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

‘No Karen, you are educated, and have a good memory.’

‘Thanks, Guv. Do you think he slept with her?’

‘I don’t know, and I guess we’ll never know now, and even if we did, there is nothing we could do about it.’

‘We could ask the Schuft.’

‘Not a lot of point. Makes no difference what she says. But one thing is for sure...’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think you should sign up Mrs West.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘perhaps not,’ and Karen started giggling and that made Walter laugh, the heartiest laugh he’d uttered all year, and he was still laughing when another figure of officialdom, a different geezer appeared, and stared down at the registration number and produced a tablet and began tapping it. Walter buzzed down the window. Flashed his ID card, shouted, ‘We’re on our way, soldier, no tickets today, I thank you,’ and again the guy looked awfully disappointed, as Karen backed out the car, turned round, and headed back toward HQ.

IN THE EVENT, JESSICA didn’t call at all. Maybe she felt uncomfortable about it, maybe she wanted to put the whole sorry business behind her, and that was understandable, but for whatever reason, she didn’t ring. A few days later she flew to the States on a month long assignment, and on the same day the photo arrived in the post with a note that said she didn’t want it back. It was exactly as she’d described, and Karen set about matching the writing on the back against an inscription that Kit Napoleon had specially written for her inside the cover of her copy of Make Money While You Sleep. He’d written: To my dear Karen, here’s hoping for a long and profitable relationship, yours ever, Kit. Perfect match. Identical. Mr Napoleon had some questions to answer, though whether anything would ever come if it, neither of them were convinced.

GOD LOVES A TRIER, as Walter was fond of saying, and they would try and build a case. There was no urgency in that. They’d take their time, make it as compelling as they possibly could, set it before Mrs West, who would no doubt add her recommendations, and take it upstairs to her superiors, and there it would be suitably edited, because seniors always edited everything. It was what seniors do to justify their existence, and it would find its way to the Crown Prosecution Service, and the CPS would ultimately decide whether Kit Napoleon, or Keith Higginbottom, to give him the name his parents bestowed on him, would face criminal charges, or not.

Walter considered it a fifty-fifty bet.

Karen was more optimistic, for optimism is the natural domain of the young. Time would tell.

Eighty-Seven

Walter glanced at his watch. Five to four. He’d tied up all the loose ends he’d meant to do and there was no point in sticking around any longer. Fact was, he was looking forward to a long overdue break. ‘That’s me done,’ he said, to no one in particular, but Karen was there and heard and said, ‘Have a good holiday, Guv.’

Gibbons overheard and repeated, ‘Yeah, have a good one, Guv. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

Walter said, ‘Pfft!’ and bent down and tied up his shoelaces, stood up and ambled over to Mrs West’s office. The door was ajar.

‘I’m away, if that’s okay.’

‘Sure, Walter,’ she said. ‘Have a great break.’

Walter nodded and turned away and limped over to the coat stand and grabbed his jacket and slipped it on and headed for the door, where he paused and turned round and took in the office one more time. Several of them were watching him, as if not quite believing he was really going, when for his part, he wondered why he found it so difficult to abandon them, to leave the bright young things steering the ship. It was a conundrum that always bothered him when he was absent, and he had no real idea why.

Mrs West appeared in her doorway and saw him loitering by the exit.

‘Get away or I’ll give you some reports to write!’

Gibbons guffawed.

Everyone knew how much Walter hated writing mundane reports.

Mrs West knew well enough how to chase him off.

Walter bobbed his head and mumbled ‘See you later,’ in the modern style, and stepped outside.

Karen shouted after him, ‘Have a good one, Guv,’ though he didn’t hear her because the Otis elevator had already swallowed him whole, and he was falling down rapidly toward the street.

TEN MINUTES AFTER THAT Karen took an urgent call.

‘Where was this?’

Gibbons heard her say the words and immediately recognised the expectant frisson in her voice, that excited tone that only ever comes when something important happens, or was about to happen.

‘And what’s the child’s name?’

Gibbons couldn’t hear the reply, but Karen did.

‘Mischief Chesters; aged four.’

‘And the address?’

Gibbons watched her frantically scribble down an address.

‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ she said, and Gibbons watched her set the phone down in a rush, and she said, ‘Go and get an unmarked car ready, a good car, I’ll be down in a tick!’ Gibbons jumped up and grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, shouting, ‘Yes, sarge!’

Karen stood and hustled across the room and tapped on Mrs West’s door and went inside.

‘Could be a major incident, ma’am.’

‘Oh? What?’

‘Four-year-old girl, gone missing from a house in Bache. Been missing for two hours.’

‘What’s the kid’s name?’

‘Mischief Chesters.’

‘Cute name. Appropriate too. Shall we get Walter back? He can’t have gone far.’

That was the last thing that Karen wanted to hear. She could do the job and wanted the job, and do it well, and anyway, Walter deserved a holiday and needed a break, and she desperately did not want him back, not right there, not right then.

‘I can handle it, ma’am. Gibbons is getting a car organised, we’re going down there now.’

Mrs West sucked her pen and stared out of the window at the grey skies, and glanced back at Karen and nodded her