by David Carter
Mrs West certainly suggested that, though Walter took everything with a bucket of salt when it came to anything relating to Masonic Lodges.
Donald West had been in company with two other senior characters, ranks unknown, or known and not revealed to Walter, all drinking in a city centre gentleman’s club, when they were joined by a fourth man. This bloke was not a Mason, but seemed to derive pleasure from ribbing his drinking pals with various obscure comments, bragging that the most influential society in Chester had nothing to do with Buffaloes or Masons. They, the men whose company he was enjoying, didn’t know the half of it, didn’t know what they were missing, and should open their damned eyes, show more respect, and pay attention.
The three Masonic guys could have been forgiven for thinking the old bloke was a drunken bore, the kind of man most people would edge away from and avoid. But he was eighty-nine, and maybe that seniority afforded him a modicum of respect. He was also a long retired senior solicitor, and still possessed a seat in the partnership at Hames, Carnes & Wilderton, one of Chester’s oldest law firms, though he wasn’t so much a sleeping partner, more comatose.
Lysander Torquil Sholto Wilderton, known to his friends as Torquers, enjoyed teasing his drinking chums, and couldn’t resist one final titbit before his driver took him home.
Torquers returned from one of his frequent visits to the Gents, fell into an old and worn leather armchair, and began spouting again, whether others were speaking or not.
‘While you lot over there are raising money for charities,’ as he lifted his arthritic hand and pointed down the street, ‘and black-balling dodgy builders and commies, and trying to sign up nouveau riche park home operators, and buttering up estate agency pricks to screw money out of, we’re getting on with the important business in hand.’
‘Oh yes, and what’s that, Torquers?’ asked Donald, grinning at his colleagues and humouring the old goat. ‘Funding a new ballet school? Building an opera house? Opening a gay bar?’
‘Bah! You know nothing. We’re busy cleaning the streets. Ridding society of vermin and pestilence that’s polluted this city, for someone has to do it. You lot are pathetic. You know nothing and you do nothing.’
Donald grimaced and took a moment out to sip his brandy, for he didn’t appreciate the turn the conversation had taken.
One of Donald’s colleagues said, ‘Come on, Torquers, don’t tease, tell us what you’re really up to?’
‘Two weeks’ time,’ he slurred, ‘mark my words, two weeks, and another one gets it.’
‘Gets what? You’re not making much sense, old man.’
Lysander Wilderton dragged his bent index finger across his scrawny throat, made a choking Arabic sounding noise, and muttered, ‘Justice will be dispensed. It’s another blow for decent standards, only a pity it’s taken fifteen years to arrive.’
Donald West said, ‘Fifteen years, what about fifteen years?’
‘Ah, you want to know me now. You’re becoming interested, I can tell, and so you bloody well should. No, it’s been fifteen years since...’
But Torquers didn’t finish the sentence because his surprisingly modern mobile phone sitting on the low table before him vibrated so hard it almost jumped in the air.
‘Bugger! Give me a minute,’ he said, scooping it up in his crooked hand.
It was the scrumptious young thing of seventy-one from downstairs, advising him his Rolls had arrived and was idling on double yellow lines, and if he didn’t want another parking ticket, he’d better get down there fast.
‘Thanks, darling,’ he said, slipping the phone in his tailored jacket pocket and staggering to his feet. He exhaled long and hard, swayed back and forth, and muttered, ‘Two weeks’ time and it’ll be...’
But as he tried to push off towards the door, something vital within him cut out. He dropped the phone. It bounced across the polished wooden floor and banged into the timber door.
‘You all right?’ said Donald, getting to his feet, reaching out.
But as Donald stood up, Torquil went down, and hard.
Donald cussed and rang for an ambulance. It came in less than five minutes, two guys, saying they were just passing, and the guy was real lucky. Torquil was eased onto a gurney, taken downstairs. Slipped into a bread van type vehicle, and rushed to the Countess of Chester Hospital in less than ten minutes, where he was placed into an induced coma.
At nineteen minutes past four the following morning, Lysander Torquil Sholto Wilderton, known to his friends as Torquers, skipped from this world without saying another word. He hadn’t been that lucky.
When Donald arrived home, slightly worse for wear, but not drunk, he told his wife, Chief Superintendent Joan West, of the evening’s horrific events. At that point, Torquers was still breathing. Joan wanted to know everything. Made him go over it three times to make sure she had the relevant facts right. Perhaps something deep in her cop training told her there could be something more in the late night drunken tirade than met the eye.
In the morning, Donald rang the Countess for an update. Sadly, Mr Wilderton had passed away in the night. Joan West sat on the bed and quizzed her husband.
‘Do you remember what you told me last night?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I want you to write it down.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘It’s what I want, Donald.’
In the West household Joan was used to getting her own way, just as she was at work.
Donald scowled and grabbed a notepad from the bedside table, and began writing.
‘Is there anything else you’ve remembered that you didn’t tell me last night?’
‘I don’t know. Time will tell, won’t it?’
‘Everything, Donald, I want to know everything Torquers Wilderton said.’
‘Okay, give me twenty minutes and you will.’
Four
No matter how hard he tried, Walter couldn’t remove the Meade case from his mind. Teddy Vairs took it on himself to lead the case, regardless of what others thought, or were planning, and everyone knew that wouldn’t end well.
He ordered Walter to take him to the Banaghan home in Knightsbridge. They’d been living there for just over a year. Semi-detached property, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, with amazing stained glass windows, it was known as Saint Patrick’s One, part of a former church and worth a king’s ransom. It even boasted off-road parking... in Knightsbridge!
Walter couldn’t stop himself saying, ‘Wow,’ as they crossed the stone-slabbed path and rang the bell.
Sheelagh Banaghan, the third daughter at twenty-four, had shrugged off a mini-hangover, bounded to the door. She was expecting a parcel from Harrods, and a visit from her current young man, and maybe it might be both.
‘I’ll get it!’ she cried, as she hustled toward the gothic main front entrance.
There were two guys standing there, looking cold and flustered. A creepy skinny individual in a dirty raincoat and trilby hat, and a smart young black guy she took a second take of; never seen him before, before realising they were the filth.
Vairs flashed ID, Walter did too for the novelty hadn’t worn off, as Vairs said, ‘We’re police officers and we’re investigating a murder. Is Mr Banaghan Senior home?’
Sheelagh issued the stock reply.
‘He’s out.’
‘No matter, we’ll come in anyway,’ and Vairs barged past her into the wide hallway, Walter following him into the most amazing house he had ever seen.
‘Hey, you can’t do that, not without a warrant.’
‘We can, if we believe there’s a murderer in the house.’
As the sound of hoo-hah echoed through the quiet old building, people came to investigate, and one of those was Mr Liam Banaghan, fifty-four, head of the family firm, and the bête noire, as far as the Meade family was concerned.
‘So he’s out, is he?’ said Vairs, glaring at Sheelagh.
She looked hard back but didn’t reply.
Liam said, ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Vairs looked him up and down and said, ‘Last night Grahame Meade was murdered in his own flat.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Liam, smirking, ‘but if you mix with hyenas you’re inclined to get bitten.’
‘Where were you last night, Mr Banaghan, between eight and ten PM? And that goes for all your family too,’ as Vairs eyed up two of the boys who had arrived at their father’s side, Dermot and Eoin, the oldest sons, if Vairs wasn’t mistaken, both either side of thirty.
‘I’m not telling you that,’ said Liam. ‘Not until I’ve spoken to my brief.’
Vairs stared and said, ‘You can either answer my questions now or we’ll take you down the nick for extensive interrogation, and that could last all day and half the night.’
Walter admired the guy’s chutzpah.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ said Dermot, flexing his muscles and staring into the back of Walter’s sparkling eyes.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Liam, ‘the officer is simply doing his job, and it’s an easy question with a simple answer. We were all out together. Wedding anniversary thing. I treated the lot of them to a slap up meal, though I’m not sure they deserved it.’
Vairs said, ‘Where did you go?’
Walter thought that a suitable moment to make notes and opened his notebook.
Liam glanced at Walter and laughed and said, ‘Le Gavanne, cost a fortune, though I have to admit the nosh was half decent.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Got there about eight, stayed far too long, must have been eleven before we left the place.’
Walter saw Rosanna Banaghan slipping into the room unnoticed and realised Vairs hadn’t seen her. He tapped him on the shoulder and nodded that way. He glanced at her and couldn’t stop a fleeting smile crossing his face.
‘That right, Rosanna?’
She pursed her lips and nodded and said, ‘That’s correct, Mr Vairs.’
Vairs sighed and said, ‘And who went to this shindig?’
Liam said, ‘All ten of us, plus three or four girlfriends and boyfriends, you know the kind of thing.’
‘And they could confirm this?’
‘Don’t see why not. I didn’t bring my family up to be liars.’
‘I’ll need a list of names.’
Liam scratched his nose and said, ‘So long as my brief approves, you will have it later today.’
‘And none of you left the restaurant all night?’
‘Not that I can think of. As you know, it was a cold one; I certainly didn’t notice anyone missing.’
Vairs grunted and said, ‘Last question for now. When did you last see Grahame Meade?’
Liam made a big effort at thought before coming up with an answer, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure.’
‘You’ve never met him?’
‘That’s what I said.’
Vairs scoffed and glanced at Walter. He stood still, pen poised, and was about to say, anything else, Sarge, when Vairs turned on his heels and headed for the door, Liam Banaghan’s voice chasing after him, ‘Close the door on your way out.’
Back in the Sierra, Walter said, ‘Where do these people get their money? That house must be ridiculously expensive.’
‘You need to brush up on your homework, Darriteau. The Banaghans operate one of the biggest and fastest growing construction firms in the south of England. They land contracts by bribing officials, intimidation, and blackmail. Threaten suppliers and pay them slow, if they pay them at all. It isn’t unusual for them to tell a building supplies company they need five pallets of bricks on Friday morning, and money’s tight, and they can’t afford to pay for them right now. Do us a favour and have the bricks ready. Nice timber yard you have there too. Pity if it burnt down on Saturday night. That kind of hoodlum pressure and it works. Most people go along with it because they don’t want the hassle of fighting an insurance company over a big fire claim, or going to war with that crew.’
‘Can’t we put together a group of people who would testify against them?’
‘I’ve been trying to do that for twenty years. Haven’t managed it yet, but I will before I retire. And it’s not just the building game they are involved in. Nightclubs, theatrical agencies, property scams, even greyhound racing they now dominate. They have fat fingers in too many pies. And before you say too much to other people back at the nick, the Banaghans have officers on the payroll too. So watch your back, and your lip, and if they ever make you an offer, directly or indirectly, walk away as fast as your big feet will carry you.’
‘Is corruption still an issue?’
‘Don’t ask stupid questions.’
Walter thought about that for a second and wanted a quick word about the other side of the coin.
‘And the Meades? What’s their speciality?’
‘Girls, and lots of them.’
‘Prostitution?’
‘God, you’re quick on the uptake!’
‘I can’t see how that could compete with construction projects across the city.’
‘No? Well, think about this. It’s rumoured they have 250 toms on the payroll. And only the best will do. They don’t last long and are very desirable. Let’s imagine they each entertain ten clients every day. We’re talking upmarket tarts, not street girls, and a basic punter will pay fifty quid, no problem, and many of the customers want extras, if you get me, so the bill goes up and up. Even on basic rates the daily take is, maybe 250 girls, ten clients a day, fifty quid a pop, that’s... let me do the maths, that’s a hundred and twenty-five grand a day! Can you believe it? Tax free cash swilling through Meades’ grubby fingers, every single sodding day, and that’s just for starters. Don’t tell me they can’t compete.’
‘Hard to believe,’ said Walter, shaking his head and pondering on numbers.
‘It is, but it’s a fact.’
Vairs pulled a small new electronic calculator from his raincoat pocket, dabbed in digits, and came up with another number. He grunted, grinned a cold smile and said, ‘They’re raking in more than forty-five million quid a year on that scam alone. Yes, they’ve got big overheads, the girls, the premises, the backhanders, and God knows what else. But it’s hardly surprising they have bought a ruddy castle in Spain and are spending fortunes on it. Do you still think prostitution can’t compete with building work?’
‘I guess. Who could believe call-girls could rake in millions?’
‘Big and growing demand is all you need to know.’
‘Why isn’t something done about it?’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘The whore houses should be identified, raided, and closed down. The girls should be persuaded to testify against their controllers, and the Madames and people running the operations should be prosecuted. The whole lot should be put out of business and thrown in clink.’
‘You’ve a lot to learn, Darriteau. We’re talking about the real world here, not some do-goody TV programme. Listen to this. There was a case last year. Two young coppers stumbled on a new house of fun. Thought they’d make a name for themselves, arrest everyone there and close the establishment down. What do you think happened next?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘The Madame produced her two finest attractions, young and fresh, made up to the nines, short leather skirts, long shiny boots, the works, get the picture, and our friends were offered a free sample, on the house, take your time, you can have all afternoon. We love to keep the local force happy.’
‘And they took it?’
‘What do you think? And worse was to follow. Unbeknown to them, they were shown into the filming room, and every goddamn move and shake and grunt was recorded for posterity, or to be more accurate, for showing to our friend’s wife in one instance, and fiancé, in the other, if it became necessary.’
‘Oh gee, what were they thinking?’
‘They were thinking with their dicks!
That’s what we are up against, Darriteau. Trust no one with confidential info until you have run it by me. Be careful what you put in written reports. You never know who is going to see those comments; or how high up the chain of command they might go.’
Walter went quiet for a second, before saying, ‘You’ve depressed me, sarge; you know that.’
‘It’s as well you understand the lay of the land from the off. We’re not nicking the odd cat-burglar here, we’re fighting a war on many fronts, and so called legit big business is often one of them, never mind the illegal operators. Prostitution is one dirty finger, drugs another, and by the way, the Meades are not a one trick cowboy gang either. They are also into clubs and theatrical agencies, and property management, and it was there they first came across the Banaghans, and that’s why the families are at loggerheads. There will only be one winner in this war, and I have no idea which side will prevail. In the meantime, our job and duty is to make sure there are no winners, neither the Banaghans nor the Meades, and certainly not the corrupt people who take their money and favours. You need to make an early decision, Darriteau, are you with me or agin me? It’s a choice between the hard road and hard life, or the easy money and a quiet one. What do you say?’
‘I’m with you, sarge, course I am, all the way.’
‘Good man, kid. I’ll admit I had my doubts about you, but today, you’ve surprised me.’
Walter said, ‘Thanks,’ and followed that with, ‘Where to now? Le Gavanne?’
‘No point, they will have been there. Back to the nick. You ring the Gav and find out as much as you can, who was there, what time they arrived and left, that kind of thing, and did they behave themselves? It’s a staged alibi, and all too obvious and neat and tidy by half.’