The Legal & the Illicit: Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 5)

by David Carter

  ‘The bronze one’s for the outside door, the silver one for this.’

  He nodded and clipped them to his ever-expanding key ring.

  They made no appointment to meet again. In the cab, they spoke of nothing but the markets and the Russians, and Vimy’s huge open position that was causing concern. It was as if the night had never occurred.

  He too had made his life choice, and it had been a simple one. He was an inherent risk taker, a man who knew the importance of grabbing every opportunity life offered. No one in the graveyard ever took a risk, and everyone ends there sooner than they think. He had no regrets, nor ever would. He could see into the future, they both could, and it frightened and excited them in equal measure.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  THE GRAIN MARKETS MADE several desperate attempts to rally, but Russians or not, it refused to budge. As nervous traders talked it up, it crashed again. Rumours were rife that businesses were about to fold. Panic stalked the streets.

  Vimy was called to a late night meeting in the Corn Exchange to reassure the committee his business was sound. He displayed his bank statements, everyone gasped, and Vimy Ridge was dismissed.

  He jumped in the lift and pressed Ground. The elevator started to drop when he heard a bang. It was a car backfiring, he imagined, but cars don’t backfire anymore. It was a gunshot. He was sure of it. He smacked the Six, and the lift stopped with a jolt. He jumped through the doors and raced up the stairs towards the sound of frantic shouting.

  ‘Get a doctor!’ someone hollered.

  A secretary was standing in the corridor, grimacing and holding her head, as Vimy raced past.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  The front door to Dodgson’s office was wide open, as if there had been a robbery. Vimy dashed inside, ran through the general office and into the trading room. Donald Dodgson was lying on the floor, his son Tony bending over him. Tony heard the approaching footsteps, glanced over his shoulder, and saw Vimy staring down. Tony was crying, his face red and shaking.

  ‘Vimy! Oh Christ! He’s shot himself, Vimy! He’s bloody shot himself!’

  A Second World War army officer’s pistol lay in Donald’s hand, his index finger still curled through the trigger guard. Wispy smoke hung around like a bad smell. Part of Donald’s brain was splashed across the wall beyond them like a piece of modern art. The back of his head was missing. Blood and brain matter dripped slowly down the wall, forming streaks, as if the work was unfinished and the artist had been disturbed.

  ‘Why Tony, why’s he done that?’

  Tony turned back, his face as red as the wall.

  ‘Why do you think?’

  Someone must have called the police, for two Z-car men in peaked caps hurried into the room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the taller of the two, before he saw for himself.

  ‘He’s shot himself,’ said Vimy.

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone see it?’

  ‘No,’ said Tony, ‘I was in the other room. There was no one else here. I bloody heard it and rushed in!’

  Tony began to cry.

  The policeman said to Vimy, ‘We’ll need to talk to you later, but for now you can take him away,’ nodding at Tony. Vimy shrugged his shoulders. How could he comfort the man? His enemy and archrival, but in such circumstances, old hatreds are forgotten. Vimy leant across and grasped Tony’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Tone; I’ll drive you home. The police will look after everything here.’

  ‘No!’

  His resistance was slight, a token. All colour had abandoned his face. He let Vimy lead him from the room, back to the car, moving as if in a nightmare, walking in silence. Vimy drove him home to the Dodgson family mansion in Formby, twelve miles north of the city.

  Donald’s wife was there, preparing chicken. Another dreadful session of wailing and screaming followed, as Tony described in graphic detail what happened. Vimy stood self-consciously to one side, staring in on another family’s nightmare.

  He felt as if he was gatecrashing, standing in the centre of a family feud that was none of his business. He wanted to leave, but the right moment didn’t appear. The clock ran round to 9pm and several of the Dodgson clan had arrived. They were a sober bunch and thanked Vimy for all he’d done, but they ushered him from the house. They wanted to be alone and gave the impression Vimy had no place there; and that suited him. As he drove away, his ears were afire, and with good reason.

  What was he doing here?

  What’s it got to do with him?

  Trust him to stick his filthy nose in!

  Those Ridges are despicable people.

  Will we never be free of the likes of them?

  His father was just the same.

  Are you sure Vimy Ridge wasn’t involved?

  Every time there’s trouble, the Ridges won’t be far away.

  VIMY SHOOK HIS HEAD, buzzed down the car window, gulped in the peaty air, and crashed the accelerator. He knew well enough what the Dodgson family thought of him, and there was still the matter of why Donald Dodgson felt the need to blow his brains across the office.

  THE FALLOUT FROM THE Dodgson suicide was massive. The Coroner said he was a man under great pressure; an understatement if ever there was one. The trade associations demanded sight of every member’s trading books and open positions. They required proof of liquidity and solidity, and when they inspected Vimy’s records, they were amazed and concerned in equal measure, and especially at the size of the long position he was running. Despite the ample proof he produced, they demanded he scale back operations before the month was through.

  Vimy’s open positions worried them sick, not that it was any of their goddamned business. He acquiesced, and agreed to balance his book, though he had no intention of doing so. The committee could go hang. He would balance his positions when he was ready, and not before. He would not be dictated to.

  THE FUNERAL AT SOUTHPORT cemetery was a sell-out. The little grey stone church was crammed with black tie traders, as the service was relayed to an overspill crowd hunched together outside in the mist. A lone piper played a lament over the grave. Everyone watched in silence; their hearts beating loudly, as the piper slow-marched away, still playing, as the fog encircled and enveloped him. Tears flowed. Hands shaken. Shiny shoes. White shirts. Black ties. Red eyes. Whispered condolences. Fresh promises. Renewed fears. Fresh optimism, and then it was done. It was a defining moment for the local commodity community. Changes were coming, cataclysmic changes that would affect everyone.

  COMMODITY MARKETS HOUSE a wickedness that defies logic, and all traders know it. When markets crash they always drop for longer and further and faster than watchers imagine. When markets sniff blood, they turn the screw. When they sense victims trapped in the downward spiral, they squeeze them and bleed them to death. When the desperate are trapped and pray for redemption, markets answer their prayers by crashing again. They are merciless and ruthless, an unedifying spectacle that is repeated every few seasons. It is as if traders sit astride a permanent fault line awaiting the next quake, praying they are not about to be vanquished.

  Some traders say Satan manipulates commodity prices. Sometimes, the Prince of Darkness must be fed a sacrificial lamb.

  When the market claims its victim, it is sated. Businesses go bust. Sane minds ruined and wrecked. Overnight, people become unloved and unwanted, untouchables, outcasts. Men previously looked up to and admired suffer heart attacks and breakdowns. Contented wives leave for pastures new. Children hate their fathers for they cannot understand why they are forced to leave expensive homes and swanky schools and fancy friends to live in pokey, rented flats in nowhere town.

  Donald Dodgson was aware of the risks he ran; yet once caught in the downward spiral, there was nothing he could do to save himself. For him, there was no exit, aside from death and destruction.

  ONE WEEK AFTER DONALD Dodgson’s demise, the Soviet Union began the biggest public bu
ying programme in the history of commodity trading. Markets skyrocketed. Vimy and Diane rejoiced, for they had bought into everything. Overnight, he made his third fortune. Diane’s clandestine enterprise cashed in, too. Those committee members who had inspected the books knew of his newly acquired wealth. He was again the centre of market gossip.

  You were fortunate there, old boy. Try not to take so much risk in future. Don’t make the same mistakes again.

  Mistakes? thought Vimy. What mistakes?

  The Russkis pulled you out of a hole this time, eh? God, you were lucky!

  The harder I work, the luckier I get!

  He celebrated by hurrying to London; the adrenalin rushing through his body as if it were cascading over Niagara Falls. He spent the entire weekend attempting to make Laura pregnant again.

  ‘Shine on silver moon! What’s got into you?’ gushed his wife. ‘Don’t answer that, but whatever it is, I like it!’

  Ultimately, he succeeded, and Messine Ridge was on her way. Laura’s earlier words came back to him time and again: We’re good breeders, very good breeders!

  Indeed, but even you can’t do that alone.

  THE MOMENT HE ARRIVED back in Liverpool, he hastened to the Albert Dock where he let himself into Diane’s apartment. He found her wearing solely a white smock. She was painting a picture of a reclining nude. Without a word, he took the paintbrush from her hand, slipped the smock from her body, and lifted and carried her to the bedroom.

  HE HARBOURED NO FEELINGS of guilt, remorse, or shame. He’d shed the ability to feel such things. His life was for the living, for the here and now.

  The recovery in the market arrived too late to save Donald Dodgson and his business. Some pundits said, ‘If only he could have held on for another week.’

  But those people possessed no real understanding of markets. If Donald had held on for another week the market would have responded by plunging again, tormenting him further, heaping misery and despair on his troubled mind and broken body.

  The sacrifice had been made and was accepted.

  Life could return to normal, for a year or two.

  Dodgsons went into liquidation owing millions. Even Vimy was not immune to the fallout. It cost him big money, but nothing like as much as it did his competitors, and besides, he could stand the loss. He was rock solid, untouchable.

  Two weeks later, Vimy rang Tony Dodgson and offered him a job. Even as he spoke the words, issuing the invitation, he could scarcely believe he was doing so. Tony was as surprised and amazed as he was.

  ‘Are you sure, Vimy?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Do you want to work for me or don’t you?’

  ‘I do Vimy, I do... and thanks.’

  Tony joined Ridge Commodities the following week and fell head over heels in love with Diane Shearston. He’d regularly ask her to dinner and attempt to charm her, but was wasting his time. Vimy knew that. Diane would never say yes to Tony Dodgson in a million trillion years, and Vimy Ridge knew that too, for she couldn’t.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  MARY DOWNING DIED AT half-past eleven on a sunny Saturday morning. That cute girl who had grown into a beautiful woman serving behind the bar in The Cutlass, the same girl who had fallen in love with Rocky Ridge at first sight.

  They would create a dynasty, and it would be their finest achievement, through their precious son, Vimy, his loyal wife Laura, and four fantastic grandchildren, Michael, Messine, Persia, and Coral.

  Mary Downing loved them all with a passion, and Lisa Greystone too; whom she adored from the first moment. Mary stood for family and loved them in equal measure, adoring the comfort and strength it brought. Family was everything, and Mary Downing, beloved matriarch, was gone. They would weep terribly at her passing, for Mary didn’t have an enemy in the world.

  She had finished her breakfast of two lightly poached eggs, without the toast, for she could no longer manage crisp toast. She sat in the chair in the sunshine that streamed through the open French windows and slipped away without a final word.

  Cancer had taken her.

  She had fought the invader like a crusader, with a tenacity that belied her slight frame. They called her courageous and never had a description been more merited. Mary and Norman were married for forty-two years and she’d so wanted to reach the fifty, to share a golden day with the man she adored. Sometimes life brings disappointments. Precious things snatched away in an instant, and who is to say why?

  In all the time they were married, she had never kissed another man. She had no need for such crass diversions, for Norman fulfilled her in every way. The last thoughts that flickered through her mind were to thank the Lord for providing her with everything she desired, and to ask him to look after Norman and her dear son Vimy, now that she was journeying to another place.

  She fretted she hadn’t lived long enough to see them reconciled, but guessed they would be one day, and perhaps her passing might be the catalyst that brought them together. She felt guilty about going on ahead, and embarrassed at leaving them to face a turbulent world. She imagined she had abandoned her charges, when she had given everything she had to give. Mary was spent and ready; and no one could have defeated the overwhelming forces ranged against her.

  Barney, the young basset hound, knew immediately his mistress had died. He began pacing the room from the double doors that looked out over the rear garden and the golf course beyond, and back to the chair where she lay as if she were dozing. As Norman busied himself in the kitchen, washing the breakfast things, the light wind had closed the French doors with a soft clunk. Barney returned to the glass and peered out through sorrowful eyes. Even a long-haired cat passing by failed to stir him. The cat spotted Barney staring through the glass and stood bolt still, its fur standing on end, as if challenging him to bark. But the dog remained silent, and the cat ambled away.

  For once, Barney couldn’t be bothered, and for him there would be other days. He turned back to the chair and sniffed his mistress’s ankles. Norman was kneeling in front of her, his head in her lap, talking as if he’d just entered the house bearing the latest gossip. It was a one sided conversation.

  ‘Jack in the bakers said he missed you, and looked forward to seeing you again soon.’

  ‘The butcher gave me two beautiful sirloin steaks, thick and juicy, just as you like them. I thought we could have them tomorrow with fresh onions from the garden. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, and you’ll never guess, I bumped into old Edith Milburn. She’s had her gallbladder out, a right to do, by all accounts, and she looks terrible.’

  ‘I thought we might go for a drive on Monday, perhaps down to Lake Vyrnwy. What do you think about that? We could take Barney too, if you like.’

  Barney began crying.

  Norman Rocky Ridge flirted with secretaries all his life. It was almost expected. But he too, had remained true to Mary, at least for the most part. He faced the future with terror, for he felt alone, a fate Barney shared, for the dog had always been closer to Mary. Now she was gone, perhaps it might bring the living creatures closer together. Right there, they were both frightened and anxious.

  Mary’s funeral was orderly and well attended. Vimy was there and everyone kept one eye on the feuding pair, ever hopeful of witnessing the much forecast and long awaited reconciliation. They were to be disappointed. The two stubborn men never shared a word, neither at the funeral, nor at the wake afterwards, and Mary was laid to rest in Landican cemetery in the recently purchased family plot, Norman’s bed lying invitingly before him alongside, awaiting him, ready-made, and he couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before he stepped in.

  He’d received a premonition it would not be long. Everywhere he looked, he saw violent and painful death. He kidded himself he was looking forward to it, but in his quiet moments he would shiver. He needed someone to confide in, but there was no one.

  Barney attended the funeral and behaved impeccably throughout, standing respectfully with the rest of the family at
the graveside, his inert tail forever between his legs, his eyes betraying deep sorrow. No one could remember a mere hound attending a human funeral before, but ultimately dogs understand death far better than human beings. Looking into his eyes, no one doubted that for a moment.

  Despite the catastrophic loss to the Ridge family, Mother Nature had a way of evening up the scoreboard. Before the year was done Lisa would fall pregnant again, and this time to Midge, and it would not be long before the family returned to full strength. The dynasty moved serenely on, as did the businesses, raking in cash, bankrupting rivals, squeezing competitors, cocking a snook at Satan, making fresh enemies, and forever being in the news.

  Everything was progressing tremendously well.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  BILLY MCCLENNON’S SOFT Scottish accent oozed through the phone and seeped into Walter Darriteau’s ear.

  ‘Inspector, I might have something for you.’

  Walter grabbed his smudgy pen. ‘Good man! Let’s have it.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to trace any of the three you asked about, but I have something on two of their friends.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The leader of the party, the older one. Someone sitting in the stand said he recognised him. He’s that commodity guy who’s always on the TV spouting about how they were achieving great success through hard work and dedication. Bit of a tosser, if you ask me.’