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

‘What about Holloway?’

She shook her head, closed her eyes.

Walter noticed the doc hovering in the doorway. Glanced over his shoulder. Whispered, ‘One more minute, it’s all I need.’

The doc didn’t say a word, just looked angry.

Walter glanced back at the girl.

She was writing again.

The doc came over to see.

T...H...A...N...X

‘Thanks? Thank you?’

Faintest of nods.

‘Thank you for what?’

F...O...R

‘Yeah? What for?’

X

He glanced at the doc, then back at the girl. Her eyes were closed; the pen had fallen from her hand.

‘That is enough, you must go now,’ said the doctor, and the hand on Walter’s shoulder, urging him to stand and turn and leave brooked no argument.

‘But what is the X?’

‘A kiss of course, it’s not an X, it’s a kiss.’

‘Ah, that,’ said Walter, ‘I see,’ he said, annoyed at his slowness, smiling to himself, as the doc waved him off down the corridor, as his medipager beeped.

Chapter Forty-One

Three years before.

DESIREE’S RAPID PROGRESS was confirmed the day she received a letter from the Scientists’ Society, advising her she was to be the year’s recipient of the Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy, a huge silver cup that most young scientists coveted. Everyone knew the Memorial Trophy was presented to the best young scientist of the year, though the Society was far too conservative to repeat that.

But, as with awards that came from the Palace, she was forbidden to tell anyone of her prize, not even her nearest and dearest. It had to remain a secret, a total surprise to everyone but the winner. Desi was desperate to broadcast her news, not least to Professor Mary Craigieson, who had in her day won the trophy twenty years before. Somehow Desi bit her tongue and kept the secret.

The award would take place at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane, London, before a thousand of her contemporaries. The Chancellor of the Exchequer would present it, amidst a blaze of smiles and flashlights.

Desi couldn’t wait.

The clock seemed to slide backwards; days felt like years, as she counted down toward her big day.

Finally, it arrived, and Desi set off for London by train.

Chester to Stafford, change there, jump on the Glasgow to London Euston service.

It was a crushing bright morning as she stood on Stafford’s Platform One, close to the rails, waiting for the connection. There were plenty of people about, and Desi knew the train would be full when it pulled in. She didn’t want to be at the back; she didn’t want to miss out on a seat; she didn’t want to stand all the way to London.

Later that evening, she’d have to make a big thank you speech, and though she had rehearsed and refined it time and again, standing before her long hall mirror, rehearsing her gestures as much as the words, she still felt the need to go over it again, memorising things one last time, making slight alterations too, cutting out a phrase here, adding something there, trimming the silly jokes that had sounded fine and dandy when she was daydreaming in the Red Caves Social Club with Professor Jim McClaine. Some of his Antipodean cracks in the club were incredibly funny, but probably not suitable for the occasion. No, she would add something topical that was in the news, something in the papers that day, and she couldn’t do all that standing up, she couldn’t concentrate when standing on a train.

She wanted a seat.

She needed a seat.

She must have a seat.

Please stand clear!

The train now approaching Platform One will NOT be stopping at this station. Please stand clear.

She heard the tinny announcement and was pleased to see everyone taking a backward step. Desi did not. She stooped and grabbed her new maroon case and edged closer to the track.

She could hear the train approaching. She couldn’t miss it. A Manchester London non-stop express, hurtling past the signal box at the end of the platform, entering the station, closing on the main buildings, closing on Desi, no hint of slowing down, thundering through.

The whole place shook.

The voice in her head returned.

Jump, bitch! Jump!

Go on!

Jump, bitch! Jump!

From nowhere she felt dizzy, unsteady on her feet.

Perhaps she had been working too hard.

She lifted her right foot to take a step... and stepped backward.

The train whistled through, less than two feet away, puzzled faces streaming by, as if Desi was flicking through a roll of film. Coloured, blurred faces, anxious faces, as if they weren’t real people at all, fleeting spirits, as if in a movie, or a dream.

From behind, an elderly lady stepped forward and said, ‘Are you all right, dear? You look awfully pale.’

Desi glanced down and focused on the lady’s grey-haired face.

‘I’m fine thanks, must have been something I ate.’

A mischievous glint formed on the lady’s phizog.

‘I’ve seen that body language before,’ she said. ‘In the way, are you?’

‘In the way?’ asked Desi.

‘Yes, you know, expecting good news to come?’ and she glanced at Desi’s trim tummy.

‘Oh God, no!’ said Desi, her hand going to her mouth. ‘God, I hope not. Impossible.’

The lady smiled and nodded at her knowingly and said, ‘You wouldn’t be the first girl to say that,’ still believing that she was right.

The tinny announcer returned.

The next train arriving at Platform One is the eleven sixteen to London Euston, stopping at Nuneaton and London Euston.

‘That’s me,’ said the lady.

‘And me,’ said Desi, and five minutes later they were sitting together, chatting, as they watched the gentle, green Staffordshire countryside rolling by.

THE AWARD CEREMONY went perfectly. The Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy glistened in her arms. She’d collected it to thunderous applause, and embraced it as a long-lost lover. It was the second most prestigious prize of the night, only the all-embracing Golden Scientist of the Year Shield ranked above it in importance. Desi had already thought about that. She was determined to return next year and bag the Gold Shield. She possessed the ammunition to do that too, for she was on the verge of a mind-altering