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

was down, when everyone imagined the killer had bottled it and fled, or not shown at all. Or maybe this had been a diversionary tactic as Karen had suggested. Maybe the he-she thing was busy murdering elsewhere, some unfortunate soul in the suburbs while the police were otherwise engaged and sidetracked. That couldn’t be helped, but the end of day theory held water.

Walter envisaged that, as they made their way toward the exits at the end of an unsuccessful day, ambling out, muttering their disappointment, dispersing home, hands in pockets, eyes down, imagining the day had been wasted, but maybe not. Perhaps that was the exact moment the he-she thing was waiting for, and if so, how would the he-she thing strike?

Run him down as he came out through the gates?

Why not? He, or she, had done that before, though it didn’t follow the established pattern.

It had always been something different.

It would be different this time too.

But how, and where, and when, and why?

There was only one way to find out.

Display the target and see who fired.

THE POLICE OPERATION split into ten distinct groups, left the building at three-minute intervals, ambled down to the course, not speaking, not seeing their own kind, not thinking of racing, not hearing the clip clops on the cobblestones as the thoroughbreds began unloading, not admiring the pretty girls or handsome guys, though that was more difficult for some than others, some of them armed, some of them not.

All nervous, and some afraid.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A tall, dark gentleman bought her a glass of champagne. They were in one of the best bars at the back of the main grandstand. He knew Samantha, or at least remembered her from last year. Gerrard was his name, ran his own engineering business on the Wrexham Road Business Park, so he said, not that Sam was in the least bit interested in that.

She was glad to be in his company. A lone person at the races can look out of place. Who goes racing alone? Not many, especially on Ladies’ Day.   They made a handsome couple, jet black hair on the pair of them, the man instantly smitten, the classy lady looking demure and cooing, ‘No-ooo, Gerrard, not today,’ or similar nonsense.

He asked her for her telephone number.

She glanced at his wedding ring.

He watched the track of her eyes.

‘Oh that,’ he said, ‘that’s long finished, been over for years.’

Liar liar, pants on fire, Samantha wanted to scream, but didn’t, stopped herself in time. Weren’t all men so damned predictable, all spaffed the same nonsense, as she smiled and flicked her eyelashes, and made some excuse and went to freshen up.

It wasn’t the first pass she had received that day, nor would it be the last. It was Ladies’ Day after all; it was to be expected.

She had already clocked Walter.

It hadn’t been that difficult.

Chester was still primarily a white city, and a big black man with a head of misbehaving grey hair was hard to miss. She had seen him twice. First, he had been standing in front of the rows of bookmakers before the first race, before it was too packed to move. He was talking to three others, two goonish blokes, and the same slim blonde, his rock, from the broadcasts. They had been talking, mumbling under their breath, glancing at their racecards and newspapers, binoculars slung around the goons’ necks, pretending to be discussing the favourite’s chances, when all along they were saying, ‘Check out that character by the rails, could be him, or her,’ or, ‘Look at these two coming now, they fit the description.’

Samantha almost felt sorry for them.

They did not have a clue, literally.

And what was that bulge in Walter’s trousers? Ah, Wally, do I excite you that much? Sam inwardly giggled, the thought of meeting his dream date, but ah, alas no, it wasn’t Sam he was excited about; he wasn’t excited at all, not in that way. It was a gun, a pistol. Naughty Walter, naughty boy, fancy coming tooled up, if you pardon the expression. What do you think I am going to do, blow you away in broad daylight before ten thousand people? God, give me strength, grant me a smidgeon of credit.

Did you think I was as unimaginative as that?

Samantha had identified twenty-two plods.

It wasn’t difficult, and the racing hadn’t even started. It was so easy. They were not enjoying themselves. They weren’t checking out the talent, not as they should have been. Yes, they were inspecting people, but in a different way. They weren’t laughing and joking, and meeting and greeting old friends in that hearty way you see at the races, at Wimbledon, and Henley and Cowes too, though Sam had never been there, though she was young and ambitious, and there was plenty of time.

They looked too earnest, as if they had the troubles of the world on their shoulders. As if one of their number might be in for a nasty surprise. Samantha giggled, aloud this time, enough to attract the attention of a passing Jockey Club steward, dressed in tweeds, hurrying away to his position, but not in too much of a hurry that he couldn’t pause and doff his trilby before the stunning woman and say, ‘So nice to see you here again this year,’ whether he had met her before or not, and departing with, ‘I’ll be in the Grosvenor Bar later for a snifter if you fancy it?’

Sam smiled and bobbed her head and said she might be there, and the steward grinned and turned and hopped away, an additional spring in his aging step.

‘Where’s Karen?’ grunted Walter.

‘Gone to the ladies again,’ said Jenny, ‘had a bad curry last night, by all accounts, touch of the runs.’

That was more information than Walter needed. He rolled his eyes and swept them over the gathering throng. Was the murderer among them? Of course he was, and Walter still believed it was a man, despite Cresta’s protestations otherwise.