by David Carter
‘I think I know the guy,’ said Walter, snorting, as he sifted through his memory cabinet of known faces.
‘His name is Vimy Ridge,’ continued Billy. ‘I don’t have an address but I’m sure you can find that.’
‘Excellent. Anything else?’
‘The woman, dressed up to the nines, Tilly, she’s believed to run a dress shop in Chester.’
‘On my doorstep.’
‘Precisely. That’s it. Sorry I can’t be any more help.’
‘No, that’s great. You’ve been most helpful, Mr McClennon. Thank you.’
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Vimy Ridge’s Caldy address popped from the computer like a piece of well-done toast, culled from the electoral roll.
‘Get a car, Greenwood! An unmarked car!’
It was just before six o’clock in the evening when they arrived outside Misnomer.
‘Looks like some place,’ said Karen, sucking in air through pursed lips, ever ready to be impressed by wealth and opulence.
‘Commodity trading must pay well,’ muttered Walter.
They sat in the car and stared up at the red sandstone wall that bounded the property. On top of the wall was a chunky close-boarded wooden fence, and above that loomed a dense hedge of hollies and thorn bearing pyracantha, the firethorn, needle sharp and hostile, branches poking menacingly over the top of the boards, razor like, threatening loitering passers-by.
The entrance to the property was sealed with high wrought-iron gates, topped with a red and yellow coat of arms borrowed from the extinct Newbury family, and adopted as Ridge’s own. The gates had once protected British Railways Birkenhead Marshalling Yard, but when they closed down and the land sold off, the gates were disposed of as scrap at a knockdown price. Refurbished and magnificent, they stood proudly protecting the drive to Misnomer. They were firmly locked. To the right of the entrance was a stainless steel intercom system. On the box, a warning notice stated the occupiers did not buy from callers, and that visitors were only admitted by appointment. There was a name and local telephone number for a West Kirby security company, and a jagged black and red picture of an Alsatian dog with manic eyes and jagged teeth.
‘It’s like a fortress,’ whispered Karen.
Walter sniffed and pressed the buzzer three times. No response. He pressed again, keeping his finger firmly down. Still nothing.
‘Perhaps they’re not back yet,’ suggested Karen.
Walter grunted his displeasure and said, ‘Come on, we’ll get something to eat and come back in an hour.’
Karen drove to West Kirby, past the war memorial columns and down the hill towards the grey sea. The tide was high and Walter thought Hilbre Island looked more like Alcatraz than ever. They bought greasy fish and chips and ate them from the newspaper sitting in the car parked on the promenade by the boating lake. She picked at the fish, pulling off the batter and leaving it to one side. He ate his before reaching over and grasping the remnants she’d discarded.
A middle-aged couple ambled by, walking four Pyrenean mountain dogs, the animals pulling their owners, leashes taut and strained, their masters leaning back to hold on to them. One dog paused, squatted, and dropped a pile. The owner pulled a poo bag from her pocket, scooped it up, and walked on ahead.
‘Aren’t they lovely?’ said Karen.
Walter didn’t reply. He couldn’t think of anything worse, following fat dogs all day and picking up poo from four large beasts. No one ever picked up his poo. He guffawed and turned on the radio and tuned it to a blues station. The desire for a cigarette swept through Karen, and she pulled a small pack from her jacket pocket and slipped one into her mouth. He scowled at her. He would not accept her smoking in the car, not a chance. He was developing a thing about the perils of passive smoking, passive everything, come to that.
She caught the contemptuous look in his eye, stepped out of the car, and sat alone on a metal seat on the promenade, gazing out towards Hilbre Island and North Wales beyond. In the vehicle, Walter burped loudly and almost fell asleep as he listened to a slow blues guitar number he hadn’t heard in years. Karen began tapping her fingers on the arm of the metal seat, not so much to the music, but because she was impatient to wrap up the day. She had a date with Jack and he did not like to be kept waiting.
The signature tune for the news came on at seven and Walter increased the volume. The dog-walking couple returned and the nearest animal to Karen cocked its leg and splashed the corner of the seat, spraying her shoes.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’
The woman grinned.
‘Sorry, but it shows he likes you. It’s good luck.’
‘Good luck! Have you any idea how much these boots cost?’
The woman didn’t answer, for the dogs had yanked her away.
Karen stood and spat out the mint she was sucking and booted it angrily into the salt-water lake, where two gulls rushed down to inspect the white titbit. She returned to the car, sat down with a thud, and began wiping her hands with a handkerchief, wetting the corner with her tongue before washing herself like a cat.
‘Well, Greenwood? What time do commodity traders come home for tea? Back by now, you reckon?’
She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past.
‘I hope so, Guv.’
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
THE YELLOW LIGHTS AT Misnomer were on. From the street the main body of the house could not be seen other than the highest gable, but some light was drifting through the trees and down the sweeping drive. Walter pumped the bell button, and a man answered, speaking through chewing food.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Is Mr Vimy Ridge there?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Inspector Darriteau, I need to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘I am not discussing this standing in the street, please open the gate.’
‘Just a moment.’
A full minute passed when Walter imagined heated conversations and papers being hidden and destroyed, before the gate clunked, and sprang open. They hustled up the drive, the house came into view, and Karen uttered, ‘Bloody hell!’
The restoration work had been finished years before and the place was immaculate. Not a penny had been spared. The front door was wide open, the light flooding out, as it rapidly grew dark. A broad man appeared framed in the doorway, well dressed in suit and tie. He nodded and half smiled.
‘Mr Ridge?’ said Walter.
‘Yes. Vimy Ridge.’
‘I’m Inspector Darriteau, this is Sergeant Karen Greenwood.’
They flashed their warrant cards and Vimy inspected them.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said, as he searched his mind for any snippet that could have brought these minnows to his door. ‘Come in, I can’t give you long. I have a Lodge meeting.’
They followed him through the hall to a sitting room that overlooked the rear garden. Through the window the last of the light was fast departing the sky. Fading orange and purple jagged streaks like an infant’s painting dissolved before Walter’s eyes.
‘Please sit,’ said Vimy. ‘What brings you here?’
Walter collapsed into a sumptuous sofa.
‘You attended a football match at Liverpool City. The Olympiakos game.’
‘That’s not a crime, is it?’
Walter ignored the question and produced three pictures.
‘You attended with a party of people, including these three.’
Vimy glanced at the photos. They were enhanced and not of great quality, but they were unmistakeably Midge, Lisa, and Coral.
‘I did.’
‘Who are these people, Mr Ridge?’
‘That’s Midge, my son Michael, his wife Lisa, there, and my youngest, Coral.’
‘Are they in the house?’
‘No, they aren’t, Coral’s in the States on an educational course. Won’t be back for five months. Midge and Lisa are out. I have no idea when they’ll be back. Look, what�
�s this all about?’
Walter reclaimed the pictures.
‘Will Michael be back tonight?’
‘Probably.’
‘I’d like to wait.’
‘You can’t. Not in the house. As I said, I have an important Lodge meeting.’
‘We’ll wait outside.’
Vimy scowled. Karen pulled a face, realising she would be late for her date, and was not looking forward to ringing Jack, apologising for breaking a date again, for she sensed the moment was coming when he wouldn’t accept it.
They all heard the front door open and glanced towards the door. A man’s voice echoed through the house, ‘I’m home, there’s a strange car outside by the gate, I’ve never seen it before,’ and the speaking man ambled into the room, a slim jeaned woman behind him. Walter watched them as the expression on their young faces changed.
‘Are you Michael Ridge?’
Midge nodded. ‘So what. Who are you?’
‘Michael Ridge, I am Inspector Darriteau of the Cheshire Police. This is Sergeant Greenwood.’ They flashed their warrant cards. Midge didn’t look at them, or say a word. ‘I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Nicoliades Emperikos on the island of Carsos. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘What the hell?’ shouted Vimy.
Attracted by the commotion Laura came running to investigate. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘There’s been a misunderstanding, mum,’ said Midge.
‘What evidence have you got?’ demanded Vimy. ‘The Chief Constable is a personal friend of mine. You better have your facts straight.’
‘All in good time, Mr Ridge, but for now Michael will need to accompany us to Chester. You are welcome to come too if you wish.’
‘Damn right I will,’ snapped Vimy, all thoughts of important Lodge meetings abandoned. They trooped outside and various car doors opened and banged shut.
Coral, in the darkness of her bedroom, squinted through the tiny gap in the curtains, and watched them leave. She’d guessed who they were the moment they arrived, and had no intention of becoming involved with the law. Midge sat in the back of the big Ford with Walter, and neither of them spoke. Midge had been advised by his father not to say a word until their solicitor arrived. Two frantic calls had been made to Jolyon Forrest, but he’d not been located.
VIMY, LAURA AND LISA huddled together in the red Jaguar, and chased the rushing Ford down the Chester High Road, chicaning the roadworks and hurtling past the time trialling cyclists who were forever dicing with death on that road.
Laura said, ‘What’s this all about, Lisa?’
‘Dunno, Mrs Ridge. I really don’t.’
‘Do you know, Vimy?’ persisted Laura, sensing they knew something she didn’t.
‘Let’s wait and see. Who knows what they’re on about? Try that Jolyon prat again. He’s a useless turd! I can never get hold of him when I need to. I don’t know why we pay him so much.’
The police station was bathed in an air of jubilation, as per normal when a serious criminal was about to be charged. There was the formality of the fingerprints to be matched but that should only take ten minutes. Midge’s fingertips were photographed, and he was left alone with Jolyon who’d finally shown up. The solicitor was treading on thin ice for he’d driven to the station in his 4x4 with vodka fumes streaming from his thin-lipped mouth. He’d only attended so fast because the Ridge family were his best client.
Midge’s prints did not match the first set supplied by the Greek police. Nor the second set either.
‘It must be these,’ said Walter.
But the third set was completely different. He wanted arches; and was staring down at whorls. Fact was, Midge’s fingers did not match any of the prints lifted from Nicoliades’ house, period, and in that moment, Walter’s case collapsed.
He cursed through clenched teeth and glared at Karen as if it was her fault. Then rechecked the first two sets in case there had been a mistake, but there was no error.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ moaned Walter. ‘Someone’s cocked up!’
There was nothing for it but to release him, but not before an apology was demanded and begrudgingly issued.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ bleated Jolyon, ‘I will be making an official complaint.’
To his face Walter replied, ‘That’s for you to decide.’
Behind his back, Walter’s response was to cast doubt on the fool’s parentage. He had never rated J. Forrest Esquire, nor the clients he represented. They all had something in common, and it wasn’t anything to be proud of.
THE NEXT MORNING, CORAL flew to the United States to stay with trading friends in Chicago, with strict orders not to return until everything had blown over. The Ridge family won round one, but Vimy had a sneaky feeling the matter wouldn’t die there. There was something irritating about that black detective. Something in his manner, his doggedness and determination. He’d hate to admit it, but he reminded him of himself, and his father.
On Sunday afternoon Vimy sat in the garden with Midge sipping Pimm’s by the pond, as they talked things through. They spoke intimately, father to son, and that was something that had rarely happened before, and yet it wasn’t a typical father son conversation, but a chat between great friends who admired each other. They’d never spoken in quite that way before. Perhaps it was a sign Vimy recognised Midge had grown up and was being treated as an equal. Either way, it was a watershed moment in their lives. Midge noticed the difference at once, Vimy didn’t.
‘The police don’t have a thing,’ said a bumptious Midge. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘I hope you’re right, boy.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Vimy.’
Midge had never called his father Vimy before, but that day the situation demanded it. It felt natural.
‘I can handle it,’ he persisted. ‘No problem, don’t worry about a thing.’
Vimy glanced across at his son. It was an anxious look. He couldn’t think of anything sensible to say, and though he would never admit it, he saw the truth. He was growing tired. The inescapable fact was Vimy Ridge was getting old, and apprehensive.
Chapter Forty-Nine
ARTHUR HARKIN DROVE to London in his sleek new company BMW. Life was sweet. He was looking forward to buying a bigger house on the Wirral, an apartment in London, and a swanky holiday home on the Costa del Sol.
Pete Lee was the apple of his eye. He loved Pete and Pete loved him, and business boomed like no business before. He hurtled down the M6, playing the new Frankie Goes To Hollywood album at full volume. He was more than relaxed, he was buzzing.
Vimy gave him full authority to select the new location and design the layout of the vast new complex he was to oversee. He’d begun the tricky task of selecting his team and that was going well. The staff treated him as if he was God and he loved it. Personal respect was something he’d rarely experienced, and here were smart guys bending over backward to please him, and he laughed at the crazy thought.
The warehouse he settled on was gleaming and new, glass and silver grey, with the appearance of something direct from California. It was close to the M25 from where their fleet of MAN diesel trucks could distribute merchandise anywhere in England within six hours. The trucks had been paid for in cash, Pegasus didn’t believe in hire purchase or lease agreements.
Shortly after the complex opened, he began his daily inspection, as his minions danced about him like court jesters. Arthur strutted from one bank of state-of-the-art shelving to another like a feisty peacock. Commodities of every conceivable kind piled high and paid for, hundreds of weird and wonderful products that supposedly could cure and induce every ailment and experience known to mankind.
A new yellow Bamford forklift truck dashed along the adjacent aisle and placed a consignment of freshly delivered produce high up on the top
bank of orange-framed shelving. Arthur smiled as the warehouse cats ran by, one chasing the other’s tail.
The best aspect of the operation was it was entirely legit, one hundred percent kosher, and Arthur laughed at the thought. Every case, consignment, box, carton and jar. The authorities could check what the hell they liked. His immaculate paperwork and accompanying government certificates were in order, and he knew it. He was Mister Organiser at the peak of his powers, and perhaps he deserved another big treat. What could he have that he didn’t already possess?
The special extra stock items might arrive later, but not until the business had become successful, and only after the first VAT check and factory inspection visits had been completed. Experience taught them they’d be left alone for years once they’d passed those initial checks. The specials would appear if the demand was there, and that would be a question for the travelling salesmen to answer. Not that there was much doubt about that. They were a supply business, and what the customer demanded, Pegasus Trading would provide. Arthur pushed the door of his plush office closed and rang Pete. He was in the mood for love talk; he often felt that way after a strutting.
‘Hi, you.’
‘Hello, my friend. You get there OK?’
‘Yeah, and everything’s fine. I wish you could see it. It’s so impressive.’
‘Maybe I will one day.’
‘Maybe you will. All the Chinese stuff’s come.’
‘I knew it would. Uncle Li is always leliable.’
‘Do you miss me?’
‘Course I do. You me?’
‘I’m ringing, aren’t I?’
‘When you back?’
‘Friday night.’
‘I cook you something special.’
‘I’d like that, Pete, can’t wait. That pork dish you do so well.’
‘OK, I do that.’
‘You behave yourself.’
‘You too.’
I love you, Pete.’
‘Love you too, big man.’
‘See you Friday.’
