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

‘Case solved, ma’am.’

‘You’ve found her?’

‘We have, all present and correct, Gibbons discovered her playing hide and seek in a cardboard box in the tool-shed.’

‘Oh, that is a relief.’

‘It is here.’

‘I’ll bet! I was just about to ring Walter.’

‘So glad you didn’t, ma’am.’

‘Are you coming back now?’

‘We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.’

‘Fair enough, see you later, and well done to you, and Gibbons.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Gibbons came back into the kitchen. He’d been ages.

‘Finish your tea, Gibbons, we’ve been recalled.’

Gibbons grinned at everyone, slurped the rest of his tea, and they all said their goodbyes and went outside and Mischief, now in her mother’s arms, her little arm curled around mummy’s neck said, ‘You can be my new daddy if you want!’

‘No, dear,’ said Shirley, ‘not today.’

‘Get a proper lock on the side-gate,’ said Karen.

‘I will,’ and the officers jumped in the car and started the engine and pulled away, waving at the happy Mischief Chesters, and an even happier mother Chesters, as they went.

‘Nice kid,’ said Gibbons.

‘Nice family,’ said Karen.

‘Nice half a family,’ said Gibbons.

‘Yeah, that too. Maybe you should take up the kid’s offer.’

‘Maybe I will. Been with a lot worse.’

That was a stock Gibbons reply, she thought, as something caught the corner of her eye, and she glanced back over the seat and saw in the back, one big pile of porno mags.

‘Gibbons!’ she said. ‘I hope those are for the incinerator.’

‘No chance, sarge, the boys at the rugby club will have a real laugh with them.’

‘Men!’ she said, and didn’t say anything else, just tut-tutted, and thought again what complete dorks they were, all of them, DORKS! There was no better word to describe them, and they were all like it, a separate weird and wonderful species all of their own. Geez! Give me strength.

Eighty-Eight

The following morning Walter woke early, snorted heavy and turned over. He thought about work. Thought about ringing in, thought about saying, ‘What’s happening?’ but remembered he was on holiday, and truth was, he hadn’t taken a holiday in two years, and maybe he was overdue a break.

He sat up and heard that oh so gentle and steady shushing sound outside. It was drizzling. Typical! Walter’s holiday equalled steady drizzle. Always did. Maybe he should have booked Jamaica after all, and dropped in on those distant relatives unannounced, but it was too late for that now.

He dragged himself from the bed and visited the bathroom. Shivered and went back for his dressing gown. Ambled down the stairs and visited the kitchen, cut bread, two thick slices, made toast, plastered on the Dundee marmalade, a weakness he couldn’t conquer, demolished it in no time, made his way upstairs, shaved and washed and slipped on a crisp white shirt he’d remembered to iron before going to bed.

Threw on a nice tie, yellow and green stripes, almost as an homage to his old primary school from years ago, old school colours, maybe that was why he’d subconsciously bought it, but he remembered that Karen had bought it for him last Christmas, that was kind of her, perhaps she thought that not many people would buy him anything, and in that she would have been right. Silk too, it was a quality thing, quite expensive, she was a good kid, and he wondered how she was getting along without him, though he tried to force that train of thought from his mind, or he knew he would weaken, and ring.

Slipped into his brown cord trousers. Walter wasn’t really a jeans kind of guy, and anyway, where was it written that people going on holiday had to look like they had just come back from a day’s labouring? No thanks, not him. He shivered and pulled on a beige V-neck cardigan, bought in Austerity Hayes old department store, and glanced at himself in the mirror. Not too bad, for an old-timer, and he held his tummy in for a sec, and that improved the picture a tad.

Went back downstairs. His bag was packed and ready in the hall, done last night, while he had the time, glanced at his jacket on the ill-lined coat hooks, and as he was doing that, he thought he heard the cab pull up outside. Opened the door. Peeped out. The drizzle had cleared and the clouds were breaking up like pieces of jigsaw. Big yellow taxi, Carrie the Cab, grinning through the clean glass. Blonde hair, blonde roots. That was different.

Threw on the jacket and removed the tumbling down ringtone mobile phone, thought about that for a second, nah, no computer, no tablet, no mobile, they had no place on a Darriteau holiday, and he threw it on the small hall table, no calls, no comms, no nonsense, took one last look around, though he couldn’t think why. Shook his head, picked up the keys, grabbed the bag, went outside, locked the door and ambled down the path, nodded at Sid the spider, he was one tough hombre for sure, wished him well, smiled at Carrie through the clean glass, and opened the back door and threw his bag on the backseat. Went round to the front and jumped in beside her.

‘Weather’s picking up,’ she said. ‘Nice day to start a holiday.’

‘Hope so.’

‘So where is it?’

‘Barbridge marina, it’s on the Nantwich road.’

‘I know it,’ she said. ‘Near the house with all the dahlias.’

‘That’s right!’ grinned Walter, knowing exactly where she meant, ‘and they’ll be looking their best at this time of year,’ he said, and in the next moment the big yellow taxi was at the end of Walter’s road, turning right and heading out of town.

It took just over thirty minutes to arrive at Barbridge, stuck behind slow farming cooperative vehicles a couple of times, Carrie all the while watching her speed, teasing him that he would book her if she broke the limit. Some other drivers wondered why she was dawdling and gave her something of a look when they overtook her, but soon Carrie was turning