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

first, decapitate the opposition, and it was crystal clear who the leader was, where the leadership came from, the big black fucker with the torch, and the commanding voice.

Man Two slapped Gibbons and his cuffs to one side, drew the gun from his belt. Jun saw it well enough. Karen couldn’t get off a shot for Mrs West had stupidly stepped across her path. Man Two raised and pointed his gun at the mouthpiece, the guy who thought he’d brought him down, when he most definitely had not.

BANG!

One shot rang out.

A crashing blast that came and went in a moment, but even that was swallowed and gulped down by the wind, and promptly forgotten.

Man Two fell down dead at Walter’s feet, gun still in hand.

Shot in the face.

Blood spouted across the sand.

Karen dashed forward and ripped the gun from Man One’s fingers.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ screamed Mrs West.

‘Good job he did!’ said Gibbons. ‘For the Guv’s sake.’

‘The fuck has been annoying me all day,’ said Man One. ‘For the past week, come to that. He loved violence. He’d have killed your guy, for sure. I’d just had enough and seen enough. It was him or the black fella, and your guy didn’t deserve that. It was him who killed the copper at the house, him who smashed that kid’s nose earlier on, he never knew when to stop.’

‘You would say that,’ said Walter.

‘It’s the truth! I was only in it for the money. Nowt else.’

‘You murdered Sergeant Stevie Cliffe!’

‘Not me, pal.’

‘You kidnapped Jessica Stone.’

‘Yeah, but we never hurt a hair on her pretty head.’

‘You killed Yet Kwai Dang,’ said Jun, reminding them all she was still there, and very much involved.

‘Him and Brinton,’ said Man One, nodding at the fresh and bloody body at their feet.

Mrs West took out her mobile.

Rang the local Southport police.

She’d tipped off the station about their operation.

She had good friends there.

She’d grown up in the pleasant town.

Her father had once been the station sergeant.

Still had relatives in the area.

Warned them she might need a little help.

THERE ARE FORTY-THREE quite separate police forces in England and Wales, all with their own rules and regs and foibles, and senior officers and command structures, and some get on well with their neighbours, and some don’t, and some were ever eager to give assistance, and right there she wanted and needed assistance, immediately, and help was already on its way.

02.45. A QUARTER TO three in the morning before everything was wrapped up. White tent over the killing scene. Arc lights around the natural bowl. Local men remaining on duty. SOCO, doctor, ambulance, blue and white police tape fixed on temporary fence-posts all around.

Man One, Terry Smith, facing a fresh murder charge, cuffed to Gibbons and waiting in the car to go. Man Two, Colin Jones, in a body bag, heading for the morgue, a man obsessed with violence, a man who would assault, hurt, wound, batter, imprison, and kill no more.

Two more bodies in tarpaulins discovered and recovered. Pryce was one of them, confirmed Jun, and Ricky Barton the other, confirmed Walter from photos and previous intel. Maybe Jessica Stone could complete the official identification later.

‘You’re all excused duty till noon,’ said Mrs West, as they finally tumbled back into the cars.

Walter had one call to make.

Rang Minstrel Electronics.

A sleepy Jan answered.

Walter brought him up to speed, one dead, one in custody, told him they should lock up and all go home. Told them to be back at work for noon.

Jan and Jen were happy and sad at the same time, glad it was all done and dusted, but sad at missing out on the denouement.

02.47. WALTER STEPPED into the Volvo. Full car. Five adults up. Him and Karen in the front, Gibbons and Jun in the back with Man One crushed in the centre. Jun felt good, for she finally knew the guy who had collected her from the Freeport would be imprisoned for a very long time. Lucky he wasn’t in China; they’d have shot him for less, or needled. No question.

Karen drove fast, past the site of the earlier stinger operation, nothing there to remind them of that, onto the Formby by-pass, and south for Liverpool and the Mersey tunnel and the Wirral beyond, and south again for Chester.

Terry Smith was booked into his special accommodation, left to stew, and everyone went home, Karen dropping off Walter at his house, before taking Jun back to the flat.

04.45. STILL FULL DARK. It had been an incredibly long day, couple of days to be more accurate. Glanced across at number 58. No lights showing. Not a surprise. Walter crept up the path. No lights in his place either. Quietly opened the front door, stepped inside on tiptoe. Shut the door and gently locked it.

‘What time do you call this?’

A familiar woman’s voice boomed down the stairs.

Walter snapped on the landing light.

The six foot she thing was sitting on the top stair, wearing Walter’s dressing gown, staring down. Geez! She had long legs.

‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Nope. Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Do you want some cocoa?’

‘Nope. Fattening.’

Walter went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

Jessica Stone came down and wandered in and said. ‘Well?’

Walter nodded, ‘All done and dusted. One dead, one in the cells.’

‘Did you shoot him?’

‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘His so called mate.’

‘Really?’

Walter nodded again and splashed the boiling water on to his cocoa.

‘Why?’

‘Good question. Said they’d been at one another’s throats all day. Said he couldn’t take any more.’

‘How odd.’

‘Yes, it was. How did you get on at number 58?’

‘Good. Nice people. Tell you all about it tomorrow.’

‘Today,’ said Walter.

‘Oh yeah,’ and she smiled, quite attractively, as it happened.

‘I’ll be going to work at eleven.’

‘I’ll be up,’ she said, and added, ‘Night night, Walter,’ and she skipped up the stairs and closed the bedroom door behind her.

Walter yawned, glugged the cocoa; sniffed under his arms, not great, shower needed, and staggered up to bed.

Eighty-Five

At a quarter to