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

‘Just waiting to be invited, Walter, that’s all. I don’t know why you are sidetracking on trannies. I have said all along that the killer could be a woman. What little we have to go on supports that fact. Jago met this girl, he seemed convinced she was a bona fide woman otherwise he’d have binned her from the off. This killer is comfortable in her own skin. She appears as a woman and probably is a woman. If any of you are thinking of finding an obvious man dressed as a woman, with ridiculous clothes, a deep voice, heavy make-up, and a bristly chin, think again. The killer is, to all intents and purposes, a woman. If you are looking for something different, you are looking in the wrong place.’

Walter nodded. He couldn’t argue with any of that, and said, ‘How did the checking of restaurants go on the night Jago died?’ He already knew the answer to this, asking for the benefit of everyone else.

Another guy joined in. ‘We have a probable sighting, Guv, a possible ID.’

‘We do?’ said Walter.

Everyone paid closer attention. This was the news they wanted to hear.

‘Where?’

The guy glanced down at his notes.

‘The Black Horse on the Frodsham road. A guy there, a Bulgarian waiter cum barman, he doesn’t speak much English; he said he thought he recognised Jago’s photo. He remembered him coming in for a meal; he didn’t leave a tip, but he remembers a little about the girl he was with. Said she was blonde, but that wasn’t what he remembered about her. It was her eyes; bright green they were, so he says. It was the only thing he remembered. He couldn’t make up an e-fit; it was only the eyes that made an impression.’

‘Bright green eyes, eh?’ said Walter. ‘How many people here have bright green eyes, not many, I’ll bet. I don’t.’ A couple of people giggled at that. ‘Go on, tell me. How many people are here right now? Maybe forty of us. How many of us can boast bright green eyes?’

‘Mine are greenish,’ said Gibbons.

Everyone peered at the bloke.

‘Yes, they are, but they are not what I would describe as bright green. It’s a rare thing. Don’t underestimate it. We can rule out maybe ninety percent of the population, perhaps more, on this alone. This could be important; the killer may have bright green eyes. Keep an eye out for that, if you pardon the pun. What’s next?’

‘Were there any fingerprints in the flat?’ asked Jenny.

‘Good question,’ said Karen. ‘The only prints we could find in the flat were Jago’s, and his mother’s, so what does that tell us?’

‘He was a sad and lonely bastard,’ quipped Gibbons.

‘It also tells us the killer wore gloves,’ said Cresta, ‘and women wear gloves much more than men, especially on a dinner date. I mean, have you ever seen a man wear gloves on a dinner date?’

No one had.

‘Anything on his phone and finance records?’ asked another WPC who had never spoken before.

‘The guy had minor money worries, but who doesn’t in twenty-first century Britain. He was keeping his head above water, just about,’ said Karen.

‘What about the drugs, where did they come from?’ asked the same girl, emboldened by her first question.

‘Now there we have a result,’ said Karen. ‘When we interviewed Jago’s work colleagues we found one guy who popped up as known to us. Small-time drug dealer. It didn’t take much pressure to get him to cough, threatened him with a murder trial if he didn’t. He supplied Jago with everything in his toy box, except the Temazepam.’

‘So where did he get that?’ asked Walter.

‘Not from his doctor,’ said Karen, ‘I checked.’

‘You can buy it on the internet,’ said Gibbons, ‘I checked.’

Gibbons and Karen shared a look, and a faint smile.

‘You can buy just about anything on the Internet,’ added Mrs West.

‘Too true.’ Walter nodded and sighed. The Internet had a lot to answer for. ‘Anything else?’

At that moment, no one had.

‘So to recap,’ he said. ‘The killer is around five feet five inches tall, of slim and sexy build, pert bum, sometimes blonde, definite green eyes, personable, attractive, pleasant, wears designer trainers, just the kind of person you would never believe to be a killer. They could be male or female or transvestite, I suspect we shall never know the answer to that until we take the he-she thing’s pants down and take a look.’

Mrs West and Cresta exchanged a look and a grimace. Walter was still talking. ‘They have a fondness for craft knives, wearing gloves, a lucky person in some respects, they have been lucky so far, probably drives a dark Japanese hatchback car, aged around thirty, maybe a bit more, so why the hell can’t we find him, she, or it?’

‘Because they are ordinary,’ said Mrs West.

‘Yes,’ agreed Cresta.

‘The typical girl next door,’ added Karen.

‘Or boy,’ said Walter. ‘Let us not forget that. And there is something else that we should not forget. This killer is killing people, five so far, killing at random, and we believe it is because they are alone, broken up, spurned, lost their partner, binned, single, finished with, call it what you will. This person lives alone, yes?’ and he glanced at Cresta.

‘Most likely,’ she said.

One day Purple Pamela will say something for definite, he thought, but didn’t say.

‘We keep looking, we keep checking cars, and bars, we check out the tranny clubs and all the nightclubs, too.’

‘What about casinos?’ suggested Jenny.

‘Yeah, them too, good point.’

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ said Cresta.

‘It’s what you are here for.’

‘I think you should do another televised press conference. Say you are closing in, say you have fresh evidence, say it is only a matter of time, ratchet up the pressure on the....’ and even she hesitated, fighting to find the right word.

‘Swine,’ suggested Jenny.

‘Twat!’ said Gibbons.

Karen said, ‘Oh please.’

‘Let’s stick with killer, eh,’ said Walter. ‘Or murderer.’

‘I agree with that,’ said Mrs West. ‘About doing another press conference. I’ll