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

in gambling, are you?’ It was the first downer of the night. She’d met too many hopeless gamblers in her life and she didn’t rate them, and wouldn’t want one for a husband.

‘No, course not,’ he said, picking it up and taking it away. Out of sight, out of mind. ‘A friend of mine had this crazy idea of driving down to Monaco,’ said Tristram, thinking on his feet, ‘and trying to beat the casino. I told him it was a rubbish idea and he could go by himself. We never went. I’ll give him the book back tomorrow.’

‘Gambling’s for mugs.’

‘I know. I work hard enough for my money; I’m not about to throw it away. Coffee?’

‘Yeah, sure. Thanks, Tristram.’

It seemed to placate her and after glancing at a couple of his wall mounted pictures, black and white photographs, she sat on the leather chesterfield and crossed her legs and waited for him to join her. He wasn’t long, carefully setting the percolated coffee on the table. You can tell a lot about a man from his coffee, she thought, and it was only as she imagined. Tristram Fellows was clearly a man of high standards, and she liked that too.

He sat beside her and she linked his arm and pulled herself closer. The evening was going well, she thought, and she pondered whether to invite him to her flat for dinner at the weekend. She was an excellent cook, or so she told herself, and it would be a big step forward, to have him there, with her.

‘Tell me about your mum and dad,’ she said, eager to know everything about him. So Tristram rambled on about his parents and his childhood, some of which was true and some not. It made her laugh though, the stories he could tell, relaxed too, and in the next instant she was staring into his mesmeric blue eyes.

He knew it was the moment.

She expected him to kiss her, and he didn’t want to introduce any moment that might sour things, might set her on edge, might have her grab her bag and demand to be taken home. He didn’t want to kiss her, he didn’t want to kiss anyone, other than Desi, though that was impossible, so he steeled himself, tried not to show it on his face, closed his eyes, thought of absent friends, and closed on her. She shut her eyes too, and they kissed; her freshly applied lipstick now on his lips, she noticed that as they came apart, and she liked that too, as if it were a sign of ownership.

Once apart he said, ‘Look at me, forgetting myself, I didn’t think to ask, would you like a nightcap, malt whisky, brandy, coffee liqueur?’

The thing she most would have liked was another lingering kiss, better still, a thorough necking session stretched out on the chesterfield. But the night was young, and she was in no hurry to head home, despite her wish not to appear cheap. He could kiss her as often as he liked. She wished he would. He was a good kisser, but he was offering her alcohol, and as he brought the thought to mind, the idea had some merit.

‘I’d love a brandy,’ she said.

Tristram smiled and stood. ‘Anything in it?’

‘Nope,’ she grinned, ‘just as it comes.’

He smiled and bobbed his head and headed for the kitchen. He took out a brandy glass, ensured it was clean, opened the bottle, his earlier words coming back to him. Anything in it?

Nope, she’d said.

Tough luck, darling.

In went a good slug of flunitrazepam.

Large measure of best brandy on the top.

A thorough swill around, no trace of smell, no trace of anything, just perfect. Back to the sitting room. She heard him coming and turned and glanced up toward the door, smiled at him. Geez, he was cute. He handed her the drink.

‘Aren’t you having one?’

‘No, better not, driving and all that.’

Ah, that was sweet too, she thought. She linked his arm and sipped the drink. She wouldn’t confess it to a soul, but it had been the best day in her life in ages. It was the first time she had been out with a man in yonks who hadn’t paid for her company, and stuff, and it made a big difference. She didn’t want the money; she wanted to be wanted for herself. Sally was relaxed in his company, relaxed in his flat, relaxed in his arms. He was such a gentleman, was Tristram Fellows. He didn’t push it, and she liked that. She couldn’t wait to tell her only friend Sonia all about him.

It had been a hectic couple of days. Perhaps dating without payment was more tiring than she remembered. It was certainly more enjoyable, and she yawned.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where that came from.’

Tristram yawned too. He had such lovely teeth.

‘You wouldn’t mind,’ she said, ‘if I had a little doze.’

‘Course not,’ soothed Tristram, ‘be my guest, you sleep for as long as you want.’

Then she was gone, out of it, and yet her eyes hadn’t closed.

Sam smiled to himself. Part one accomplished. The stupid bitch had never once suspected a thing. How gullible some women were. Part two was coming soon, and he laughed and retreated to the kitchen, opened the cupboard where he kept the hardware items, light bulbs, matches, lavvy rolls, fly killer, and brown tape. He grabbed a fresh roll of tape, slipped on the yellow rubber gloves and returned to the sitting room.

She hadn’t moved a muscle. Her breathing was long and slow, but her eyes were wide open. He drew his palms across her face, no blinking, no recognition, nothing. His neat nails found the beginning of the tape and pulled the end free. It shrieked as it rolled out. He stuck it to her cheek, rolled it across her face, across her smudged mouth, around the back of her head, imprisoning her hair, covering her ears, across the face again, slightly higher, upper lips,