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

down on the sofa and ate two bananas and a beautiful ripe pear, and afterwards gave herself a rare treat, a portion of mint chocolate ice cream, though she felt guilty about it afterwards.

She thought back on the day, and the last conversation she’d had with Walter. He’d said that everyone was getting tired, and that’s when mistakes were made, and a break would do them all good, and things would look quite different in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. She hoped he was right.

It had been a packed day, what with the ID parade, and Corla Rev’s revelations, and then the forensic info on that print, putting Flanagan firmly in the frame, and David Baker firmly out of it. And thinking of Mr Baker, she had thought he might have rung, but he did not. Maybe he was playing tough again, silly mind games, making her sweat, and the annoying thing was, it was working. She thought of ringing him, but that wasn’t going to happen. In Karen’s world the man did the chasing, and if he didn’t, it was clear proof there wasn’t much to him, and didn’t think anywhere near enough of her.

The good news was, as Walter had pointed out, that Mrs West was back in the morning, and with the latest development of Flanagan being in custody, and likely to be charged, she should be more than happy with that. The weird and wacky ID parade featuring not one but six men, all of whom played some part in the case, or cases, might simply be glossed over and forgotten, if everything went well. That was the hope.

Karen sank a single glass of cold sharp white wine, albeit a large one, and headed for the shower, ultra hot and ultra cold in quick succession, and then to bed, where she thought awhile, replaying the day’s events in her mind, fantasised for a while longer after that, of a tall dark man, who would remain nameless, and finally fell into a totally satisfactory sleep.

WALTER WAS ASLEEP TOO, dreaming of racing greyhounds made of roast beef that he couldn’t catch, and eat, and hot sunny beaches in the Caribbean, and playing the perfect forward defensive stroke at Lords cricket ground, only to be given out by an incompetent umpire, and some bits of Carlene Henderson in there too, if only briefly.

THE MAN WAS NOT ASLEEP, but fully awake, and thinking and planning. Tomorrow was a big day in more ways than one. He planned to prune another, the third and final one, the last act that would bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. Closure, and he said the word aloud. ‘Closure.’ It would not be easy, but then it never was, but it was satisfying, and in a weird way, truly uplifting too.

Those who had not travelled the same road would never be able to properly understand, or comprehend the intensity of feeling and exhilaration it brought. Only members of such a select club could possibly know.

He smiled a surprisingly warm smile, and prepared for bed. Sleep would come eventually, and of a satisfying kind. There would be no twisting and turning, no restlessness, and certainly no pangs of conscience. It was far too late for that.

Thirty-Five

8.30am, and Walter brought Mrs West fully up to speed. The unorthodox ID parade barely rated a mention, for all eyes were firmly on the prize. Flanagan’s print was inside Bel’s bedside table, proof positive that he had been there, in her house, in her bedroom, and Mrs West imagined him resting in Bel’s bed, maybe after a steamy lovemaking session, reaching over and slipping open the bedside table drawer, touching the inside, leaving evidence that would surely do for him.

But what was he looking for? A tissue, a condom, surely too late for that, a pill, maybe he had a headache, the poor love, or maybe he was getting something for her, a sleeping pill, perhaps, though none had been found, it would be interesting to know why he’d gone in that drawer.

‘Ask him, Walter,’ she said. ‘I’m intrigued.’

Her previous certainty that tags couldn’t be broken and interfered with had been washed away, overwhelmed by actual positive evidence that would stand up in court. She’d speak to the tag people, there had to be an obvious explanation.

9.00AM, AND THE INTERVIEW began, as Karen read the intros for the recorder. Flanagan looked unshaven and rough, as if he’d experienced a hard night’s sleep, which wouldn’t have been surprising. Cell beds were not supposed to be five-star comfortable. Some deodorant wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Gayle Drake looked good again, businesslike and smart. Walter didn’t miss that.

He kicked things off by asking Flanagan when he first met Belinda Cooper. The question brought the first of many frank denials, frequently interrupted by Ms Drake, who consistently pointed out the lack of any other evidence. One hour later, and Walter brought an early end to proceedings by ordering a timeout coffee break.

Karen and Walter sat before Mrs West and sipped coffee, or lemon flavoured water, in Karen’s case.

‘Just such a pity that Corla Rev didn’t ID Flanagan,’ muttered Walter.

‘You saw how close she was to doing so,’ said Karen. ‘She couldn’t keep her eyes off the guy.’

‘Maybe you should go and see this Mrs Revelation woman again,’ said Mrs West. ‘See what else she can tell you.’

‘I agree,’ said Karen. ‘She’s a gifted woman all right, she can see things that others can’t, and oh, by the way, she likes to be called “Miss”.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Walter. ‘Let’s not go down that line again, hippy nonsense.’

‘We need more than we’ve got,’ said Mrs West. ‘Or he’ll wriggle free.’

Walter bobbed his head and reluctantly said, ‘We’ll see Corla again.’

Mrs West grinned. ‘Keep at it team! The same questions half a dozen times, compare the answers, and there you will find incriminating discrepancies.’

It was the same old mantra, give them enough rope, and all that, and