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

‘What’s you name?’

‘Maggie O’Brien. What’s yours?’

‘Doctor Finlay.’

‘Really?’

The doc smiled ever so nicely. ‘Honest.’

‘I used to love that programme.’

The car moved off, quicker than Maggie would have liked, as the dreadful music seemed to get louder. The doc was pumping up the sound with fingertip controls on the steering wheel.

Maggie had a dreadful headache. It had been there since she first staggered out of bed at half-past nine. The music was unbearable, like something from a nightmare.

‘I’ve got a terrible headache,’ she uttered. ‘Could you turn the music down?’

The doctor glanced across at her. Maggie had turned inwards, displaying that soft, old, pleading face. She didn’t look well.

‘Sorry, yeah, sure, course,’ and the doc reached forward and turned the music off. ‘Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll pull into the petrol station. I need petrol and I’ll give you something for that head.’

‘Oh, there’s no need.’

‘I have to stop, anyway. Need the juice,’ and in the next second the doc drove onto the forecourt and turned off the engine. Reached across and opened the glove compartment, took out a brown bottle labelled, Headaches and Flu, in big black letters. Opened it, which was as well because it had that awkward anti child top that Maggie always struggled with. Took out two tablets and slipped them into Maggie’s trembling hand.

‘What are they?’

‘Ordinary headache pills, I use them all the time, get them from the hospital, they’re great, here take them with this,’ and the doc reached under the seat and pulled out a small half full bottle of water.

That was another thing Maggie didn’t understand about the modern world. Why do young people walk round carrying bottles of water? Are they expecting a drought? We never did.

‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, eh?’ said Maggie grinning, throwing the pills into her mouth.

The doctor smiled, ever so charming like, and said, ‘That’s it Maggie, it’s who you know that counts,’ and jumped out of the car and began loading up the petrol.

Then they were back on the road, Maggie delighted the doc hadn’t put the music back on, and maybe the pills were working. She yawned.

‘Oh sorry,’ she mumbled, bringing a hand to her mouth.

The doc yawned too.

‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ the doc said, grinning across at her, still yawning.

Maggie’s face was on her shoulder, facing inwards, facing the nice doctor. She could get used to this, being driven to see Floria by her own personal physician. Sometimes it was good to miss the bus.

The doc drove into the car park at the Countess, took ages to find a space, and by then Maggie was fast asleep, deep breathing, a contented look set on her face, as if she had enjoyed a fabulous luncheon.

The doc ripped off the stethoscope and threw it in the back.

Started the car and pointed it toward Delamere Forest.

Floria would remain alone and miserable that night, wondering where her friend had gone.

Temazepam, two 10mg tablets, that’s all it took. The doc correctly guessed that Maggie would have been on a cocktail of drugs. The Temazepam was the final straw. She wouldn’t wake for hours. The doc turned the music back on, loud, it wouldn’t make any difference.

SAM HAD BEEN TO DELAMERE many times before, often used to go there with Desi, walking. They both liked the isolated places best, for in desolate places people can get up to all kinds of mischief. Desi certainly did. Sam made a habit of returning often, if only to revisit memories.

Took that same track down toward the little lake known as Victoria’s Pool. Some crazy story ran that the old queen had stopped there once, a place where Sam and Desi used to picnic. There was an old wooden and concrete seat there, overlooking the brackish water, and Sam parked the car, facing the bench, maybe ten yards away. With any luck there would be no one about at night, maybe the odd courting couple, but it was already raining and dark, and there was no one there at all.

Sam jumped out and opened the hatchback. Took out the length of corrugated piping. It was part of an old vacuum cleaner that had become surplus to requirements when they had gone bagless two years before. It had been Desi’s idea to keep it, though God knows why. It fit over the exhaust perfectly; Sam had checked that a week earlier, fed it through the back window. Jumped in the car, blocked up the space where the tube entered with an old Chester City Football Club scarf, took one last look at Maggie. She was sleeping deeply, a contented look on her face, as if this was the best sleep she had ever had. Turned on the engine, closed the door, quietly, though it still sounded like thunder, and walked away.

The rain had stopped, though large drips were still sploshing from the pine trees. An owl hooted for its mate. The car motor ticked over. Sam squelched around the small lake, as they used to do, hand-in-hand, three circuits should do it. No, maybe one more for luck, plenty of petrol, the engine would not stop.

Back to the car. Opened the back. Filthy smoke flew out into the night. Took out the yellow rubber gloves. Slipped them on. Opened the door, more fumes rushed out, flushing up Sam’s nose. Bloody terrible! Coughed loudly. Wafted the hands. Turned off the engine. Grabbed Maggie’s body, she’d long since departed this world. Her black handbag fell to the muddy ground, carried her to the park seat. She weighed next to nothing, sat her down, set her up straight, hurried back for the handbag, wiped it clean, leaving her money intact, no need to pay for the lift, Maggie dear, no robbery here. Hooked the bag over her wrist, crossed and folded her arms, straightened her hat, closed her eyes, upturned her lips, geez she looked happy, probably happier than she had been in years.

Quick look around. Nothing