by David Carter
Laura always liked Diane; though whether she would have felt the same if she discovered she’d been sharing her beloved Vimy for more than twenty-five years with the pert nosed, fragrant, still slim woman, must have been in doubt.
Beyond Diane sat Lisa, now Lisa Ridge, married into the family dynasty just as Laura had done before her, and recently back from overseas. Lisa bossed the company’s legal team. She was a fully qualified and particularly bright solicitor, and the main case that sat on her desk was the ongoing appeal to have her husband pardoned and released.
A juicy reward had been offered on Carsos, an appeal for new witnesses broadcast widely, and a campaign for a retrial was underway. So far, she had made little progress. Midge had been moved three times and was incarcerated in a modern hellhole of a prison up in County Durham, where he spent his days staring at green washed walls. A place where jealous working class nobodies had twice attacked him in quick succession. He was thought of as pretty and rich, and considered a prize worth having and fighting for. He was fair game and at risk, and he knew it.
When Lisa wasn’t working on Ridge legal business, she was busy mothering their dear son, the one-year-old heir to the entire empire. The little man who would one day carry the Ridge flag forward single-handedly, ruling over all he surveyed, Hergest Vimy Rocky Ridge.
The little one was dark-eyed and broad-shouldered; and would need to be. He could eat for England and howl for the world. Hergest was the coming thing, and Hergest was fussed over by the women as if he were a combination of the Pope, the King of England, and the President of the United States of America, all rolled into one pudgy eating machine.
Beyond Lisa, sat the chubby Claire Sandolino, wearing a flowing black frock that seemed to contain enough material to curtain the whole of the top floor of Downing House. Messine promised to have a word with her afterwards about that. Claire Sandolino had joined the company on the first day they’d opened an office in London. Her name was Claire Walters back then, and she’d joined as an administration clerk. She rapidly developed a talent for spotting oddities in markets. The first time she’d pointed one out to Vimy he’d quickly agreed and backed her idea in a big way.
She’d forgotten exactly what it was, so many had she accomplished since, but it was probably an irregular spread between Brazilian and American soyabean prices. Afterwards, Vimy rewarded her with a new company car. She was thrilled, and after that spent all her waking hours seeking similar opportunities, every single one of which Vimy and Laura backed to the hilt. She rarely failed and her star rose accordingly, until she too was eventually invited onto the board, an invitation that was as merited as it was surprising.
Claire had married at her first opportunity, and she had married for one thing. Regular sex. He was a second generation Italian immigrant whose English hadn’t been up to much. When she first met him he was working part time in the Lord Nelson public house in Pimlico, pulling pints, collecting glasses, and charming customers. She fancied him from the moment he served her, and she gobbled him up before anyone else had a chance. She gave him English lessons, and in return, he taught her unbelievable things in the bedroom. She loved every moment, and let herself fall pregnant, before leading a confused Giacomo hastily up the aisle.
They produced three strapping sons, Mario, Marco, and Luca, bright, multilingual, and public school educated. Claire harboured ambitions of them joining the business, but her scheming went further. She imagined them ultimately seizing control of the company like some ancient Roman conspiracy, yet she wouldn’t dream of uttering such a preposterous idea, not even to the puzzled Giacomo, so fanciful might it seem. It seemed only Hergest Ridge would stand in their way.
Laura glanced down the table and into the eyes of the five women gathered there. She didn’t need to speak to gain their attention.
‘Before we start, there is someone I’d like you to meet. Her name is Sophie Lewis.’
She pressed the intercom and commanded the secretary to show Sophie into the boardroom.
The women looked quizzically at one another. The door opened and a slim woman wearing a neat apricot suit beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat almost trotted into the room. She wore large sunglasses and her long black hair gleamed under the neon light.
‘Miss Lewis will be representing Coral during her continued absence,’ said a smirking Laura.
‘Coral!’ shrieked Lisa and Persia as one, as they leapt from their chairs and embraced the girl.
‘How long have you been back?’
‘We hardly recognised you!’
‘Where have you been?’
Coral smiled and hugged her sisters and friends.
‘You’re not supposed to recognise me, stupid. I’ve been back a while. I have a flat in London, still lying low, but it’s lovely to see you all.’
‘Please get used to referring to our new colleague as Sophie Lewis,’ said Laura.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Messine.
‘I’m serious!’ insisted Laura. ‘This is Sophie. Get used to it!’
Coral, or Sophie, took the vacant place laid for her at the table, amid copious smiles and great warmth. The team was complete, the women finally together, the men all in another place.
‘If that isn’t enough,’ continued Laura, ‘I have another big surprise for you,’ as she retook control of the meeting. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself when I discovered it, and I don’t think you will either.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Coral.
‘Mum’s found a new man,’ joked Persia. ‘She’s naming the day.’
‘No, dear,’ said Laura, ‘not quite.’
‘Don’t tell me there’s a new will,’ said Lisa.
‘Not that either,’ said Laura.
‘Come on, Lor,’ said Claire, ‘don’t tease. Don’t keep us waiting. What do you know that we don’t?’
Diane remained silent as she tried to figure out what was coming next.
‘I love surprises,’ said Messine. ‘Don’t you? What is it, mum-see-dear? Spill the beans.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
LAURA BUZZED THE INTERCOM and ordered Mr Harkin be shown into the boardroom. The women watched in silence as the bald egg came in and stood nervously before them, his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his expensive beige overcoat, his demeanour a cross between confusion, panic, and fright.
‘Take a seat, please,’ said Laura, beckoning towards the lonely chair that was set beyond the end of the table. It was placed sufficiently far back to divorce itself from its colleagues, reiterating the fact that whoever sat there did so for interrogation purposes only.
Arthur loped to the end of the table, turned and grinned nervously at the seven pairs of feminine eyes inspecting him from top to tail.
‘May I take my coat off?’ he lisped.
‘Of course.’
He slowly unbuttoned the garment like a stripper, and laid it across the back of the chair and patted it, before sitting down and crossing his legs with a flourish.
‘This is nice,’ he said, looking around the room, at the antique map prints adorning the walls, at the coffee trembling in the corner that had yet to be served, and back at the stylish women. There was something oddly menacing about them, bearing down on him as they were, all perfume and panties, fragrant make-up, expensive clothes and sophisticated hairdos. If he didn’t know different, he might even think it rather sexual. So this was Vimy’s harem?
He smiled at Coral, the one he deemed to be the prettiest, though what did he know of such things? She smiled coldly back, as if to say: Who are you, funny boy, and what have you been up to, you naughty thing?
‘Right,’ announced Laura, somewhat abruptly. ‘This is Mr Arthur Harkin, and he has a story to tell you need to hear. Begin, Arthur.’
He cleared his throat and smiled, clasping his hands together above his knee, as he fought to overcome nerves.
‘Where do you want me to start?’
Laura, Persia, and Diane answered as one.
‘At the beginning!’
Diane deferred to her chairman with her palm upwards, and Laura said, ‘Start at the beginning, Arthur, don’t leave anything out. If you do your employment contract will be terminated and the files forwarded to the police. Is that clear?’
The mention of job terminations to a man none of them had ever met, and talk of possible police involvement concentrated minds wonderfully.
‘Perfectly,’ answered Arthur, warming to his task. He was determined to enjoy his turn in the limelight, of being the centre of attention. He would spin it out for all it was worth, for it was a rare opportunity to bathe in the glow of the spotlight. If he was going down, he would do so in a blaze of glory that none of them would ever forget.
‘Well,’ he started, taking a cavernous breath, ‘I first met Vimy when he was fifteen and I fancied him like hell from the first moment. Oh yes, I know you ladies all think he was fanciable to women, but you may be surprised to learn he attracted all the gays like there was no tomorrow. There was just something about him. That indefinable thing we all crave. They couldn’t wait to take his pants down, not that any of them ever managed it, least as far as I know. I certainly never did, worse luck. But that choirboy voice and pretty backside, they came from all over town just to follow him down Lord Street, you wouldn’t believe. Have you got the time, kid? He must have been asked that question countless times. Easy intro, you see; quickly followed with: Fancy a coffee? Bingo you’re in, if it’s your lucky day.’
The women shared a quizzical look.
Arthur proceeded to describe their close friendship, how he was a year and half older than Vimy, but it was Vimy who looked out for him as much as the other way round. He told them of the beatings and violence directed against homosexuals in nineteen-sixties Liverpool. He’d have laid down his life for Vimy Ridge, literally, if it had ever proven necessary.
‘He was the only person who ever really cared for me,’ moped Arthur. ‘Still is, except Pete.’
‘Who’s Pete?’ asked Lisa.
‘My partner, Pete Lee,’ and Arthur added unnecessarily, ‘I’m gay.’
The women nodded as one, all wondering where this decidedly weird conversation was heading.
Laura said, ‘Please try not to interrupt or we’ll never get finished. They’ll be plenty of time for questions later.’
He told them of the time he disgraced himself when he was drunk and made a pass in the lavatories at the boss’s son, Tony Dodgson, the same Tony who still worked for them on the other side of the building. Of how he, Arthur, was sacked and blackballed by the entire commodity industry, a decision that would condemn him to being an outcast for years. Of how Norman Ridge had put in a good word for him at the behest of Vimy, a prompt that landed him that boring job at Western Assurance, the job where he interminably chased after two pound seventeen shillings and sixpenny premiums from widows and spinsters in the well-heeled Liverpool suburbs of Aigburth, Calderstones, and Childwall, to ensure they had sufficient money to pay for a decent funeral, a pleasant plot, and a shiny, well-lined box. It was the only thing that seemed to concern them. He told the girls of the wasted, dead, and lonely years spent there, as if his entire life had been encased in ice.
Then came his godsend, Pegasus Trading.
It was like the sun coming up.
Vimy’s new enterprise where he called the shots away from family and trade influences, quite outside those nosey trade associations and regulatory bodies, a company where Vimy placed Arthur Harkin in sole command of the entire administration operation.
‘I finally came into my own,’ said Arthur, proudly. ‘I’m not a trader, you see. I’m a manager; and a bloody good one, though it took me some time to realise the fact. Administration, that’s my forte, neat handwriting and immaculate books, and everything running like clockwork. Vimy appreciated that; he knew my calling long before I did, the clever sod. Goods in, goods out, payments made, no bad debts, none of that nonsense. Now where was I?’
The girls smiled as he spoke, at his higgledy-piggledy delivery as much as the content. He was sitting before them relaying his life experiences, and it was as if they were not there at all. His eyes were not closed but they might as well have been, for he didn’t seem to see them at all, so enrapt was he in relaying the fantastic story that had been his life working with, and for, Vimy Ridge.
‘The dealings began with the Turk.’
Laura clarified. ‘You mean Bulent Tarsus?’
Arthur nodded. ‘That’s the fella, Bulent Tarsus.’
He spoke the name with reverence as if there was something there that intimidated him.
‘You see, he’d only supply the cotton to youse lot so long as Vimy took the H as well. He didn’t want to, not at first, but he wasn’t going to lose that cotton contract for the sake of a bit of spang. So he took everything Bulent offered, and Pegasus Trading was born soon after, primarily to shift it. He couldn’t ship it through here, could he?’
Arthur giggled, noted the stern faces, and nodded and continued on his way.
‘I knew some rough people, and they knew people, you know how it is, and we began recruiting the right sales staff, and the whole thing exploded. Talk of being in the right place at the right time. Vimy always was, and he said that Pegasus made more money than Ridge Commodities. I don’t know if that’s true, but I can believe it. If we don’t make more money than youse, you must be doing bloody well! Sorry for the language.’
He told them of the cooperative arrangement with the Wilkins gang in Chester, and of other similar syndicates in Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, and Newcastle. He told them of the successful launch of the London operation, of how they’d had big trouble with organised crime down there, of how Vimy had brokered a successful deal with a protection company for a slice of the action, and how it flourished, as profits poured in.
And he told them of the day when Vimy was almost assassinated in Liverpool by a hired gun. A young kid who’d have done anything for five grand. Just as well he was an amateur, and of how on one dark and dangerous night they had gone hunting the Wilkins family in Chester for revenge, to do murder, and of how he was certain they would have done too, if all three of the family had shown up. Arthur guessed the women didn’t believe him when he told them that. He could see it writ large on their faces, in their silence, open mouths and doubting eyes.
But when he filled in the details of guns and shooting practice, of private detectives, and the plan to gun the boys down first, before turning the fire on the woman, and of Vimy’s threat to feed the entire family alive into the Birkenhead incinerator, he could see they believed every damn word, and so they frigging well should, because every word was the God’s honest truth!
And somewhere along the line, somewhere towards the end of his lifelong story, he realised his job, his standard of living, his lifestyle, were all on the line. Maybe, even worse than that, perhaps ultimately his liberty too, and his storytelling became yet more intense, more urgent, more unbelievable. He told them of his meeting with Midge, and of how Midge had discovered the secret company and the piles of cash, and he told them of the safe house in Bromborough, and the three others that even Laura had yet to discover.
Diane stared at him through unblinking eyes. If baldy was to be believed, and there was no reason to doubt him, and if Vimy had confided his many secrets with this queen, had he also told him about her, about them? She thought probably not, but one thing was certain, if he needed to ingratiate himself with Laura, to save his own neck, he wouldn’t hesitate to slag her off, or anyone else, if necessary. Either way, it might be smart to have an instant and killing riposte in place. But while she was thinking of that, he suddenly, without warning, dried up.
‘There, you have it,’ he said, and he finished by clapping his clammy hands together without making a sound.
‘That’s it, that’s everything.’
‘Have you left anything out?’ asked Laura.<
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‘Small things for sure, but nothing major, nothing that instantly springs to mind.’
Laura nodded and placed her pen on the table.
‘Thank you, Arthur. Please wait outside. Don’t leave the building.’
He stood up and grinned.
‘Yes, boss. Am I under house arrest?’
It was supposed to be his little joke, but no one laughed.
‘Where’s the loo-loo please?’
‘Along the corridor,’ said Persia, pointing the way.
‘Ta-ra, see ya later, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
ARTHUR DONNED HIS COAT and scurried from the room. He needed a cigarette. Like all office buildings, Downing House was a smokeless zone and he couldn’t go outside. It would have to be the cubicle in the little boys’ room.
Diane leant back in her chair and breathed out heavily. She placed her pen on the pad that lay before her, where she’d made copious notes. ‘Well, what do you make of that? Surely one of us must have suspected something?’
If anyone did, they didn’t volunteer the information.
‘You don’t believe all that crazy hoo-hah, do you?’ said Messine.
‘I do,’ said Laura. ‘I’ve seen the cash to prove it. Let’s take a coffee break, gather our thoughts together, and reconvene in ten minutes.’
‘Is there any decaf?’ bleated Messine, but no one bothered to answer.
THEY WERE GLAD OF THE interlude, for the opportunity to visit the directors’ private bathroom, for the chance to freshen up and place their thoughts in some semblance of order. What had it all meant, and more importantly, what were the ramifications? The coffee dregs were growing cold when Laura re-opened the meeting twenty minutes later.
