by David Carter
‘You’d better come in, so long as you remain civil.’
She sniffed too and almost laughed.
‘If we’d wanted trouble, your brains would be on the step b’now.’
He nodded her in, and she pushed past him and stood in the large rectangular hallway, staring expectantly at the six facing doors.
‘In here,’ said Vimy, as he opened the dining-room door.
They entered a large room that looked out from the side of the house over carefully maintained rose borders. Vimy closed the door behind them. In the centre of the room was a hefty oak table with four chairs on each side and a carver at either end. There was a large fireplace, but not lit and welcoming, as in the other room. It was a chilly, though Vimy did nothing about that. The far wall was covered in sepia photographs of ancestors, the kind of thing you see in most folks’ homes, while above the photographs, a large old clock ticked along. The furnishings were completed by an expensive-looking oak roll-top desk pushed in against the wall at the far end of the room.
‘Take a seat,’ beckoned Vimy, as he sat on one side of the table.
Ronnie pulled out a chair, and his Ma sat facing Vimy across the polished timber.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said, looking her in the eye.
‘We are concerned.’
‘What about?’
‘Material, flooding onto our territory.’
‘Material?’
‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Everything, Mr Ridge. There’s a company called Pegasus Trading. It’s a front. We believe you own it, not to put too fine a point on it, Pegasus Trading is buggering up my figures.’
‘I’ve never heard of the company.’
‘Whatever you say, but we will not allow this business unrestricted access to our territory. One of two things will happen. Either we go to war with Pegasus, and that is bound to be a long and difficult process for all concerned, or we come to an accommodation.’
‘An accommodation?’
‘Yes, an agreement, where territories and products are shared, for mutual benefit. Happy bunnies all around.’
‘I see. Can you give me a minute?’
She glanced at her slim gold watch.
‘I can give you five minutes.’
Vimy left the room. Ronnie took the opportunity to pull open the drawer in the desk. It was crammed with papers, but nothing of interest, paid household bills and general useless flotsam that fills drawers across the nation. Vimy returned with a ruled foolscap notepad and a supply of ball pens. Ronnie heard him coming and slid the drawer closed and returned to standing behind his mother.
The negotiations took two hours.
Who could tread where, who could market which products, who could best supply the syndicate, for that was what they were unwittingly setting up, and who would rule every area. Nothing was left to doubt. They carved up the landscape from Hereford to Lancaster, from Llandudno to Buxton, and all stops between, like victors in wartime.
Twice they were forced to scrap their agreement, Vimy screwing up the paper and tossing the rejected ideas into the dead and empty fire grate. Twice they were close to abandoning their attempt at reaching a compromise. But eventually they settled on a deal acceptable to both parties, an agreement they grandly called their Contract. When finished, Vimy solemnly read it aloud. That done, he formally said, ‘Is that agreed?’
‘Yes,’ Ma Wilkins replied. ‘It is.’
Vimy glanced up at the still standing Ronnie, who’d never once sat down. He nodded slightly. It would have been easy to miss.
Vimy screwed up the final draft and tossed it on top of the failures. He pulled out some matches and together they watched the papers burn to ash. The contract was committed to memory. There would be no permanent written record. Ma Wilkins stood up and fastened the top button of her coat.
‘I am glad you saw it this way. You’re a smart man. I don’t imagine we’ll meet again.’
Neither party offered a handshake; it wasn’t that kind of deal. Vimy opened the door to the hall in silence, and then the front door beyond. The visitors swept through the hall and out of the house, and he watched them clamber into the silver grey 2.8 Ford, and rumble down the driveway. He listened as the car roared away, its throaty engine audible for several minutes, as the sound disappeared in the general direction of Chester.
‘Who was that?’ asked Laura, coming down the stairs after taking a shower.
‘Some charity workers,’ muttered Vimy. ‘They run a hostel for the homeless in Chester. I’m helping to finance it.’
‘You never said. You hide your light under a bushel too much.’
He grabbed her and pulled her towards him, and kissed her. She was getting bigger by the day, and it wouldn’t be long now.
‘You don’t know all my secrets.’
‘Obviously.’
‘What do you say to an early night?’
‘Whatever you think?’ she said. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘You go up, I’ll lock up.’
He went outside and scouted around. For a moment, he stood still in the cold night air. He glanced up at the half moon and watched the thin clouds scudding by and listened carefully, but heard nothing. There was no one there. All quiet, except for the barking of a distant fox. It was time to upgrade. He would have some better locks fitted, and a stronger front door. Some of that CCTV stuff that Arthur knew about, and better front gates, larger, metal ones with remote controlled opening, and thick holly trees planted all round his sprawling garden, the variety with the razor sharp needles, the one that inflicts the most damage on soft tissue. In a year or two, they would be impenetrable. He would call in at the garden centre at the weekend and find out. No one would ever come calling uninvited at his home again. No one, not ever.
He went inside and locked and bolted the door. Checked the fire, patted the dog, and skipped up the stairs to his waiting heavily pregnant wife. She smiled at him from the big bed as he removed his clothes. He liked lying next to her, as big as she was. He loved listening to her ballooned body, he liked to roll his palms over her smooth skin, and she loved that too. They enjoyed talking to the unborn child, feeling for movement, and suggesting and discarding ridiculous names. Cecil, Cyril, Ethel, Enid, Gretchen, Grizelda, Horace, Julian, Kevin, Tracey, Sharon, and Wayne, they were out. He teased her he liked Zowie and Milky, and she’d protest through a mock horror face, as they’d laugh themselves to sleep.
Besides, he’d already decided on a name, and it was a name that Laura hadn’t rejected. If the child were to be a boy, as he hoped, he would be called Michael, Michael Ridge. Heir apparent to everything they possessed. The boy destined to rule the world.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘CALLIA, IS THAT YOU?’
‘Who’s this?’
The phone clicked and banged, and Christos cursed and whacked the handset on his desk. The phone system on the island was ancient and wouldn’t last much longer. It was scheduled to be replaced later in the year, but it had been scheduled every year for the past ten.
‘It’s Christos,’ he yelled, ‘Sergeant Sharistes, from Carsos!’
‘Hello, Christos, I can barely hear you. How are you doing?’
‘Fine. I’ve been trying to contact you.’
‘We’ve been busy. Preparing the case against the barbeque killer. You must have read about it. He murdered his wife and two sons and proceeded to dispose of the bodies by roasting them limb-from-limb. He was only halfway through, and there was a pile of joints still in the freezer.’
‘Nice people you have there.’
‘The neighbours said they couldn’t understand why he was always roasting meat on the terrace at all hours when no visitors ever came. Now we have another one on our hands.’
‘A copycat barbeque killer?’
‘Not quite. This guy murdered his girlfriend and placed her body in his tracksuit and hung her in the wardrobe.
He super-glued the doors closed and disappeared, but the glue couldn’t stop the stench seeping out. The neighbours reported it, and I have never smelt anything like it, and I never wish to again.’
‘I repeat, nice people you have there.’
‘I think it’s the hot weather, Chris. It’s making people act most peculiarly, and tomorrow’s a full moon. Hot weather and a full moon is a dreadful combination. But enough of that, what can I do for you?’
‘Heard anything from Scotland Yard?’
‘Not a thing. You?’
‘No. But there is something, well it might be nothing, that’s why I need your help.’
‘Something but nothing? You’re confusing me, Chris.’
‘I was watching the match the other night, the Olympiakos game.’
‘Terrible, wasn’t it,’ she moped.
‘You’re an ‘O’ fan, are you?’ said Christos, without a shred of sympathy, before returning to his thread. ‘When Liverpool City scored in the last minute, the camera panned around the stands. I think I saw them in the crowd.’
‘Who?’
‘Brian and Brenda Nichols.’
There was a brief silence and Callia said, ‘You are joking!’
‘I’m not. It was only for an instant. I can’t be sure, that’s why I’m ringing. I thought you could get hold of a DVD or some video of the game. Get two copies, send me one, and keep the other.’
‘I’m real busy; Christos, and you have to admit that is a hell of a long shot. There were 50,000 people at that match.’
‘I know, but I’m sure it was them,’ Christos lied. He wasn’t sure at all, but if he sounded convinced, he imagined she might be too.
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But no promises, bye, Chris, I’ll have to go,’ and the phone went dead.
SIX DAYS LATER, A THIN package arrived at his office. He was beginning to think she’d forgotten him, or had decided it wasn’t worth her time. The package was addressed to him personally and was franked with the official red postmarks. Christos recognised them. They were the same marks that were on all the bumf that came from Athens. He tore it open and his heart accelerated as a cased DVD toppled out and bounced onto his desk. There was a handwritten note too, wrapped around the black box:
I hope you’re right. Ring me when you’ve played it. Cal.
Christos closed the office and hurried home, clutching the package as if it contained smuggled diamonds. His wife was settling down for a natter with her best friend and was annoyed to see him home. She became even more irritated when he turned on the television and began fiddling with her precious DVD.
‘Can’t you do that later?’
‘No, I can’t. This is important evidence.’
She rolled her eyes, as did her visitor. But the coin must have dropped, for they collected their coffees and went outside and sat on the veranda in the sunshine, where they could continue their mutterings in peace.
The match flickered onto the screen. Olympiakos were attacking. He pressed the fast-forward button and the players ran like hell. He buzzed through the disk almost to the end. The second half was nearly over, to where Stevie Tynan picked up the ball. Christos played it at normal speed. Tynan beat one man, beat two, a third, cross shot, hit the post, bounced off the goalkeeper, and into the net. The ground erupted. The camera cut away to the stands. Everyone on their feet, mouths open, arms in the air. People hugging.
There was a woman there, such an obvious figure in a yellow suit and hat. It must have been her that attracted his eye. She wasn’t the usual kind of person you saw in English football stadiums, young and glamorous and overdressed, like an Italian fashion designer. The cameraman zoomed in on her because of her clothes and glamour. But it wasn’t her that interested Christos, but two of the people to one side of her. The camera cut away. The pictures were of Stevie Tynan again, his shirt off, his face an image of ecstasy, his legs turning like a hamster’s in a wheel.
Christos reversed the disk and played it again. The goal, the woman, the people in the stand. Freeze! The picture stopped dead. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t lock steady, and he still couldn’t be certain. But it sure as hell looked like the people he had spoken to on the quay.
He played it again, three times, but learnt nothing he didn’t already know, and sat down and began to think. His mind turned to wondering what the Liverpool City Football Club ticketing arrangements might be. Could anyone buy a ticket, and if so, did they have to produce identification? Was this information retained? Were they season ticket holders sitting in that stand? If so, surely there would be records of their names and addresses. He had many questions. His mind raced, and he couldn’t sit still for a moment. An image of Nicoliades lying on the floor in a pool of blood returned to his mind.
Christos whispered, ‘I think I have them, Nic.’
He was still fiddling with the DVD when he rang Callia. Ploutos answered. He said she was in the building, but not at her desk, and could he hold on. Christos could, and did, and waited. But nothing further happened for fully ten minutes, except Ploutos returning to ask him to hang on a little longer until they found her.
Then she came to the phone. ‘Hi, Chris?’
‘I have the DVD!’
‘And?’
‘It’s them! I’m sure of it.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Sure as I can be. I stood less than a metre from these people.’
She hummed and hahhed and didn’t sound convinced and said, ‘Just a minute, I’ll set mine up.’
It took her a couple of minutes to rig the machine, before she came back on the phone.
‘I’m running through it now. How near the end is it?’
‘Last minute.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she sighed. ‘How could I forget?’
The telephone line was clearer and Christos heard her DVD being stopped and started. He could hear her breathing hard, as if he was an unnecessary distraction in her busy day.
‘Steven Tynan has it now,’ she said.
‘Immediately after the goal,’ said Christos. ‘There, the camera pans away to the stand. There’s a woman in a bright yellow outfit. Stop it!’
‘I have it. The woman in yellow, paused!’
‘It’s not her,’ said Chris. ‘But the man to her left, as you look at it, that is Brian Nichols.’
She squinted at the set. It was blurry, and she thought the picture he was seeing must be clearer, for she couldn’t be certain of identifying anyone from that shimmering image.
‘Look along the row, not the next woman, but the pretty young one next door, she’s Brenda Nichols. The more I see it, the more certain I am.’
‘I’ll get some pictures printed off and compare them to the drawings I made.’
‘That’s no good!’ he blurted. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘What is it?’
‘The woman in the middle! I recognise her too!’
‘What? How can that be?’
‘I remember now. She came here a few weeks ago. There was some kind of trouble between her and Nicoliades. It must have been a serious spat because Nic asked me to throw her off the island. She’d been making a nuisance of herself.’
The line went silent. This was new thinking and Callia recognised that. For a second, Christos imagined they might have been disconnected. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking. So the woman in the middle came to Carsos first, by herself, had an affair, or a problem of some kind with Nicoliades. They fell out big time, you threw her off the island, and a little later the other two came out together and murdered him.’
‘That’s right, that’s how I see it. It’s them, Callia! It’s them!’
‘We have a motive, Chris. Revenge! It’s beginning to make some kind of sense.’
‘It all fits, Cal, I’m positive.’
‘I’ll report this development to Skeiri. He’s away today. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve had a chance to speak to him.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘Soon as you can.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m on it.’
‘Bye, Callia,’ but already the line was dead and growing cold, with Christos left to his silence and racing thoughts.
Chapter Forty-Three
BACK IN THE 70’S, VIMY Ridge’s fame was overflowing from the commodity world. He was seeping into the public consciousness, and more so when he set up an independent trucking business and called it CarRIDGE, and bussed grains and seeds the length and breadth of the kingdom.
Toy companies paid a hefty licence fee to manufacture models of CarRIDGE trucks, and they could be bought in motorway service stations everywhere. At Christmastime all the kids wanted one, it was the in toy to have.
He bought a double fronted six-storey Victorian office building fronting Castle Street in Liverpool, gutted it and installed the most lavish fixtures and fittings any commercial building in the city had seen. The building was renamed Downing House in honour of his mother. She was invited to open his new headquarters by cutting the large maroon ribbon strewn across the marble lined entrance. He invited his father, but he didn’t show. Mary did, and she flushed with pride as she launched Downing House with a girlish blush that was neatly captured by the local television news crew.
Tenants queued up to pay top dollar to take space in Downing House, and the first five floors were soon let to quality firms eager to sidle up to a successful organisation. The top floor was saved and kitted out as the nerve centre for the burgeoning Ridge empire. When finished, the additional space enabled Vimy to sign six hungry traders on profit related contracts, all young, educated, and desperate to make their mark. Half of them women, one Chinese, and one Asian, recently kicked out of Uganda by Idi Amin.
He modelled his office on the Merignac set-up in London, minus the twee uniforms and evangelism. Yet no matter how fast Ridge Commodities expanded, or how much money it made, it was always outpaced, outspent, and outgrown by its bastard half brother, Pegasus.