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

‘Crime must pay,’ muttered Karen, opening the small white front gate, and wondering why she could not afford a little house like it.

‘Looks that way,’ said Walter, as they headed for the red door and rang the doorbell set to the right.

No one came.

Walter peered through the partly frosted glass panel and squinted inside. Couldn’t see any action. Tried the bell again.

Movement inside. A shadowy figure coming down the stairs, and in the next moment a tall neat man opened the door. He didn’t look happy.

‘We’re looking for Michael Flanagan,’ said Walter.

‘And you are?’ said the guy, though his instinct told him these people were police.

Karen did the introductions.

‘I’m Michael Flanagan,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’ Which was something of a surprise for he didn’t look anything like his photo. He’d cut his hair, short and neat; he was well dressed too, neatly shaved, smelt nice, and looked more like a businessman than a rough killer.

‘Can we come in for a minute?’ said Walter. ‘We need your help on something.’

‘I’m busy right now.’

‘So are we,’ said Karen, as Walter eased the door open, and they both stepped inside, and followed Michael into a small but neat front sitting room. The new theme continued. New large TV, new music system, new sofa, nice pictures on the wall, good beige carpet on the floor, all clean and tidy, all good to go. The three of them stood in the centre of the room and checked each other out.

‘Nice place,’ said Walter.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘What are we thinking?’ asked Karen.

‘You’re thinking, how come a jailbird like me has such a nice gaff as this?’

‘It might have crossed my mind,’ said Walter. ‘So how do you?’

Flanagan breathed out heavy as if he was sick to the back teeth of justifying things, but he would anyway.

‘Thankfully, there are some well-meaning charitable societies and trusts and housing associations out there that look after people just out of prison, people like me. Make an effort to give us a fresh start, kind of thing, and just to be clear about it, I only get this house for eighteen months max, after that I have to find my own place, and just to be clear also, it was an accident, what happened to my wife.’

‘Oh?’ said Karen.

‘She came at me with a poker. I’d caught her playing around. She could have killed me. I had no choice. I gave her a slap, just the one, nothing really; she fell over and banged her head on the corner of the marble fireplace. It could have happened to anyone. Manslaughter, they said, it was an accident for fuck’s sake, but you know all this, no point in going over it all again. I’m working hard, and trying to get my life back together, so give me a break and get off my case, eh?’

‘It’s not your case we are looking at,’ said Walter.

‘Oh? So what do you want?’

‘Where were you last Friday night?’

‘Friday? Here of course. I’m tagged, don’t they tell you anything?’ and he pulled up his trouser leg and revealed the white electronic tag on his ankle. ‘Seven till seven curfew. Always knew the bloody thing would come in useful sometime, and now it has,’ and he grinned. ‘You can check.’

‘So you didn’t go out at all that night?’

‘Course not. Said so, didn’t I.’

‘What do you do for a living?’ asked Walter, but before Flanagan could answer, a loud bump came to the ceiling above.

‘We are not alone here?’ said Walter, glancing skywards.

‘Nope. Not a crime is it?’

‘You didn’t think to say?’ said Karen.

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Who’s upstairs?’ asked Walter.

Michael shrugged his shoulders and looked shifty.

‘A friend, my girlfriend, if you must know.’

‘I’ll check it out, Guv,’ said Karen, going to the stairs and running up them.

The door to the front bedroom was wide open. A naked young woman lay on the new double bed, smirking. Maybe twenties, maybe a little younger.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Karen.

‘Misty,’ she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

‘No it’s not!’ said Karen. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Do you? I don’t know you, lady.’

‘I think you do. What’s your real name?’

‘You never leave people alone, do you?’

‘Real name!’

‘For fuck’s sake! Tracey Day, if you must know.’

‘Ah yes, I remember now, Tracey Day, you’ve been done several times for prostitution, if memory serves. Which reminds me, do you know a girl called Ellie Wright?’

‘Nope, who’s she?’

‘No matter, just someone we are interested in. Anyway, get yourself dressed, right now! There’ll be no business done here today, I’ll expect you downstairs in five.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! People can do what they like in their own homes!’

‘No they can’t! Not when they are out on licence. Get dressed! I won’t tell you again.’

Tracey sulkily slid from the bed and headed toward her clothes bunched up on a low dressing table. Karen nodded and went downstairs.

‘Well?’ said Walter.

‘Tracey Day, a known Tom, about to do business by the look of things.’

Walter glanced at Michael and pulled a questioning face.

‘I can do what I like in my own place.’

‘Do you think the charitable trust would approve of that?’

‘Oh, don’t tell them, for God’s sake, I’m just getting back on my feet.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Walter. ‘Just so long as you cooperate.’

Michael scowled, as a sheepish looking Tracey in a very short skirt appeared and stood in the doorway. ‘Can I go now?’

‘You can,’ said Walter, as Tracey headed toward the front door.

‘Give me a ring!’ shouted Michael.

‘You will not be ringing here, will you Tracey?’ growled Walter.

‘No mister black-man-police-man,’ she shouted back, giggling at her own little joke, as she let herself out, and hurried away down the path before they thought to search in her handbag.

‘Where were we?’ muttered Walter.

‘You wanted to know what I was doing for a living.’

‘Ah yes, and what is that?’

‘Cab driver, if you must know.’

‘But only from seven till seven,’ said Karen.

‘Correct.’

‘Don’t you have to have a CRB check to drive cabs?’ said Karen.

‘No! Not with all the firms, and