by David Carter
She’d serve him his stout first and no one would ever grumble. Leastways not anyone who knew Rocky, and that applied to everyone who drank in The Cutlass. Rocky Ridge knew everyone, and everyone knew him. You waited your turn unless you were prepared to risk a ruck, and not many would do that.
Six months later they were married in the Catholic Church in Pownall Square at the back of the busy Exchange Railway Station in central Liverpool, just around the corner from the aptly named Wedding House pub. There was nowhere they could have held the reception but in the bar of the old Wedding House, where the owners did them proud with their beef and fish paste sandwiches, sausage rolls, and sliced homemade fruit cake. The day would live long in the memory, as would the six black and white photographs Rocky commissioned to be taken on the church steps.
Afterwards, they took the ferry from the pierhead and sailed down the river on a calm evening to New Brighton, where they would spend their honeymoon in the Red Gables guesthouse, a stone’s throw from the Tower ballroom. On the boat, Rocky picked confetti lodged in her dark hair that peeked below the rim of her hat. Mary loved that, the careful attention of her new husband, who ensured she was just so.
She had never been with a man before and naturally was mighty nervous at the prospect. Her family had teased her unmercifully of how rough it would be, how he’d beat her when she misbehaved, and force her to do things she’d barely imagined. She was a newly married woman and must please her husband, whatever it took. Sexual intercourse was not supposed to be enjoyed by women, so said Bertrand Russell’s new book Marriage & Morals, a copy of which she had discovered in the Central Library. It was a chore to be endured; and essential that it was painful, to keep the woman pure. The book was an horrific read. Could that really be true? Mr Russell’s weird view on life? It made her shiver and frown and uneasy too, if she wasn’t already worried enough.
With great trepidation she stepped onto the Royal Iris, the old ferry that had slipped up and down the river for longer than anyone could remember. She held his arm tight and thought of begging him to be gentle, but that sounded too ludicrous to say, so she bit her lip and forced a smile, as they strolled around in circles on the top deck, the gulls wheeling noisily over their heads. He knew something was preying on her mind but put it down to first night nerves, and he was probably right at that.
She needn’t have worried. I’m an experienced man, he fancifully imagined, and experienced he was, if you counted the prossies he’d passed a florin to on a Friday night, a quick one-two down the alleyway, up against the wall. In and out before the copper came. No one paid as little as a florin, a special rate Rocky alone enjoyed.
All the dock dollies knew Rocky, and for the most part liked him too, for their paths forever crossed. Some of them tramped the Dock Road almost as much as he did. Most of the tarts would have let him have it for nothing if only he’d thought to ask, for he made a change from the usual drunk, aggressive and creepy punters and seamen who floated through dockland Liverpool.
He was clean, strong, and gentle, and though he was known as a fighting man, he had never been known to lay a finger on a dock girl in anger. Little wonder so many of them were secretly in love with the man, a fact that escaped his attention entirely.
The landlady of the Red Gables guesthouse was an ancient dear by the name of Herridge. That was her surname, but it was the name by which she was known to all. ‘Just call me Herridge,’ she’d say. Florence, her first name, was far too familiar, she imagined, and few people had ever been blessed with knowing her Christian name.
Herridge could spot a honeymoon couple at fifty paces, even with failing eyesight and a bending back. But it didn’t stop her asking to inspect the marriage licence, for there would be no hanky panky in the Red Gables without one. She gazed down at the immaculate piece of paper; each green frame neatly completed in dark longhand script, lovingly written that morning, the ink still appearing wet.
‘That’ll do,’ she said, as she folded and handed the paper back to the pretty girl, who seemed barely old enough to be married, and to such a strapping chap at that. She was in for a right time of it, that was certain, and it was probably as well that Herridge didn’t mention her colourful thoughts.
They followed her up the four flights of stairs, their footsteps echoing through the old building, each clasping a tiny brown suitcase they’d bought together in Blackler’s store, to the room at the top of the house where the window looked out over the boating lake towards Fort Perch Rock and the lighthouse beyond.
Inside, a fine mahogany bedspread almost filled the room. Herridge turned down the bed to reveal fresh white sheets that looked exciting to Rocky. A clean bed and a pretty young wife. What more could any man desire?
‘The bed’s been aired, and it’s clean, you’ve no worries there.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Herridge,’ said Mary, fighting nerves.
‘It’s three and six a night, breakfast included.’
Rocky pulled the coins from deep within his tweed trousers and slipped them into the old lady’s shrivelled hand. She smiled gratefully. At least they hadn’t haggled for she couldn’t abide hagglers.
‘Breakfast’s at eight. Porridge, kippers, bacon, toast and tea. If you’re not down by half-past, you don’t get none.’
Rocky nodded and promised faithfully they would be there. He shut the door carefully behind her and listened for the sound of footsteps as she shuffled away down the stairs. He turned and walked back across the room towards Mary. She’d removed her coat and stood before him in her tight woollen dress, her black helmet-like hat still in situ. He pulled her towards him and kissed her gently. Mary trembled.
‘What’s the matter, girl? Are you cold?’
‘No,’ she stammered, ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Frightened? Frightened of what?’
‘You know,’ and she glanced nervously down at the bed and back at him.
‘Oh, I see,’ he beamed. ‘There’s nowt to be frightened of, I’ll be gentle with thee.’
And he was, each time.
She shed a tear, but it was truly lovely, and she knew she’d made the right choice in marrying Rocky Ridge, and she would stay with him forever. She would bear him many sons, for she desperately wanted him to be proud of her, but most of all, she aimed to be the best wife any man ever possessed.
IN THE MORNING, THEY were down in plenty of time for breakfast. Not many honeymooners were, but they were ravenous. Herridge studied the girl as she served the porridge. Sure, she looked a little tired, but something had put a dash of colour into those cheeks, and she knew darn well what that was. She smiled knowingly at the girl and Mary flushed, smiled, and looked away through the window at the passers-by, hurrying for the morning ferry, as they skipped across the road before the cream and maroon trams.
‘How long are you planning on staying?’
Rocky scratched his chin.
‘I thought we’d stay for the full week,’ and he glanced across at Mary for confirmation.
She nodded and half smiled. ‘That would be lovely,’ she murmured. ‘A whole week would be fine indeed.’
‘A week it is, then,’ and he opened his wallet and paid with two ten bob notes and a handful of coppers.
‘You don’t need to be bothered with those,’ said Herridge, pushing the coins back across the table. ‘You treat your pretty wife to something nice.’
Mary blushed and wished she hadn’t, while Rocky could never remember anyone refusing his money before. He thanked Herridge warmly. She was a woman of class, and he’d remember her forever.
‘I will, I will,’ he glowed, and glanced across at Mary and thanked the Lord for treating him so well. Rocky Ridge was a fortunate man and things were looking up. He was on the cusp of something truly amazing, and he knew it.
Chapter Four
WALTER DARRITEAU ARRIVED home at 11.30pm. It had been a pleasant evening with Darren and two or three others from the station, plus five or six of Darren’s friends fro
m the rugby club who could sure as hell tell a mean story.
Walter hadn’t laughed so much in ages. He may have taken an extra pint of stout, or two, more than was good for him, but occasionally a modest blow out was a tonic, so the psycho boys and girls said.
He’d bought chicken and chips over the bar and was not hungry at all, but he wasn’t sleepy either, a fact he discovered when he lay down and closed his eyes. Big brain turned on big time. Think 1980s, think Suzy Wheater, and that was that. There would be no peaceful and restful sleep that night, leastways not until he’d followed through what he was thinking about earlier.
There were things in those files about the Nesbitt brothers that did not add up. First, what had put the police on to the boys in the first place? Walter had done something he rarely did. He asked Sergeant Conlan for advice.
‘What made you start looking at the Nesbitts in the first place?’
Conlan scowled and said, ‘You’ve got the frigging files, and all the notes, too. You can see how much stuff there is there. How can I be expected to remember all that twaddle? Stop being a lazy arse. Read man, it’s all there for you, you’re supposed to be a detective, for God’s sake, work it out for yourself. I’ve better things to do than nursemaid the likes of you two,’ and he just stopped himself saying: Black fella, black perm, bloody hopeless, God help us!
Suzy said, ‘Is it OK if we pay the Nesbitts a visit?’
‘Do whatever the hell is necessary, but don’t bother me. I have bigger fish to fry. The Chief Superintendent’s given me a confidential case not to be discussed with oiks like you. You get out there and make progress,’ and Conlan stood up, slipped on his coat, and marched out of the building.
Walter pulled a face and said, ‘That is the last time I ask that dick for advice.’
Suzy grinned across the desks and said, ‘I’m surprised you asked him in the first place. Should have known he wouldn’t answer.’
‘Confidential case with the Chief Super,’ said Walter. ‘Yeah right, how many times has he swung that one?’
‘How many stars are in the sky?’
‘A lot.’
‘Yeah, but not as many as the twinkling drivel that jumps out of Sarge’s gob.’
Walter and Suzy shared a grin. Not for the first time they were on the same page, but not only that, they were on the same sentence. It was uncanny.
Walter said, ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘I think Sarge thinks this case is unsolvable, and that’s why he’s dumped it on us.’
Suzy thought about that for a second and said, ‘You’re probably right, but no cases are unsolvable, or is it insolvable?’
‘Some are!’ said Walter. ‘Jack the Ripper being the prime example.’
Suzy was having none of it.
‘No cases are unsolvable, even old cold cases like that. One day the science boffins will invent some new system or method that no one has yet thought of, something that will prove that one of the many suspects did it, even after all this time, eighty odd years later. Mark my words.’
‘Hope you’re right, but in the meantime, where do we go with this Nesbitt thing?’
‘Do you think it’s unsolvable?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Walter.
‘Good. Funny that, because neither do I, and as for where we go with it, the first stop must be a visit to the pair of charmers.’
‘No!’ said Walter. ‘First stop must be to read, digest and question every single sheet of paper in these damn files, and then we’ll go a-calling.’
‘It’ll take a few days.’
‘Don’t care! Better to be prepared than go off half cock.’
Suzy smirked. She loved Walter’s deep voice and the words that came out of his mouth. Pity she was married, but that couldn’t be helped. One day some lucky girl was going to land a corker of a husband in Walter Darriteau. She sighed and tried not to think about that, and delved back into the orange covered file.
IT TOOK THEM FOUR DAYS. Four days when Sergeant Conlan moaned repeatedly that he’d thought he’d given them a task to get on with, and the only way to do that was to get out of the nick and wear out some blessed shoe leather in what he called, old-fashioned damned police work.
Walter wasn’t averse to wearing out shoe leather, and nor did he prefer to stay office bound, but on that point he was not about to be bullied.
‘We’ll be off when we’re finished,’ he’d said on several occasions.
Conlan smirked at the girl.
‘You agree with this stop go, stop go, no policy, do you, Wheater?’
‘Sure,’ said Suzy, her lips glistening more than usual. ‘There’s no point in going off half cock,’ she said, grinning at Walter, emphasising the last word.
‘Just get on with it and get out from under my feet. This nick ain’t big enough for the three of us.’
‘Sparks,’ said Walter.
Conlan looked at the stupid black bloke and said, ‘Eh?’
Walter and Suzy shared a look, and she sang the pop song line.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, just get on with it!’ and he beetled off to make himself look busy elsewhere.
Walter said, ‘The Nesbitts were into doping horses.’
‘Yes, and reading between the lines, in a big way too, and if you dope a horse and it doesn’t win, the bookie cleans up. That how it works?’
‘Pretty much. Best to dope the red-hot favourite. That way the masses back the fap...’
‘Fap?’ she said.
‘Favourite at the post. Everyone backs the favourite to win; the Nesbitts take unlimited bets on the favourite knowing that those bets will all lose, and it’s kerching time for the bookie. But doping horses is fraught with danger.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, to begin with, you can’t just wander into a top racing stable at the dead of night, find your horse and slip it a Mickey Finn. These horses are worth vast amounts, and security is tight.’
‘Mickey Finn?’ she said, lines appearing on her forehead.
‘A drug, it’s an Irish term, or is it Cockney rhyming slang, I forget, but it amounts to the same thing. The horse is, what they call, “stopped” by the drug, but it’s a delicate business.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The dose has to be ultra precise.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if it’s too potent the horse won’t be able to stand up and obviously won’t run, and alarm bells will go off everywhere, and the worst-case scenario is the bookie may have to return all the stakes. But if the dose is too weak, there’s still the chance the creature will shake it off and go and win, and if any bookie has taken millions on that winning nag it could bust them in a single afternoon.’
‘So how and where do they get the drug into the horse?’
‘Through the stable-lad usually, or stable-lass.’
‘They’d be committing an offence if they did that.’
‘Of course, and a serious one, too.’
‘I smell dodgy money.’
‘Yes, either a big bung payment or blackmail, or good old-fashioned threats to the person, or the person’s family. Can’t you just see it? “Give this sweetie to Dobin. If you don’t, I’ll give it to your little girly.” And don’t forget, stable lads and lasses are notoriously poorly paid. They can supplement their wages by backing the horses they look after when they think they are in good nick and might win. But that is a hit and miss business at best, so if a neat guy targets the lad or lass, and happens to bump into them in the pub and buys them a drink, and says, “There’s a monkey in it for you, if you slip this little sweetie into Dobin’s feed,” anyone hard up with big financial commitments might be tempted.’
‘A monkey?’
‘Racing slang for five hundred pounds.’
‘That much?’
‘Why not? If it works, the crooks are making a hundred times that amount, and maybe more.’
‘How do you know all
this, Walter?’
‘I’m interested in sport.’
‘This isn’t sport.’
‘No, it’s crime, and I take a passing interest in that too.’
Walter and Suzy shared another look and another smile and Suzy said, ‘So they try to “stop” the fap with a drugged sweetie, and keep all the bets placed on the fap?’
‘Correct, though there are other revenue streams with this scam too.’
‘Such as?’
Walter pushed his chair back and linked his hands behind his head and said, ‘Imagine there’s a big Group One race with six runners, that’s not unusual. There’s a red hot favourite, a horse that is targeted and ultimately stopped. Then there are two more vying for second favouritism, and maybe three outsiders. Vanity runners, if you want to call them that.’
‘What the hell are vanity runners?’
‘Don’t you know anything about racing?’
‘Clearly not.’
‘It gives the connections the opportunity to share the paddock and the day with the nobs, maybe even the Queen or the Duke of Humperland, or whatever he’s called. The horse owners, newly monied, a lot of them, perhaps came up the hard way, get to rub shoulders with their so-called betters, lots of small talk, maybe even a picture for the mantelpiece. Can’t you just see it? It’s all he can do not to put his arm around Her Majesty’s shoulder. Their horse almost certainly won’t win, but they get a day out they remember for the rest of their lives. But that’s getting away from the point. The point is that the bookie, in this case the Nesbitts, backs both of the other two favoured runners to win, with a great chance of collecting. Not only do they keep all the money placed on the losing favourite, they also win big time from other bookies when the second or third favourite romps home.’
‘I get it, it’s crooked as sin.’
‘It can be, so don’t bet on horses if you need the money. It’s not a level playing field, and there’s another revenue stream too.’
‘Like what?’
‘If a bookie, say, as in this case the Nesbitts, knows a horse is nobbled, they might sell that vital info to other crooked bookmakers, and for big moolah, and they in turn can operate the same scam with their regular punters.’