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

she wasn’t and never would be, and already she had grabbed the cleaning things and was heading energetically down the hall.

‘I clean bath,’ she shrilled, and then she was hustling up the stairs. ‘Sure to be filth!’

WALTER TOOK THE NEWSPAPER and went and sat in the front room, but though he glanced at the type he didn’t take it in, ‘Sure to be filth!’ he said aloud and guffawed. Yes, that was probably right, and then he began thinking of the Jeff Player murder case again, and the attempted murder of Neil Swaythling, and wondered why he couldn’t figure out what it was all about.

Twenty minutes later, Galina breezed into the sitting room carrying the old Hoover. Set it down. Walter resisted asking her if she had found ample filth.

‘I make coffee before I start, Mister Darto?’ she said, staring down at the big man hunched in the armchair.

‘Dar-ri-teau,’ he clarified again. ‘Good idea,’ he said, ‘have one yourself; there’s chocolate biscuits in the tin.’

She came back with a tray bearing two mugs of steaming instant coffee, and set them on the low table. Handed him the red tin of biscuits.

‘I not eat, bad for you, bad for figure,’ and she set her palm on her flat stomach and patted and said, ‘You think I have good figure, Mister Darto?’

‘You have a very fine figure.’

That seemed to please her, judging by the satisfied smile that swept over her fair face. Then she shook her head, and her blonde tied back hair waggled like a horse’s tail.

‘You like me come and cook you dinner one night?’

That was new.

‘Maybe, after the case is over.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Who knows what?’ she said, not quite understanding him again.

‘I don’t know when the case will be closed.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘You a good cook, Galina?’

‘I think so, but you must decide.’

‘Maybe I will.’

‘Good Ukrainian food, that what you need, Mister Darto, from Kiev, I cook you food from Kiev.’

Did she mean chicken Kiev? He hated bleeding chicken Kiev.

‘I must get on, I won’t get finish,’ and she plugged in the cleaner and looked ready to go.

‘Sit down for a second, drink your coffee, take a break; everyone is entitled to a break.’

She exhaled a big breath and cupped the mug in her hands, and sat down in the chair opposite, crossing her blue jeaned legs.

‘Tell me about murder?’

He knew he shouldn’t discuss the case with this immigrant worker he barely knew, but he did precisely that, leaving out names and places, and other details that she didn’t need to know.

‘You have very exciting job.’

‘You think so?’

‘For sure.’

‘It doesn’t seem very exciting to me at the moment, I’m stuck.’

‘Drugs!’ she said.

‘Don’t think so, there’s no evidence of it.’

‘Jealousy!’ she said.

Walter smiled. ‘Maybe,’ but who was jealous of whom, and more to the point, about what, that was the big question.

‘I know why he did it,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘For money, for sure, bad men only ever do anything for money.’

‘Or women?’

‘No! Bad men, bad money, find the money, find the bad man.’

That seemed simple enough.

Made sense too.

A couple of minutes later and she was on the move again, grabbing the cleaner, turning it on, running around the living room, swishing his legs and feet aside as she flashed by. She didn’t once stop again that day until her hand was out, and he was placing the notes into her grateful paw. Then she gathered her things together and made her way toward the front door.

‘You not forget,’ she said, ‘I cook you dinner when case closed.’

Walter nodded and mumbled, ‘See you next week,’ and then she was out through the door, leaving him with one parting comment, ‘Bad man, bad money, Bob’s your uncle, as you English say,’ and she giggled girlishly, and set off energetically down the road without looking back, leaving Walter to mutter to himself, ‘I’m not English... I’m Jamaican, and British,’ as he closed the door, and went upstairs to get dressed to get ready to go back to work.

Twenty-Three

Luke Flowers rolled out of bed. He was alone in the flat, though he didn’t plan to be alone later that night. He strolled to the kitchen and dumped some cereal in a bowl, and splashed milk over it. In the sitting room his mobile began calling. Luke set his spoon down and went into the other room. Picked up the phone, a number he didn’t recognise.

‘Hel-lo?’

‘There has been a development.’

It was Jimmy on another new phone and Luke’s heart began beating faster.

Jimmy Mitchell had that effect on men like Luke.

‘Can you be at the usual place at 2pm?’

‘Sure.’

‘See you later.’

BOTH MEN ARRIVED AT exactly the same time, a couple of minutes past the hour. Jimmy was carrying a padded packet. There was a gaggle of Japanese tourists laughing and joking beside the clock, having their picture taken, and when they saw the two local men they fell silent and respectful, and Jimmy and Luke liked that, and acted as if they were important.

‘Come on,’ said Jim, ‘I’m not talking here. Let’s go for a stroll.’

‘So long as it’s worth my while.’

‘It is Luke-ee, it is.’

Luke jammed his hands in his slacks’ pocket, and the two men followed the city walls down toward the river. At the riverbank they walked upstream past the multi coloured pleasure boats, busily loading up tourists.

‘So,’ said Luke, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?’

‘Not here, too many people about,’ said Jimmy. ‘We’ll find somewhere quiet.’

They took the old pedestrian suspension bridge and headed across the river. A group of young men had ignored the warning signs and were taking it in turns to leap from the bridge. One fell precariously close to a passing cruise boat packed with camera waving visitors. The dregs of the splash squirted over the nearest passengers, and everyone thought that hilarious.

‘Daft git!’ muttered Jimmy.

‘I used to do that,’ said Luke, ‘when I was younger.’

The men shared a look and Jimmy said: ‘Why am I not