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

thought it odd that the Curzon Park address had morphed into Kenneally Council Estate, but if they noticed, they said nothing, and didn’t change a thing.

They had been persuaded of the boy’s potential when glimpsing Armitage’s outstanding dance class reports; and on hearing him sing, as had been suggested they do, in the cathedral choir, where he was one of the four chosen soloists. The King’s School ran a choir of their own, and Armitage would be a useful addition. The boy was something special, everyone said so, and King’s was ready and willing to waive fees for exceptional boys whose parents could no longer foot the bill.

Army was impressed with the school and the tutors, who promised him individual after Hours attention, should he desire it. Armitage did desire, ever eager to learn, eager to improve the skills in his chosen paths.

He was looking forward to the day when he would first set foot in the establishment as a bona fide pupil. For Armitage, it couldn’t come soon enough.

DURING THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS, before he was due to start at senior school, a top motor racing festival featured at Oulton Park. His father was going, taking the new wife; and Smelly too, and they tried hard to persuade Armitage to go along.

‘I’m not interested in cars, dad, you know that.’

‘I know, son, but I thought it would be nice to have a day out all together as a family.’

‘I’d be bored to tears, and anyway, I have promised to help Mrs Greenaway. She has four weddings to do; I can’t let her down now.’

‘Perhaps another time, eh?’

‘If you want to take me out, dad, you could take me to the Shrewsbury Flower Show.’

‘But we are not interested in flowers.’

‘And I am not interested in cars!’

HIS FATHER, HIS NEW wife, and Smelly, piled into the ancient German hatchback that Donald had been servicing all week, together with a huge picnic, and they set off eastbound on the Nantwich road.

On a fast straight stretch Donald put his foot down.

‘Doesn’t she go? Terrific engine,’ he exclaimed, happy that his work had paid such dividends.

‘Not so fast,’ said the widow, ‘you’re frightening me.’

‘Go on, Mister Shelbourne,’ yelled Smelly from the back seat. ‘Faster!’

It was all the encouragement Donald needed, as he gently pressed the accelerator. The car surged forward. Began vibrating. Didn’t feel right at all.

The back axle cracked, nearside, close to the wheel.

The weight of the load and the velocity of the vehicle stressed it to breaking point. The rear nearside wheel fell alarmingly to the left and flattened.

‘What the?’ screamed Donald, glancing at the dash. 70mph.

‘Don!’ yelled the widow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t like the look of this,’ snorted Smelly.

The car bucked and reared up and veered across the oncoming lane.

Up ahead, one of Midge Ridge’s maroon grain wagons, a brand new bulk tipper, was speeding westwards. It was late, hauling a delivery of heavy milling wheat, bound for Rank Hovis McDougall at Birkenhead. The driver was under pressure to deliver. The truck was speeding, and the two vehicles were closing at more than 150mph.

Donald wrestled with the non-responding steering wheel. The truck driver was distracted by his newly installed mobile phone trilling through the cabin. He knew it would be the same old demand: Where the hell are you?

The trucker cursed, caught between answering and paying attention to the road. When he glanced up and ahead he saw the old red hatchback, out of control, crossing the centre line, coming toward him on the stretch where there was only one lane in each direction.

The trucker emergency braked.

In the hatchback Donald was braking too, not that it was having much effect. He grabbed the handbrake.

The car fishtailed and continued its course along the oncoming lane.

‘Donald!’ shrieked the widow, staring forward. ‘Donald! Donald! Look out!’

‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Smelly.

Donald didn’t say a word.

His eyes grew wide, his hands sweaty, as he gripped and twisted the wheel ever tighter.

Too late.

SMASH!

The car struck the centre of the maroon cab unit.

Glass shattered, hurling high-speed shards of death through the air.

The trucker swore and closed his eyes.

Pieces of hatchback flew in all directions.

Pieces of the passengers followed.

Pieces of the picnic rained down.

The truck tipped over.

Ran along the highway on its side, clipped two more oncoming cars. The noise was deafening. The trailer deposited twenty-five tonnes of best heavy English milling wheat along the highway, as it slithered along the tarmac, one long trail of high protein corn, spitting sparks as it went.

The hatchback fuel tank exploded.

The remains of the passengers began to fry.

A sweet aroma of roasting meat and wheat filled the sunny country air.

The truck rumbled to a standstill.

The trucker clambered out, his head bleeding, his hands shaking, his shirt torn, his voice silent, his phone obliterated. He staggered to the front of the cab. Remnants of the hatchback, and the passengers, and the picnic, were all ablaze, half jammed beneath and between the upturned front wheels. He turned round and vomited over the cheerful dandelioned verge, then turned back toward the truck.

Fire was licking around the front tyres.

He remembered he’d taken on a full load of diesel.

It could go up any minute.

He ran for his life, forgetting his wounds, forgetting everything, away from the truck, along the highway, toward Chester.

The truck exploded.

Blew the trucker into the air.

He somersaulted three times before landing face down in some bordering gorse bushes, their long and spiteful needles happy to impale a stranger.

Somewhere close by, people were screaming.

People came running.

Cars arrived from nowhere.

Mobile phones burst into life.

Far too late for Donald and the widow, and Smelly Everrit.

The trucker groaned and rolled over and fell from the hedge and landed face down in a fresh cowpat.

Ten minutes later sirens were heard, echoing through the green Cheshire countryside, and then the rumbling sounds of stressed diesel engines, huffing and puffing toward the carnage.

IT WAS HALF-PAST THREE before the police arrived at the flower shop. They had been to the house and had found a neighbour who