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

She returned to the bedroom.

Jago was snoring, already in a deep sleep.

The E might have wanted him to dance the night away, but the Temazepam was boss, and thought different, and the Temazepam had allies, the drink, the spliff, and Jago’s weak and neglected body.

She glared down at him.

He might already have taken enough to kill himself, and she considered leaving him to his fate. But on second thoughts she wouldn’t. What was the point in that? She wouldn’t take any chances. She opened her bag and removed the steel craft knife.

Gently seized his left wrist and sliced into it, just above the hand. The iconic place for suicide. The blood gushed and flowed down to the white sheet, spreading like wet ink on blotting paper. She knew two leakages were always better than one, as in opening a can, or anything else come to that, two holes increased the flow threefold. She slipped the knife into his right wrist. It was easy.

Serves you right, Jago, for drugging and raping unsuspecting girls, if indeed that is what you have done. She didn’t care about that. She didn’t care about Jago; didn’t care about anything, not since her precious Desi had left this world. She wiped the blade clean on the sheet and slipped it into her bag.

100 ways to Kill People.

Drink and drugs, and invite their wrists to taste the fresh air.

Not clean, but pretty effective. There was no way of coming back from that, not for Jago Cripps. He was on his one-way trip to oblivion.

Samantha laughed.

It had been a good day.

She took a last look at him. He looked so peaceful.

His mother would be proud.

She picked up Jago’s car keys; left the room, opened the front door, and left the flat.

Chapter Twenty

Armitage woke in a sweat. Porridge slumbered on beside him. His father and Donna were downstairs, arguing. Their loud voices had woken him. In the darkness, Armitage sat up and glanced at his Toy Town clock. It ticked on merrily, oblivious to the boy’s worries. The luminous hands signalled their message. The small man was pointing towards the twelve, the big man toward the three. Armitage yawned.

Still, they yelled at one another downstairs. He couldn’t make out what they were saying; hearing only the muffled rumbling discontent floating up through the plaster, floorboards, and the carpet. It sounded spiteful. It sounded frightening. In the darkness, Armitage grimaced. They had been arguing more often, sometimes every night, disturbing the boy’s sleep and dreams. He boasted black rings around his eyes, though he was unaware of that, he hadn’t noticed. But the teachers at school had, and so had Mrs Greenaway.

As the days and weeks and months slipped away, so his hatred for Donna Deary increased. It was mutual; that dislike, for she had taken to slapping him when his father was missing, or in another part of the house. She’d admonish Army and clip his ear for the slightest misdemeanour, real or imaginary. Afterwards she would say, ‘And don’t go running and whining to your father! He’s not interested, and if you do, I’ll take that wooden ruler of yours and thrash your legs to shreds!’

Armitage valued his legs, and whether the threat was real or bluster, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to test it. She frightened him, and he remained silent. His father never noticed a thing. He had troubles of his own.

A moment later Armitage made out what they were saying. They must have stepped up the volume; perhaps the dispute was reaching a climax.

She yelled: ‘If you don’t take me to see the pyramids this year, we’re finished, understand? Finished! You promised to take me, and you can bloody well take me!’

‘Why can’t you understand I don’t have the bloody cash!’ his father screamed back.

‘Then sell something! What about that money you’ve put aside for the kid? You could use some of that! He’s not interested in money. You only have to look at him to tell that. Use that if you have to!’

‘I will not touch Armitage’s inheritance. That’s Kay’s money. She set it aside for him.’

‘Wake up and open your bloody eyes! Kay’s dead, you barmpot! In case you haven’t noticed, it’s me you should be looking after. You’re not living in the real world, you useless article!’

‘We can’t use that money and that’s final!’

‘Use what you bloody well like, but you understand this, Donald Shelbourne, if you don’t take me to Egypt this year as you promised, we are finished. Understand me? Finished!’

‘We are not going to Egypt!’

‘We’ll see about that! And another thing, you can sleep in the spare room tonight. I don’t want you anywhere near me! You give me the creeps!’

After that, Armitage heard a heavy slap, echoing through the house, magnified by the after midnight stillness.

Then silence returned.

In his mind Army imagined she had slapped him, for his father would never slap anyone, and certainly not a lady. Though thinking about it later, perhaps it might do her some good. Armitage would admit that sometimes he imagined slapping her himself, if only he could find the courage. Perhaps his father felt the same way.

If only she would disappear.

Army turned over, pulled the pillow over his head, kissed the bear, hugged the creature to his shaking chest, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. Tomorrow was dancing day. It was important there was a spring in his step. There wouldn’t be, if he didn’t sleep.

Throughout the following week, rows and fights disturbed his nights. During mealtimes they would glare at one another and say almost nothing. They’d glare at Army too and bite his head off over any tiny thing. Living in the house was hell. He couldn’t help comparing it to how it was when his angelic mother ruled the roost.

Unbeknown to Armitage, the economy had taken a hefty lurch away from prosperity. People were no longer buying cars, worse