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

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked, gazing across at him.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘You can’t see them with the naked eye, and certainly not during the day,’ she said knowingly.

Walter bobbed his head and headed for the entrance.

‘Seems strange to think we are all being photographed as we go about our daily business.’

‘That’s the modern world for you.’

‘You don’t think they’d have any pics of the two guys parking the car and going inside?’

Karen laughed that neat little laugh she possessed and said, ‘Don’t think so, Guv, and even if they did, they’d never share their images with us, they’d be too damned scared of litigation.’

Yeah, thought Walter, everyone was frightened to death of being taken to court in twenty-first century Britain, but not by the police, but by litigators and ambulance chasing solicitors. Too many people viewed the law as a potential earner, especially rogues, if and when they were ever released from custody, or found not guilty, or had their convictions overturned.

THERE WAS A NEW GIRL on the counter, a temp they hadn’t seen before, skinny, pale, mousy hair, bad spectacles, eminently forgettable, name of Cynthia. Mr Heale wasn’t there either, but she summoned him and a couple of minutes later he slipped into the reception area from the corridor.

‘Just a few more quick questions,’ said Walter.

Heale sighed loudly and took them through to his tiny office, just enough room for one chair set on either side of a small desk, three grey metal filing cabinets away to his left. Walter sat down, Karen stood in the doorway.

‘Fire away,’ said Heale, glancing at his watch, trying to give the impression of busy-ness.

‘This CCTV system you have.’

‘What of it?’

‘How reliable is it?’

Heale nodded his head, said, ‘Pretty good, cost a lot of money, why do you ask?’

‘But it didn’t work on the day of the murder?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘How often does it fail?’ asked Karen.

‘Oh, let me see,’ and he sat back with his hands behind his head as if thinking. He badly needed deodorant. ‘Can’t remember off the top of my head, but it will be logged.’

‘Try a guess?’ asked Walter.

Heale pulled a surprised face, shook his head; blew out from his closed mouth, rippling his lips, making a silly horse-like sound.

‘Oh, I dunno, a month, maybe two.’

‘Could it have been turned off deliberately?’

‘By whom?’

Walter’s turn to say, ‘Dunno... you tell me.’

‘I don’t think so. Don’t see the point.’

‘How about the girl on the counter, Mary Hussein? Might she have turned it off?’

Karen added, ‘Either deliberately or accidentally?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s not a difficult thing to do. Throw one switch and off it goes.’

‘So she could have turned it off,’ said Karen, ‘When the guys came in, and then back on again after they had left.’

Heale smiled. ‘She could have done, but she wouldn’t. She’s a very reliable person, quiet and conscientious, a highly valued member of the team, and there’s no way she would get mixed up in anything like that. She’s hardly likely to become involved in conspiracy to murder, is she?’

Walter pulled a face. Didn’t answer. Then he asked, ‘How long has she worked here?’

‘Five, maybe six years.’

‘Where does she live?’ asked Karen.

‘32 Fisher Street, it’s in Hoole.’

He’d answered without hesitation, hadn’t needed to look it up, Walter noted that. How many bosses would know the home addresses of their young female staff? Especially the prettier ones like Mary. Probably quite a few, and Heale certainly did. Maybe he was giving her a lift into work, maybe more. Walter would try him with another question.

‘Where does the Bulgarian girl live? Iskra whatshername?’

‘Kolarov, it’s Kolarov, I don’t know, I think she lives in Hoole too, but I’d have to look it up.’

‘Do that, please,’ said Karen.

Heale went to the nearest filing cabinet, screeched it open, found the address, gave it to Karen, and she noted it down, along with the other one, and after that they said thanks and drove off toward Hoole.

32 FISHER STREET WAS a three-story Edwardian red sandstone house set in a row of similar properties. It was tall and narrow with small bay windows, long windows from top to bottom, almost no front gardens, two steps through the gate and they were at the front door. Karen buzzed the bell. Mary Hussein came to the door a moment later, surprised to see them, she was dressed in some kind of paint smudged overall as if she was decorating.

‘We’ve a few more questions about the murder at the motel,’ said Karen.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said, though Walter imagined she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. She held the part-glazed door wide open and nodded them down the long and narrow hallway, toward a sizeable kitchen cum breakfast room at the rear.

To the right was a modern fitted kitchen, not top of the range, but not budget either, to the left three mismatched armchairs, small and well used, a big square grey TV pushed into the corner, open double doors to a lean-to conservatory fixed on the back, and it looked hot in there too under the summer sun. In the centre of the main room was a large old- fashioned square dining table, and on the table was a canvas and a pot of paintbrushes and various oil paints.

‘You paint?’ asked Walter.

‘I try,’ she said. ‘Badly,’ a little embarrassed as they gazed down at her efforts. It was pretty good, maybe half finished, a picture of a man’s face, not Heale, an Asian man, good head of hair, prominent nose, hard looking eyes, if the portrait was to be believed.

‘Someone you know?’ asked Karen.

Mary nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s father, least it’s supposed to be,’ and she nodded across at the wall and a bank of mixed framed family photographs. Karen and Walter took a look. Several of Mary, at school, in the brownies, a leaving school pic, a growing up teenager pic, an only child, judging by the