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

by David Carter

  ‘You can’t be sure of that, can you? You didn’t actually see Nicoliades and the girl entering his house, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I know a man who did.’

  Loud muttering flushed through the court. People shifted in their seats and kicked their feet as if a bout of cramp had descended on the public benches. Gabriel leapt up; his arms whirling like a windmill, but to no avail.

  ‘Please continue,’ encouraged Theo Fulford.

  ‘After the investigating team returned to Athens, I discovered a new witness who saw both the woman and the man, the accused, that man there,’ and Christos pointed again at Midge in case anyone was in any doubt, ‘entering Nicoliades’ house.’

  Fulford paused for effect and cleared his throat.

  ‘Who is this man? This witness?’

  Christos beamed and paused a beat.

  ‘His name is Costas Zakas. He lives next door to Nicoliades.’

  ‘Why has this man not come forward before?’

  ‘He is a recluse, a hermit, I think is how you say, so much so that even I did not know of his existence. I thought I knew everyone on Carsos, but clearly I did not.’

  ‘And why is he a recluse?’

  ‘Because his eyes don’t match.’

  Rough laughter cannoned off the ceiling, and even the defence barrister was seen to smirk. The judge furrowed his brow, clapped his cold hands together, and stared down at the titterers.

  ‘Please!’ he said, raising his skinny white hand in rebuke. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ before nodding Fulford to continue.

  ‘You mean he has, what we in England call, a lazy eye?’

  Christos smiled. He was on the brink of open laughter.

  ‘The man does not have a lazy eye, your honour, it isn’t lazy at all; it sees perfectly well, I have tested this. But the fact is, they do not match in any way. They are different sizes and different colours. He has the appearance of a mythical monster of legend, and because of this he rarely ventures from his door.’

  ‘So how was it he came to see the accused?’

  ‘There are no proper windows on the side of the house that faces the alley. But just beside the front door there is a long narrow pane of clear glass, and from there you can see almost anything, or anyone, who passes in the street. Inside his doorway is a tiny hallway, and Costas has a small wooden chair set there specifically for the purpose of sitting and watching who comes... and goes.’

  ‘You mean, rather than venturing out, this man sits and watches the world go by through his mismatched eyes?’

  More tittering. More stern looks.

  ‘Yes, precisely. He does almost nothing else, because he is ashamed. It is his window on the world.’

  ‘And he definitely saw the accused entering Nicoliades’ house?’

  ‘He did, sir, yes. Scotland Yard supplied me with ten photographs of ten different men, and he picked out Mr Nichols straight away.’

  ‘And Mr Nichols is of course Michael Ridge?’

  ‘Yes. I know that now. He and his sister used false passports to enter Greece.’

  Gabriel Grahame leapt up again, a dark look on his face, a look that betrayed he knew he was in trouble.

  ‘Your honour, this is most irregular! A man cannot be identified by photographs from thousands of miles away by a witness we are not able to cross examine, a witness whose very eyesight is subject to debate.’

  The Judge pursed his lips and considered the point, knowing full well all eyes were on him. The courtroom fell silent, waiting for the result of the legal debate raging inside Westray Walcott’s old head.

  ‘I find the witness’s testimony interesting and credible. You will have your opportunity to cross-examine in due course. The jury should have the chance to debate the merits of his testimony. I see nothing wrong in that. Pray continue, Sergeant Sharistes.’

  Christos nodded deferentially.

  ‘You have no doubts at all,’ reiterated Theo, ‘as to the reliability of your witness?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Sharistes, and thank you for travelling all this way.’

  Theo smiled at the judge, he nodded at Christos, even managed a cheeky smile at Gabriel, before sitting slowly down.

  Gabriel jumped out like a Springer spaniel on his morning run; confident he could annihilate Fulford’s case. But in his eagerness he overplayed his hand.

  He rejected the testimony of the Greek sergeant as hearsay. He dismissed the odd-eyed absent witness, who he insisted probably couldn’t see well at all, and he pilloried the remaining evidence as circumstantial. He treated the gullible Greek with contempt, and he imagined the local jury would do the same.

  A DAY LATER, THE JURY of eight men and four women returned to face the assembled players after barely two-and-a-half hours, a clear indication of a unanimous result. The courtroom fell silent. It was as if everyone present had ceased to breathe. Time slowed to nothing. The foreman rose in his shiny shoes to be challenged by the Clerk of the Court.

  ‘Have you reached a verdict in the case of Regina versus Ridge?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘And do you find Michael Ridge guilty, or not guilty, of the murder of Nicoliades Emperikos?’

  ‘Guilty!’

  ‘And that is the verdict of you all?’

  ‘It is.’

  Uproar ensued.

  A guilty verdict in a first division case in the Liverpool Crown Court, a rare thing, and the whiz kid’s lucky streak had crashed and burned. Press people dashed from the court to file their on-tablet reports. The courtroom was in uproar. Inspector Walter Darriteau, sitting next to Christos Sharistes, leant over and whispered in the Greek’s ear, ‘Well done, sir.’

  Christos smiled, happy in the knowledge a man had been brought to justice for the murder of his friend. Above the rumpus, Midge Ridge was heard to plead, ‘I didn’t do it, dad! I really didn’t.’

  ‘I know that, son!’ yelled Vimy, through his broken, croaky voice.

  In his sentencing speech the Judge spoke in his usual quiet, slow, and unwavering voice.

  ‘I have no doubt whatsoever the jury has reached the correct decision. You travelled to Greece on a false passport and murdered a man you perceived to have slighted your fiancé. You arranged a false alibi on your return, and you have lied and lied from the beginning to the end of this trial. There is only one sentence I can impose upon you, and that sentence is life imprisonment, with a recommendation that you serve a minimum of twenty-five years. Take him down!’

  BY THE TIME VIMY RIDGE fought his way through the jostling crowds and out of the stuffy courtroom into the cold afternoon, he felt quite ill. There was a pounding in his chest like nothing that had gone before. He saw and heard none of the condolences that showered down from Midge’s army of friends and well-wishers.

  By the time he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Jaguar the heart attack was hitting hard. As a tearful Laura hustled Messine and Persia into the back of the car, he was in dark waters. By the time Laura threw the Jaguar into the hospital car park where she rushed into the foyer screaming for assistance, Vimy Ridge was dead. A lifetime of living on the edge, smoking and drinking to excess, had taken its toll.

  No one knows how a fatal heart attack feels because no one has survived one. Vimy Ridge went to his death engulfed in that way with his last words resounding in Midge’s ears.

  I know that son!

  I know that!

  WALTER DARRITEAU AND Christos Sharistes stood inside the courtroom door, talking and smiling as policemen do the world over after banking a successful result. They were unaware of the drama unfolding outside. Walter proffered his hand.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming so far to testify. I doubt we’d have achieved the same outcome without you.’

  Christos took the hand and shook it.

  ‘No, it is I who should thank you for seeing that justice has been done. I am disappointed the trial couldn’t have taken place in Gre
ece, but this is the next best thing. I can sleep easy now. Nicoliades can rest in peace.’

  Walter turned away, but quickly back.

  ‘Are you in a hurry to leave?’

  ‘I am not. My flight is not until the morning.’

  ‘Do you enjoy an occasional drink?’

  It was a question Walter was confident he knew the answer to; a sneak glimpse at the Greek’s figure told him that, a build not dissimilar to his own.

  Christos smiled. ‘Now and again.’

  Walter grinned and turned round and looked for Karen. She was sympathising with the young and defeated QC.

  ‘Karen, can you drop us off at the King’s Arms?’

  She scowled at Walter, then smiled and made her apologies to Gabriel, and stalked towards them and past them, saying over her shoulder, ‘Come on, gents. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘TAKE A SEAT,’ SAID Walter, as he pointed to a small alcove in the lounge bar. ‘Lager for you?’

  Christos nodded without thinking and headed towards the empty table. Walter returned and placed the pint of fizzy beer in front of the Greek. The cold amber liquid oozed down the side of the pot, while the pint of bitter in Walter’s hand was already two thirds gone.

  ‘I’m glad I had a chance to speak with you,’ said Walter. ‘There were one or two things I didn’t quite understand, loose ends, so to speak.’

  The Greek smiled and sipped his drink.

  ‘Loose ends, yes, there are always loose ends, are there not?’

  Walter nodded and continued, ‘It says in your notes you discovered Nicoliades was in debt, but I could find nothing to explain the cause. Did you resolve that conundrum?’

  Christos smiled. Here was a man for detail, a man a little like himself, he vainly imagined.

  ‘That one stumped me for ages, and then the answer appeared as if from nowhere. I am not a Carsos man, I was sent there, my final posting, and when I first met Nicoliades, I never once imagined he possessed a wife. He never spoke about her, and I certainly never saw or met her. I didn’t know she existed, and no one ever mentioned her. It was Nico’s dark secret. Only after his death did I discover her existence. A letter arrived from the mainland from a clinic up in Volos. It was a concerned letter from the Director of Care asking if Mrs Emperikos’s fees would continue to be met. You can imagine my surprise to receive such a communication? I rang the Director, a man by the name of Agrinion, and he told me Nico’s wife had been in his care for sixteen years. His was a private clinic, ridiculously expensive, and in all that time, Nico never once missed paying the care bill.’

  Walter gulped the last of his drink.

  ‘What was wrong with her?’

  Christos rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘Mental.’

  ‘Mental illness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Schizophrenia?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Not quite. It was something I had not come across before, I can’t quite remember the medical term but bi-polar disorder was in there somewhere, along with several other medical terms. By all accounts she was pretty scrambled, seriously mashed up.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Walter, sitting before an empty glass.

  ‘You do?’ said Christos, impressed at the black man’s expertise.

  ‘My aunt was a mental nurse.’

  ‘I see. Then you probably know that when someone is afflicted with severe bi-polar disorder, it can produce manic episodes resulting in bizarre thoughts... and extraordinary behaviour.’

  ‘Sexual?’

  Christos nodded, glanced around conspiratorially, before breathing out heavily. ‘All the time, apparently. She began offering herself to anything in trousers.’

  ‘Oh, geez!’

  ‘The first time it happened, as far as we know, Nico came home and found his pretty young wife on the bed with two builders, ignorant labourers from the mainland, and from what the Director told me, she wore nothing but a manic look. Evil, he said it was; pure evil. Nico must have chased them from the house, and knowing him, only after he’d given them a good beating. I’d guess he gave her a good smack too, not that that would have solved anything. At the time he wouldn’t have understood the reason for her peculiar behaviour. She couldn’t stop herself. It happened time and again, old men, schoolboys, tourists, fishermen, and even, I’m ashamed to say, my predecessor became involved. Can you imagine? How could any man deal with such a thing?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Me neither. Anyway, the regulation hospitals took one look at this otherwise healthy young woman and passed her fit for duty. They wouldn’t admit her, they needed the beds for more pressing cases, so they said, different thinking back then. Nico was forced to take her home. But as soon as his back was turned it began again, worse, if anything. It was then that Nico discovered the Volos Clinic. They had been featured in some glossy Athenian magazine, and had gained something of a trendy reputation. One of your girly British pop stars went there in secret, famous she was, acted the same; treated successfully, so I believe. Nico took his wife there one weekend, ostensibly to check it out. After spending an hour with her, the Director deduced she was a danger to herself, and indeed anyone else she came into contact with. They booked her into the clinic on the spot. Nic left her there and travelled home alone, and as far as I know, she’s been there ever since.’

  ‘That explains the debt?’

  ‘It does, and perhaps something of Nico’s behaviour.’

  ‘Towards the women tourists?’

  Christos nodded again, ‘Precisely. I could never quite understand the vehement way in which he pursued them, the zeal, non-stop. He was insatiable. Looking back on it, it was more than the primitive urge. In his own peculiar way he was getting even, an eye for an eye. He was expelling a bean from the jar for every one she’d thrown in.’

  Walter smiled and picked up his glass.

  ‘Want another?’

  Christos nodded.

  ‘But not lager, eh? I don’t suppose they have retsina?’

  ‘I’ll ask.’

  Christos sat by himself and stared through the window at the newly arrived Liverpool rain. His mind was roaming across Carsos, and he knew it would soon be time to return. But it would never be the same, not without Nicoliades. His daydreaming was interrupted by Walter shouting, ‘Christos!’ and as he looked up, he saw Walter grinning at the curvy barmaid, as she poured a double delivery of retsina. Christos returned the smile, and issued a thumbs up.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  IT WAS NO SURPRISE when Laura Ridge was elected unopposed as the new chairman, chairperson, of Ridge Commodities. Old Norman leapt at the opportunity to rejoin the family dynasty, bringing the thirty-year rift to an end, though it had taken Vimy’s death to accomplish that.

  The gold sign on the doorway to the Ridge office proudly stated: RIDGE COMMODITIES LIMITED Incorporating Norman Ridge & Son, Established 1930. Norman was offered a seat on the board, but declined. He was frail and frightened and knew his time was almost done. He much preferred to accompany Barney on his daily sniffing along Hoylake beach, and for the first time since he began working all those years before he ignored the wheat prices.

  He still rose early and breakfasted heartily, as he spoke to his faded wedding photographs. Occasionally Mary Downing answers, chiding him for letting standards slip, for forgetting to feed the dog, neglecting household chores, but never so often as to become a nagger. Mary Downing was never that.

  Vimy’s funeral had been held a month before, time enough for the first brutal grieving to be cried away. Vimy lies in the family plot, in Norman’s place. How are you supposed to feel when your only son leapfrogs you into your grave?

  Laura continued everything Vimy strived for, and she was eager to give her best. Secretly, she relished the prospect, so unexpected was the opportunity. She called the first board meeting for Thursday morning at half-past nine and demanded everyone be there, and attend they did, for Laura was the respected business matriarch she
never wished to be.

  She sat at the head of the modern beech table, her back perfectly straight, in one of the bright blue chairs Vimy had ordered less than a year before. They still smelt new, reeking of Vimy. Her eyes were clear, her voice determined, her hands steady, as she called the meeting to order.

  To her left sat the daughters. Messine beautifully dressed in a pastel green suit, matching hat and gloves. The outfit practically had the price tag flapping from the hem; a walking advertising hoarding, and the tag was sure to be hefty. Messine’s business was picking up speed, and if it continued in the same vein, it might yet break even. Next to her sat Persia, Miss Confidence herself, who in Midge’s temporary absence, had taken on the role of senior trader. She wanted him back, of course she did, but then again, she could never imagine relinquishing entirely her newly discovered senior role, and all the power and influence that came with it. Persia relished power, and was addicted.

  There was a place set for Coral too, the youngest mischievous one, always up for a dare, the one for whom nothing seemed beyond her. Surrounded by men, madly in love, up to no good. She wasn’t there, of course, for Coral was safely ensconced overseas, prospecting in the Guatemalan Hills, the latest information put out by the Ridge empire’s publicity machine, and quite uncontactable.

  The police still wanted to interview her but fat chance of that. But a space had been laid, a gold named leather blotter, her place sign and agenda, sitting waiting, as if she was there amongst them, if only in spirit, watching over them, working with them, a joke certain to be never far from her pretty lips. Everyone felt her presence.

  To Laura’s right, on the opposite side of the table, sat the non-born Ridge women, yet none the less valuable for that. Far more so, thought some. Diane Shearston, the senior administration manager for the entire group. Grey strands drifted through her wavy auburn hair, but she was still an attractive woman. Dignified, defiant, and mentally strong. Laura knew her as a loyal and true employee who worked hard and supported Vimy at every turn. Diane had been rewarded with an invitation to become a director of Ridge Commodities and dip her tongue in the sherbet bag of directors’ perks, a big bonus that only came with successful organisations.