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

Walter exhaled loudly and said, ‘Do men really find women like that attractive?’

Cliffe smirked. ‘I bloody do!’

Walter recalled his Aunt Mimosa’s old advice to him as a young man. Find a nice brown girl with bumps. Robyn, Jessica, the skinny six foot she thing, whatever she was called, could hardly be more different. The thin albino complexioned woman barely had a bump on her anywhere, and that ridiculous short black hair that flopped up and down in an incredibly irritating manner whenever she loped across the room would drive him crazy. He’d like to grab the scissors when she was asleep and snip it off, that or insist she grew her hair like a proper woman.

‘She comes from a good family too.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Her dad was a marquis, something like that, some kind of minor aristocrat, though she pretends to hate the idea.’

‘It’s easy to hate and make fun of the aristocracy when you happen to belong to it.’

‘Yeah, s’pose so, though things have not been so good for the guy.’

‘In what way?’

‘Had big financial problems, so the stories go, brought on ill health.’

It wasn’t unusual for old money landed families to get into financial difficulties in twenty-first century Britain. Big old crumbling houses costing a fortune in upkeep, and hefty death duties whenever a daddy died. Been going on for more than two hundred years. It wasn’t uncommon.

‘So the strange looking daughter goes out and finds herself a lucrative career as a model to bring money into the happy home.’

‘That’s how I read it,’ said Cliffe, squishing open a second can.

‘So why’s she on witness protection?’

Cliffe stroked his chin and upper lip.

‘You’ve heard of the Barton brothers?’

‘Yes, course, I am a policeman of almost forty years standing.’

‘Yeah, sure, sorry Guv, well apparently Ricky Barton used to take his floosies along to all the London fashion shows, actually the truth was that his floosie of the time probably dragged him along against his better judgement.’

‘And?’

‘Robyn, let’s call her that, came out on the catwalk wearing some stunning, if outrageous dress, more absent than present, loped along the platform, sulky sultry look set on her fair face, fringe jumping up and down like billy-o, and the story goes that Ricky, who was sitting on the front row with his tart, actually stood up with his mouth open like a starving shark, and shouted: “Fuck me!” which, as you can imagine didn’t go down so well with the fashion glitterati. Someone behind him gently pulled him back into his seat and Ricky was politely warned about his behaviour. Usually, if anyone so much as objected to anything Ricky said, or did, they would end up with a cracked nose at best, or a missing or busted limb at worst, but that day, so legend goes, he was so smitten he actually apologised. Funny thing was, Robyn was so taken by his outrageous attention, and gawping eyes, that she actually smiled, something that no one could remember ever witnessing before. There’s a famous photo of it somewhere, you must have seen it, that smile, her face cracking up, and then she winked at our dear friend, before turning about, and the backless strapless number loped off down the track and slipped out of sight through the dry ice.’

‘And they got together?’

‘Sure did.’

‘That very night?’

‘Yep. He hurried backstage and wouldn’t be denied, bribed a few handlers with handfuls of twenties, and there he was before her, kissing her hand, apologising for making such a show of himself, pledging undying love, or whatever it takes to win a supermodel’s heart, and that was that, so they say. It must have worked because from that day on the previous floosie was given the bum’s rush, and Robyn, Jessica as she was then, was well and truly in. Living with him, she was, within the month, wanting for nothing, in that vast white house down by the Thames he bought off the England football captain when he lost all that money in the insurance market scandal.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘When the brother, Billy Barton, set eyes on her, well, he felt the same way.’

Walter exhaled. Shook his head. Didn’t say anything else, so Cliffe continued.

‘Rumour has it that she liked Billy too, rumour has it that before long Robyn was seeing both of them, but I don’t know about that, none of my business.’

‘It caused a rift between the brothers?’

‘Maybe, but that wasn’t the main thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘After a year or so Robyn, or Jessica, must have discovered that the Barton brothers were not simply the rough-arsed builders and hauliers she imagined them to be. Oh yes, they did operate those businesses too, but also as you know, they were, or are, hoodlums, extortionists, robbers, and... murderers.’

‘She must have been a bit naïve?’

‘Maybe so, but don’t forget she was young, and when you take into account her background, she must have lived a fairly sheltered life, maybe it wasn’t so surprising.’

‘So it came as a bit of a shock to the upmarket girly?’

‘You can say that again... but nothing compared to witnessing a brutal murder.’

‘Mmm. Yes, that would wake up most of us. Go on. Tell me more.’

Nine

Karen was masticating leaves like Daisy the cow.

‘I’m waiting,’ she said.

Greg emptied his mouth of tender steak and said, ‘I told you before. The in-ticket to level one is three grand.’

‘Sounds a heck of a lot to me.’

‘No it isn’t, not for what you get.’

‘And what is that exactly?’

‘You know all this.’

‘Don’t keep saying, you know all this! You are trying to relieve me of a month’s pay and I want to know what I’m getting for my hard-earned. Either put up... or forget it!’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Greg recognised his commission cheque was on the line. He needed to do more work on the girl to close the deal.

‘It sounds to me like a pyramid scheme.’

‘It’s not! That’s rubbish, Karen,’ and he wanted to say again that they had been through it all before,