by David Carter
‘Please sit down. Sorry to keep you waiting, just finishing off something rather urgent.’
Vimy didn’t believe him, nor appreciate what he saw as a slight. Mr Lincoln had better be good, or he’d be out of there in a flash. Vimy watched him flip open the silver cigarette box sitting on the corner of his desk.
‘Will you?’
‘I will,’ replied Vimy, taking a king-size tipped cigarette and lighting it with the heavy glass lighter pushed towards him.
‘It’s my one remaining vice,’ said Lincoln, ‘but only ten a day.’
‘I wish it were mine,’ said Vimy.
‘So, Mr Ridge, what can I do for you?’
Vimy shifted in his chair. ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’
The abrupt opening didn’t throw Lincoln. Perhaps he was used to attempts on his clients’ lives.
‘Why don’t you go to the police?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘I see.’
Lincoln examined his manicured nails and said, ‘What makes you think someone is trying to kill you?’
‘A man stepped in front of my car and took a potshot at me.’
‘I see,’ Lincoln said again, as he reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘That’s conclusive enough. Where was this?’
‘Liverpool city centre, Chapel Street. I was on my way home. What I can’t understand is, how anyone could have known I would have been there, or even how they knew it was me.’
‘Where had you been?’
‘Seeing my secretary. We are really busy at the moment.’
Ah yes, seeing the secretary, thought Lincoln, but that could wait.
‘Could she have tipped someone off?’
‘No, certainly not!’
But Vimy found himself wondering about that. Surely not Diane? His mind began to quick tick. Someone points and fires a gun, and it’s easy to see conspiracies everywhere.
‘Do you have a private number plate?’
‘I do, VIM30. My wife bought it for my birthday.’
‘Perhaps you should ditch that, for a start.’
That at least made sense. There was no point in advertising one’s presence.
‘Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might have organised this?’
‘I run a prosperous commodity business, Mr Lincoln. It’s not possible to build up a successful outfit without stepping on toes along the way. I have many enemies, real and imaginary. It could be one of fifty people.’
Lincoln remembered him. He’d seen this guy before on television, preaching the virtues of hard work and dedication.
‘But anyone in particular?’
‘I do have one thought.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman. Her name is Ma Wilkins. She lives here in Chester, on the Streakside.’
Lincoln sat back in his seat, sighed, and blew a smoke ring at the stained ceiling.
‘You know this woman?’ asked Vimy. ‘This Ma Wilkins?’
‘Everyone in Chester knows Ma Wilkins, Mr Ridge, especially anyone in my line of business.’
Lincoln fiddled with the intercom and a moment later, the girl answered.
‘Caroline, bring in Ma Wilkins’ file.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
They waited in silence, exchanging glances, and a few moments later Caroline entered the office carrying Ma Wilkins’ files on two outstretched cupped arms. The information comprised three box files topped with several other manila and pink cardboard loose-leaf folders. She placed them carefully in the centre of Lincoln’s desk with a smile. The pile was so tall Vimy had to peer round them to see his host’s face.
‘Is that the lot?’ asked Lincoln.
Caroline nodded and refreshed her regulation smile, and left.
‘Is that all on her?’ asked Vimy.
‘Probably. Let’s take a look-see.’
Lincoln removed the loose files and placed them to one side. He opened the top box file and undid the retaining clip. Vimy pulled his chair closer. Beneath the clip were a number of large black and white photographs. Lincoln pulled the top one free and handed it to Vimy.
‘Is that the woman?’
He examined the picture and nodded. Lincoln showed him five more photographs. They were all recent images of Ma Wilkins, photographed out of doors, and wherever she was, she seemed relaxed. She either didn’t know she was being photographed, or they were taken with her consent.
‘I’m impressed. Where did you get these?’
Lincoln sniffed. ‘I don’t ask where you buy cotton.’
‘Point taken.’
‘You have business with Ma Wilkins?’
Vimy nodded.
‘And it’s ongoing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a problem with it?’
‘No, that’s the odd thing. We’ve both done well out of it.’
‘Perhaps she wants a larger share of the cake.’
‘Maybe. That’s the only thing I could think of.’
Lincoln sat back in his chair and breathed out heavy. He delved into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a large diary, opened it, and began scribbling.
‘I think I might be able to help... but it will be expensive.’
‘Money is not an issue.’
‘Good. This Ma Wilkins character is the head of a powerful family. They are ruthless, believe me, you have no idea what they are capable of.’
Vimy had an idea of what they were capable of, but didn’t comment.
‘The only way to make headway against this crew is with cash, and lots of it, and by recruiting people she has crossed along the way. Fortunately, she too has made many enemies in the rise to her present lofty perch.’
‘I see.’
‘I will need a £5,000 float for expenses, which, once spent, would need to be replaced immediately. If it were not replaced within a week we would close our involvement. Our fee is another £5,000 payable up front before we do anything, and then an ongoing £1,000 per day payable at the end of each month. Lastly, we would expect a discretionary bonus at the conclusion of the case, depending on how you rated our results. But that would work two ways; if we considered the bonus wasn’t sufficiently generous, we would not work for you again. Is that clear?’
‘That is expensive.’
‘Expertise does not come cheap, Mr Ridge, as I am sure you know, especially in this field. You agree or you don’t.’
‘I agree,’ said Vimy, knowing he had nowhere else to turn.
‘Good. You may cancel our contract at any time. But should you do so, any credit balance held in the expenses pot would be forfeited. Clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Do you want us to open the file today, if so, you may leave a cheque now.’
Vimy nodded and took out his personal organiser with his private chequebook tucked inside. He flipped it open and wrote the cheque.
‘How soon will I hear from you?’
Lincoln wafted the cheque in front of his face.
‘You will hear from me as soon as I have something to say. I will always need to speak to you in the flesh. I will never discuss business on the telephone. Clear?’
‘Suits me. Can I ask you something of your own background?’
‘Of course.’
Vimy watched the guy talking. He had a habit of beginning every sentence by throwing his head back and bringing down his nose in a certain direction, as if pointing the way ahead. It was quite odd, and Vimy had to fight himself to avoid grinning.
‘My background is Army police, Redcaps, Army security, Civilian police, civilian security. Government intelligence. Is that acceptable?’
Vimy was left wondering why he’d asked and babbled, ‘I guess.’
Lincoln stood up, signalling the meeting was over.
‘I’ll be in touch as soon as...’
‘Look forward to it.’
They shook hands an
d Vimy left the room, the ever-efficient Caroline escorting him from the building. He hot-footed it past the red stone cathedral and back to his car, ten thousand pounds lighter. It had better be worth it. The thought occurred to him, he might have been conned. If so, Jolyon would feel the wrath of his tongue, and a big dent in his business.
BACK IN THE OFFICE, Lincoln removed the tape from the cassette recorder buried in his drawer, and handed it to Caroline.
‘Start a file today. Type up the entire conversation, and get Superintendent Jake Anderson on the phone. Let’s start with him.’
‘Yes, Mr Lincoln.’
‘Oh, and Caroline?’
‘Mr Lincoln?’
‘Run a thorough search on this Ridge character. I want to know everything about him. See what you can dig up.’
‘Yes, Mr Lincoln.’
Caroline enjoyed researching the background of clients, for it often revealed the spiciest information. It was the main reason she stayed there, working alone most of the time, prying into the affairs of the great and the good, some of whom weren’t so great or so good. She’d long since fallen into an obedient routine at Lincoln & Baines. She’d learnt it paid better that way, and her life was eminently more enjoyable for it. She was good at what she did, great at keeping secrets, and before the week was out, the expanding file on Vimy Ridge would make interesting reading.
Chapter Fifty-Two
ON THE CORNER OF FENWICK Street and Brunswick Street in the commercial district of Liverpool, a stranger of a newspaper seller appeared. It was the middle of the afternoon, dry, a little blustery, but the rain had held off. The newspaperman was getting into his stride. ‘LAST ECHO! LAST ECHO!’
He was taller and younger than the usual guys selling newspapers, and though he hadn’t shaved for several days and wore a grubby jacket, there was something about him that didn’t quite say paper seller.
Further along Fenwick Street, almost outside the Slaughterhouse pub, two telephone engineers fiddled with their multi coloured wiring. Broadband upgrade and not before time, thought more than one passer-by.
One man was standing below street level in a manhole, the other on the street itself, as he gazed lazily around at short-skirted typists twittering back to work. Across the road, propped up against the old National Bank Building, to the right side of the entrance, a tall man leant back against the Portland stone. His girlfriend stretched her arms up and draped them around his neck, as he gazed over her shoulder and down the street. He didn’t seem that interested in the girl, and perhaps that annoyed her.
Midge Ridge stepped from the Corn Exchange Building and crossed the road, heading towards the Queen Victoria monument, and the telephone maintenance men. He was heading home to Downing House, and was in a hurry. Behind him, the paper seller thrust his last ten newspapers into the midriff of a surprised middle-aged man with unkempt hair and beery breath. Beer breath turned and watched the tall guy running away down Fenwick Street.
The courting couple broke up and dashed hand-in-hand towards the telephone engineers. Midge was almost beside them; striding out, for he’d sold two thousand tonnes of soya beans and was eager to dispatch the written contracts. The engineers leapt from cover and grabbed his arms, just as the courting couple and the puffing paper seller arrived on scene in time to seize their share of the glory.
‘Michael Ridge?’ said one of the phone men.
‘Yeah, what of it?’
‘We are police officers and I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Nicoliades Emperikos,’ and Midge was cautioned.
‘Not again,’ moaned Midge, shaking his arms in an effort to free himself from grasping hands. But the hands were strong and determined, and there were many of them, and they would not let go.
THE ACTION OF THE LIVERPOOL Police had undeniably been heavy-handed, but orders had come down from on high insisting no cock-up was made with the arrest. There had been too many cock-ups recently, and the Fenwick Street meet would not be another in a lengthening line.
They could have walked onto the Corn Exchange, clasped Midge’s arms, and led him away, and though that would have been embarrassing for him, it would have saved the dramatic scenes in front of the Slaughterhouse pub, in front of two churchmen heading down towards Saint Nicholas’s church. The Liverpool Police had completed the arrest as requested by their Chester brethren, and that was all that mattered. Michael Ridge was in custody, and within minutes the same Mr Ridge was inside a powerful Ford saloon zooming south for Chester.
SIMULTANEOUSLY LISA Ridge, nee Greystone, had been removed from her Solicitor’s office in Heswall in full view of a bewildered Valerie. Lisa was handcuffed to a bored-looking WPC who confiscated Lisa’s mobile phone, and led her down the stairs to the waiting car.
‘IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY?’ protested Lisa.
The WPC didn’t reply but stared at her through cold, dark eyes.
She was driven to Chester at speed, told nothing, and held separately, unaware of the other’s presence. After being kept for an hour in a cell, Midge was moved and locked in an interview room for twenty minutes, where he was observed through a two-way mirror. He was smoking hard, ignoring banning notices, pacing back and forth, as Walter and Karen came through the door in a hurry.
Midge blathered, ‘I want to see my solicitor and I want to see him now!’
‘All in good time, Mr Ridge,’ answered Walter. ‘You will see your solicitor, but solicitors are busy people. They don’t spend all their time in the station waiting to serve people like you.’
‘My father won’t be happy about this. He knows people.’
‘Really?’
Karen flicked on the recording machine. She’d heard it all before, the mock protests, a thousand times; no one arrested had ever done anything wrong; no one apprehended was ever guilty. She harboured little sympathy, and there was something about this arrogant twerp that would make it all the more satisfying the moment he was charged. She glanced at her watch, recited the time and date, and sat down. Walter sat beside her and stared up at Midge who was still standing, leaning against the wall, sucking a cigarette.
‘Please sit down, Mr Ridge,’ pleaded Walter, ‘and put that cigarette out. You will see your solicitor as soon as he can be located.’
Midge frowned but sat, holding onto the table and pushing himself back into the chair.
Walter took a deep breath.
‘You went to Greece and visited the island of Carsos?’
‘I have never said I didn’t.’
‘Quite, but why did you go there?’
‘Holiday. We had some crazy idea of starting a cruising company. It was all holiday nonsense. You know how it is, you go on holiday somewhere smart, and the next thing is you begin fantasising about owning the hotel.’
‘Lisa, your wife, didn’t go with you, did she?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was before we were married, a final fling at freedom, if you like.’
‘But she had been there before, hadn’t she?’
‘I didn’t know that at the time.’
‘You are saying it was purely coincidence you visited the same small Greek island a few weeks after Lisa had been there?’
Midge nodded and Karen said, ‘Mr Ridge is nodding his agreement.’
‘Most people go on holiday with their fiancé, rather than with their sister.’
Midge smiled. ‘We are not most people.’
‘No. Indeed. Why did you hire a car and a boat using false passports?’
‘No comment. Look, is Jolyon coming or not?’ He paused and breathed hard, but then surprised them by continuing. ‘We just did, that’s all, we had them with us, it was a bit of a laugh, something different.’
‘A bit of a laugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a criminal offence to possess such things,’ said Karen.
‘Sorry,’ said Midge, ‘but they are not hard to come by.’
‘Is it a laugh that
Nicoliades Emperikos was stabbed through the heart and died a painful death?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did you stab Nicoliades Emperikos?’
‘I did not! Why would I do such a stupid thing?’
‘A good question, Mr Ridge. No doubt we will ascertain the reason for that before the day is out. Have you ever met Nicoliades Emperikos?’
‘No. Not knowingly.’
‘Why is it, I don’t believe a single word you say?’
Midge snorted. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps it’s the job you do.’
‘This interview is terminated,’ said Walter. ‘You will be returned to the cells pending further enquiries.’
‘I want to see my solicitor!’
‘Of course you do, and you will, when he gets here.’
The sudden change of tack surprised Midge. He hadn’t expected to be returned to his cell so soon, and his mind was working overtime. Perhaps that’s what the coppers wanted, and where the hell was that useless prat Jolyon Forrest?
LISA WAS BROUGHT UP next and wasn’t nervous at all. She sat down, her back straight; her posture positive, determined to remain in control. It reminded her of being back at school, being interviewed by the headmistress when a prefect’s vacancy arose.
In stressful interview situations, she was used to being successful, for she usually landed the post, passed the test, and stole the prize. Of course she did. It brought the best out of her. She thrived on stress. Her solicitor’s training helped in that regard. She knew what to expect, she’d studied umpteen police interview transcripts, she was paid handsomely to do so, and she knew it was imperative she must remain calm.
She recalled the techniques, the approved methods. When being interviewed by authority, any authority, always take your time, appear as if you are totally in control, and in so doing you slowly suck the initiative across the table, until without realising it, the interviewers become the interviewed. Delay answers, sip a drink, suck a cigarette (where permitted), sneeze, dive into a coughing fit, but never answer questions in a rush.
‘Why did you go to Greece by yourself?’ asked Walter.
