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

desk, placed the original and the envelope into his drawer, and closed and locked it. Ambled across the office, taking the copies with him, pondering as he went as to any hidden meaning in the signature: The Chester Mollesters. It wasn’t something he’d ever come across before.

He tapped on Mrs West’s door.

‘Come,’ she said, glancing up and removing her spectacles.

‘I’ve had a letter, ma’am.’

‘From the killer?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Come in, shut the door, sit down.’

THEY TALKED ABOUT THE letter. He showed her a copy; assured her the original was untouched and would be sent to forensics for fingerprinting and DNA tests. She asked him if the phrase Chester Mollesters meant anything to him, and he said it didn’t. She asked him what he thought the letter meant. He said he thought the killer had already struck again. Mrs West grimaced and rolled her eyes and said, ‘Not the child you mentioned? God forbid.’

‘Let’s hope not, ma’am.’

‘Bring Karen and Cresta in. Let’s see what they think,’ and in the next minute they were all around the table staring at Walter’s copies.

‘You said he’d be in touch,’ said Mrs West to Cresta, ‘And he has.’

Cresta glowed and then added, ‘Could be a woman, Mrs West.’

Karen said, ‘How does the killer know about Jamaica?’

‘I think we can blame the worldwide web for that,’ sighed Walter.

‘The he-she thing is baiting you,’ said Cresta.

‘I know that,’ said Walter, and then he said, ‘There are two things that interest me, the spelling mistakes for a start.’

‘And me,’ said Karen.

‘Is the person poorly educated, or is it a con?’

‘I think it’s a con,’ said Cresta. ‘It’s too obvious. Jamaca looks so wrong.’

‘I agree,’ said Walter. ‘So we might assume the person is well educated.’

‘For sure,’ said Cresta. ‘Uni wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Chester Mollesters?’ said Karen.

‘Means nothing to me,’ said Walter. ‘Dreadful expression, not the kind of words you would associate with adult murders.’

‘You said there were two things?’ said Mrs West.

Walter bobbed his head. ‘Why does the note refer to we? Surely there isn’t a team of the buggers.’

‘More likely the royal we,’ said Cresta, ‘Didn’t Mrs Thatcher once say: We have a grandson? I don’t believe there is more than one person involved for a minute. Split personality, yes, two different people, unlikely.’

‘Yet it’s as if the killer is part of a couple,’ said Karen.

‘In his or her mind they still are, except, as we have discussed before, I believe the partner is no longer there. Gone but not forgotten. The killer can’t get the memory of being part of a couple out of their mind.’

‘Do you think they will contact us again?’ asked Mrs West.

‘Yes,’ said Cresta.

‘I agree with that,’ said Walter.

‘So what are we doing now?’ asked Mrs West, just about keeping the natural tetchiness from her voice.

‘We’ll see if there is anything on the letter, the paper itself, maybe even in the ink, or the envelope, or the stamp, but I doubt there is,’ said Walter.

‘And the checking of cars?’

They all glanced at Karen.

‘We have so far checked the owners of and searched three hundred and eight cars that match the vague description. We haven’t found anything unusual except some weed in one, quite unrelated.’

‘I hate to say it,’ Mrs West said, ‘but we seem to be stalling. Are we waiting for another murder to kick-start things?’

‘I am going to stay late, go through everything again, right from the beginning,’ said Walter. ‘I think we are missing something.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Karen.

Walter nodded his appreciation.

They checked out purple Cresta, hoping for inspiration.

She sensed her moment and threw out the first thought that came into her head. ‘The he-she thing will kill again’ she said, ‘for sure.’

‘Great,’ muttered Mrs West. ‘That’s all I need.’

‘I’ll be late in the morning,’ said Walter. ‘Funeral, I’ll be at the cathedral, Right Reverend James Kingston.’

They all nodded and went back to work.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Samuel was getting dressed. He slipped on a fresh blue shirt and red tie. He glanced in the mirror. Cocked his head from side to side. His neat, short blond hair looked at its best. Man moisturiser, he couldn’t get enough of it, kept the crow’s feet at bay. It surprised him more men didn’t swallow their pride and use it. He had a lunchtime meet and was looking forward to it. He slipped on the black casual shoes he’d bought with Desi in Manchester, and the gold tiepin Desi adored.

They made a point of going to Manchester once a month for a big spend up. Always came back with far more merchandise than they needed, but that was half the fun, the naughtiness of it. Samuel missed his trips to Cottonopolis with Desi. Afterwards he tried it once by himself, but it wasn’t the same. Never mind, there was nothing that could be done about that now.

Samuel had a date.

A blind date; and blind dates were always the most exciting. He’d found her on the Internet. You can buy anything you want on the Internet these days. It had usurped the Young Conservatives as the easiest place to locate a new squeeze. He had done it by the book.

They suggested, the website owners, that to begin with you met at lunchtime in a busy place. Safety in numbers. You can never be too careful. There are millions of weird people out there. Samuel wasn’t taking any chances.

They’d agreed to take lunch in the Hunting Rooms of the Royal Hotel in the Grosvenor precinct. They would meet outside the main entrance at one o’clock. He glanced at his watch. 12.15. Time to go.

SALLY BEAUCHAMP WAS looking forward to the date, even if he was a mystery man. He assured her she would not be disappointed. She’d soon see. She had no idea what he looked like. He said he was too shy to upload his picture on the Internet. He would recognise her, because she would carry a bunch of daffodils. Make sure you do! Sally felt stupid, standing there with a bunch of