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

by David Carter

  The growth there was staggering. Arthur Harkin was forever employing new sales people and highly trained admin clerks, all privy to the secrets of the business. They shipped, stored, and flogged the stuff, and Arthur never employed a soul who wasn’t up for the fight. Bent, devious, dishonest, they might have been in previous lives, but once within the Pegasus walls, their shoulders were to the wheel as much as Arthur’s. They loved working there and felt part of the family, as if Pegasus was the one force in their entire lives that offered them hope.

  The syndicated agreement with Ma Wilkins worked well. The sales teams knew exactly where they could operate and where they could not. No one crossed the line. Cash tills rang, smiles on faces, money jangling in expensively tailored pockets, fancy motors, sexy mistresses set up in smart flats across the city, ready and willing to be visited by crazy people at all hours of the day and night. Vimy was even interviewed on local television and radio.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Ridge, how come your company keeps setting records when everyone else is struggling in these difficult times?’

  ‘It’s simple. We work hard, we are good at what we do, we pay well, we demand loyalty from our staff, we reinvest the majority of profits back into our businesses, and we are determined to succeed.’

  That was all true, and more than one interviewer struggled to find a follow up question. The man had said everything there was to say. Charisma oozed from every pore, as if some unseen force touched him. Vimy Ridge was gathering a fan club, yet he considered he’d barely started. He was still little more than a cold sore on the blustering lips of the Merignac Corporation, when he wanted to be the cancer that ate out the foreign giant’s heart. His company would reach the envisioned land; he knew that; it was simply a matter of time. Perhaps he would live to see it, and perhaps not, but he revelled in the knowledge that his children, and his children’s children, surely would.

  LAURA GAVE BIRTH TO a bawling eight-pound boy who came down screaming.

  ‘No need to thwack that healthy bum,’ cracked the midwife. They called him Michael, as they always knew they would, though within a year, he was known to everyone as Midge. Quite where that nickname came from, no one could remember. But it stuck fast, and the boy born to inherit the earth was on his way.

  Vimy commuted between Downing House and the Finsbury Square office. He’d take the early train to London on Monday morning and use the journey time to study the papers and company intelligence. Sometimes, he’d return alone on the eight o’clock train on the Friday night, Laura remaining in the smart flat they had acquired in Bayswater. He grew to like London, but it wasn’t the bright lights that appealed to him, but the logistics.

  Every time he saw a population stat and travelled across the teeming city, observing the confused hurrying hordes, he thought of potential. He began planning a huge secret branch in the smoke. It would be vast and modern; a statement of intent, and it would be planned to the nth degree, Arthur would see to that. Pegasus was coming to town, and Laura didn’t have a clue.

  Back on the Wirral, he’d meet him in a safe house he’d bought near Bromborough railway station. The red brick detached property was surrounded by trimmed Leylandii conifers resembling Norman fortifications. The house served as planning factory and bolthole. Vimy would sleep there occasionally to give the property an air of normality. To the neighbours, the house was ordinary, as was the bloke who came and went, and kept himself to himself.

  After one hectic day’s trading in the Downing, Diane put her head around his office door. She thought he looked whacked and imagined, not for the first time; he was overdoing things, and worse still, the curse of trader’s burnout might strike him down.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ she said, her red nails curled tightly around the edge of the door.

  Vimy forced a smile. ‘Can’t. Sorry. Figs to do.’

  She thought of saying: OK, just thought I’d ask, but something made her say: ‘Come on, it will do you good. All work and no play, and all that.’

  He glanced up into her face, saw the pleading look, and couldn’t refuse. He smiled, kicked his chair back, and slipped on his jacket.

  ‘Why not?’

  THEY CROSSED THE CITY, skipped up the steps into the Atlantic Tower Hotel, and sat at the tables and chairs kitted out as a children’s train.

  At half-past eight, they ordered food. The neat waitress in green and navy tartan brought steak and chips, and they chased that with strawberry meringues and ice cream. Unhealthy and fattening, but delicious, and who cared, for cholesterol hadn’t been invented. Vimy left the table once and rang London for the closing prices. He was running a god-awful position on soya and at least that hadn’t got any worse.

  They sank a bottle of French red, chased it with several whiskies, and by eleven o’clock they’d drunk their fill, and made a move. Outside on the front steps opposite Saint Nicholas’s church, where the wind whips up Chapel Street from the restless river, she hiccupped and said, ‘Would you like to come back to my place for a coffee?’

  ‘Better not,’ he said, ‘I’m a married man, I’m a father, you know,’ and he grinned stupidly.

  ‘I was asking you back for a coffee...’ she said, hiccupping loudly as an older couple drifted by, their faces glum, their body language reeking misery, as they caught the end of Diane’s over loud sentence, ‘... not for a shag!’

  The pair stared at them.

  ‘Disgusting! They’re drunk,’ whinged the woman. ‘Come on, George,’ and they hurried away as if to be in contact with such vile people might bring disease. Vimy laughed aloud. Diane giggled and curled her arm through his.

  ‘I might be at that!’ she giggled. ‘Just a little.’

  Vimy laughed again. It had been ages since he’d enjoyed himself so much, and ages since he’d felt so relaxed. A vibrating black cab appeared and before she could object, he bundled her into the back. He made to slam the door, but at the last moment, jumped in.

  The cab driver turned the radio down.

  ‘Where to, guys and gals?’

  ‘Albert Dock apartments,’ she said, through another wicked hiccup.

  The cabbie grinned and said, ‘Aldo it is,’ and turned the radio up loud. It was blasting out a new punk record, a Clash song with a driving beat.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ shouted Vimy.

  The cabby reduced the volume. ‘It’s punk.’

  ‘Spunk?’ said Diane, sitting up and grinning.

  ‘Punk!’ shouted the cabbie, laughing.

  Diane giggled; ‘I thought he said spunk, Vimy,’ and she laughed again and clutched his arm.

  ‘I think she’s drunk, mate,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘What are you like?’ said Vimy, as they intertwined arms.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, before resuming staring through the window, as the driver turned the radio ever louder. The cab gained speed and they could barely hear his shouted words.

  ‘I think its fookin’ great!’ he said, as The Clash chased them home on the mile trip back to the brooding Albert Dock.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE MORNING POST ARRIVED on Carsos when Constantinos Relkos deigned to deliver it. He popped his head round the door to Christos’s office a half-past eleven, and that was normal for him. ‘Morning fatty!’ he spat out in fun, as he tossed a bundle of eight letters across the room.

  They were held together by a single post office issue elastic band, and landed with a slap on Christos’s opened morning newspaper.

  ‘That’s important police business,’ muttered Christos, as his large eyes focused on the mail.

  ‘Course it is,’ Constantinos said. ‘I might see you in the Ace later,’ and with a nervous shake of the head, he was gone.

  Among the gems of the day was an anonymous letter stating Mr Kolipos was misappropriating government funds for his own purposes. Kolipos was the deputy mayor on the island and had been politically active in a modest way for twenty-five years. He wasn’t an embezzler, and Christos knew that. The l
etter was from Mrs Alonnssos, Christos knew that too because he recognised her handwriting, neat and forward sloping and written with a cheap fountain pen, and a shaking hand. She’d been writing anonymous letters to him for years, though he’d long ceased keeping them. It was filed with the others in the bin.

  There were several other communications offering to sell him everything from inkjet cartridges to bikinis, neither of which he was especially interested in, and a press release from an Athens’ left wing newspaper about something so unimportant he binned that too. The final letter came in a smart white envelope. It had been neatly typed and bore the Hellenic Police Service frank with an Athens postmark of three days before.

  Christos held it by the corner and wafted it past his nose. It was a habit he had gained many years before. Quite why he performed the nasal wafting only he could tell, and whatever intelligence he hoped to glean by the fanning and sniffing, he was out of luck. The envelope carried an aroma of dead fish, just like all the rest, testament to the fact the mail sack had been so prized by the postal department to have been thrown to one side on the ferry, where it lay beside a barrel of hot and rotting fish.

  Christos opened it as if it might contain diamonds. It contained a single sheet of letterheaded paper bearing the impressive and official Hellenic Police logo. The letter was handwritten with an expensive ballpoint pen. It was from, as he hoped, Callia Galatia. To Christos, it seemed like a love letter. So long was it been since he had experienced such a wonderful gift. He knew he would never again enjoy the unique excitement a love letter brings, and this was the nearest substitute he would ever get, and would savour the moment.

  He found himself sniffing the paper again, and this time he imagined he detected the faintest scent of herbal baths, though he couldn’t swear to it. It was as if that aroma was shrouded deep beneath the piscatory flavours of the bay. He imagined her stepping naked from the bath, her smooth bronzed skin gleaming and dripping. But enough. The letter began:

  Dear Chris,

  (He loved the fact it was addressed personally, and with his Christian name.)

  I have placed your fresh evidence before Inspector Skeiri and he has seen to it your new findings have been forwarded in full to the English police.

  He says there is nothing further we can do here with regard to this case, and has asked me to remind you how busy we are. Please be sure that if there are any further developments, I will advise you immediately.

  Thank you again for all your help.

  Perhaps we will see you in Athens one day?

  Your colleague in crime fighting,

  Callia Galatia, Acting Sergeant

  Hellenic Police Service,

  Athens Headquarters.

  THERE WAS NO kiss at the end of the letter, no cross, not as she had kissed him on the quayside, on the forehead perhaps, but a kiss nonetheless. Perhaps the twerp Skeiri had overseen the letter. Maybe that was the reason, and maybe that’s why she had written and not phoned. Perhaps she was too embarrassed to tell him the news. To précis the official communication he imagined it read:

  We are really busy, sod off, and don’t bother us.

  It seemed they weren’t interested in his murder any longer. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. They were presiding over four suspicious deaths every day. How could he compete with that? His rate was one every four years, if he was lucky, or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it. He sniffed aloud, more of a snort, and sipped hot coffee. When he next spoke, it was to himself and the cockroach watching him from the windowsill for the last ten minutes.

  ‘It won’t end like this! It won’t!’

  HE COULDN’T HAVE KNOWN at that precise moment Inspector Walter Darriteau was opening the package containing everything the Greek police had compiled. Walter had a habit of standing and gazing through the expansive windows of his office on the eighth floor of the Cheshire Police Headquarters that overlooked the Roodee, the large meadows below, famous for centuries for horse racing.

  Walter wasn’t beyond the occasional bet himself, as he glanced beyond the greenery to the twisting and lazy River Dee, where Roman triremes had once navigated, or so he imagined. His room with a view never palled, and he was interested in all things Roman, for he had an over-active historical imagination. Romans were his favourite, along with Native American chiefs; they interested him too, almost to the point of obsession.

  He banished thoughts of squabbling centurions and returned to the package. He guessed the file had completed its journey to his desk because no one else had the time or desire to become involved, and he was probably right. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened and it wouldn’t be the last. No doubt the nearby Liverpool Merseyside police were too busy. Inspector Walter Darriteau, down in Chester, was a famed shit shifter. Shit burier. Shit destroyer. Shit merchant. He guffawed.

  The package contained a DVD; some poor quality downloaded colour pictures, and photocopied drawings of a man and six women, that on further examination proved to be six quite different pictures of, purportedly, the same woman. Pretty worthless, thought Walter. He read the accompanying letter and various notes from a person named Sergeant Callia Galatia, and he wondered what she might be like, age, height, weight, attractiveness. Dull work-a-day woman, or Greek goddess in flowing cotton, somewhere in between, most likely. Not that he’d ever been to Greece, though he’d like to. Perhaps he would when he retired, and that day, horrifyingly, was fast approaching.

  Karen was out of the office having her hair trimmed. The appointment had been in the diary for three weeks. Walter could hardly complain at her absence because she was working her day off. At that moment, she hustled into the room in her tight blue jeans and white blouse and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Well?’ she said, ‘what do you think?’

  He looked up. What did he think about what?

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Ah yes, the hair. Her hair was perfectly straight, not a kink anywhere, unlike his, and it sat neatly on the ridge of her collar. It appeared to him to have barely been touched.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ he lied. It was indeed nice, but no nicer than yesterday or the day before.

  ‘Hundred quid,’ she said satisfyingly. ‘A bargain, I think.’

  He wasn’t going to argue. What did he know about ladies’ hairdos? But a hundred quid? Come on, and he had to fight hard to suppress a rough laugh. He watched her running her fingers around her collar as if rogue hairs had slipped that way and were irritating her neck and upper back. Occasionally, she would shake her head like a rabid dog dislodging fleas.

  There wasn’t a surplus ounce of fat on her, again unlike Walter, and her shining skin was stretched tightly over her lean frame. The previous night she had swum fifty lengths at the new upmarket fitness centre on the northern edge of the city, and she would have done another fifty if they hadn’t been closing. Walter could just about manage fifty easy paces from the car to the Royal Oak, and even then he might need to pause to tie his shoelace.

  ‘Anything new?’ she asked, still scratching.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘take a look at that,’ and he slung the package across the desk, and stood up and closed the blinds. He turned on the DVD, slipped in the disk, and was at the limit of his technological prowess. A football match flickered to life on the flatscreen TV, and one or two of the younger guys ambled over to watch.

  ‘This is evidence,’ said Walter, pointing at the game. ‘In case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Guv.’

  ‘Does anyone remember when Stevie Tynan scored the winner against Olympiakos?’

  ‘Right at the end, Guv, injury time.’

  ‘Here, fast forward that.’

  The team crowded round and watched the pics, and the decisive goal. Walter read the notes, ‘The woman in the yellow rig-out, the three people next to her. There. Freeze!’ The picture paused, and they stared down at it, and back at the Greek downloads of the same scene. Karen went closer and squinted at the
blurred picture.

  ‘Well, what do you make of that?’ said Walter.

  ‘Are we supposed to identify them from that? Are we supposed to know them, because I don’t recognise any of them?’

  ‘Me neither. Doesn’t your cousin work for that hi-tech developing company?’

  ‘Yep, DPD.’

  ‘Do you think he might be able to download better pictures?’

  Walter tossed the inkjet images disdainfully on her desk.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Take the disk, get down there pronto, and see what you can do. While you’re doing that, I’ll fix up an appointment to see someone at the football ground.’

  IT TOOK KAREN JUST over an hour to drive to DPD’s swish out-of-town warehouse cum office on the Chester Business Park, meet her cousin, persuade him to print off enhanced pictures, and return to the office. When she returned, the blinds were still drawn and Walter was sitting back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head, his eyes closed. She coughed. He opened one eye like a scaly creature from the desert.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep, I was thinking.’

  ‘Didn’t think you were, Guv. Take a look at these.’

  She handed him the pictures and opened the blinds. They were quarto sized prints and almost as good as actual photographs. Across the base of the pictures, within the image itself, in trendy wavy lettering was the wording Digital Pictures Direct and a Chester telephone number. It was blatant advertising, but what do you expect for nothing?

  ‘They’re fantastic,’ he said.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘Greg’s a techno whiz, they’re brilliant.’

  ‘If we can’t identify these people from these pics we need...’ but he let the sentence die on his lips for he had an aversion to using the word “shooting”.

  ‘Are we going to the footie ground?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’