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

IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, Toby beat a path to her door.

Apologised profusely.

Sent flowers.

A crate of Desiree’s favourite red wine.

Letters.

Love letters.

Sex letters.

Pleading letters.

Letters detailing how pathetic Fiona was in bed, nothing compared to the passionate Desiree Holloway, and how she must take him back, because he knew she wanted him more than he wanted her.

Whether that was true was immaterial.

It was too late.

The clock had ticked on.

Ticked forward.

Desiree Holloway had rediscovered her first love.

Science.

She was brilliant at it too, everyone said so.

A shooting star.

Destined for heavenly things.

Everyone knew that.

She shut herself away from the world; away from everything, except her work. It was as if Toby Malone had never existed. She would never date at university again. She would never allow any man to touch her, vowed solemnly against it, and she maintained that vow for years.

Professor Robertson wrote a hasty re-appraisal re-appraisal and sent it by special courier. Collective sighs of relief were heard from the Thames to the Mersey.

Toby Malone had hurt Desiree Holloway. That was undeniable.

He didn’t any more.

He couldn’t.

She wouldn’t allow it.

AT THE END OF HER FIVE-year course she passed out with a double first in Mathematics and Chemistry, with honours, and everyone attended her graduation in Liverpool. Her father and mother, sister Louise, Professor Robertson, and even Mrs Bloemfontein jumped a train, ostensibly to support her protégé, when in reality she possessed Desiree’s instructions as to where she should go, and what she should do next. Desi explained Mrs Bloemfontein’s presence away with flippant remarks, saying she was an advanced careers advisor, which in a strange kind of way, she was.

Toby Malone didn’t attend. He couldn’t.

He’d long since disappeared, though he would never be forgotten. They found him dead one balmy summer’s morning, bound in fuse wire, secured to his bed, wearing black lace knickers, an orange in his mouth, a ligature around his neck, and three small neat cuts across his hairy chest. They were not deep, just bloody. The cuts hadn’t killed him. The ligature had. No one ever discovered who shared his final tryst, or who tightened that rope. Merseyside Police were still looking into it and the file remained open.

It had nothing to do with Desiree, or so she said.

The morning after her graduation, she was busy packing her things away prior to vacating her room. Mrs Bloemfontein appeared at the door. Desi was expecting her and nodded away a neighbour of hers, a distraught young woman who had flunked her exams, with a flick of the head and a whispered: ‘I’ll see you later.’

Mrs Bloemfontein sat at the desk without waiting to be invited.

Desi perched on the bed and said, ‘So? What now?’

Mrs Bloemfontein produced a single unmarked brown envelope from her bag. Handed it across to Desi.

‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ she said, ‘I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in half an hour. Have your questions ready,’ and she let herself out.

DESI SLIPPED HER FINGER beneath the flap of the envelope and eased it open. The front sheet was a congratulatory letter from the Scientific Research Organisation. It didn’t say what they did, just an address and telephone number in London.

The next page instructed her to attend Billington Hall near Ludlow in Shropshire when the summer holidays were over. Desi guessed it was one of the crammer colleges that Mrs Bloemfontein had mentioned a while ago. Before that, they instructed her to fly to Tokyo where she should meet a Professor Takanato at Tokyo University, and after that, on to Canberra where an appointment was arranged to see a Professor Jim McClaine.

The tickets, further instructions, and authorization documents would be with her within the week. There was a telephone number she should contact if she had any queries. She recognised it; it was the same number Mrs Bloemfontein had given her before, and a firm written reminder that everything regarding her employment was covered by the secrecy clause she had signed. The last letter informed her she had qualified for a pay increase, fifty percent, starting the day she flew to Tokyo.

She read it a second time in case she’d missed anything; in case she’d imagined it all, before replacing the papers back in the envelope.

Mrs Bloemfontein returned ten minutes later.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Seems clear enough.’

‘Good. So glad.’

‘It didn’t say what I will be doing.’

‘No, it wouldn’t. But you can be sure it will extend the pioneering work you have been studying. I can’t say any more right now, other than it will be hard, and difficult. You will need to steel yourself. It won’t be easy.’

‘I’d rather guessed that.’

‘Yes, I hoped you had. Any further questions?’

‘No, none.’

‘That’s good.’

Mrs Bloemfontein glanced at her watch.

‘What’s the best way to get back to Lime Street station?’

‘Taxi.’

‘Do you know the number?’

‘In the hall downstairs.’

Mrs Bloemfontein smiled and bobbed her head and offered her hand.

Desi took it and shook it, and a moment later Mrs B was gone.

Chapter Thirty

On the morning of Walter’s second televised press conference, the script had to be hurriedly amended. As expected, he had received a second letter. Same inkjet production, same wacky font, same forced inadequate spelling and grammar.

WELL WALLY,

EVEN WE DIDN’T THINK you was so stoopid. You are no nearer to finding us, are ya? You need help pal.

HERE’S A LITTLE CONUNDRUM for you.

CRJKWCMOJCSB??

GET IT? THE MAGNIFICENT six, and guess what Wal, the seventh will be a lot closer to home, know what I mean?

YOU SHOULD HAVE RETIRED long ago, while you still could. Maybe it ain’t too late. Maybe it is.

SEE YOU SOON.

The Chester Mollesters

HE SLIPPED THE LETTER into a clear plastic sleeve and showed it to Karen. She whistled through her teeth.

‘What are the letters?’

‘The initials of the dead.’

Her eyes widened as she recalled them, ‘Colin Rivers, James Kingston, William Camber, Maggie O’Brien, Jago Cripps,’ she recited, reeling them off, thinking of each corpse