The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

away from the tentacles of the eager moneylenders, and that was all down to Carole Mac.

‘Had a good night, love?’ he’d say, the same thing every night.

Yeah, sure, wonderful, she would think, though she wouldn’t say.

Norman hadn’t been to work. He never did. He had a bad back. Collected a decent whack of disability allowance. That would do him.

Occasionally he would struggle, grunting in pain, into their old hatchback, and drive down to the Golden Bell and force down a few pints, yet when he was in the house alone he would race the dog up and down the stairs, laughing crazily, the dog barking happily, a bit of a game that both he and the dog thoroughly enjoyed. It kept them both fit, and nary a twinge.

Carole Mac staggered to bed searching for sleep, for she had to be up again at six.

The following day when she came home for her tea he imagined he would make her happy because he’d bought an old goose in the Bell at lunchtime for three quid from Jackie Spenser. At least this time it had been plucked and gutted. God alone knows where it had come from; probably from down by the canal.

You could always find something to eat down by the canal if you were desperate enough, and especially where the smallholding ran down to the water, where chickens and ducks and geese would occasionally break free and make a run for it, out of the frying pan, and all that.

Norman McIntyre fancied himself as something of a cook.

He had taken to watching cookery programmes on the television when there was no football showing, and would regularly copy down the dishes and try them out on his tired guinea pig of a wife.

He was experimenting that evening.

Intended to serve up roast goose with apples and prunes, and that was a first. He had been at it ages, and hoped his wife understood and appreciated how much hard work he had put into bringing the creature and creation to the table. Cutting and peeling and slicing the Cox’s orange pippins, de-stoning the pound of no-soak prunes, messy job, as he squinted down at his nigh on illegible handwriting, hurriedly scribbled down, for all those TV chefs did speak far too quickly.

The old goose was roasting.

Smelling delightful, it had to be said, the aroma of sizzling fowl permeating every corner of their small home.

Needed a lot of emptying though, the fat did. Do all gooses, or was it geese, produce so much fat? He pondered, or was it because this was an old beast caught on the hop? He had no idea, didn’t much care either, just so long as it tasted good, and his dear wife appreciated how much damned hard work he had put in, and all for her.

Still time for another run up those stairs with Daisy though.

Up and down those stairs, up and down!

Deep breath!

Daisy was a cross bull something or other with a Doberman, Rottweiler cross, and an ugly bitch at that, and the thought occurred to him that his dog was almost as pig ugly as Langley Wells, who was getting married that very day, almost as ugly, but not quite. Norman laughed aloud.

Daisy had been working herself up into a state of excitement not seen since the last turkey roast the previous Christmas. The scent of roasting goose was all too much for her, but there was still time to play, as Norman hurried to the stairs and yelled, ‘Come on girl! Indoor walkies!’ as he strode up the stairs one more time. He would try and complete fifteen runs that day. Twenty-two was his all time record, though he didn’t feel as if he could approach that figure right then.

Three times up and three times down, Norman laughing outrageously, the dog barking joyously, when Norman caught a whiff, of burning goose.

Time to empty the bloody fat... again.

‘Just a sec, Daisy,’ he said, ‘won’t be a mo, you stay there, don’t want your snout in the tray,’ and he closed the hall door, shutting the dog out of the kitchen.

Went to the cooker. Saw the previously collected fat in the glass basin, three quarters full, sitting on the top of the cooker. Saw the electric ring beneath it, glowing.

‘Oh shit!’ he said. ‘You’re not supposed to be on!’

Reached across to the dials at the top of the back of the cooker, turned the front ring to zero, and breathed out. Glanced back at the smoking fat, knew he couldn’t touch the glass for the heat. Considered reaching for the oven glove.

Too late.

Crack!!!

Crash!!!

Bang!!!

The toughened glass basin exploded.

Scolding fat blew into his face.

A chunk of jagged glass buried itself deep into his shoulder; another smaller piece removed his right eyebrow as clean as that. Norman McIntyre collapsed to the floor. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move. He had entered a state of shock. Daisy barked, but no one would pay any attention to that because Daisy was always bloody well barking.

Ten minutes later Carole arrived home.

Something smelled good, she thought, as she shrugged off her raincoat and let herself in by the back door. Duck by the smell of it, and her Norman did a decent duck `a l’orange, even if he did go a little heavy on the l’orange. The dog was barking, but the damn dog was always barking.

‘Shut up, Daisy!’ Carole yelled, as she entered the kitchen.

Norman was lying on his back, moaning. His face was covered in steaming goose fat, and broken glass.

His shoulder was bleeding terribly.

There was a cut on his face too, and a glutinous mixture of fat and fresh blood decorated her kitchen floor. Broken glass everywhere, ugly vindictive pieces that you wouldn’t want to step on.

In the background, the aroma of burning old goose.

‘Norman!’ she shrieked, bending over him.

Norman moaned, nothing more.

In the hall the dog barked ever louder.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ screamed Carole. She had never liked that hideous animal.

‘Oh God!’ and she reached over and turned off the