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

It wasn’t Walter’s favoured strategy, but he wasn’t going to disagree.

‘I want everyone on their toes, think green eyes, craft knife, attractive personality, blonde, Jap car, gloves, slim build, it’s all there for you. This person will be out and about tomorrow and one of you will walk right past him or her, so keep your eyes open and find the bugger!’

Walter sat down and grabbed the telephone, while Gibbons went about picking his partner for their night-time trawl through the lowlifes’ bars.

There was no shortage of volunteers.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Samuel was inside the library, glancing at the newspapers. He was surprised to find they had introduced evening openings, and that was good. It fitted with his plans. From there he could see outside, the hustle bustle of people going on dates, couples arm in arm, singletons rushing to get there on time, people hurrying to meet their lovers outside the old cinema.

Sally Beauchamp had arrived five minutes before. She was standing outside with her back to him, glancing at her expensive watch. She was wearing a smart suit; skirt and jacket, maroon, and Sam correctly guessed it had cost a pretty penny. It might be a special purchase for the occasion. She was trying to impress. How sweet.

He turned back and read a long article on photography in one of the broadsheets, before making his way outside.

‘Hi, Sally,’ he said from behind her.

She swivelled round and half smiled. ‘Tristram! There you are, I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Sorry, I had to pay a quick visit to the bathroom.’

‘Yeah?’ she said, as if she didn’t believe him. ‘You’re here now, that’s the important thing.’

She gave him the once over. He was as neat and tidy as she remembered. and she liked the dark, almost black suit he wore, and fresh red tie and white shirt.

‘Shall we go?’ he said, offering his arm.

She linked him without hesitation, and he led her along the high street to where he had parked his car. He produced the key, pointed and fired, and the doors unlocked with an audible click.

‘Like your car,’ she said. ‘The new Cayton Cerisa, isn’t it?’

‘Yep,’ he said, getting in.

She joined him, and in the next minute they were easing through the city streets, heading for the inner ring road.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘The Road to Jerusalem.’

‘Pardon.’

‘The Road to Jerusalem,’ he repeated. ‘It’s a pub on the Wrexham road.’

‘Don’t know it,’ she said.

‘They do lovely meals.’

Sally smiled, relaxed in his company.

They crossed the river and headed south, passing Iona House as they went. Sam glimpsed the lights on in three flats, only his remained in darkness. He didn’t say a thing.

The Road, as the regulars knew it, was busy, a testament to the new chef they’d attracted from one of Chester’s top hotels. Sam had booked a table in Tristram’s name, and they were soon settled and munching their way through the expanded menu.

‘Tell me about this writer and broadcaster thing?’ she said, barbecue chicken wing sauce smudging her bright red lipstick.

He told her all about the articles he wrote on photography for several newspapers that were syndicated across the south of England, all true, and the broadcasts he made for the BBC at Manchester on the Cheshire life of the socialites, all a complete fabrication.

She swallowed it whole, fascinated by his tittle-tattle stories of minor celebs he made up as he went along. A good bottle of wine enabled a relaxed girl to believe almost anything, and the dapper Tristram was so believable. Why should she doubt him?

The longer the meal progressed, the more convinced she became he was the right man for her. He was single and had no children, or so he said, while she had sufficient breeding time left. She could offer him something that no previous woman had managed, a family, as she alluded to, when painting a picture of a tribe of little Tristrams running about his feet. Hadn’t he ever yearned for such a thing? Of course he had, but not and never with Sally Beauchamp.

Afterwards he suggested she go back to his place for coffee. Sally was used to going back to men’s places afterwards; it was part of the arrangement, where the business would take place, cash transaction first, sweaty transaction second. She would return with Tristram, but no transactions would take place that night, for she didn’t want to appear easy. She knew that wasn’t the way to catch a good man, though she would drop a hint that so long as he continued to court her, for that is what she imagined he was doing, anything was possible, and soon, too.

Tristram paid the bill in cash, and a moment later the Road to Jerusalem was retreating fast in the Cayton’s wing mirrors.

By the time they arrived back at Iona House, the place was in darkness. He pulled on to the small drive that ran to the right of the house, around to the back where there was a small car park. The usual two cars were sleeping there; an old rusting Jaguar that when running you could hear a mile off, and the green Ford saloon that badly needed a wash. Mrs Hymas didn’t possess a car, hence the extra spare space. Tristram backed in, toward his rear door. Being a ground-floor apartment he boasted front and back entrances, and in the next minute they were out of the car, and he was opening the door and lighting up.

‘I like your flat,’ she said, taking a peek round.

Apartment, he preferred, though he didn’t say.

It was old-fashioned, his stuff, but clean and in good condition and she correctly guessed, expensive. A big modern TV, and on the coffee table was a fat green book entitled How to Cheat and Win at Roulette. It was the latest block-busting tome on the subject, quite revolutionary in its way, and essential reading for all croupiers. Sam had forgotten he’d left it there. Sally saw it and said, ‘You’re interested