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

If there was a God, pondered Armitage, and he wasn’t sure about that, this was as near as he was ever going to get to meet him.

The nerves kicked in as they ambled through the old tumbledown buildings that sufficed as reception centre and warming down rooms, trying to appear nonchalant.

The previous party of adrenaline fuelled lunatics were making their way back from the landing grounds, rolled up parachutes in hand, talking aloud, recapping their terrifying experiences, more than one saying, ‘I was certain the chute would not open!’

Doesn’t everyone think that?

The tax party was making ready to go, forced to listen to several barbed comments from the staff dishing out the gear: This party are tax inspectors; make sure they get the dodgy chutes, followed by strange laughs and weird looks. It was all in jest, wasn’t it?

The previous party were coming back, many of them saying they couldn’t wait to do it again; when everyone knew that once they were clear of the airfield, wild elephants would not drag them back.

Then it was Army’s turn.

They could see the aeroplane. The Short Brothers’ Skyvan, twin-engine turboprop, propellers stationary and waiting for the next gang of terrified pioneers.

The instructor turned up; assuring them there was nothing to it.

Piece of cake! Easy peasy! Come on! Let’s do this! Let’s go!

Armitage was no longer listening.

In an instant, he was miles away.

A million trillion miles above the earth, for the lights had switched on.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Ladies’ Day dawned bright and clear; the perfect early May day. Samantha was up early, took a shower, wanted to be in plenty of time. She hated rushing; nothing good was ever created in a rush. Even God took seven days. She glanced at the expensive navy blue suit she’d bought on the last expedition to the expensive Manchester bazaars. No party frock for her, nothing flash and garish, but a businesswoman’s suit, for Samantha was on business.

Breakfast. Crushed fresh orange juice, bran flakes, a slice of toasted low carbo bread, dry and crunchy, no butter, no margarine. She would eat nothing more than an apple before her seven o’clock dinner.

Brush those perfect teeth, brush, brush, brush, no one would flash better teeth on the Roodee today, ’cept perhaps the favourite for the big race. Desi had good teeth too, but much larger than Sam’s. Some people might have thought they were too large, ugly even, but Sam didn’t, and Desi was comfortable in her own skin. Didn’t care a jot what anyone said or thought about her, and she was never short of admirers, lovers, that in her time Desi took full advantage of, until that hateful Toby Malone appeared and spoiled everything.

Sam took ages on the makeup. Foundation, a hint of blusher, perfect eyebrows, perfect lashes, understated lipstick. So many women looked tramps by going over the top, not Sam. Brilliant eyes. So blue. Unmissable. Desi said they were the brightest, bluest eyes she had ever seen. Sam had slept well. No need for chemical eye droplets to induce sparkle, not a hint of a bag. The eyes were alive with excitement as adrenaline rushed through her slender body.

Dressing. Stockings and suspenders. Very sexy. New bra and pants, not that anyone would ever see them, no one had, no one ever did, not since Desi went away. Perfect figure hugging suit, it was as if it had been tailored especially, fit her like a glove, and bound to attract wandering eyes. Many people went to the races to admire the punters. That was half the fun. To smile and chat and become better acquainted, and maybe, just maybe, collect a telephone number or two.

Sam could cope with that, being pursued, courted, quite enjoyed it if truth be told, and she’d dispense a telephone number if necessary. Not that it would be a real one, not one that could ever ring.

Ridiculously expensive black shoes, low heels, necessary because high heels could be such a drag, plus matching bag, and don’t look at the price tag, also culled from Manchester. What would mother and father have made of that?

Black hair, bob cut, thick and shiny, healthy appearance, like the best mare favourite for the big race, black beauty, shiny coat, top condition. No wonder she had a big following.

All the cash would be laid down that day.

Pose before the long mirror. Pout, for there would be no more pouting later. Turn to the left, perfect, turn to the right, yes, all good. Does my bum look big in this? Of course not, don’t be absurd; Samantha had the perfect, pert bum. Desi always said that after the eyes it was the first thing she noticed, though she must have had x-ray vision to see because Sam was facing Desi at the time.

Adjustment of the bra, adjustment of the breasts? Why in heaven’s name? Young, upturned, unmoving, pert, not too big, not too small. What more could any woman ask?

Dandruff on the collar? Don’t be ridiculous.

Red and gold member’s pass, shaped like a shield, classy braided tie-ons, fitted neatly on the suit collar. They had kept their membership since they’d first gone to the Roodee. They didn’t even have to apply for tickets, never missed a meeting, came automatically, bank account debited, tickets and tags in the mail, through the post box, on the mat, reliable as Christmas, just a pity one of them, Desi’s, would remain unused.

Ah well, just have to make it a year to remember.

That was the aim.

A finger on the doorbell.

That would be the taxi, bang on time.

Good man.

Where to?

The races, of course.

THE INCIDENT ROOM RESEMBLED someone’s front room prior to the wedding of the year. No one had turned in late; everyone had gone to great effort. Walter was amazed at how an attractive bunch they were. Such a change to the scruffy mob who normally lounged through the building.

Mrs West was flapping about like a nervous bride’s mother, calling out: ‘Everyone got their buttonholes?’ and, ‘is