The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (microsoft ebook reader TXT) 📗

dropped. Nothing left behind. No one about. Sam would never come this way again. The car stank. Removed the gloves. Took off the white coat, chucked it on the back seat, switched on the headlights, full beam. Maggie O’Brien was bathed in light. She looked as if she was on the stage; hogging the spotlight, the woman in black, as if she were about to open her eyes and deliver a monologue. I have a story to tell, you won’t believe, but it really happened. The beginning of a play, a murder mystery, perhaps, and Maggie O’Brien was the star, and the only person who knew how it would end, except she didn’t.

Sam winked at Maggie.

Started the engine, buzzed down the windows.

Left designer trainer to C, select gear, right trainer to A. Acceleration! Not too quick, pulled the car round, made it without any reversing. The rain had returned, heavier than before, and that was no bad thing, it would wash away the evil spirits.

Maggie O’Brien was going to get wet.

Sorry Maggie, dear.

100 Ways to Kill People.

Carbon monoxide poisoning.

You hear of it all the time.

Most popular way to commit suicide, so they say.

Surprised it wasn’t used more often.

DURING THE QUICK TRIP back to Chester Sam reflected on the innovative use of props. The stethoscope bought in the Oxfam shop in Frodsham high street for a fiver, the use of one of Desi’s white coats that Sam had recently considered binning.

They had worked like a dream, and no one would ever know.

There were lessons there to be learned, the value of good props. Sam closed the windows; the flushing chilly night air had cleaned the interior.

That should give them something to think about, those dopey coppers, those loopy press people.

Over to you, Walter.

Wall.

Wally.

Prick!

Sam laughed aloud.

This was fun, and it was getting better.

Chapter Twelve

Stevie discovered the body. The old lady was still sitting on the bench as if she had been waiting for the hospital bus and had fallen asleep. There was dew on her hat and shoulders and the end of her nose, and her dark coat was soaked through. The handbag was untouched, still containing the pension she had collected the day before.

An enormous spider’s web stretched from her earring to the corner of the bench. The spider had scarpered when Steve arrived on the scene, sniffing around Maggie’s feet.

Stevie was a red setter.

It was ten minutes to eight on a moist morning and Maggie would always be asleep at that time. She was asleep still, enjoying the start of the big one.

Two minutes later Stevie’s owner showed up, panting like the dog, Mr Milkins, sixty-nine, retired solicitor. He fired up the mobile phone his granddaughter Sara had bought him for his birthday, and tried to remember how the damned thing worked. Figured it out, and zapped 999.

THE INCIDENT ROOM WAS packed; everyone was in early to sift through the results of the televised broadcast. The phones had been red hot for four hours following the initial showing; and again later when the feature was repeated on the bedtime roundup. Every loony and attention seeker in the county had called, or so it seemed to Karen.

It was me I did it, stabbed the guy; kicked him in the river.

No, you didn’t. Go away! Stop wasting police time.

The phones were still busy the following morning, though the initial rush of idiots had abated.

One or two interesting things had come in. But nothing concrete; and nothing seemingly from the perpetrator.

Walter half expected that. He sniffed and sat back in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head. One or two thoughts had come to him during the six fitful hours of sleep he had grabbed. It was hard to think in the Incident Room with all the kafuffle going on. He might take some time out and sit in one of the private offices. One of the young WPC’s came in and set a mug of coffee on his desk. He hadn’t asked for it, but was happy to accept.

‘Thanks, err...’ realising that he did not know the kid’s name.

‘Thompson, sir,’ said the girl smiling. ‘Jenny Thompson.’

‘Thanks Jenny Thompson,’ and he smiled, and she pulled a pleasant face and hurried away to begin data entry on the latest computer program that supposedly aided finding the killer. Maybe it did, but it was not something that interested Walter much.

He glanced across at Cresta. Still in purple, though different shades today. She’d combed her straight, dyed hair differently, and there was a purple clip in it to keep it just so. She was writing fast, longhand, and she was an immaculate writer, standard forward sloping style, each individual letter almost identical, like you see in American universities, which may not have been so daft, for she had studied at Stanford for three years. The Americans were the best at profiling, miles ahead of anyone else, leastways Cresta believed that, and she might have been right.

Some of the younger guys had suggested she was spending her time writing a crime novel at Chester Police expense, building in the realistic atmosphere she witnessed, which might not have been such a ludicrous idea, judging by the pile of completed papers she had turned over.

‘How are you doing?’ asked Walter.

‘Fine, Walter,’ and she stopped writing and looked up, ‘I have nearly finished my initial report. I have a few ideas.’

‘Me too,’ he said, ‘though I can’t think straight in here.’

He called to Karen. She looked away from the latest data on the screen.

‘I want a small meeting, just you, me, and Cresta. Organise a room, drinks and toast would be nice.’

‘Maybe we should include Mrs West,’ suggested Karen, looking back over her shoulder toward the private office that bore the boss’s name, a door that remained closed.

‘You think?’

Karen nodded.

Walter sighed and said none too enthusiastically, ‘OK, you tell her, will you?’

Karen made to walk that way but came to a halt as soon as WPC Jenny Thompson stood up, still