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

‘Good question. No idea, but by the look of it, the he-she killer has struck again. Go through the list of recent missing persons. See if you can find anyone who fits the bill. Top priority.’

‘Sure, Guv,’ and then she said, ‘so who’s the seventh? The question marks?’

‘I think that’s meant for me.’

She thought about that for a moment and said, ‘So do I.’

THE PRESS CONFERENCE followed the same path as before. In the can by lunchtime, so the TV Company could broadcast their latest hot news at one o’clock, six o’clock, and half-past ten.

ACROSS THE CITY SAM lay on the bed, grinning at the screen.

The Darriteau guy looked more tired than before. Weather-beaten. Nervous. Perhaps he wasn’t sleeping. The blonde looked well enough, though. It would take more than a few murders to deprive her of sleep. She didn’t say a lot, just supported the Darriteau character, nudging his arm, passed him an occasional message, the slightest of encouraging smiles, and sly prompts, his rock, that’s how she came across. Perhaps he was plugging her, mused Sam, when no one else was about. Maybe in the cop shop, late at night, Sam could imagine that, in the stationery cupboard, across the desk, it must happen all the time, it happens everywhere else.

Darriteau was talking again, making a pathetic plea for more information about SB. Was there an SB missing? Who is SB? Had SB been murdered, and if so, where is SB’s body? Darriteau demanded proof.

‘Find it yourself, you moron!’ Sam yelled at the screen. ‘Do you expect me to do everything for you?’

The black copper continued with the same vacuous threats.

I’m coming for you. We’ll be meeting soon. Your time is almost up.

Yeah, sure thing, granddad.

You should be retired, put out to pasture, it should have happened years ago. It had taken Sam to bring that little fact to the public’s attention. Walter Darriteau was a waste of space, a spent force, a man promoted beyond his ability. Truth was, Walter Darriteau was an embarrassment.

The broadcast ended, and Sam flicked off the telly and went through to the other bedroom. Unlocked the door, went inside.

Wally’s Wall was covered in articles and features. Newspaper pictures of Walter in the field, looking dishevelled. Pictures of the pair of them answering impromptu questions outside the cop shop. Sam had been there that morning, hidden in the crowd, inwardly giggling and gloating, outwardly looking as concerned as all the rest.

Where would the Chester Mollesters strike next?

The same question was on everyone’s lips.

Some idiot from the Incident Room had leaked the name Chester Mollesters to the press for five hundred pounds in used notes. Mrs West and Walter were livid when that happened and were determined to locate the leak, though that could wait for another day. It must have been a genuine leak too, not some inspired or lucky guessing journalism, because the newspapers were even spelling it correctly, Chester Mollesters, or incorrectly, as it was.

People were becoming wary of going out at night in a pretty city like Chester. It was unthinkable; it was unheard of, and what were the police doing about it? Not a lot, judging by their complete inability to apprehend the perpetrator, or was it perpetrators?

Ridiculous rumours flashed around. A mad priest was responsible, it was a crazy doctor; it was all to do with drugs, Jago was a drug dealer, everyone knew that, it had to be, drug assassinations, and even, it was one of their own, a disaffected police officer, passed over for promotion.

Sam glanced over the displayed articles. There would be another fresh batch tomorrow and that was pleasing.

Within twenty minutes of the press conference ending a potential match popped out of the police computer, a local missing person with the initials SB. Sally Beauchamp, aged thirty-four, marital status, single, occupation unknown.

Walter sent Karen and Gibbons to interview the parents, leaving the officers with his final thoughts. ‘Find out where she lives. Find out where she works. Find out what she does, or is it did, for a living.’

HUGH AND CERYS ROBERTS were keen amateur birdwatchers. They would venture out first thing in the morning, often when the ground hugging mist had yet to clear. That morning it had. Hugh was scanning the skies for red kites using the new American binoculars his wife had bought him for his recent sixty-fifth birthday. Cerys preferred waterfowl, as she swept her glasses low across the shallow water of the quarry.

‘What’s that, Hugh?’

‘What? Where?’

‘In the water, see, there, away to the left.’

Hugh scanned and focused.

‘See what you mean. Looks like a case. New looking, too. I’ve never noticed it before.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I’ll pop back to the car for the wellies.’

WHEN HE RETURNED, THEY made their way down to the quarry floor. Hugh slipped on the Wellington boots and waded out. It was easy enough; the bottom was flat and stable, and the water shallow.

‘It’s a case.’

‘Can you bring it back?’

Hugh tried to lift it.

‘It’s very heavy.’

‘Will it open?’

‘Don’t know. The fasteners are visible. I’ll try.’

Hugh unclipped the fasteners.

The end of the case popped open.

Enough for Hugh to see, and smell.

‘Oh God!’

‘What is it?’

‘Ring the police. Now!’

‘Why, what is it?’

‘It’s the body of a woman.’

Cerys pulled out her iPhone and pumped in 999.

BACK IN THE INCIDENT Room Karen took a call from Prestatyn.

‘Hi Karen, it’s Dai Williams. Is Walter about?’

‘Sure Dai, just a sec. Walter, Dai Williams for you.’

‘Hi Dai, what’s up, man?’

‘I believe you’ve lost another body.’

‘Saw me on the telly again?’

‘I did, but more than that, Walter, I’ve found a body, and I thought of you.’

‘No! Where?’

‘In a suitcase in a quarry, over at Llandegla.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yep. Thirties, I’d say, and get this Walter, the head was buried in brown parcel tape, from the base of the neck to the tips of her hair. None of us have ever seen anything like it. Bound tight like a