by David Carter
‘I’ll tell her you called. Oh! Err... just a minute, I think she’s coming in now.’
Vimy pressed the receiver harder to his ear and strained to pick up what was being said 240 miles away. He heard the older woman, presumably Laura’s mother, saying, ‘There’s a call for you, darling... it’s a man,’ as if that was a rarity.
‘Who is it?’ he heard Laura say.
‘I think he said his name was Vimy, something like that. I told him you were late because of the flap that’s on.’
‘Oh, you didn’t tell him that?’
‘Well, not in so many words, dear. Here, you speak to him, it’s your call.’
Vimy heard her take a deep breath before her clear voice sailed into his ear.
‘Hello, who is this?’
‘It’s Vimy, we met on the plane, from Ankara.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember, the commodity man from the Wirral. You’ve taken your time. I’d almost forgotten you.’ Her tone was one of disinterest, neither friendly nor hostile, but that was to be expected. It was all in the cards.
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘We’re all busy, Mr Ridge.’
He noted she’d remembered his name.
‘You have a flap on, apparently?’
Laura laughed once, dismissively, perhaps exaggeratedly, and said, ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Look, I’m in London next week, a grain do. I wondered if you’d care to have dinner with me, say Friday?’
‘I don’t know if I’m free,’ she shot back, still offering little encouragement. Now who was playing mind games? But she added, ‘You can take my work number and try me in the afternoon. ‘If I’m free, I’m free. If I’m not, I’m not.’
It was Vimy’s turn to smile. ‘What’s the number?’
‘01–933–9600. That’s my direct line.’
He jotted the number in his diary.
‘I’ll call,’ he said.
‘That’s up to you. Goodnight.’
And she was gone. She’d dumped the phone before he could ask her anything else, as her mother hovered in the background, leaving him staring at the receiver. There were no goodbyes; no pointless gossip, no how are you’s, or how have you been keeping, there was nothing further to be said, so it seemed. That night, he didn’t sleep well. Whether it was the thought of meeting Laura, or of his over-traded open position, he wasn’t sure. Either way, the next day, he rose earlier than usual and scurried to work.
CHICAGO PRICES ENDED the session slightly lower, but no longer were there full-blooded falls. Values were still dropping, but the trend line was bottoming out. Vimy judged it was time to act, and he did.
He put an early call in to Freddie Fotheringay, but poor old Fred hadn’t arrived in the office. He had a slight excuse, for he lived in deepest Wales. Somewhere up the mountains above Corwen, was how he described his address, and if the traffic was bad over the bottleneck at the Queensferry Bridge, he could often be delayed. But it wasn’t long before Freddie rang back, and he sounded breathless.
‘Is there something going on?’ he said. ‘Is there something moving?’
No time for extended morning greetings on such a day. Business came first.
‘Morning, Fred,’ mumbled Vimy. ‘Are there any substantial sellers in the market of Number 3 Corn other than Silver Sword?’
Freddie sniffed. ‘No, not really. As you know they are the people with the weight to shift. Donald Dodgson might do a reasonable quantity. What are you looking for?’
‘Ten thou.’
‘10,000 tonnes!’ Freddie’s voice trailed upwards at the thought. ‘10,000 tonnes?’ He repeated excitedly, seeking clarification.
‘At the right price, Fred.’
‘Donald is always willing to put up a price. You know that. Do you want me to ask him?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you want to pay?’
‘What do you think?’
Freddie suggested a price. It was the same price that Cordell Mulroney had trailed past Vimy’s nose a few days before, and prices had dropped since.
‘A pound less.’
‘You’re playing hardball.’
‘Buyer’s prerogative, Fred.’
‘Do you want me to put that price to him? See if he’ll bite?’
‘Yeah. Why not? Let’s see what he’s made of.’
‘You want me to book up 10,000 tonnes at the price if he’s willing?’
‘Yes, I said so, didn’t I?’
‘Gotcha, kid. Leave it with me. Ten minutes.’
FRED SCARPERED OFF like a starving rodent who’d discovered a secret way into the grain silo. Old Fred could smell a commission cheque from twenty miles away and within two minutes he was back, and was speaking slowly and deliberately, as he did when he had business to confirm.
‘We have bought for your account 10,000 tonnes of Number 3 Yellow American Corn at your bid price and the seller is Dodgsons.’
As easy as that, one phone call, thirty seconds, and five hundred wagonloads of golden corn were in the book.
‘Well done, Fred,’ whispered Vimy. ‘Can you buy more? But from a different seller.’
From across the city, Vimy knew Fred was pulling a face.
‘You mean you wouldn’t take more from Dodgsons?’
The comment irritated Vimy.
‘Look Fred, Dodgsons are a small, independent company. If anything happened to them I’d be up shit creek.’
‘OK, take it easy. Do you think something will? Happen to them?’
‘It doesn’t look good, Fred, does it? They’re selling the arse off corn at a knock down price. That can only mean one of two things. Either they are taking a caning, getting out of a dreadful position, or they are taking a view that prices will fall further, which after the cataclysmic drops we’ve witnessed, is a dangerous strategy.’
‘The price might drop further...’
‘Yes Fred, it might, but don’t bank on it.’
‘So you’d like to buy more corn, but from a different seller?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Another ten thou?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you buy from Silver Sword?’
‘Of course.’
‘My God, your missus must have slipped something pretty potent into your coffee this morning. Oh sorry, I forgot. You’re not married.’
‘Just get it bought, Fred. Leave the jokes for later, eh?’
He scuttled off and Vimy had an impression of him racing round with a foaming mouth. The old man had just earned £6,250 commission for one minute’s work and one telephone call, and he was about to repeat the performance. It would be Fred’s best day of the year, no question. The drinks in the bar would be on dapper little Freddie at lunchtime, and the news of the weighty trading would flash round the exchanges in minutes.
Fred came back as quickly as before, and Vimy knew he was sweating.
‘You’re booked!’ he announced triumphantly. ‘And the seller is Silver Sword. Want any more?’
‘No. Drawn stumps, for now.’
‘Well, thank you, sir, I owe you one.’
Freddie addressed his clients and customers as Sir sparingly; but that day he’d willingly have called Vimy Your filthy Royal Highness or Your Regal Bacteria if need be.
‘I’ll see you in the bar,’ said Fred.
‘You will.’
A minute later Cordell Mulroney was on the phone, and he was steaming, a fact confirmed when he opened the conversation with, ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’
‘What’s up, Cordell?’
‘I went out of my way to offer you corn direct at a knock down price and you turned me down, and the next thing I know, you are buying through that little Welsh twat, Fotheringay, and I’m stuck with a fat commission cheque to find.’
‘In case it’s escaped your notice, Cordell, I bought today at a pound a tonne less than you quoted.’
‘That’s not the point, fella, don’t mess
with me! Don’t you think you at least owed me a call to tell me you were in the market?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘And if that’s not bad enough I now hear you’ve been buying from that ugly prick Dodgson.’
In his mind Vimy cursed Fred. He still hadn’t learnt to keep his trap shut.
‘I have bought a little from Donald. It’s a free country, Cordell.’
‘A little, my ass, well you’ll pay for that, you’ll see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, everyone knows he’s baling out at a huge loss. You’ll be lucky if he lasts the month.’
The comment worried Vimy. Perhaps Cordell was speaking out of spite, or could he know something of Dodgson’s difficulties? It was impossible to keep secrets for long from Silver Sword and their ilk. They knew what price Doddies had originally bought at because they’d have been the seller.
Vimy tried a different tack.
‘Where do you think the market’s headed?’
‘Down, pal,’ said Cordell, authoritatively, as if he were privy to knowing the prices ruling one month, two months, and three months down the line.
‘Are you still a seller?’ asked Vimy.
‘Maybe. How much do you want?’
‘Another 20,000 tonnes at the same money.’
Cordell didn’t flinch; neither did he take a moment to think about it. Vimy wondered if there was a show of bravado in his trading technique.
‘You are booked, my friend! 20,000 tonnes sold to you at the same dosh! Flakey-flakey! Have a nice day, mushty-cushty, and remember... next time you’re in the market, ring me, pal. Don’t piss around with the pygmies. Stay fluffy, kid!’
Cordell rang off. Vimy downed the phone and wrote the trade in the contract book. He asked Diane to telex a confirmation to Silver Sword immediately, to have it on the record in case the market turned and Cordell conveniently forgot about the conversation. Sometimes it happened. She smiled at him in admiration for she knew what he’d achieved, not to mention her Christmas bonus was well and truly nailed down. The telex zipped down the wire and the written contract went in the post that night.
TWO DAYS LATER VIMY bought back the shares in his own company held by the venture capitalists. He was forced to pay top dollar. Venture capitalists make money by screwing clients when they can afford to be screwed. But he was rid of them forever, and beholden to no one. He bought the house too, Misnomer, and set about restoring it, and after that, he bought the biggest BMW money could buy, all on the advice of his accountants, Veloote & Daniels, suppliers of neat diaries, and ultra expensive financial advice.
‘You need to spend some money, old chap,’ they said. ‘We can’t have the taxman swallowing it all. Get out and spend some cash.’
Vimy wasn’t a spendthrift and never had been, but he would have been lying if he said he didn’t derive a kick from occasionally splashing cash. He ended his spree by lavishing money on a ridiculously expensive engagement ring for Laura Lancelyn-Biggs, at Pykes the Jewellers in Exchange Street East, Liverpool. He set it on his bedside table and paid homage to it every night before settling to sleep. If only she knew how stupid he had been. Next, he had to persuade her to wear the damned thing. Vimy was an ideas man, and was working hard on that too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IN THE OLD TOWNHOUSE in Chester that should have been a desirable residence, but wasn’t through neglect, Doc Grayling said, ‘Nasty business,’ nodding down and pointing at the woman’s body. The left side of her face was missing and most of the flesh from her right forearm.
Walter said, ‘What the hell’s been going on here?’
‘The dogs got hungry, I reckon,’ said the Doc. ‘Seems the obvious explanation,’ and he pointed down to gnawing marks that had penetrated to the bone.
‘Really?’ said Walter, bending for a better look.
Doc Grayling pursed his lips and said, ‘Yep, we’d all do it if we were hungry enough.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Walter.
The Doc ignored him and was talking again. ‘Though maybe even they felt a sense of guilt about it, the poor mutts. Munching away on their beloved owners, before barking the house down, almost literally, until someone came and checked out what the heck was going on.’
Karen said, ‘Careful where you stand,’ pointing with her clean shoe to one of the many dog faeces scattered about the house, all adding to the aroma of death and misery and a total lack of care.
Walter said, ‘How long have they been like this? How long have they been dead? How long is it since anyone else was in the house?’
‘One question at a time, Mr D. It could be awhile, maybe weeks, possibly even a few months.’
‘Good God! Can you tell me anything I can get my teeth into, no pun intended?’ asked Walter.
‘As a matter of fact I can,’ said the Doc. ‘He, who I believe is or was, Mr Jack Terrington, was suffering from advanced lung cancer, and that probably killed him.’
‘How do you know?’
Karen chipped in, ‘There’s some unused prescriptions for cancer meds, and an invitation for Mr Terrington to move into a local cancer specialist hospice.’
‘Makes sense, I guess,’ said Walter. ‘Who’s the woman?’
‘Almost certainly his wife, one Meryl Terrington.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘No idea,’ said the Doc, just about keeping the irritation from his voice.
‘I know, I know,’ said Walter. ‘The Post Mortem will tell us more.’
‘You have it in one,’ said the Doc, wondering why the man needed to ask questions when he knew the answers, but that was Walter Darriteau all over. Doc Grayling imagined Walter had been a cat in a previous life, and a big one at that, curiosity killed the... and all that.
Walter said, ‘Any sign of a break in?’
‘None,’ said Karen, and the young PC nodded his agreement, as Karen said, ‘and from what we understand the dogs were noisy and aggressive, even before this incident, and that may well have deterred potential burglars or sneak thieves,’ and she added, ‘But then again, would you want to steal anything from here?’
Walter said, ‘People have money, and often the people you least expect, and especially those who can afford to live inside the city walls.’
‘There’s a purse in her bag,’ said Karen, ‘fifty quid still in it, so robbery can be ruled out.’
‘Any sign of foul play?’ asked Walter to anyone who fancied answering.
‘Only by the dogs, but I’ll know more about that later,’ said the Doc.
Walter scratched his chin and asked, ‘Crime scene or not?’
The Doc grimaced and said, ‘If I had to guess, I’d say no, but...’
Walter butted in, ‘Yes, I know, we’ll know more about it later. OK, we’d better leave things as they are for a short while, get the photos taken and the bodies are all yours. Geez! I hope when I pop my clogs someone actually notices my absence. Karen, go and knock on the other houses in the row. Find out as much as you can about when these people were last seen out and about, and if they had any known friends or relatives, either living in the street or anywhere else.’
‘Sure, Guv,’ said Karen, and she was happy to skip down the stairs and get out of there, and back onto the street to gulp in fresh air, even the city centre variety.
Walter blew out heavy and said to the young uniformed guy, ‘You’ll need to hang on here and make sure the scene is secure. Have a good look around for any paperwork. You never know what you might find. Were they in debt? Did they have any legal disputes with neighbours, or anyone else? Had they received any threats, or offers to buy the house? You know what to look for, anything that looks remotely odd or confrontational, and make sure you keep those gloves on at all times.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ the neat guy said, happy in knowing he had something of interest to keep him occupied. The Doc slipped him extra smelling salts and muttered, ‘Open a window or two; might be a sens
ible idea, though it will attract our insect friends.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
Walter said, ‘They’ll find their own way here with or without our help.’
‘Already have,’ muttered the Doc.
Walter took one last look around. One dead man who may or may not have died from diagnosed cancer. And one woman, presumed to be his wife, missing part of her face and forearm, and yet the consensus appeared to be that no crime had been committed. Pity really, for he was ready for a good murder hunt that would test his skills, not chasing round after moronic people stealing luxury cars, as Mrs West would have him do. One might have thought tracking devices would have snuffed out that wacky scheme, but the car thieves had acquired equipment that traced a tracker, enabling it to be removed and discarded, or for the more ingenious thieves to affix them to a lorry or car criss-crossing the kingdom. Or even, as had happened twice recently, to the London express train where they were found at Euston Station, inert and useless.
‘I’m off,’ said Doc Grayling. ‘The body collectors should be here within the hour.’
Nice phrase thought the PC, though maybe not such a nice job.
‘Call me,’ said Walter, glancing at the Doc.
‘Will do,’ he said, as he shuffled away.
BACK OUTSIDE IN THE sunshine Karen was busy knocking on doors, and not having much luck. One neighbour was in but said they kept themselves to themselves, both the person Karen was talking to, and the now deceased people who no one seemed to know anything about. It said something about modern society, thought Walter; that people in Britain didn’t know who lived in the adjoining property.
It wasn’t a new phenomenon, but it sure as heck wasn’t an improvement on the old days when everyone knew everyone else in the street, and looked out for them too. Could that old neighbourly thing ever return? Could it be brought back through legislation, but that was opening a whole new can of worms that any politician with one eye on individual freedoms, and another on the ballot box, would never crack open, unless they were mad, or far-sighted, or both.
The answer was probably not, what with the transient nature of people everywhere in the twenty-first century. People no longer moved to the next village or town to find work to better themselves, they moved to a whole new damned country, or continent, and even learnt an entirely new language from scratch, which said something about the desperation involved, and the determination too. Could he move to a different continent and change his mother tongue, and all within six weeks? Walter shrugged his shoulders at the thought. He had enough difficulty with his schoolboy French.