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

He found it difficult to believe there was a woman in Chester who was evil enough to murder six people, and attempt to murder him in broad daylight at the big May meeting. It was a man. It had to be a man. Of course it was a bloody man! He scanned the crowd again. But which man? Which one of these crazy bastards had come with murder in mind?

Karen came back. She looked awfully pale.

‘You all right?’

She nodded. ‘Touch of the squits, bloody curry.’

Again, too much information.

Walter slipped his hand in his pocket. Stroked his pistol.

Comforting, it was. Cold and menacing.

Glock 22, new issue, seven point three inches long, five point four inches tall, twenty-three ounces in weight, when empty. Walter’s was fully packed, as was Karen’s, forced into her black, shiny bag. The Glock 22, made by Glock GMBH in Austria. The American law enforcement officer’s favourite handgun, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Bet that annoyed the hell out of Smith and Wesson. Five hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of protection, brand new, plus carriage and taxes, you must never forget the carriage and taxes.

At least Walter hadn’t paid for the damned thing.

First race down. Favourite bolted up. Punters happy. Lots of smiling faces and fattening wallets. Early days.

Sam ambled to the Grosvenor Bar.

There was no hurry.

Gerrard was there, talking to three middle-aged fattening women. They looked like farmer’s wives with ambitions to join the Cheshire set. He spied Samantha over one of their shoulders, and made his excuses and left them to their fizzy drinks, and nonchalantly ambled across, becoming bolder; the champagne working its magic.

‘There you are,’ he said, as if they had known each other for years. ‘How about dinner tonight? Everything on me.’

‘You are a persistent man, aren’t you?’ she said, scrawling a non-existent telephone number on his racecard, or maybe it really did exist, who knows? But certainly not hers. Random numbers that popped from her pretty head. Someone could be in for a cranky surprise call.

‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.

‘I hope not,’ she smiled, ‘I’ll have to go, my friends will wonder where I am,’ and she left him there to his imaginative thoughts, as she swayed away.

Second race over. Favourite number two wins by a nose, roared home by a jumping crowd. Bad day for the bookies. Good day for the gamblers and bars. Corks popped. Still early doors. A dangerous time. More ammunition to take on the bookies. Many punters bet too big when they have cash in hand. Lose big too.

That was when she saw Walter again, at the back of the main stand where the corridors went through to the bars and restaurants and toilets and corporate and private function rooms, where the hospitality was high, and the big money spent.

She was happy to see him there.

Closer to where she wanted him.

Walter was thinking his theory of a late strike when guards were down was most likely. Unobtrusive runners came to him with reports all afternoon. He reminded them of his earlier thinking. Don’t let your guard down, stay alert, stay focussed, right till the end of the day. It wasn’t over till it’s over.

Race three.

One of the big ones.

The popular mare. Could she win again?

Who cares? Forget about the damned horses!

While everyone was heading for the expensive boxes and trackside bookies, and the rails, and saddling enclosure, anywhere to get a better look at the popular mare, Samantha was heading in the opposite direction.

Based on the theory that everyone needed the lavatory sometime, she was waiting, standing in the doorway to one of the hospitality suites, as if she had popped out to take a personal call, talking on a mobile phone to a non-existent lover. No one glanced at her twice.

A fat woman waddled by and went into the toilets.

A slim woman followed her in. The slim woman.

The broadcasting blonde. Walter’s rock.

Time to move.

Time to go to work.

Samantha closed her phone, slipped it in her pocket and followed them inside.

The fat woman was washing her hands.

The blonde woman was locked in a cubicle. The big woman glanced at the smart woman with the bright blue eyes. Rolled her eyebrows in half recognition and said, ‘Mustn’t miss the big race.’

‘You’ve got time; one of them’s split a plate.’

‘Really? Super, I fancy the favourite,’ and she bustled away, time enough to get a big bet on the shiny black mare.

Samantha followed her toward the exit, through the narrow corridor toward the door. White-tiled walls from floor to ceiling. In the background the sound of dripping water, the chemical stench of disinfectant block. The door flapped closed. The big woman had gone. Sam opened her bag, took out a light chain, drew it across the entrance, fixed it to the walls with sticky tack, blocking admission, pulled out the homemade sign, bright red letters, Toilets Closed For Cleaning, not in wacky type, amazing what you could knock up on the computer, hung it on the chain, it wouldn’t matter to desperate users, there were plenty of other facilities along the way.

Went back to the main room.

One cubicle door still closed.

Noises coming from within.

Plenty going on.

Samantha crept into the cubicle next door.

She’d left her bag open, no need to unclick.

Closed the pan lid. Stood gently on top.

Took the thin rope from the bag.

Set the bag on the window ledge.

Reached up to the top of the dividing wall.

Pulled herself up.

Outside, the crowd was going crazy, the racket flooding in through the open windows. The mare was leading, a hundred and fifty yards to go, the crammed stands had never been so raucous. Karen didn’t hear Sam, couldn’t hear a thing above the crowd.

Samantha peered over the top.

Blondie was down there, still busy; looking straight ahead, upset tum by the smell of things. Still hadn’t heard a thing. Couldn’t hear a thing.

Neatly tied, pre-prepared rope, brand new, white, almost silky, thin but strong, there would be only one chance. She had been practising at home on a large imported