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

Pushed it over.

It fell in silence, cartwheeling in the air, the torch beam following it all the way down.

SPLASH!

Reached its destination.

The water was shallow. The case was vertical, jammed in the thin layer of mud beneath, perhaps two-thirds standing proud of the water, like the first standing stone in some elaborate plan.

He chuckled and turned about and hurried back and jumped into the car. Reversed back to the main road, the car making that brutal reversing noise. Why do cars do that?

Headed back toward Chester.

Job done.

Number six.

100 Ways to Dispose of the Body.

Case them and hurl them into a disused quarry.

Anyone could do it.

He buzzed down the windows to keep awake, and headed home to bed and brandy, and a sound night’s sleep.

It had been fun.

He had enjoyed it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Following his father’s death, they took Armitage to the police station to await collection. It had gone five o’clock before the on-call social worker arrived. He was a tall slim guy who said little, as he signed the papers, and led Army away to the car.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Army.

‘Saint Edmond’s, on the Wirral.’

That didn’t mean anything to the boy.

‘What’s Saint Edmond’s?’

‘You’ll see.’

SAINT EDMOND’S WAS a vast Victorian orphanage that stood in its own grounds. It had altered little in the hundred and forty years since the day it opened. On the first day it intimidated the boys, and was still doing that when Army jumped from the car and stared up at the vast building. To anyone it was overwhelming; to a little boy, it was the stuff of nightmares.

The social worker met the bursar who introduced them to an under manager named Hancock. He led them away through a maze of corridors, to a small musty office where the handover documentation would be checked and signed. Everything in order, done by the book. Everything at Saint Edmond’s was done by the book, and Armitage Shelbourne’s welfare belonged to Saint Edmond’s Orphanage.

‘You’re in luck, you haven’t missed tea,’ said Hancock.

‘I won’t be staying here long, will I?’

‘Well, Master Shelbourne, we will have to see about that. It depends on whether anyone takes a shine to you, you know, likes the look of your face. Foster parents will always take the children they like the look of the most, the ones who laugh and smile. You take a tip from me, young man, if you want to find a suitable home, when the foster parents come calling looking at children, smile, be happy. No one wants a misery guts.’

Armitage didn’t feel like smiling at all.

He thought he might never smile again.

At that moment, a scruffy boy came running down the corridor.

‘Ah, Swallow, just the tyke I was looking for, and haven’t you learnt yet not to run in the corridor? How many times have I told you about that?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Never mind about that now. This is Shelbourne. Take him with you to tea, make sure there is an extra place laid. Look after him, boy.’

Swallow glanced at the skinny new arrival. He was about a year younger than himself. He nodded at the kid and said, ‘Come on, mate,’ and when they were out of earshot he said, ‘What’s your name.’

‘Armitage.’

‘No, I mean your first name.’

‘That is my first name.’

The boy pulled a face and said, ‘Bit of a wanker’s name, ain’t it?’

‘Is it? They call me Army for short.’

‘Yeah, Army,’ he said. ‘That’s much better. We’ll call you Army. Mine’s Dennis. Come on, we’d better hurry or we’ll miss tea.’

Army followed Dennis through the dim corridors. Dennis was still talking, babbling away about rules and regulations, and he spoke real fast, imparting advice that was meaningless to Armitage.

‘The one you need to watch out for is Mister Gilligan, he’s a bastard.’

‘Will you point him out to me?’

‘I won’t need to; you’ll know him when you see him.’

They came to a pair of half glazed doors, and the faintest whiff of well-boiled cabbage. Through the glass they could see hundreds of boys, all ages, standing at their tables, waiting for permission to sit.

‘Follow me,’ said Dennis, and he pushed through the free-swinging doors. scooted around to the right, across to the far side of the hall, to a long table where two empty places remained at the bottom end.

‘Stand there,’ he said, ‘opposite me, and wait.’

Army stood at the table and waited. He was different to all the others, wearing his own clothes. Everyone else was decked out in navy trousers and thick grey shirts. They all craned their necks to inspect the skinny new kid. Nothing special about him. Looked a bit of a weed to most eyes, an easy touch, maybe, easy prey. Two of the older ones turned back to the front and grinned at one another. The kid would have to grow up fast or they would eat him alive.

Three adults entered the hall, pompous men, noses in the air, one wearing a black gown, the flankers in mismatched jackets with leather patches over the elbows, and cord trousers. They stepped on to the raised platform at the end of the hall, ambled to their table, chatting amongst themselves, not in any hurry, as if they hadn’t noticed six hundred ravenous boys waiting on their every word. The men stood behind their chairs and stared out over the gathered throng.

‘Quiet!’ yelled the fatter of the jacketed ones.

The gowned one raised his head and said grace, speaking in a rush. It almost came out as one long word.

‘Forwhatweareabouttoreceivemaythelordmakeustrulythankful, Amen!’

‘Amen!’ bellowed the boys as one, pulling out the long benches and sitting down to thunderous noise.

Tea was about to begin.

Brown Windsor soup.

Thick, gooey, and vaguely warm, though it didn’t taste of much. Some kids said it was the leftovers of yesterday’s gravy, and they were probably right.

‘Who’s your new mate,’ said one of the bigger boys to Dennis.

‘His name’s Army.’

‘Oooh Army! Get him. Hard are ya? You and whose army?’ said the other one opposite.

‘What happened to your parents, eh?