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

‘Don’t forget two of them were preachers,’ said Karen.

‘Makes no difference. Preachers ogle too,’ said Walter. He was going to say perv, but stopped himself in time.

‘The thing I don’t understand is this latest death,’ said Karen. ‘It doesn’t fit with anything else. It buggers up the work times for a start.’

‘Everyone has a day off,’ said Walter.

‘And it’s an old lady too, all the others were men.’

‘As I said before,’ said Cresta, ‘the he-she thing is getting bolder.’

‘So what do we expect next time, if God forbid there is going to be a next time?’ said Mrs West.

‘Impossible to predict,’ said Cresta. ‘Random killers do exactly that, kill randomly.’

‘Just so long as it isn’t a child,’ said Walter.

‘Oh, God help us, not that,’ said Mrs West. ‘That’s not what you think, is it?’

‘It’s not what I think, it’s what I fear.’

There was a brief silence as they pondered on that dreadful possibility, and then Mrs West asked, ‘Anything else?’

No one had.

Meeting over.

AT HALF-PAST THREE Walter whispered to Karen, ‘Where’s purple haze?’

‘Gone to freshen up,’ said Karen, grinning.

‘Good. Come on, let’s go, I know a cracking tea bar on the way.’

They crept from the office and five minutes later they were negotiating the inner city ring road in a brand new unmarked white Jag, heading for Queensferry.

Chapter Fourteen

They took the A55 expressway, a four-lane highway known as the top road that ran over the hills, always going up, or always going down. On one of the down stretches, away to the left, set on the hill, was a spectacular bungalow. In the sunshine, a man was mowing the grass. Harry Wilkinson couldn’t stop himself; in time he would cut that grass on the day he died.

Walter said, ‘When I retire I am going to buy a bungalow like that, and raise chickens.’

Memories from long ago of those spectacular bantams back in Jamaica filled his head, and the yellow yoked eggs they produced.

‘And when will that be?’ asked Karen, giggling.

‘Ages yet,’ said Walter. ‘Why? Are you after my job?’

‘Course I am, thought you knew that.’

They shared a look as the bungalow slid away over Walter’s left shoulder and out of sight.

Half way to Prestatyn, Walter ordered Karen to pull into a packed lay-by. There was a portable café there called Jock’s Trap. It was run by Jocky Smith; a man Walter had arrested ten years before for aggravated burglary. Since then they’d become loose friends and Jock had pretty much gone straight ever since. He was known for his strong, sweet tea and toasted bacon sandwiches.

‘We’ve plenty of time, pull in for a snack,’ Walter said. ‘Fancy a bacon butty?’

‘Nope,’ said Karen, ‘diet.’

‘Don’t you ever eat?’

‘Yes, at mealtimes.’

Walter pulled a face.

He stepped from the car and Karen shouted after him, ‘I’ll have an orange juice.’

Ten minutes later they were back on the road, Walter trying hard not to belch, sucking peppermints, as they took the Prestatyn turnoff and dropped down toward the coast.

The main police station was large for a smallish town, on the sea side of the main road. Karen pulled into the car park and cut the engine. The Jag was a pleasure to drive; she’d grab it again when the opportunity arose. Inside, Dai Williams came out to meet Walter, who introduced Karen.

Dai was typically Welsh built, short and stocky, with trimmed straight sandy hair, and he wore round-framed glasses that seemed out of place.

‘Is the girl here?’ asked Walter.

‘She is, interview room three, follow me. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

Walter said, ‘Ta,’ and Karen smiled at the guy and nodded.

Walter took off his raincoat and set it on a chair outside, opened the door and stepped inside.

The girl was standing with her back to Walter, staring at a notice board. When the door opened she turned round and smiled at the guy, an automatic smile. She was the kind of girl who would smile at any man. Her mother was sitting at the table wearing creased jeans. She didn’t stand up, didn’t say anything, just half smiled at the newcomers.

‘Chloe Evans, I believe?’ said Walter.

‘That’s me,’ said the girl, still smiling at the guy who looked a little younger in the flesh.

She was tall and pretty, well developed, tumbling auburn hair; didn’t look fourteen at all. She was wearing a short blue skirt, tailored school uniform, far too short, no more than twelve inches from waist to hem, black tights, light blue blouse and a tiny neatly knotted blue and yellow striped tie, probably a clip-on.

‘You must be Walter,’ she said, too forward for Karen’s liking, ‘I saw you on the telly.’

‘Yes, Inspector Walter Darriteau, and this is Sergeant Karen Greenwood.’

Karen bobbed her head and took a seat.

The mother didn’t speak.

‘Take a seat, Chloe,’ said Walter, as he sat down.

Chloe pulled a seat back from the table and sat down and crossed her legs, displaying her knickers. Walter couldn’t help but notice. The mother saw the look on Walter’s face as he averted his eyes.

‘Pull your chair in and put your feet on the floor and sit up straight!’ said the mother, and the girl did as she was told.

‘So,’ said Walter, ‘you saw something at Mostyn station?’

‘Yep,’ she said, smiling and bobbing her head.

‘Tell us what you saw,’ said Karen.

Chloe glanced at Karen. She didn’t want to talk to the female officer; it was Walter she liked talking to.

‘Well, I saw him do it, didn’t I.’

‘Him?’ said Karen.

‘Yeah, course; it was a man... wasn’t it? Now you come to mention it, I’m not sure it was.’

‘Tell us what you saw,’ said Walter, ‘start at the beginning.’

The girl nodded again and took a deep breath.

‘We were coming out of the Mobri.’

‘The Mobri?’ said Karen.

‘Yeah, the old Mostyn Brick Company; it’s derelict now, disused, lots of the kids use it, it’s a safe place to go, quiet like.’

‘Who’s we?’ asked Walter.

‘Me and Lee, my boyfriend.’

‘What time was this?’

‘I dunno, don’t have a watch, probably about three, something like that. He