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

there anyone who still hasn’t selected a hat?’ Meaning the women, Walter imagined, for he had no desire to wear a spring bonnet.

He was becoming annoyed at the all-pervading party atmosphere. They shouldn’t be thinking about hats and bonnets and bouquets. They should think of finding and arresting a serial killer, a cheeky wretch who’d had the nerve to threaten him, Inspector Walter Surprise Darriteau, the family joke was that he came as a complete surprise. Walter clacked his lips and glanced at the ceiling. Karen watched him do it and smiled to herself. She wondered what he was thinking about.

What an unusual man he was.

Walter’s patience ran out.

He stood up and clapped his huge hands.

‘Quiet! Settle down. It’s time to focus, get your minds in gear. Remember why we are here today!’

The hustle bustle noise and frantic fiddling with dress abated.

They turned and stared at the man.

That’s better, he thought, though said nothing. Took a beat.

‘Today is the day,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling, doing his best Churchillian impression, so he imagined, when in reality he came over more as a revivalist Christian minister. It wouldn’t have been out-of-place if someone had chirped in with a big, ‘Yeee-esss, A-men!’

At least he had their attention.

‘Today is the day we are going to catch the bastard!’

This time there was a reaction.

Gibbons yelled, ‘Yes sir! We bloody are!’

For once Walter enjoyed the interruption, nodded at the guy appreciatively, and said, ‘Karen! Over to you. Update on description of the killer.’

That caught her off guard. She hadn’t expected it.

Thanks, Guv. Thanks a lot.

‘Yes, well,’ she began, ‘picking up the latest papers from her desk, re-gathering her thoughts. ‘The killer is, we believe, around five feet five inches tall.’

‘Could be taller in heels,’ threw in Cresta, her of the tight fitting enticing purple frock, voluptuous breasts, or so they appeared, white spray of carnations strategically positioned, interesting backside, Gibbons wasn’t the only one who looked at Cresta in a different light after seeing that dress.

Karen nodded and continued. ‘Believed to be blonde, believed to have bright green eyes, slender, attractive, well dressed, but then most people will be today, I mean, look at you lot, you look as if you’ve stepped out of Brown’s shop window.’

A few nervous giggles.

Walter gave her a gentle look that reminded her not to stray from the point.

‘Drives a smart Japanese hatchback, though might not arrive by car today.’

Seeing as parking was at a premium anywhere near Chester city centre, and especially on race days, it was likely the car would be left at home, wherever that was.

Walter wasn’t the only one to think the description was useless. Blonde hair, could be changed. Height, same applied, stick on bigger heels and away you go. Green eyes, maybe? Japanese hatchback, yeah, if indeed it came, it would be in good company with hundreds of identical others, slender, attractive, well-dressed people.

What on Chester Ladies’ Day?

Are you kidding?

Have you any idea how many slender, attractive, well-dressed men and women would flaunt themselves on the Roodee today? No one did, because the answer would be thousands. No, the description was worthless.

What they had to look for was someone who was not at the races to watch the horses, not to bet, not to party, not to get drunk, not to socialise, not to meet friends, not to cop off, and was probably alone. Someone not involved in press or TV, not catering, nor bookmaking, not pick-pocketing. No, this person was coming to the race meeting with one aim in mind, to murder him, and though no doubt the killer would carry the necessary props, binos, racecard, Racing Post, Member’s badge, they would merely be that, props, and they shouldn’t be distracted by them. This fiend was coming to divvy up death.

The only question was, how were they intending to do it?

Gunshot? In a public place, before thousands of other people? Seemed unlikely. It was feasible to gun someone down at close range, but how would they escape? And escaping was high on the killer’s agenda, Walter was certain of that. He ruled out guns, he couldn’t see it, but still encouraged his officers to search bags when the opportunity arose. The women officers on the entrance gates, making snap inspections of handbags under the guise of a random drugs search, the slim guys having their bino cases opened.

So if not guns, what then?

Poison? A la KGB. Poisoned tipped umbrella. Seemed far-fetched, but the killer had consistently showed imagination. Perhaps the idea wasn’t so stupid, and you didn’t need to carry an umbrella. A little scratch would do, so long as you had access to toxic poison. Walter wouldn’t rule that out. He didn’t rule anything out.

It only needed a little accident with a glass, a minor scratch to the cheek or neck or arm. It was easily done. He would have to watch out for that. Not bump into people, and not have people bumping into him, especially young and slender ones, though on a busy race day that was easier said than done.

Walter shared his thoughts with his captive audience, and plenty of other ideas too.

Karen said, ‘Don’t forget, this person, this he-she thing, is equally likely to be dressed as a man or as a woman.’

That was all they needed.

They were including every slim youngish person in attendance that day. What percentage was that? God knows. Pretty high, for sure. Just as well to know, though, to remember the young green-eyed guy standing at the bar next to you could be your potential nemesis.

So if guns were unlikely, and poison a possibility, what other crazed methods might the killer employ? What fiendish thinking was coursing through the maniac’s mind?

Walter did what he always did. He put himself in the killer’s shoes. If he were going to the races to kill someone, how would he do it?

An answer flashed into his mind.

He would wait. He would be patient. He would do it at the end of the day, when everyone’s guard