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

well-heeled old houses, some detached, some semis, and all built between Victoria abandoning the throne in 1901, and Edward VIII desperately trying to clamber aboard in 1937.

Karen pulled the big car to a gentle halt outside number 20, a small 1920s detached house, not unlike Walter’s.

‘Here we go,’ she said, turning off the engine and getting out.

‘Please God don’t let this woman be a dreamer motivated by gold,’ muttered Walter, heaving himself out of the car, and into the cold November afternoon.

Karen opened the squeaking wrought iron front gate and went to the door and rang the bell.

Corla opened up immediately and nodded at them and said, ‘Come on in.’

They stood in the hallway and Walter said, ‘You live on your own?’

‘I do, and I suspect you do too.’

Karen suppressed a smile.

Walter said, ‘You have an unusual name. Corla Revelation.’

Corla smiled, not unattractively, and nodded and said, ‘I do, but it’s all my own. I had an old aunt named Corla, but no one knows where the Revelation part came from. My mother used to say one Revelation in the bible, and one Revelation in the town. We’d always laugh about that. Come on through, would you like some tea?’

Walter thought about that for a second. Was this a lonely lady desperate for company and attention, a woman with an eye on the reward, who would say anything to get it, or was she potentially a reliable witness with something serious to contribute? He gave her the benefit of the doubt.

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No, of course not,’ and she showed them into a neat square rear sitting room that overlooked a neat square rear garden. ‘Take a seat, I won’t be a minute.’

Walter and Karen shared a look and glanced around. Pictures on the wall, but no photos, no dead husbands on display like trophies, forever staring down over a former wife who didn’t love them that much. Corla came back almost straight away; the kettle must have been on the go all along, anticipating thirsty police officers. She carefully carried an old wooden tray and on the tray were primrose patterned china cups, and saucers, something that were rarely seen. She set them gently on the coffee table and poured from a matching yellow teapot. Karen rarely touched tea, but it was too late to refuse. Steam wafted away, and the tea looked good and strong, just as Walter liked it.

Walter checked Corla out. She was a neat woman, tall and slender with a pinched waist, long dark skirt way below the knee, plain white blouse finished off with a flourish by a red silk scarf knotted around her neck. Pity about the warts, but none of us are perfect. The heavily dyed and shiny blonde hair that bounced on her shoulders didn’t do anything for her, he thought, making her a hard woman to date. There was something vaguely hippy-ish about her, and the house too come to that, though whether she had any direct connection to the sixties, it was hard to tell.

‘So,’ said Walter, cradling the hot tea. ‘My colleague at the station tells me that you might have seen something in Berryland Avenue.’

Corla sat in the matching armchair opposite and smiled and said, ‘That’s right. I did.’

‘Would you like to tell us what you saw?’

Corla nodded and began. ‘Before I tell you all about that, just to be clear, I understand there is a reward on offer in this case.’

Oh, here we go, thought Walter, his worst fears re-emerging.

‘There is, if your information results in the killer being apprehended, and successfully prosecuted.’

‘Good,’ she said, happy to see Karen taking notes. ‘Just so long as that is understood.’

Walter prompted again. ‘What did you see?’

‘I saw a tall young man coming out of Belinda’s house.’

‘You knew Belinda?’

‘No, not to speak to, but it was her house all right.’

‘How young was the young man?’

‘Thirty, maybe thirty-five.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Tall, fit, dark haired, a good head of hair.’

Just like David Baker, thought Karen, but then again, just like Ronald Speight, Miro, Gareth Williams, Michael Flanagan, Iain Donaldson, and Derek Nesbitt, to name but seven.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Around a quarter to one in the morning.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was sitting on a garden wall on the other side of the road, four or five houses down.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I’d been out. I always go out that night, there’s a group of us go together, socialising, it’s a regular thing, you know, have a nice time, a few drinks, maybe something to eat. I had been walking home when I suddenly felt like a sit down, you know how it is, and, naughty I know, but I needed a ciggie too. I was going to wait till I got home, but I thought, to hell with it, I’ll sit and have a quiet fag. The rain had just stopped, of course everything was sopping wet, and I ruined my coat when I sat down, but you don’t think, do you?’

‘You were by yourself?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

‘He came out of Belinda’s house. I noticed him particularly because he stood there for a second on the pavement and glanced around. I thought he’d see me, but he didn’t. He hunched into his jacket and walked smartly away from the house, and away from me. The streetlights were popping out, one by one, almost as he went past them, I thought that weird.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Dark trousers, they could have been black jeans, though I couldn’t be sure, and a casual jacket, and gloves, I noticed that too, dark gloves.’

‘No hat?’

‘No hat.’

‘He was a white man?’

‘Oh yes, as white as me.’

‘And he didn’t have a car?’

‘Nope, not that I saw.’

‘Was he carrying anything?’

She shook her head and again said, ‘Nope.’

‘How tall was he?’

‘Six foot, maybe more. He looked like a man who could look after himself, and a man who could look after other people too, if necessary, a man’s man, as they used to say.’

‘What about his feet?’

‘His feet?’

‘Yes,