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

Walter heard Hector say: ‘The thing is, Guv thinks this is really time critical.’

‘Time critical? Oh go on!’ she said, her imagination pricked, and she didn’t want under any circumstances to be left out of the loop.

‘Great! See you tomorrow.’

Hector cut off and rang Jan Poppie.

He was at church, helping to prepare everything for the early morning Mass the following day. The priest was approaching retirement, and he had come to rely on Jan, perhaps more than he should.

‘If Mr Walter wants me, and needs my attendance, then of course, I shall be happy to be there. Goes without saying. I shall come directly from the church.’

‘Good man, Jan!’

Then it was Gibbons’ turn. The tricky call. He was out with all his pals at some sporting meet. Typical Gibbons Saturday piss-up. Could have been football, rugby, horseracing, motor racing, boxing, tennis, or cricket, depending on the calendar, though it was in fact, a rugby cup-tie, which was always a particularly boozy event.

‘Who else is going in?’

‘Everyone!’

‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’

‘The thing is, Guv thinks we are really on to something here, but he says it’s time critical.’

Gibbons thought about that for a second. Time critical? In the past when the Guv had a bee in his bonnet about something, well, on more than one occasion it had proved that the bee was buzzing in the right direction, and he didn’t want to miss out on any excitement, especially if they were about to discover the honey. Someone slapped a fresh pint of German lager into Gibbons’ hand. Fact was, right there, he’d have said anything to get rid of the annoying Hector Browne, for the fellas had just shared a massive joke that he had missed out on, and he didn’t want to miss another.

‘I’ll be in!’ he said, and cut off.

Hector sniggered and waited a moment and said, ‘Done, Guv.’

‘What!’

‘They’ll all be in tomorrow.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Hector Browne’s natural selection.’

‘How does that work?’

‘Told Jenny, Jan was coming, told Jan, Gibbo was coming, told Gibbo, Jenny was coming. None of them wants to be the absent Aimie.’

Walter guffawed. Saw Hector in a whole new light.

Maybe he had underestimated his talents.

‘Well done!’

‘No sweat, Guv. They’d walk over hot potatoes for you.’

Walter pondered the phrase. Walk over hot potatoes. Hot coals, maybe? Hot potatoes? No matter. Gibbons would probably eat the bloody things. But it was a comforting phrase nonetheless, however it came out. Then he said, ‘Don’t suppose we could rope in a few more.’

Hector’s turn to laugh.

‘Leave it with me, Guv. I’m on it.’

KAREN ENTERED SPOKE 4 and stormed down the corridor towards Kit’s office. There was a young guy sitting on a seat outside the door, looking at a programme and his tablet, alternating between the two. Saw the young woman approaching. She seemed to have a lot on her mind. He stood up and smiled and said, ‘Hi, Karen isn’t it?’

Neat guy, well-dressed, cute smile.

‘Yeah, Sergeant Karen Greenwood. I need to speak to Mr Napoleon.’

‘He’s not here. You have an appointment for 6pm, don’t you?’ he said, glancing down at his tablet, checking his schedules.

‘I want to speak to Mr Napoleon now!’

‘I don’t know where he is.’

And in the way he said that she knew he was protecting his boss; she knew he was lying, she could always tell when non practised liars were fibbing. She glared at him, her ice blue eyes staring through his head.

‘You’ve got two choices, either you take me to see Mr Napoleon right now, or I’ll arrest you for wasting police time.’

‘Er... sure Karen, er sergeant, follow me,’ and he set off down the corridor, Karen close behind.

They were heading for a dead end. There were no further doors in the corridor; Karen could see that clear enough, and no emergency exit at the end of the corridor either, nothing, just lightly patterned thick green carpet and contrasting green pastel walls. He went to the far end and there, on the right side, was not a door, but a narrow passageway that couldn’t be seen coming down the corridor, and within the passageway was a narrow set of stairs going up.

The neat guy nodded at the staircase and Karen ran up. At the top was a small square hallway with one solid light oak door ahead. No bell, no names, no number, no letterbox. Karen approached and knocked hard, three times. She glanced around to look at the guy, but he’d scarpered.

She heard someone approaching the door, heels maybe, on a wooden floor, and a woman spoke, perhaps Jennifer Napoleon, ‘I said no callers, Marcus!’ and she opened the door and the smile dropped from her face as she saw Karen.

‘I need to speak to Kit right now.’

‘But he’s in the shower, you have an appointment later, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I need to see him now,’ and without waiting to be invited she swept past Jennifer and on into the main living room of the private apartment.

Kit Napoleon was not in the shower; he was sitting on a luxurious cream sofa. His hair was wet and he was wearing an ill-fitting towel wrap, and lounging there before her he appeared quite paunchy. Surprising what secrets a well-cut suit could disguise. His face looked lined and tired and much older than before. In his hand was a huge glass of hock. He took a slug of wine and smiled and said, ‘Karen, you’re somewhat early.’

Jennifer was standing behind her. Said, ‘She just barged in, Kit, I’m so sorry.’

It surprised Karen how apprehensive Jennifer sounded, frightened even, if she didn’t know better.

‘No matter,’ said Kit. ‘Take a seat, beckoning to a chair by the window.’

Karen sat down and said, ‘I need to talk to you about Donald Rushnell.’

‘Donald? What about him?’

‘He’s a wanted man, as I suspect you know.’

‘A wanted man? How would I know that?’

‘Don’t you watch TV? Don’t you read the papers?’

‘If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been away on tour, Scotland, as