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

by David Carter

‘You bet.’

  ARTHUR RANG OFF, SAT back in his vast chair, and closed his eyes. Just talking to Pete made him feel wanted and desired, and he knew it would be the same for him. Pete always had that effect on him, it was one of the reasons he loved him. He would remember forever the first time he set eyes on Pete in the Red Dragon. He’d never seen such a desirable creature, before or since. Arthur sighed, it was time to work off some frustration, time to kick ass. The staff couldn’t be allowed to go home believing everything was perfect, even if it damn well was.

  He fixed his best I’m unhappy – get bloody organised face on, and flew out of the office. The flunkeys jumped, ever eager to impress their strange looking and weirdly threatening boss.

  ‘Shift this lot!’

  ‘Where to, boss?’

  ‘To where it belongs, knobhead!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Harkin.’

  ‘Where’s Paul? Has he been feeding the bloody cats again?’

  ‘Don’t know, boss.’

  ‘They are not to be fed, thicko! They must learn to find their own food.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Who damn well left that there?’

  ‘Don’t know, boss.’

  ‘Well frigging shift it!’

  ‘Yes boss, right away boss!’

  ‘Where’s that knob, Adrian?’

  ‘Don’t know, boss.’

  ‘If he’s having a crafty fag in the bog, I’ll kill him!’

  ‘Don’t think he’s in the bog, boss.’

  ‘Adrian! Adrian!’

  ‘Think he’s emptying the bins, boss.’

  ‘Send him to my office as soon as he gets back.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Harkin.’

  Arthur loved it, everything about it. Desperate young men dancing to his every word, fit blokes at his beck and call. He never employed girls, and couldn’t imagine why anyone would do such a stupid thing. They couldn’t lift the stock, they were nosey and cheeky, and didn’t give a damn if they lost their jobs or not. They distracted the boys, turned their heads, even Arthur’s mixed-up bunch. He referred to girls as unreliable creatures, and that was as good an excuse as any not to consider them. The future was all about fit young men. So far as Arthur Harkin was concerned, it always had been.

  But he never forgot all the power and influence he possessed was granted to him by Vimy Ridge. He had him to thank for everything, and one day he would do just that. He would repay the debt a hundred fold.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘CHRISTOS, IT’S CALLIA.’

  ‘This is a nice surprise, how are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine, but I’m a bearer of bad news.’

  ‘What kind of bad news?’

  ‘The English police, they have tracked down those people who were at the match.’

  ‘Great! And?’

  ‘The fingerprints don’t match.’

  The line went quiet. Christos was having difficulty understanding what the young woman was saying. He understood the words well enough, but not the meaning behind them.

  ‘What, none of them? That can’t be right. I’m certain they’re the right people.’

  ‘The prints don’t match, Chris.’

  ‘All three sets?’

  ‘Apparently, so.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How can that be? So we’re back to square one?’

  ‘Looks that way. Any other ideas?’

  ‘Not at the moment. You have surprised me. You think of anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Cal.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’ll keep you posted if I hear any more.’

  ‘Thanks, Callia.’

  Christos sighed, returned the fat phone to the cradle, and poured another coffee. The only explanation could be the Englishman hadn’t touched the door. But it was him; the murderer, he was certain of that; as sure as he’d ever been about anything.

  IN CHESTER, THE ENQUIRY had stalled, but it hadn’t been abandoned. It was mid morning when Karen Greenwood came back to the office. Walter Darriteau was talking to someone about heroin, but it was a jokey conversation going nowhere. She stood beside him and waggled sheets of paper in front of his eyes. He looked up and saw the excited look on her face and mouthed, ‘Won’t be a minute,’ as he finished the call and smiled at her and said, ‘Well, ants in your pants, what’s got into you?’

  She bent slightly towards him and tapped her cheek.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Kiss, please.’

  ‘Eh? What for?’

  ‘Kiss, and I’ll tell.’

  He stretched up and kissed her cheek. It left a mark on her makeup and he wondered whether he should tell her.

  ‘It’d better be worth it.’

  ‘Oh, it is. Michael and Coral Ridge flew to Athens, out and back on British Airways. And get this, they flew out two days before the Greek guy’s death... and returned the day after.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I searched through the airline manifests. Look!’

  She handed him the first sheet of paper. It was a copy of the British Airways passenger lists and it confirmed everything.

  ‘Well done, blondie,’ he muttered, ‘they ARE guilty!’

  ‘As sin. And there’s more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Greek police suggested revenge as a motive because Midge’s wife, fiancé, as she was then, had visited Carsos earlier, and there were rumours of an altercation with the deceased. Well, get this, Lisa did travel out four weeks before.’

  Karen placed the second sheet of paper in front of her boss and pointed down with her long slender newly nailed finger to the proof that Lisa Ridge, nee Greystone, had visited Greece.

  ‘See, there!’

  He peered down at the faded computerised type that corroborated Karen’s theory in every respect.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘It’s mainly circumstantial,’ she said. ‘Do you think the CPS will go for it?’

  ‘It’s all circumstantial,’ he agreed, ‘but I’d bet my pension on the fact there were no eye witnesses to the murder of this chap Emperikos, or whatever his name is, or was. We’ll just have to beef it up a bit.’

  ‘I wonder why the prints don’t match.’

  ‘Don’t know. Can’t figure that out. Perhaps they didn’t touch anything in the house; they probably weren’t in there long. Those prints must be someone else’s. But we’re getting there.’

  ‘Do you want to pull them in again?’

  ‘Why not, and all three of them this time. Let’s put them under pressure and see if we can pick holes in their stories.’

  ‘As far as we know, Coral is still in the States.’

  ‘Find out where, find out when she went, and find out exactly what she’s doing.’

  Karen nodded with a jerk of the head. Her hair bounced and rippled like a wind-blown curtain, as she hurried back to her desk.

  ‘Well done, Greenwood,’ she heard him say.

  ‘Thanks, Guv,’ and she smiled across at him like a child on her birthday.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  THE SOVIET UNION CONTINUED buying grain as if their entire existence depended on it. Within a week, the markets turned super bullish. No one knew it, but it would be the biggest bull run in history. Vimy’s trading position couldn’t have been better if he’d hand-picked it.

  He’d taken to sleeping in the office so as not to miss a thing. Diane long realised he was either a brilliant trader, or just plain lucky, and the truth probably lay somewhere in between. She’d discovered his success in the trading room transmitted straight to the bedroom. The more money he made, the more enthusiastic and demanding he became, and yet there was something increasingly desperate about his lovemaking.

  Her secret business looked super-good too, and she wondered whether she should tell him about it. Shearston Securities would make a whopping profit in its first year, and with zero overheads, she’d begun to wonder where she might spend the c
ash before the tax inspector swiped most of it. A modest villa in Cyprus had caught her eye, though she kept that idea secret.

  He locked in a big profit by selling stock, but on seeing a slight downturn in prices, he piled back in and bought everything he could lay his hands on. There weren’t enough minutes in the day. Still the Russians bought, and still prices rose. After one frantic day’s trading, they went for dinner in the Atlantic Tower Hotel.

  It had become something of a lucky place. They drank champagne as if they’d stumbled from the Gobi desert, and afterwards tipped the waitresses a monster gratuity that would be talked about for twenty years. Sated, they were disgorged, giggling into Chapel Street, before returning to The Dock, where they made love as if for the last time. Unusually, he made his excuses and left. She kissed him in the doorway, standing naked; as the smell of his sweat clung to her body.

  ‘Thanks for... well, everything,’ she whispered.

  He nodded, touched her face, and turned away.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  Vimy turned back, kissed her playfully on the nose, and left.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ she whispered, ‘I love you, Vimy Ridge,’ but he was already in the swift lift and dropping fast, as she closed her front door.

  VIMY SAT IN SILENCE in his big car and attempted to swish his thoughts into some semblance of order. He drove past the Royal Liver Building, going north, where the big yellow clock advised him it was just after 3am. At the traffic lights, he turned right into Chapel Street between Saint Nicholas’s Church and the Atlantic Tower. The city appeared deserted, with only an occasional straggling drunk for company. He pressed the accelerator and the car whipped up Chapel Street, alone under the streetlights. He saw the traffic lights at the junction to Old Hall Street beaming red and slowed, but as he did that, a young man in a dark jacket ran out in front of him.

  Vimy guessed he was drunk and braked almost to a standstill. The kid raised his hands together and extended them out in front like a child playing with a gun. Vimy smiled and stared beamlike into the kid’s eyes. The guy was joshing, but at the last second something made Vimy duck. The gun cracked. The bullet zipped through the windscreen and out through the back window, crashing into the Portland stone façade of Derby House, leaving a neat hole in both sheets of glass in the car, and a dent in the prestigious building.

  ‘Shit!’ screamed Vimy.

  Crazily, he looked again for his would-be assassin. He automatically squeezed the accelerator, and the car dashed away. For a few seconds, he wasn’t in control of the vehicle. It fishtailed, the tyres squealed, as he narrowly missed the traffic light stanchion. He grappled with the BMW as if riding a wild beast, in turn jabbing brakes and grasping the steering wheel, while yelling obscenities at the kid who had vanished. There was splintered glass on his lap. Glass everywhere. He brushed it away, unthinking, with the back of his hand, only to cut his fingers. Two late night beat Bobbies witnessed his erratic driving and waved him down. They saw his lacerated hand, and the fresh blood on his shirt and trousers, and splintered glass on his lap and seat.

  ‘What’s happened here, then?’

  ‘The wagon, didn’t you see it?’ Vimy babbled. ‘Threw up a pebble, it only just missed me. Cut my hand on the glass.’

  It took them a few moments to accept his explanation for his weird driving, though neither of them could remember seeing a truck.

  ‘The stone passed clean through the car?’ said the younger copper. ‘It must have narrowly missed your head. You were lucky there, sir.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Better get yourself home and get cleaned up.’

  ‘Thanks, officer,’ said Vimy, as he drove away.

  By the time he entered the Kingsway tunnel heading under the river, his hands were shaking, and they continued to tremor all the way back to Caldy.

  THE FIRST THING HE did in the morning was telephone Jolyon Forrest.

  ‘Do you know a good private detective?’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘No. Just a little thieving from the warehouse. Nothing a good private dick couldn’t sort.’

  ‘There is someone I play golf with at Heswall. His name is Dennis Lincoln and his firm’s called Lincoln & Baines. They’re based in Chester. I’m just looking for the number. They call themselves Insurance Brokers, but don’t let that fool you. The only insurance they do is reassuring their clients. They are, what shall we say, somewhat unorthodox. They might cost you, but I hear excellent reports about them.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Mention my name,’ muttered Jolyon, ever eager to gain a credit.

  ‘Sure,’ said Vimy, as he scribbled the number on the pad that sat on his bedside table. He rang the number but there was no reply, so he took it to work and rang again the moment he arrived. They could fit him in that same afternoon at half-past three, and he took the appointment.

  LINCOLN & BAINES’ OFFICE was set in a little jigger off Saint Werburgh Street within a shadow of the red-stoned Chester cathedral. The neat red brick fascia and matching roof tiles had once been private dwellings, but were all offices of one kind or another, mainly professional, all the way down to the still intact medieval city wall. Vimy found it easy enough; he couldn’t miss the black shadowed gold lettering that had been splashed across the upstairs window. He poked the doorbell, looking over his shoulder as he did so. An intercom fixed to the right side of the doorframe belched, and a young woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘I have an appointment with Mr Lincoln.’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  ‘Vimy Ridge.’

  ‘A moment. Thank you.’

  The door sprang open and Vimy stepped in. Ahead of him was another spring locked door. The front door closed behind him with a clunk, imprisoning him in an area of narrow corridor no more than two yards long. There was no further bell to buzz, and nowhere to go. He stood there entombed, as the girl inspected him on her close circuit television. She hadn’t seen him before and though he didn’t know it, he was being photographed from the front and both sides. After what seemed an age, the second door sprang open, and he hurried through and up the narrow, thickly carpeted staircase.

  At the top of the stairs was a small open plan office where numerous metal filing cabinets slumbered, then two desks, and in the right corner, a row of four chairs set beside a smoked glass coffee table. On the far facing wall was a large oil painting of Lester Piggott in pink and green silks. Vimy knew it was a jockey, but couldn’t have named the man. Behind one of the desks sat a neat curvy young woman. It seemed she was the only person in the place, a welcoming smile on her pleasant face. Shiny short black hair reminded him of a French chanteuse he’d once been dragged to see at the Empire Theatre on Lime Street in Liverpool.

  It was a professional smile that Vimy thought cold and indifferent, as if her true feelings were saying: I couldn’t really care less; I’m only here for the paycheque. She stood from the desk and made toward him, her knee-length green skirt hugging her thighs.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ridge.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Can I ask, are you armed?’

  ‘Good God, no!’

  What kind of clients did Lincoln & Baines have?

  ‘Do you mind if I quickly search?’

  Vimy smiled. ‘Course not.’

  ‘Please face the window and hold out your arms.’

  He did as she asked and felt her cold hands frisk his body, pressing systematically over his shoulders, back, buttocks and calves.

  ‘Turn round, please.’

  He faced her as she continued her search, removing his wallet, personal organiser, keys and pen, carefully placing them on her desk, before feeling her way up his inside leg as high as she’d dare. She was good at what she did, and she’d clearly done it before.

  ‘That’s fine. Please take a seat over there.’

  He gathered his things from the desk a
nd sat at the table, and picked up three exhausted magazines. He glanced at the car mag without enthusiasm, and waited.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her press the intercom. A man abruptly answered: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Ridge is here to see you.’

  ‘Hold him there for a minute!’

  She smiled across at Vimy and he nodded back. Fifteen minutes dragged by, and nothing happened. Her phone did not ring, the intercom failed to crackle to life, and she did not speak. He glanced at her once or twice, but she did not look up. She was busy on figure work of some kind; fast-feeding stats into an Italian made adding machine, the roll of paper spooling out the top. Vimy wondered if he was being subjected to psychological warfare. If he was, it was working. He was becoming annoyed.

  Eventually he said, ‘Is he with someone?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  Of course she knew. What was the point in lying?

  ‘Could you check? I don’t have all day.’

  She looked at him coldly and that plastic smile deserted her face. She seemed to be thinking of something sensible to say when the intercom saved her.

  ‘Caroline, send Mr Ridge in.’

  She glanced across at Vimy and said, ‘It’s that door there.’

  Vimy grunted, ‘Thank you,’ and made his way across the office to the doorway.

  The room was surprisingly large, but higgledy-piggledy. There wasn’t a straight wall to be seen anywhere, testament to the six hundred years the building had stood there, extended, modernised, adjusted, bashed about, and rearranged. In the centre of the office was a large Regency oak desk with a worn green leather top. Vimy guessed it was a prized possession, and behind the desk, sitting in a large black chair, was Mr Lincoln. He was maybe forty, still slim, fit and wiry. His hair was light coloured, bordering on ginger, and though short and neat, it waved back across his head. His eyes were grey blue and alert, and his nose long, thin and pointed. Birdlike, thought Vimy. Lincoln stood and half smiled and shook Vimy’s hand hard across the desk.