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

around again, nose, around again, more firmly across the nose. Sally jerked, fighting for air, round again, covered the eyes that still stared at Tristram, and he wondered if those drugged eyes could see. He thought no, not that it mattered. Could Sally Beauchamp see Tristram Fellows, as she believed him to be, as he was murdering her in his front room?

He’d never know. He didn’t care.

It wasn’t Sally Beauchamp he was murdering, she had stumbled into his path, it could have been anyone, he didn’t have any beef with her. In another life he might have quite liked her, but he would not lose any sleep over that.

He had set out on a deliberate course, coldly chosen it, and he would not stop now, round and round and round the tape went, covering her hair covering the neck, the jerking had long since ceased, until her face resembled a brown mummy, the entire head covered like a model in some hat shop window. It was strangely attractive, like a piece of modern art, smooth and clean and shiny. Perhaps he could display it at the library, enter it into some wacky art exhibition, and he laughed again at his own ridiculous thinking, tugging the tape round one last time. The entire roll was spent. Job done.

100 Ways to Kill People.

Cover their heads in brown tape.

Easy peasy. Anyone could do it.

That person who wrote the original article should do a follow up.

100 Ways to Dispose of the Body.

That was the hardest part, but Sam had no worries about that. He’d already planned it. He already knew. Sam would wait until the small hours when the world was fast asleep, and then he would act. Before that, he took the brandy glass through to the kitchen and washed it. Dried it and put it away.

Returned to the sitting room.

Brownhead was sleeping, dead.

Its handbag was on the floor. Sam grabbed and opened it.

In the back compartment he found condoms, a huge roll of them; fifty, God, the girl had been expecting an exciting night.

A fat, well thumbed black diary. Sam flipped it open.

It was full of men’s names and telephone numbers.

Ronnie (Ginger bastard) Phelps and then a number.

Richard (Bad breath) Bettinson.

Harry (Big tipper) Wilson.

Donald (Shortarse) Smith.

Peter (Spotty) Wignall.

Jerry (Frightening) Herridge, and so it went on.

Alan (Donkey) Harris.

Grahame (Creepy) Willis.

Dozens and dozens of them.

It seemed she remembered them more through their nicknames than their actual names, or the names they had fed her.

Sam wondered what she might write about him.

Tristram (Top man) Fellows perhaps, or was he being vain?

Tristram (Tight tape) Fellows more like, and he laughed aloud.

In the date sections were assignations.

Saturday. Ginger bastard. Royal, Bristol.

Monday. Bad Breath. Argosy, Bournemouth.

Wednesday. Starey Eyes. Regency, Southampton.

He had been right all along. She was a tart, touring the country, servicing Ginger bastard, Bad Breath, Big tipper, Shortarse, Spotty, Frightening, Starey Eyes, and the rest, and to think, I kissed that.

Sam felt sick, went to the bathroom, washed his face, cleaned his teeth, applied fresh deodorant, felt a hell of a lot better. Returned to the sitting room. Brownhead unmoved. It was time to begin.

He went into the bedroom and grabbed the wheeled suitcase he had bought in a Chester department store, especially for the purpose. Pushed it through to the sitting room. It was huge, or at least he thought so, but when he parked it in front of Brownhead, he was having second thoughts.

He laid it flat and opened it. Grabbed Brownhead and presented it to the case. No way, not a chance.

There must be a way. Folded up the knees. Brought the head down, squeezed and pushed and squeezed and pushed and re-presented to the case. It might just work. A couple of cuffing blows to the shoulders like spanking steaks before they are grilled. It helped a little. More waggling, and pushing, hitting, standing on, and prodding and pulling, and then it was in. Still standing proud of the edges, but in.

Sam forced the top closed.

A hand fell out.

‘Shit!’ he yelled; then reprimanded himself.

Didn’t want to wake the co-sharers of Iona House. Must keep quiet.

Closed the lid, forced it down; sat on it, the fastener almost caught. More effort, more pressure. Down, you bugger! There! Done! Shut it at last. Flicked the right fastener. It closed with a satisfying click. Weight on the left side. Click!

Job done.

Brownhead had disappeared.

The only thing that remained was to dispose of the case, and Sam knew how to do that.

He grabbed the handle and wheeled it toward the back door. It ran like a dream. You would never have guessed there was a nine stone woman inside, or whatever it was.

Parked it there, ready. He would leave in an hour.

Returned to the sitting room. Picked up the handbag. Emptied the contents on the low table. Cosmetics, ladies tools, eyebrow plucker, nail file, nail clippers, two more that he didn’t recognise; women’s toiletry things, only to be expected, and a bulging purse.

He flipped it open and emptied the cash on the table.

A huge roll of notes.

Sam was used to seeing banknotes; working in the casino, someone would always have a fat wad, and the desire to show it off to the world, every night, though more often on the way in than the way out.

This roll could compete.

One thousand seven hundred pounds. Geez! He was in the wrong business. Maybe she should have paid for the meal after all; maybe she should have paid him for his company.

He held the open bag to the table and swept everything inside, purse, change, condoms, the whole bloody lot. Clicked it shut. Went to the wood-burning stove. Flipped it open, threw it inside. Real leather it was, expensive too, a pity really, and the cash as well, but he couldn’t take any chances. It had to be destroyed. It was all going, burning cheerfully, brightening up the apartment, not entirely useless; spreading its warmth into the room.

Sam went to the kitchen. Made a corned beef sandwich, dash of English mustard.