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

Her speech went well; the audience laughed where they were meant to laugh, and more importantly, listened intently to the serious stuff. Desi had a talent for public speaking, she’d always known that, but that night it was reinforced.

Desi could hold an audience like an osprey gripping a slippery sea trout. She wasn’t about to drop them, not until she was good and ready.

The following day she would return to her riverside maisonette, where she would set the glittering silver trophy down among her other spoils of war, like a proud magpie, in the spare bedroom, now crammed with the weird and wonderful flotsam and jetsam of her experiments. She would polish the cup every month, and when the day came to return it, it would be in better shape than ever.

In the meantime, she would occasionally glance at the prestigious names engraved there; going back fifty years, fifty eminent people, the best young scientists Britain had to offer, and there at the bottom, the very last name, freshly engraved, was Desiree Mitford Holloway, only the second woman to bag the prize, following in the pioneering footsteps of her tutor and mentor, Professor Mary Craigieson. How neat was that?

Desiree inwardly smiled. She was at peace with the world.

Chapter Forty-Two

The moment Walter left the hospital, he took out his phone and rang base. Jenny Thompson answered.

‘Is Gibbons there?’

‘Gone out, Guv. Had a bit of an alarm.’

‘What kind of alarm?’

‘A woman in a big house over at Curzon Park reported a maniac in the kitchen threatening her. We all thought it was another, you know, he-she thing attack. We’ve been trying to contact you.’

‘Phone’s off. I’ve been with Karen.’

‘How is she?’

‘Rough. What happened?’

‘Nah, false alarm, it was that idiot Davey Seed.’

Jenny didn’t need to say anymore. Davey Seed was a basket case who should never have been walking the streets. Made a habit of wandering into other people’s houses, usually in the summer when side gates were unlocked and conservatory doors were thrown wide open. He’d stroll in and sit down and gurn at the householder and say, ‘Tea? Tea? Any tea?’

‘The lady’s very shaken up,’ said Jenny.

‘I’ll bet. The sight of Davey Seed would upset anyone who didn’t know him. Forget about that. I want you to do something for me. Urgent.’

‘Sure, Guv.’

‘There was a case a couple of springs ago.’

‘I wasn’t here then.’

‘I know that,’ said Walter, keeping the irritation from his voice.

‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘Something about a death on a railway? Something to do with someone called Holloway. It must be on file somewhere. I want an address. Got that?’

‘Sure, Guv. Holloway.’

‘Find out all you can, oh, and can you drive?’

‘Yes, sure, Guv.’

‘Arrange an unmarked car, and change into civvies. You do have plainclothes?’

‘Sure, Guv, in my locker.’

‘OK, Jenny. Get on that, top priority. I’ll be back as soon as I can grab a cab.’

JENNY WAS SITTING AT Karen’s desk when Walter hurried in.

‘Well?’ he said, before he’d even sat down.

‘Desiree Holloway met her end under a Glasgow-Euston express at Crewe Station. Several witnesses stated it was suicide, though there were allegations she had been pushed.’

‘Allegations by whom?’

‘Don’t know, Guv. The records are not great. Think there was a big admin shake-up shortly afterwards.’

‘Ah yes,’ he mumbled, remembering the Mrs West big shake-up spring clean. Joan’s shake and whack, the lads called it. He’d forgotten about that. It had to be done, but by God she milked the moment. ‘Have you got an address?’

‘Not Holloway’s, that seems to be among the lost data, but I do have an address for the next of kin.’

‘Where?’

‘Iona House, Wrexham Road.’

‘Good girl. We’ll try there. Car organised?’

‘Yep, though it’s a bit crap.’

‘Don’t care, so long as it’s in civvies and gets us there.’

‘Shall I tell Mrs West where we are going?’

Walter gave her a look that said everything.

He unlocked his desk drawer and retrieved the Glock 22. Slipped it into his raincoat pocket. Jenny watched him do it and wondered what was going down, and what she had let herself in for.

‘Come on,’ he said, striding for the door, Jenny hurrying to keep up.

For a big man with a limp, he couldn’t half shift when the feeling took him.

WALTER WAS A DECENT driver, but he preferred being driven. It gave him thinking time when they were coming or going. Sometimes when he was driving he still thought about cases. Sometimes it had almost brought double trouble to his door. Hence Jenny was driving, and anyway he liked company, especially young company, especially on a case like this.

Jenny pointed the car south, past the Roodee, crossed the river, headed toward Wrexham.

‘So what’s this all about?’ she asked.

‘Not sure. Just an idea I had. It’s not far now.’

He was right. The building was coming up, set on a brow on the right-hand side. You couldn’t miss it, a late Victorian or early Edwardian detached house. As they drew closer, he stared up at the fascia. Built into the gable were the words Iona House, picked out in blue Mucklow bricks. It must have been a heck of a property in its day. It was divided into four spacious flats, as they discovered when they pulled into the driveway, set to the right side of the house.

There were two cars sleeping in the small rear car park, an old rusting Jaguar and a green Ford saloon that badly needed a wash. No smart Japanese hatchback. Disappointing. They went round to the front, their feet crunching on the gravel drive, and peered up at the four white bell pushes set beneath one another in a neat line. Before he could ring any of them, the front door opened and an elderly lady peered out.

‘Can I help you?’ she said. ‘But I must warn you I never buy from cold callers, and I don’t have any antiques I wish to sell.’

Walter smiled as gently as he could manage. Flashed his ID.

‘Your name is?’ he said.

‘Mrs Hymas, Elizabeth Hymas, Betty to my friends, though