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

Chapter Twenty-One

It had gone two in the morning by the time Samantha left Jago’s flat. It was dark and quiet and cloudy, looking like rain, as she opened his car and adjusted the seat, jumped inside, clicked open her bag, dragged out a folded baseball cap, and pulled it down over her face. She started the car and rolled from the car park and headed across town for the swimming pool, just as fine rain began tumbling down.

Her own car was still there, alone and safe and unmolested. She pulled Jago’s car skew-whiff into a bay some way off, glanced round, no one about, and stepped into the miserable night. Checked she’d left nothing behind, closed the door, took Jago’s keys with her to her own car, opened up, jumped in and drove away.

Sam’s flat was on the south side of the city. It was one of four apartments in a redbrick Victorian detached house. Two flats to the left, ground floor and first, and two mirroring flats to the right. Sam’s was the ground floor right. She’d lived there on and off for five years, and she liked it. The other residents were single and quiet and past fifty. They kept themselves to themselves, immersed in their work and studies and books. They would say hello in passing, but that was about it. At least two of them were shortsighted, and another was going deaf. She had rarely been in any of the other flats, and they had never been in hers, and that suited Sam just fine.

As she crossed the river on the Grosvenor Bridge, she buzzed down the passenger window and hurled Jago’s keys over the handrail. They turned over in the air several times and splashed into the river. On the still night air she imagined she heard the plop, though she might have been mistaken.

There was no one about at the flats. Iona House was asleep.

The other three residents, two guys and a woman; were strict timekeepers. They all went to bed between half-past ten and eleven o’clock, and they didn’t hear the car cruise into the small car park, and they didn’t see or hear Sam get out of the car and hurry inside.

Each of the flats possessed a wood-burning stove that provided hot water and heating. Sam would keep it burning all year round, except for the hottest summer months. She stood before the stove and undressed. Took off her jacket and skirt, opened the stove, as the iron metallic clunk echoed through the old house. That couldn’t be helped, as she tossed the clothing inside. Blouse? Yeah, that too. Slipped it off and in it went. Three minutes later and the clothing didn’t exist. The last item she would remove that night would be the gloves. The glovely lady, she said aloud, mimicking Jago’s idiotic voice. I am the glovely lady. She giggled. Would she burn those too? Of course not, that was unthinkable. Desi had bought them special. She’d wash them in the morning.

Sam smiled and yawned. It had been a good day. It had been a good night too. She went to bed, slept well; didn’t think of Jago Cripps once. He was a rapist and woman molester, a drug addict and a wastrel. The world would not miss the likes of him, and there was no reason for Sam to waste precious time thinking about the guy.

IN THE MORNING SAM rose at ten. Turned on the radio. Nothing new. No murders in the city. Turned on the Internet. Nothing special. Big fuss over some oil leak off Africa, but that was nothing new either. Navigated to the word processor, settled on the kooky AR Delaney font, and wrote a letter. It had been coming for a few days. Today it would be written and posted, and after that, the next night’s clothes needed attention. Yesterday had been an off day; but tonight it was back to the casino. Work could not be avoided. The bills had to be paid; the mortgage on Flat 2 Iona House wouldn’t pay itself.

Walter knew there was something weird about the letter the moment Jenny Thompson handed it to him. One large A4 manila envelope, one solitary sheet inside judging by the skinny feel of it, one self adhesive first class stamp, one postmark reading Chester City, 2.30pm from yesterday. It was the address that grabbed Walter’s attention. A homemade label, black print on white paper, ink jetted letters, unusual font, taped to the envelope.

PRIVATE AND PERSONNEL

Inspector Wally Darrito

Chester Police Station HQ

Chester

TWO SPELLING MISTAKES in eleven words. Walter opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on, grabbed the letter opener from the centre of the desk, eased it inside the flap, and carefully opened. He had been right. A single sheet of unfolded A4 paper. Same inkjet printing, same strange font.

WALLY,

WE THOUGHT YOU WAS clever. Perhaps you should retire, sod off back to Jamaca. You ain’t up to the job, mate. Its past your retirment. You said we’d be meeting soon. It hasn’t happened. It ain’t going to happen. Your thick, but we like you. Keep smiling, that’s what fool’s do.

THE CHESTER MOLLESTERS

WALTER READ THE MESSAGE three times. Counted the spelling mistakes, five to add to the two on the address label, six if you included the missing apostrophe in “its”. Poor grammar too, was, aint, really clunky, and written by an ill-educated person, or maybe that was what the writer intended. The big question was, was it from the killer, or was it some sick hoax from someone desperate for attention?

He held the paper to the light. No watermark, standard supermarket issue copy paper if he had to guess. Untraceable. He slipped it into a clear plastic sleeve and ambled to the photocopy machine, made four copies, returned to his