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

still; they were selling them, chasing the cash like everyone else. The Shelbourne Motor Company had been in financial trouble for some time. Everyone worked hard but there was never any money in the bank, and the situation had become critical.

For one moment Donna considered using a small proportion of her Swiss bank savings to help the business over the lean times. Perhaps £10,000, that would help, and it wouldn’t make too much of a dent in her £180,000 nest egg. Recently she had stepped up Laddon’s invoices, keen as she was to break the £200,000 barrier, and her greediness had worsened Shelbourne’s plight.

She decided against it, of helping anyone, and especially Donald Shelbourne, after he had actually hit her. Slapped her across the face, the cheeky git. She could still feel the stinging sensation on the cheek. No, she wouldn’t help a living soul, not Donald, not that hopeless queer son of his, nor the floundering company. They could all take a run and jump. She would not touch any of her savings.

The following day when Donald was at work, Armitage at school, she had a dental appointment. Afterwards, she hurried home, packed two cases, wrote a hurried note: Sorry Donald, it is obvious we have come to the end of the road, you clearly don’t love me, and please don’t follow me. I am out of here, Donna.

She called a cab and ordered it to the railway station and boarded a train for Bristol. Sitting waiting in the hairdressers, she had read grand things of the West Country. She would visit all the big towns, Bath, Cheltenham, Bristol, Gloucester, Wells, Taunton, Exeter, and settle in the one that suited her best. She was a lady of means, though she had no intention of squandering her hard earned wealth.

No, she would find another man. She was still young and desirable, so she told herself, so she witnessed, as she stared into the mirror, painting. She would take up golf, act the damsel in distress, book some lessons, seek new company, a rich widower would be perfect, a handsome golf pro on the side, anyone who could show her the ropes, take her into their circle, provide her with everything she desired, just so long as he was a decent-looking man, and solvent.

Donna knew how to foster interest, how to find a patron, and there must be thousands of businesses in the West Country looking for a good bookkeeper.

She might change her name too. Donna Trowbridge, she decided after staring at the map for an hour; she had never liked Deary, What’s up, Deary? She was young and carefree, with no ties to restrict her. More than that, she was a great catch for someone, and already she had visions of handsome beaus from Bath to Bristol begging for her hand.

Donald and the squirt could go to hell.

Armitage was thrilled at the news.

He slept better; began dancing better; and looked better; and Mrs Greenaway could guess the reason when she heard the welcome news that Donna Deary had fled the town. ‘Not before time,’ she muttered, ‘not before time.’

This newfound sense of wellbeing did not spread to his father. Things lurched from bad to worse. The Shelbourne Motor Company failed to pay for the latest batch of cars. The wholesalers were furious and descended on the forecourt and repossessed everything that hadn’t been paid for. The Shelbourne Motor Company had entered its death throes. Donald wasn’t thinking straight. He had even used Armitage’s inheritance, Kay’s money; that she had earmarked for her only son. He hated doing it, and Armitage would never see a penny.

One week later, the business went bust. It owed just shy of a million pounds. An Official Receiver was appointed to wind up the company’s affairs. Donald was out of a job. He was broke, and broken.

Armitage did not understand what all that meant. He had always hated the garage and the cars and the filthy mechanics and the stink. He was elated to see it go, and pleased to be free of going there every Saturday morning. He could go straight to the florists and for a short while life was heaven.

But it hit home when the house went up for sale. Donald had mortgaged everything. The equity had fled as quickly as Donna. His father told him they would be moving out.

‘Where are we going to live?’ moped Army.

He adored the house, his room, and the garden where his mother had chased and played and laughed with him. Such happy, sunny days and beautiful memories that seemed so long ago, days that would never return.

‘I have found a little flat for us,’ said his father. ‘On Kenneally Drive.’

‘On Kenneally Drive?’ said Army, imagining he was hearing things.

‘Yes. We are moving there on Saturday.’

‘But that’s...’

‘Yes, I know... it’s on the council estate.’

Armitage pulled a face and said: ‘Will I be able to take Porridge?’

‘Yes, son, of course, Porridge is coming too.’

So they moved into a small two-bedroom flat on the second floor at number 39 Kenneally Drive on the same council estate that Donald had been so sniffy about. As it turned out, the residents were friendly, even to the dancing freak with the plummy voice.

Donald soon made friends. It was as if a mighty weight had been chipped from his shoulders. He met a young widow by the name of Janet Everrit who lived in the house on the corner. She had taken a shine to the upright, well-dressed bloke who’d moved in up the road.

Donald and Army began taking tea there. Donald fixed up her old car and he would drive them all to the supermarket on Saturday morning to buy provisions. It sure as hell was better than taking the public bus. They began spending evenings at the Everrit house, and the following week they even had a sleepover. Armitage was forced to share a room with Smelly Everrit. He had never shared a room with anyone before, other than Porridge. He