by David Carter
Suzanne nodded and said, ‘Great. I will.’
‘Anything else we need to discuss?’
‘I’m so proud to be a Meade, dad. I’m going to work for this family till the day I die. The legacy you have built is incredible. I’ve got loads of ideas too, such as how we could maximise revenue with the girls.’
‘I’m glad you’re showing so much interest. Maybe we should leave that discussion for another day. But hone and sharpen those ideas and thoughts of yours, for I am real interested in that.’
‘Thanks, dad, I will.’
‘Okay, you run along, kid, and don’t forget our date with the Derringer, later.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she said, standing up.
‘And keep everything we discuss between ourselves. Don’t tell anyone a thing,’ and he tapped his nose and grinned, and did a silly two-fingered salute and said, ‘Scouts honour.’
Suzanne smiled down at her amazing father and saluted back, ‘Guides honour,’ she said, ‘Guides honour,’ and turned about and hustled away.
After she’d gone, Howard sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. She was an amazing girl. Until that Sunday, he hadn’t realised how brilliant she was. Everyone assumed that when the time came for a change of leadership, it would be Johnny Meade stepping into the chief’s seat. He was the oldest and bossiest, always kept the others in line, and wasn’t afraid to use a little violence on the rare occasions it was necessary.
He’d always bullied his younger siblings, and indeed Howard had encouraged that to a degree. It promoted discipline, loyalty, strength, and family unity. But was he the most intelligent? From that day, Howard knew the answer to the question. Suzanne was the cleverest of the brood, and by a distance, and it would be interesting to see how that developed, and how Johnny took it when he came to realise that Suzanne would be his main rival, and not one of the remaining three boys.
Thirty
As Walter and the team suspected, Markhams Bank was not helpful in digging out files from thirty years before. They said there was no one working there from back then, and with the takeover from the Far East, when lots of records were bussed to London and never seen again, there was nothing they could do.
‘Okay,’ said Walter. ‘If they want to play hardball two can play at that game.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Martin Kane.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Karen.
‘Let’s place an ad in the Liverpool and Chester newspapers.’
‘Saying what?’ said Karen.
‘An appeal for anyone who had business with Markhams Bank thirty years ago, particularly if it was handled by the late Peter Craig, and especially if it went sour. Can you draft something up, Jenny? You’re good at that kind of thing.’
‘Sure,’ she said, pen and paper at the ready. ‘What size ad?’
Walter thought a second and said, ‘Something that stands out, say, six inches square.’
‘In centimetres,’ she said, grinning at Martin.
‘Whatever.’
‘That size is going to cost a fair bit, Guv.’
‘I don’t care how much it costs. It might save someone’s life. I’ll square it with Mrs West, and get it on Bookface and Twotter and Pintogram too, whatever those awful sites are called.’
Karen and Jenny shared a look and a grin, and Jenny said, ‘Sure, Guv,’ and set to work.
The man was talking again.
‘And get the ads in the papers as soon as possible. Tell them this is an emergency, speed is vital. If they haven’t any space left tell them to find some. And while you’re doing that, we’ll re-examine the Kelly Jones murder, see if there’s anything weird about that one too.’
THEY’D ONLY BEEN LOOKING at the Kelly Jones case for a short time without unearthing anything startling. If that murder had anything to do with secret societies, they’d covered their tracks well. But they were interrupted by urgent business, and it was pushed aside for another day.
Mrs West approved Jenny’s final wording and the ad appeared in the local newspapers the following day. Within an hour they received six calls, the most promising from a mature lady who worked at the bank back in the day. She said she knew Peter Craig well, and Walter asked her to call by that afternoon, and she agreed. Several other calls were typical time-wasting ones from people who pretended to know a great deal, but in reality were fishing to find out why the police were making enquiries. At least two asked if there was any reward available, though they didn’t have any information to offer.
But the calls kept coming and by close of play, there were eight people and families on the record, all with something in common. They had experienced their businesses being wound up or taken over, or put into liquidation by Markhams Bank, after they withdrew funding, and all the families said the bank did it prematurely. In most cases, the assets were sold off with undue haste, sometimes at knock-down prices, and Peter Craig oversaw all the business collapses. Walter wondered how many others there were.
More than one former client said they were not disappointed when they heard the man had drowned off Hilbre, and few former customers mourned his passing. None of the families admitted possessing a boat, though maybe they would say that.
Lena Caulker was the Markhams Bank officer who promised to come in, and Walter was looking forward to meeting her. In the meantime, he sat back, closed his eyes, and put the finishing touches to his theory on how Peter Craig had met his end.
Miss Lena Caulker, as she insisted on being addressed, arrived in the station at half-past two. They offered her coffee and she jumped all over it. She looked about eighty, and that made sense because she’d celebrated her eightieth birthday a month before. Short and ultra slim, as if a puff of wind would knock her over. She reeked of cigarettes, boasted a deep croaky voice, thin curly grey hair, and matching grey lined skin, layered and lined from chin to a high forehead.
‘Yes, I knew Peter well,’ she began, her voice echoing around the interview room as she exchanged a glance with the smart girl introduced as Sergeant Karen Greenwood. ‘He was not an easy character to work with. You know the type?’
Karen nodded.
Walter said, ‘In what way?’
‘He’d always been ultra-successful, never experienced failure, and was determined to follow that path to the bitter end. He didn’t suffer fools, and if he thought anyone could not contribute to both the bank’s success, and his own, he would find a way of moving them on to another department, or having them dismissed. The man was ruthless, there’s no denying that. It may be good for business, but it’s not a great trait to gain friends.’
‘And you worked with him?’
‘Yes, on occasion.’
‘Closely?’ persisted Karen.
‘Yes, when you work with someone on a customer’s business account, especially if they were a big beast producing fat fees, you were bound to get close. Dinners out together, trips to Aintree and Haydock races, maybe the football, which bored me rigid, all kinds of junkets across the area, providing of course, the customer’s account was producing sufficient revenue.’
‘Did he cross the line sometimes?’ asked Walter.
She placed her elbow on the arm of the chair and reached up and clasped her chin and said, ‘Who didn’t? That went with the territory. Markhams was an aggressive bank. It was what made them stand apart from the others. Pressure was always on middle-management. They’d reap big rewards for successful transactions that produced a healthy fee, but equally, they’d be demoted, or moved on, or fired, if they failed to meet tough targets.’
‘And you’d describe Peter Craig as middle-management?’ asked Karen.
‘Of course he was, though he didn’t want to be. He was aiming for the top. He was desperate to be the man who wielded power over the MM’s.’
‘And to hell with anyone who got in his way, eh?’ added Walter.
She paused for thought before saying, ‘You could say that, Inspector, but he wasn’t alone, I can assur
e you of that.’
‘Did you know Torquil Wilderton?’
‘Old Torquers? Of course I did. Now that he’s dead it’s easier to talk about it. He was always popping in. A regular visitor, the bank’s retained legal counsel. Oh, and he fancied me like hell, though I wasn’t interested. He was ten years older than me. He kept pinching my bum. The man was stuck in the fifties and sixties; hadn’t moved on at all. Back then, women and girls were supposed to grin and bear it, and if we didn’t go along with it, we were painted as spoilsports and frigid and lesbians; and God knows what else. Sometimes innocent kids were moved on if they didn’t cooperate. Can you imagine? Thank God we’ve progressed beyond that. But he was always after me. I was decent looking, even well into my fifties. He kept offering me filthy weekends away, as he portrayed them, in that big hotel in the high street in Southport. But I was never tempted. Though, he did all right. Plenty went along for the ride, so to speak. More fool them. He would make a pass at every cashier at some point. No one escaped his wandering eyes and hands, and he was married too, the dirty old goat.’
‘How did he get on with Peter Craig?’
‘That, Inspector, is the million pound question. To begin with, they were thick as thieves. Money talks, doesn’t it? Craig was doing well, the bank was doing great, and of course the legal fees piled high faster than you can say shift! They went out together, after hours, loads of times. But it all went sour when the economy took a turn for the worst, and businesses began feeling the pressure. Some went under, and quite a few of those were owned and run by big friends of Torquers Wilderton.’
‘So Peter Craig called in loans because the bank worried some of their clients could not afford to repay, forcing those businesses to close, and Torquers Wilderton fielded the flak from his friends and clients.’
‘I thought that’s what I’d just said.’
Walter smiled and said, ‘I am just getting the sequence of events clear in my mind. Did you know Mr Wilderton owned a boat?’
‘I did. He tried to get me on it enough times. But can you imagine...’ she said, glancing at Karen and pulling a face, ‘being alone with Torquers Wilderton sailing across Liverpool Bay, with him intent on dropping his trousers? The old lech. I don’t think so, not for me. But some did, take up his offer.’
‘Did Peter Craig ever go on his boat?’
‘He was found on Hilbre, drowned, so he must have got there somehow, so I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘What could Torquil offer to persuade Craig to go boating with him? The records say he hated the water and would avoid it like the plague.’
‘Money of course. That was the only thing that motivated Peter. But don’t imagine bundles of fivers being handed round. More likely the promise of big new business being introduced by Torquil, real or imaginary. That would be the carrot, and enough to pique Peter’s interest and swallow his misgivings. I can imagine him steeling himself and going along for the ride. No doubt Torquil invited two or three of his high-powered friends along too, and they might have proven useful.’
‘Do you think Torquil Wilderton could have murdered Peter Craig?’
‘Who knows? I know he got progressively angrier, and I’m sure he was getting dogs abuse from lots of people. I reckon that’s why he sold up and moved down to Chester. I don’t think he could face the broken souls in Hoylake Conservative Club, some of whom had lost their businesses and livelihood, and I’m certain they no longer wished to see his moribund face, or have anything more to do with him.’
Walter said, ‘Do you remember which friends were likely to have gone on the boat?’
Lena Caulker sat back, pursed her lips, and thought hard about it, and said, ‘I could give you twenty names, but I guess they must all be in your files. It’s not for me to point fingers at people after all this time, suggesting they could be party to murder. And besides, a lot of them have popped their clogs by now, long dead. Plenty of them lying in Landican cemetery, and no doubt they’re having a big party with him up there now, maybe on Torquers’ boat,’ and for a second she glanced to one side, as if seeing long departed souls.
Walter nodded, understanding the answer, though disappointed by it.
Karen said, ‘Did Jago Wilderton ever get mixed up in all this?’
‘No, not really, he was in the army, if memory serves. But he came back on leave, as you do, and no one would be surprised if he and his father exchanged notes and news. But there were lots of other people hanging round the periphery.’
‘What other people?’ asked Karen and Walter, as one.
‘The funny farm gang, I forget the name they used, you know, the secret society idiots, treated themselves so seriously, they did. Torquers’ drinking pals. The fifteen bangers, you must know all about them in your line of work. You’re probably one of them yourself, aren’t you?’ and the lines in her face deepened and darkened as she considered that. She smirked and nodded at Walter, and grinned at Karen.
Walter took a beat and a breath and said, ‘I can assure you, Miss Caulker, I am not party to any funny farm gang, as you describe them, or anything similar, and we’d appreciate you telling us all you know about such people. This information could be vital in preventing anything similar in the way of suspicious deaths happening again.’
Lena Caulker pulled a face, sat back hard in her seat, and said, ‘Sure thing; so long as the coffee keeps coming.’
Karen grabbed the phone; spoke to Martin, ordered coffee and biscuits.
He said, ‘Okey-dokey, on its way,’ and five minutes later it appeared, as they settled in for a long afternoon.
Thirty-One
After Suzanne Meade cleared it with her father, she kept the date with Eamonn Banaghan outside the Jolly Roger pub. It looked like she was loitering outside alone. But Howard Meade wasn’t stupid.
Fifty yards away, two Meade operatives were watching from a bronze Renault 25. Another two unrelated young guys; unsteady on their feet and reeking of drink, were staggering close by, singing a Wham song, but always with a sober eye, looking out for trouble, and Audis.
The Quattro pulled up with Eamonn Banaghan up. Suzanne opened the door, jumped in, and the car pulled away with no tail. She was on her own, and Howard Meade would not relax until she was back in the fold.
Suzanne glanced across at Eamonn and said, ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘I wasn’t sure I would, either.’
‘I’m so sorry about your sister,’ said Suzanne. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ her voice close to breaking.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course I am! You must believe that.’
Eamonn said, ‘I’m not sure what I believe any more. That thing your father tricked us into doing was disgusting beyond belief,’ and his father’s words jumped back into his brain: Go and see her, son. Find out all you can. You know what you have to do.
‘It was,’ said Suzanne. ‘I agree. I can’t believe he would do something like that. My sister and I were both physically sick. But to be fair, Eamonn, what you did to our Grahame was brutal, too.’
‘At least we didn’t freaking eat him! Your father has sunk to a new level and turned us into bloody cannibals! I’ll never forgive him for that, never!’
‘I know,’ she said, reaching across and touching his left thigh. ‘But we mustn’t let it spoil what we have between us, eh? We’re good, aren’t we?’
Eamonn thought about that for a full minute before saying, ‘Yeah, sure Suzanne, we’re good,’ wondering how he could get her into the Chelsea Mews flat and pondering what he might accomplish when he had her there.
Suzanne was talking again.
‘I think that out-of-touch generation are following some kind of bloodlust.’
‘Our parents, you mean?’
‘Yes, who else?’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘London’s moved on. This is the eighties. There must be better ways to settle disputes. Maybe it’s up to us and our generation to do somet
hing about it.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
Suzanne smirked and said, ‘Perhaps we could get all the kids involved. Have a meeting without the parents knowing. Maybe we should work towards some kind of union.’
‘I’m all for that! A union...’ said Eamonn, grinning across at her.
‘Not that!’ she said, tapping his thigh. ‘Not that kind of union, not yet, big boy... but play your cards right. No, I mean, perhaps we could engineer some kind of merger between the two families and businesses. That would solve the violence issue overnight.’
‘It’s not the worst idea, but it’s never going to happen. A Meade could never rule a Banaghan, and I guess the same would apply to your lot.’
‘Not yet, not in the short-term, but maybe it’s something we could work towards. Secretly like; just you and me. Perhaps a Banaghan could be top dog for two years, and then a Meade after that. Your dad and my dad will not be around forever, and when they’re gone, someone else will take over at the top. Why not you and me? Imagine how strong we’d be with the two families working together. And we must be better prepared, because the immigrant gangster families are growing stronger all the time.’
‘Jeez, you’ve put some thought into that, haven’t you?’
‘I’m just thinking aloud, Eamonn, trying to make things better for all of us, and especially for you and me.’
‘Did your father put you up to this?’
‘No. Of course not! I never talk about our private business with him. We’re distant, he and I. He only consults with Johnny on business matters.’
Eamonn wasn’t sure he believed that, but the conversation ended when he drove into the car park of a Hungry Lion Steakhouse, and they got out and ambled over towards the entrance, Suzanne linking the arm of the son of the man who had ordered Grahame’s violent death, without a second thought.
EARLIER THAT DAY, IN the Chelsea Station, Walter passed countless screwed-up documents across his eyes, hoping to find the golden ticket. Sergeant Vairs arrived, looking happy about something, the swelling on his eye subsiding, but the colours brighter than ever.