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

had lost so much cash. An elderly gent was manning the exits. He saw the classy young woman coming toward him, a gentle smile on her pretty face.

‘Not going already?’ he said.

‘Lost on the first three races,’ she said, ‘that’s enough for me.’

‘Ah well, never mind. There’s always next year, pity about Pandora, wasn’t it?’

‘Sure was.’

He held the door open for her and she smiled again, stepped through, and headed up the cobblestoned hill toward the city.

The old guy took a last look outside, at the opportunistic group of five or six rough looking youths gathered there, hoping to bunk in without paying. They could forget that, and he stared at them and frowned and closed the gate and fastened it shut.

WALTER WAS BUSY DOING his rounds. The favourite mare had been turned over, pipped on the line, much to the annoyance of the crowd. Almost everyone backed Pandora. The collective smile had returned to the bookies’ faces.

Walter wasn’t smiling.

He made his way to the back of the main stand. Gibbons was there, hanging about, hands in pockets, looking bored.

‘Where’s Karen?’ asked Walter.

‘Bog,’ muttered Gibbons, nodding up at the Ladies sign.

‘How long has she been in there?’

‘Five minutes, maybe ten. She’s got a touch of...’

‘Yes, I know. Diarrhoea. Anyone else go in?’

‘Nah. Two women came out. A fat gal and a black-haired woman.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Navy blue suit, black bag, black shoes.’

‘Slim, slight, and attractive? Right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gibbons, standing straighter, taking his hands from his pockets, pondering on what Walter had said.

Walter glanced at the Ladies sign. Ladies’ Day. Ladies.

It wasn’t him the bastard was after; it was the lady.

‘Come on!’ he yelled as he headed for the entrance.

By the time he was at the door, the younger Gibbons was ahead of him. He pushed through the door as if it didn’t exit, ripped down the homemade sign that brought their instant nightmares home, and dashed into the room.

All stalls wide open, bar one.

Gibbons shouldered it. It didn’t budge.

Went into the next cubicle.

Jumped on the closed lid.

Saw the rope tied to the window strut.

Pulled himself up.

Looked down.

‘Oh, hell!’

‘What is it?’ yelled Walter.

‘She’s been hung, Guv.’

‘Oh my God! Get her down! Now!’

Gibbons didn’t need telling. He was busy working on the rope. Karen’s weight had contributed to the cord being tied real tight. Gibbons broke his nails, wrestling it undone. He grabbed Karen’s body as it fell toward the floor.

‘Open the door!’ yelled Walter.

One hand supporting her, one hand slid back the catch.

‘Oh God!’ shouted Walter when he saw her. ‘Set her on the floor.’

Two women came in for a pee.

‘Police!’ screamed Gibbons. ‘Out!’

They glanced down at the purple-faced unconscious young woman; and the terror etched on the two guys’ faces and hurried away.

‘I don’t think she’s breathing, Guv,’ said Gibbons, ‘I think she’s gone.’

‘There’s a pulse,’ said Walter, loosening her blouse, ‘faint, but there. Ring for an ambulance. Quick!’

Walter crouched down and took a deep breath. Circled his lips around hers. Blew in. Came off her. Another big breath, down on her mouth again, and blow.

‘There’s an ambulance on the course,’ said Gibbons. ‘They say they’ll be here in two minutes.’

Same thing again, breathe in; breathe out, into another human being.

‘Come on, Karen! Come on!’ yelled Gibbons.

The sound of the ambulance’s beep-borp beep-borp filtered in through the open window.

Walter blew in again. Came off her.

Karen spluttered.

The men shared a look.

Two paramedics rushed in. Saw her. Knelt down. Asked what had happened.

‘Been hung!’ snapped Gibbons.

The medics took over. She was just about breathing. Her eyes revolving in their sockets, and foam on her blue lips.

‘Stay with her,’ bellowed Walter, ‘and don’t forget the bag... and the gun.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘After the bitch!’

‘Be careful!’

WALTER BUMBLED DOWN the twenty-five steps. Headed toward the exit. The same old guy was there, surprised to see a big puffing black man coming his way.

Walter flashed ID.

‘Have you seen a slim young woman come this way, navy blue suit, black hair?’

‘Certainly have,’ he smiled. ‘A few minutes ago. You couldn’t miss her. Why, do you know her?’

‘You could say that. Which way did she go?’

‘Straight up the hill toward the town.’

‘Thanks,’ said Walter, as the old guy opened and closed the gate behind him.

Walter puffed his way up the hill, pondering on where the killer might go next. If she’d parked her car close by she would be away and out of the city. But what if she hadn’t come by car? What then? Where would she go? The railway station? That made sense. He jumped on his mobile, rang the train station, spoke to the railway police guy there and asked him to take a look. The bus station too? She didn’t come across as a bus station kind of girl. No matter, he rang home base and ordered a car there.

Where else? Where have you gone, he-she thing?

Young, smart, trendy, personable, slender, where do you see people like that in the middle of a sunny May afternoon. Coffee bars, that’s where. Not the old-fashioned milk bar places he preferred. No, the new American inspired trendy places, where people sat all day long with their mobile devices and laptop computers, half asleep over a cup of coffee or two, each cup costing more than a fiver, and don’t dare ask the price of a calorie busting cake.

He’d been in one or two of those poncy dives; sometimes with Karen, for she adored the places, and sometimes by himself, and he wondered how Karen was now, as the ambulance dashed northward through the traffic toward the Countess Hospital.

He checked the coffee bars. No sign of the he-she thing, and no one fitting the description. Plenty of pretty women but dressed in worn out split jeans. He questioned the staff. Slim, black hair, navy blue suit? Seen anyone? No one fitting the description, sorry, Inspector. He checked four or five alcohol watering holes. The trendy places she might patronise. They were all packed, people crammed around television screens, watching the racing from down the