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

empty bottle of Scotch there too, and three tot glasses with fading and peeling pictures of Scottish warriors on the side, decked out in red tartan kilts and bagpipes, Stewart tartan, just like that blanket in the car, and the glasses were dry and empty, with a big gangly dead spider in the middle one. It looked like Michael had had a couple of friends round for a boys’ happy afternoon, but some time ago at that.

Below the shelves was a fitted hardwood bench that ran the whole width of the narrow building, waist height, ideal for working on. On the bench, various tools were lying about, some rusty, some new and shiny, and a couple of well-thumbed Handyman magazines, and an old table lamp that was in the process of being rewired. Fitted on the near edge of the bench were two vices, a red one and a larger older black one. They were both closed, vice-like, nothing in them, didn’t look as if they had been used in a while, and the way things were, they might never be used again. He couldn’t imagine Shirley Chesters standing there, filing away, wiling away a summer’s afternoon. Not a chance.

But there were no boxes or tins big enough for a child to hide in, or be concealed in, and Gibbons was beginning to think the kid had indeed got out and wandered off down the road, or worse still, had been taken away, and despite what Karen had said, he found himself thinking: What would the Guv have said, what would the Guv be doing now?

Maybe I should call him, thought Gibbons. But no. Not yet.

He wasn’t there, he’d gone on holiday, and Karen was dead right about one thing: It was her inquiry, their inquiry, and they just had to get on with it and solve the mystery, and quick, for these things had a habit of going cold before you know it.

One thing was certain; there was no kid there, no Mischief, no nothing. But there was something, something weird, a well-loved and well-worn rag doll on the floor in the bottom left corner, down below the bench, leaning casually against the timber wall, as if trying to tell him something, and that didn’t look right, didn’t fit at all.

He picked it up and sat it on the bench and said, ‘Where’s Mischief, Sam,’ for the doll had SAM sown right across the front of her sweatshirt. Sam didn’t answer, but Sam was trying to tell him something. That was for damn sure.

Gibbons crouched down on his haunches and peered back to the wooden wall. There were three large cardboard boxes there, plain cardboard with folded down lids, detergent boxes once, if you believed the black print on the sides. Three in a line from left to right.

He reached in and pulled the left one slightly out. It was pretty heavy, and he unfolded the tops and revealed lots of crockery and china, all packed away, wrapped up in old newspaper. Surplus gear, by the look of things, maybe given by a thoughtful aunt, but no longer fashionable, and not really wanted. Pulled out the second box. Same decent weight, same kind of content, except it was all glass items. More surplus unwanted gear. Pulled out the rightmost box. Same kind of weight, same kind of content, he imagined, but when he tugged it the lid burst open and a little girl under a pink sunhat appeared grinning, her hands waggling at the side of her fair head as she screamed, toothily, ‘S’pwise!!’

It sure as hell surprised DC Darren Gibbons.

His head jerked back and up and he banged his bonce on the underside of the bench.

‘Ow!’ he yelled, rubbing the top of his head, just about stopping cursing choice old English that Mischief didn’t need to hear.

‘Been playing hide and seek!’ she squealed. ‘Thought you’d never find me!’

‘Mischief!’ he said, but kind of happily, for she had one of those faces that always made people smile. ‘Come here!’ and he reached in and grabbed her shoulders and eased her out and stood up and held her in his arms and she curled her right arm around his neck and tapped the top of his head as if she was patting a favourite bear.

‘Are you my new daddy?’

‘No, darling, I’m a policeman; we have been looking all over for you. Your mum’s been awfully worried.’

‘Been hiding.’

‘Well, we’ve found you now!’

‘I’d like a new daddy.’

KAREN AND SHIRLEY WERE coming down the path. They wanted Gibbons to help with those blessed boxes upstairs. Gibbons was hurrying back to the house and they saw him, carrying a particularly mischievous looking Mischief.

‘Where was she?’ yelled Shirley, grabbing her only child.

‘Hiding in some old boxes under the workbench.’

‘Could have sworn I looked there!’ she said. ‘You are such a naughty girl!’

‘Is he my new daddy, mummy?’

‘No he is not!’ and she turned to the police officers and said, ‘Thanks so much. You will stay for a cuppa tea, won’t you?’

It would have been rude not to, so they all trooped back into the kitchen and Shirley put the kettle on and produced a box of chocolate biscuits, naughty but nice, and even Karen let herself be persuaded, and crunched one into oblivion. Gibbons ate three.

‘What are these?’ asked Mischief, staring at the magazines on the table.

‘Rubbish! They are going in the bin,’ said her mother.

‘The ladies have got no clothes on!’ continued Mischief, giggling and getting interested.

‘I’ll take those out and bin them,’ said Gibbons, and he scooped them up and opened the back door.

‘Thank you, Gibbons,’ said Karen.

‘Naughty ladies!’ said Mischief.

‘You are the only naughty lady in this house!’ said Shirley.

Karen smirked and sipped her black sugarless tea.

‘So sorry to have wasted your time,’ said Shirley.

‘Not a prob,’ said Karen. ‘Just glad to be of help, glad there’s a happy ending,’ and she reached over and playfully tweaked Mischief’s nose, and the kid squealed with delight.

Karen’s phone rang.

‘Well?’

Extra officious. Extra shrill.