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

four minutes of being put on sale online. C & C whinged that the punters would have paid five times that amount, but Kit grinned at the cameras when asked about it, and said that it was just one of his tiny ways of repaying his growing army of believers and readers.

Parkgate prawns, Flintshire lamb, Cheshire ice-cream, and a more than decent looking hock, light but surprisingly potent, would be set before the diners, including Kit, and he was looking forward to the hock most of all, for he knew it would put him in the mood to charm the gathering, and he would use the moment to let slip a teaser piece of news about the forthcoming sixth level that would have them all salivating, as they perched on the edges of their seats, and became used to the thought of producing their credit cards, while already thinking of the untold riches that would surely become theirs.

Kit Napoleon was a genius – everyone said so, a phenomenon even, and it was quite true, there had never been anyone before quite like Kit Napoleon.

He glanced at himself in the glass one final time. Navy suit, thin grey stripe, perfect white shirt from the best London maker, gold cufflinks, KN motif, royal blue tie, again bearing the understated gold KN initials, brilliantly knotted, good hair, grey, but neatly refreshed and parted, thoroughly refurbished and whitened incisors that would surely soon be on full display, trimmed short grey beard hiding his slightly fattening face, bright, light-brown eyes, and he was ready for anything.

Jennifer shouted through, ‘The car’s here, Kit!’

Let them wait a moment longer, he mused, indeed it would amuse him to keep them all waiting for a good fifteen minutes yet. He’d done that before, and no doubt he would do it again.

He fiddled with his cuffs and made certain the links were just so, and then he was indeed ready. He turned about and headed downstairs to collect his calf leather bag. It would be a very fine day in more ways than one, and he couldn’t wait to enjoy it to the max.

Two

Inspector Walter Darriteau had given his sergeant, Karen Greenwood, the day off. She had some kind of fancy luncheon appointment, the kind of thing that Walter would go to great lengths to avoid. But for once her absence wasn’t important because there had been a lull in serious crime in Chester, and the powers that be considered it a good time to get some of the much-owed holidays out of the way.

True, there was still crime right enough. Stolen cars, shoplifting aplenty, that had almost become a national sport, drink driving, hooliganism, minor spats in pubs, they were all still there in abundance, just as they were in almost every developed city on the planet.

But not crime with a capital C, there had been a dearth of that since the Luke Flowers and Maaz Khan case had been put to bed, though Walter wasn’t so sure he liked the new quiet and peaceful ambience that threatened to put them all to sleep. In truth, he knew it wouldn’t last, the undeclared amnesty, and fact was, he didn’t want it to last either because he only had so many serving days left, and he certainly didn’t want them wasting away on paltry nonsense.

The large phone before him burbled into life.

Walter snatched it up. ‘Yes!’

It was the switchboard person advising him that there would be a fire drill in an hour or so, and did he know where everyone was supposed to assemble? Fact was, he didn’t, and the girl, young woman, proceeded to give him a rundown on what was expected, throwing in a comment about Mrs West, Walter’s boss, who was also away, on leave for the week, that she was most insistent that the drill was carried out to the letter, and that a full report should be on her desk for her inspection on her return.

While the girl, young woman, was relaying this vital information, his other phone rang. Not one of the deskbound jobs, but his private mobile secreted in his deep trouser pocket, and that alone was something of a rarity. It was ringing that silly tumbledown ringtone that he hated so, but his lack of knowledge of the contraption’s workings had so far meant he was stuck with it.

The girl, young woman, was relaying the location where they must meet. ‘Do you have that?’ she asked, slightly impatiently, as she had the distinct impression she was not being listened to.

Walter pulled the mobile from his trousers and looked at the screen. Unknown Caller. He pressed the button and someone, a man, an older man, deepish voice, though not as deep as Walter’s, said. ‘Darriteau!’

Walter did not like being called “Darriteau”. He was happy with Inspector Darriteau, Mr Darriteau, Sir, Guv, Boss, or even plain Walter, but “Darriteau” was how, in his eyes, the gentry addressed their manservants, and Walter was not a servant to anyone, well, maybe the Force, but that was out of choice. He considered it below the belt, and didn’t approve of it.

‘Have you got that?’ asked the girl, young woman.

‘I’ll call you back,’ said Walter.

‘You will not!’ said the man.

‘Are you talking to me?’ asked the girl.

‘Yes, young lady!’ said Walter, and he cut her off.

‘Don’t call me young lady,’ said the deep voiced man, laughing at his own little joke.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Walter.

‘Okay, let’s start again, shall we? Do I have your undivided attention, Darriteau?’

‘Yes! And you are?’

‘Chief Superintendent Wortley.’

Walter did not know a Chief Superintendent Wortley, but somewhere at the back of his mind, something very vague and distant, it did strike a chord.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

‘Almost,’ said Walter, truthfully, for he was still sorting through the myriad of acquaintances he had made through his long and varied career.

‘Scotland Yard, man, years ago!’

Ah yes, thought Walter. Coins dropping into slots, but he was a mere sergeant back then, Wortley, that