,’ as he shut the dog in the sitting room.
He opened the door and a scruffy middle-aged woman with startling hair stared at him. She didn’t smile, but examined him through streetwise eyes. At her side stood a six-foot skinhead, and beyond them a second clone was lounging in a puffed up Ford Capri, the engine running rough, the driver glaring through the open window at the pow-wow taking place on the doorstep.
‘I’m Ma Wilkins,’ said the woman.
‘That’s nice,’ said Vimy.
He had heard the name, but he would not give her the satisfaction of showing it.
‘We’d like a word.’
‘What about?’
‘Business.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Don’t waste my time, Mr Ridge.’
Vimy sniffed as he debated whether to give her the bum’s rush.
