by David Carter
‘It was my swansong, before my marriage.’
‘And is that how it turned out?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘When you were in Greece, you met Nicoliades Emperikos.’
‘Did I? I met so many people. They are a particularly friendly race.’
‘Did you have an affair with the man?’
‘Of course not. Would you have an affair just prior to your marriage?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. But I’m not a woman, and I’m not you. We can produce several witnesses to say that you were involved with Nicoliades, personally, and that you were thrown off the island because you caused trouble.’
‘Witnesses, what witnesses? They are paid liars.’
‘Is Sergeant Christos Sharistes lying when he writes that you had an affair with Nicoliades, and that he threw you off the island because you were jealous he had taken up with a Dutch woman?’
Lisa laughed aloud. ‘That’s absurd.’
‘As we speak, the Greeks are preparing extradition papers.’
She pulled a face as if to say, I’m not bothered at that, though deep down for the first time she was. Keep control. Remain calm. Unconcerned. Unrattled. Innocent... and winning.
‘Conspiracy to murder, and perverting the course of justice are serious charges, as you well know,’ said Karen. ‘You could go away for twenty years. If you told us exactly what happened, you might avoid charges altogether. If your case came to court in the UK, it would be a lot better for you than rotting in a baking hellhole in Greece.’
‘I have nothing to be charged with, and as for spending time in Greece, I have always found Greece and the Greek people, to be enjoyable company. I adore the heat, too. Really, Sergeant, is this how you gain your convictions, persuading one witness to lie about another?’
Karen flushed and sat back in her chair. The woman was good, and Karen knew she would have to be cannier than that.
‘Why were you thrown off the island?’ persisted Walter.
‘I wasn’t. I’ve told you that already.’
‘It says so here!’ said Walter, banging the open Greek police report that lay before them. ‘You were escorted from the island!’
‘I don’t care what it says, Inspector. It’s nonsense. Can’t you see, because the Greeks can’t find the murderer themselves, they are trying to pin it on a foreigner? It happens all the time.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is Coral?’ asked Walter.
‘In the States, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t know where the sisters are. They don’t answer to me.’
‘Whose idea was it?’
‘What idea?’
‘To murder Nicoliades?’
Lisa laughed hard. ‘Inspector, you really must be desperate. There was no plot. He was murdered by a local, you can be sure of that.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘Only what you have told me, and what has been in the media.’
And there it abruptly ended.
Lisa was returned to the cells to reflect on her interview. She still did not know Midge was in the building, though she suspected he was. Karen disappeared and returned with two paper cups of coffee. Karen left hers. Walter sank them both.
Karen said, ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘She’s more than good. Solicitor’s training, no doubt.’
‘Have we enough to charge them?’
Walter scratched his chin. ‘Him? Certainly. He went to Greece carrying a false passport a few weeks after his wife was involved with a barkeeper. The bar guy was murdered while he was there, and he scuttles home to England and sets up a false alibi, a tale we can now prove to be a pack of lies. It might be circumstantial, but I think we have enough. If only we could find his fingerprint in the house, but we’ll have to do without that. As for her, I am not so sure. We’ll have to run that past the CPS. They can decide. Let them earn their corn. I just wish we could find Coral. She’s the key. Any joy with that?’
‘Not yet. Still looking.’
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Michael Ridge was formally charged with the murder of Nicoliades Emperikos. Lisa wasn’t charged and was released; the CPS convinced she would walk free, and they were under enough pressure to reduce public expenditure. At the first opportunity, Lisa was packed off overseas. There was no point in running unnecessary risks.
Jamie Waters had folded at his first interview, and confessed he’d supplied Michael Ridge with a false alibi. He was charged with providing the police with misleading information and perverting the course of justice. Coral was still missing and the English police were in touch with the FBI. The grinding wheels of justice had begun to turn, and nothing would stop them.
Chapter Fifty-Three
DURING THE QUESTIONING, Vimy and Laura sat together in the police station waiting area, mostly silent, gnawing nails, as they waited for news. In between berating the desk sergeant and demanding attention, Vimy sat still and recalled his own difficulties from years before.
Twenty-five years had flashed by since that trouble with Ma Wilkins. He closed his eyes and saw it all as if it were yesterday. Diane Shearston had poked her head into his office.
‘Call for you, line eight, a Mr Lincoln.’
Vimy nodded and gave her that stare that told her to get the hell out of it and close the door.
‘Mr Lincoln?’
‘Yes.’
‘Progress?’
‘We might have something.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘We could fit you in at four today.’
‘I’ll be there.’
It took an hour to drive from Liverpool to Chester; a big engine no guarantee of quick movement, even back then. The rush hour was about to start and roadworks on the A41 seemed to spring up everywhere. He parked the car in the Northgate Arena car park, and walked the last ten minutes through the old city to Lincoln’s office.
Nothing had changed. The wait in the hallway, Caroline to greet him, the same polite cold smile. She even wore the same suit. He threw his arms out and smirked, ‘I’m ready.’
She forced a grin. ‘That won’t be necessary. You can go straight in, Mr Lincoln’s waiting.’
That was different.
The office door was ajar. Vimy tapped it and went inside. Lincoln stood and shook his hand and pointed to the chair, as he sucked on a king-size cigarette.
‘Progress?’ asked Vimy.
‘Yes, of a sort.’
Lincoln opened one of the drawers on the right side of his desk and pulled out another box file. He opened the box and produced five new photographs. As before, they were large black and white pics, and whoever took them had done an excellent job. The resolution was clear; it had been a sunny day; the pictures sharp, and the faces unmistakable.
Lincoln turned the first photo round for Vimy to see, tapping it as he spoke.
‘This is Ma Wilkins.’
Vimy wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement, but the picture was definitely of her. She was sitting in the back of a large, dark saloon. It appeared to be parked in a country lay-by, perhaps North Wales, though it could have been anywhere. Beyond the car were trees and open fields and beasts grazing. Her arm was extended out through the open window, her fingers dangling down, holding a freshly lit cigarette.
‘That is Ma Wilkins,’ he confirmed.
‘And these are her sons?’
Vimy nodded. They were sitting in the front seats. He still couldn’t tell them apart, but they were definitely the Wilkins boys.
‘They are. How did you get these?’
Lincoln frowned, and they both knew he would not answer.
‘They are talking to another man sitting in the back of the car,’ said Lincoln. ‘He was a little shy and did not want to be seen. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his face. At no point did he sit far enough forward for our spotter to capture him.’
Lincoln smiled. ‘All is not lost.’
‘In what way?’
He rooted back in the drawer and pulled out an expensive tape-recorder. He placed it on the desk, pressed the play button, and turned up the volume. Birds were tweeting. In the distance a cow lowed. A car dashed by, then a bulk tipper truck, then quietness, followed by a voice, a woman’s voice. It was muffled, and Vimy had to listen hard to make out what was said. It was Ma Wilkins.
‘We won’t fail again,’ she said. ‘The guy was young and inexperienced, and he’s been disciplined. OK, he failed, but only by a whisker. The target got lucky.’
The target? The target was me, thought Vimy.
One of the sons spoke. ‘The guy’s a prick. He’s got it coming.’
The man in the back spoke.
‘We don’t like failure, we won’t tolerate it.’
For a long moment, the Wilkins family sat in silence like children at school being admonished for being late once too often.
The man spoke again. ‘Do you need more cash?’
‘No!’ replied Ma, as if the thought of an additional payment was an affront. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
The sound of a cargo plane passing overhead screeched onto the tape. It was bound for Hawarden airport and it was flying low and noisy, and all conversation ceased. One of the boys swore at the plane. The man in the back spoke again.
‘So, when?’
‘Soon. Very soon.’
‘No mistake this time.’
Ma Wilkins coughed a smoker’s cough.
The man was unmistakeably American. The car started and roared away as the tape ended, and Lincoln turned off the machine.
‘Do you know the guy?’
‘Yes,’ said Vimy.
‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Jeb Lomax. He works for a firm called Merignac. He’s based in New York.’
Lincoln pulled a long face. He seemed impressed. A New Yorker pushing assassination on his territory; that was a first.
‘The question is, Mr Ridge, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Go away, perhaps?’
‘I can’t run forever.’
‘Quite so. I’ve been giving the matter a little thought. It might be a case of hit first, before you get hit. Instant retaliation, if you will. I know people who might be able to solve your problem, permanently, so to speak, but it would be expensive.’
Vimy wouldn’t rule it out, he wouldn’t rule anything out. People were trying to kill him and decisive action was necessary. But he wanted a few hours to think things through, though he guessed he didn’t have a lot of time. Lincoln spoke again.
‘Talking of expenses, the float needs replenishing. We had to obtain the latest American distance listening devices to record that conversation, and they don’t come cheap. We were lucky. If it had been a cold day and the car windows closed, we wouldn’t have picked up a thing.’
Vimy nodded and produced his chequebook. Lincoln had exceeded expectations, and he was happier to pay the five grand for he’d delivered more than he’d hoped. He wrote the cheque and handed it across the desk. There was nothing more to be said, and the meeting was over. Vimy nodded, stood up, shook Lincoln’s hand, and left the office. He ducked into the first telephone box he came to and rang Arthur Harkin who’d returned to the Wirral to catch up with Pete.
‘Meet me at Bromborough, soon as you can. Urgent.’
‘Be there in thirty minutes,’ said Arthur, chewing through a tongue sandwich.
‘See you soon.’
BY THE TIME VIMY ARRIVED at the safe house, Arthur Harkin’s car was parked on the drive. As Vimy approached the door, Arthur opened up and ushered him inside. They sat in the long sunroom that stretched the full length of the building at the back of the house, a room that looked out over a neatly trimmed lawn.
‘It’s the Wilkins lot,’ said Vimy. ‘Working for Merignac’s.’
‘Bastards! I thought it might be.’
‘So the question is, what are we going to do about it?’
Arthur sniffed and sipped a large whisky he had poured for each of them.
‘I know someone who might be able to sort them out.’
Vimy smiled and sipped his drink.
‘Isn’t it funny how people know people who can sort out my troubles. I’m sure they could, but something tells me this time we need to deal with it ourselves.’
Arthur frowned and nodded. ‘You mean kill them?’
It was Vimy’s turn to nod. ‘Why not? It would solve the problem in a flash. You afraid?’
‘No, I’m not afraid. I’m just surprised you should consider such a thing.’
Vimy raised his eyebrows and took another sip of scotch.
‘Sometimes in life you have to stand up and be counted. Sometimes you have to look out for yourself. Sometimes the law can’t protect you, and this is it. Are you in or are you out? No pressure, Arthur, I’ll think none the worse of you.’
Arthur sniggered.
‘I’m in. Of course I’m bloody in.’
Deep within his soul, he’d always known the day would come.
‘What about weapons?’
‘Leave that to me.’
‘You are well organised. If we’re really going to do it, the sooner the better.’
‘Agreed,’ said Vimy. ‘I thought we’d take a trip into North Wales tomorrow at first light. There’s a quiet place I know up in the hills. I’ve been shooting there before, pheasants and ducks in season. At this time of year, it will be deserted. We can have a little practise.’
Arthur bobbed his head and sipped away. Sitting in a safe house in Bromborough drinking malt whisky with his lifelong friend, it all sounded so easy.
‘I’ll pick you up at six. Be ready.’
Arthur nodded and drained his glass.
‘In the meantime, if we both figure out how best to do it, put our heads together, we should be able to come up with a decent plan. You’re the admin man, administrate that!’
‘I have a few ideas,’ said Arthur, as if he had been honing them.
‘So do I. We’ll see how they compare in the fresh light of a new day.’
THE EARLY MORNING MIST rolled off the marshes and drifted up the hill from the Dee estuary. It swirled across the road towards Arthur’s house, bringing that rotten, earthy smell with it. It was overcast and drizzling and Vimy was happy to see the rain. It would keep people indoors and help muffle gunshots. Half an hour before, he’d crept into his young son’s bedroom. Midge was sleeping like an angel, as Vimy kissed him on the forehead, before creeping downstairs, anxious not to wake him.
He found Arthur’s house lit up as if they hadn’t been to bed. Vimy didn’t need to step from the car because the front door opened the moment he arrived. They must have been watching and waiting for him. Vimy stared through the open car window, on through the double metal gates set into the high wall, and beyond that to the open front door. A slight figure stood in the doorway. Vimy watched Arthur stoop and peck the figure on the cheek, and then turn away from the house. He opened and closed the gates with a soft clank as if anxious not to wake neighbours, jogged across the road towards the car, and jumped inside, rubbing his hands together as if his circulation had shut down.
‘Nice day for it,’ he said.
Vimy grunted and nodded.
‘Are we loaded?’ asked Arthur.
‘Oh, yes.’
THEY ROARED DOWN THE Wirral and crossed the River Dee at Queensferry. The tide was in and the water table high. The river looked dark and muddy in the grey light. They turned up the hill towards Hawarden village before switching onto the Wrexham road. They didn’t see a soul. Shortly after that, they turned right again towards Corwen. At that hour of the morning there was little traffic on the road other than an occasional sleepy eyed farmer, or a postman rushing to collect a delivery.<
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The road rose all the time, and the trees thinned out. They crossed open moorland. Sheep wondered carelessly across the road in front of the car, some stopping to stare at the strangers. Mist eddied from the moors and swirled across the glistening tarmac.
On a high twisty section above Llandegla, Vimy turned the car left onto a partially gravelled lane. Thirty yards further and a worn-out wooded five-bar gate was thrown across the track. On the gate was a painted sign: Pheasant and Duck Shooting in Season and a telephone number that was peeling and didn’t make any sense. Arthur jumped from the car and opened the gate. Vimy purred the vehicle through, Arthur closed the gate behind them, and slipped back in.
The lane headed straight up the hill, curled into a large dip where they were hidden from the road. To the right was a wooden hut. It looked like a large garden shed; the timber fresh, the roof green and newly repaired. At the near end was a large double door secured with a recently fitted yellow padlock.
‘Ready for the new season,’ explained Vimy.
Arthur nodded but didn’t speak. It was still drizzling and miserable as they followed the lane for another half mile, as the ground fell away on the other side of the hill.
Vimy pulled the car to a halt on an open piece of ground and turned off the engine. He buzzed down the window. The only noise was the soft hum of drizzle and some rooks cawing in the distance. He opened the door and got out, turned up his collar, pulled the tweed cap down over his face, and glanced at his watch. It was five past seven. He shivered and opened the tailgate, Arthur standing at his shoulder. Inside, was a large cardboard grocery box, the top flaps folded closed. Vimy pulled the box open revealing two shining handguns. They took Arthur’s breath away. The only other item in the box was a small square cardboard case of ammunition, forty-eight rounds.
‘Lovely jubbly,’ said Arthur.
He had never held a gun before, and the imminent thought of firing one excited him like nothing else.
The weapons were Smith and Wesson 57’s, .41 calibre, shining black steel with inlaid walnut handles, the maker’s name deeply embedded in the barrels. Beneath the chamber ahead of the trigger casing were the words: Made in the USA. Smith & Wesson, Springfield, Massachusetts. Where the hell had he obtained such things?
