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

the following day. She was young and fit and had rapidly recovered and they needed the bed. She wanted to go home but didn’t want to be alone, so she rang Gibbons and asked him if he’d like to come over for a chat. He said he would, though his shift didn’t finish until 8pm. He’d be round at ten after taking a shower and grabbing a bite to eat.

‘Thomas Telford House,’ she said. ‘Number fifty, on the ring road, overlooking the locks.’

‘I know it,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

It was only a couple of hundred yards from his police digs; it wouldn’t take two jiffies to get there.

SAM SETTLED DOWN IN front of the television. Looking forward to seeing the news. See what spin they put on events at Chester racecourse. A tiny smile played across the lips.

Sam was in for a big surprise.

There was nothing on the national news.

That was weird. Why not? There should have been.

Wanted to see the fat black cop squirm; wanted to see him angry, to see him disconsolate, wanted to see him shaking with rage, wanted to see him feeling the loss.

The local news came on. A little common sense had returned. It was the lead story.

The sexy announcer carried that excited inflection in her voice only present when a major story broke.

They were showing library footage of the racecourse, hazy distant pictures of groundsmen preparing the track, mowing and clipping, and other guys with paint pots looking for something to paint white.

The breathy voice cut in.

A woman police officer was attacked in the toilets at Chester races on Ladies’ Day. Thankfully, she is making a rapid recovery. Her injuries are not life threatening. The police are looking to interview a slim woman aged around thirty, black hair, wearing a navy blue suit and a member’s badge.

How could the injuries not be serious?

Of course the injuries were serious!

They were lying. They were all lying.

In cahoots with the authorities. Liars!

Conspiracy, a pathetic attempt to trick Sam and the public into believing barefaced lies.

When someone is hung by the neck, when they blackout and are left for dead, the injuries are deadly serious. Get real. Be honest!

But what if she wasn’t dead? What then?

Seven times over was seven times over.

Now they were saying it hadn’t happened.

Six times wasn’t enough.

Six times wasn’t the deal.

Six times meant unfinished business.

10.30PM THAT NIGHT.

STILL NOTHING ON THE national news. Nothing new on the local either. Same old cannon fodder. Something had to be done.

THE MAN CAREFULLY DRESSED, all in black. Sweatshirt, jeans, socks, leather gloves, woolly hat, trainers, all black. Picked up the black sports bag and let himself out. Went downstairs to the underground car park. Opened the car, threw the bag on the back seat, jumped in the front, started the engine, cruised out into the black night. No moon, no stars, thick cloud, a cloaking mist creeping up the river on the late tide, a chilly night for May. The only light piercing the gloom, the cold orange sodium that was everywhere. He didn’t have far to drive, three miles max, through the city centre and on to the northern suburbs.

In the city the early drinkers and diners were leaving town, the late night hard boozers and boppers and gamblers were going in. The centre was lit up like Christmas. All around young people filled the pavements, chattering like gulls, shrieking, laughing, pointing, threatening, punching, fighting, fainting, puking.

The man drove on, didn’t see them at all, didn’t see anything; just drove. The suburbs were quiet. He parked in a tree-lined boulevard, a hundred yards from the target. Slipped the car in amongst a dozen similar middle class vehicles.

Cut the engine. Turned round, grabbed the bag, stepped out, locked the car; walked away, not too quick; not too slow, heading down toward the house. Two sleepy squirrels in one of the trees above his head watched him go. He didn’t see them. They cuddled up together and closed their eyes.

At the target property there was a dim light on in the front room. Nothing upstairs. All dark. He glanced around. No one about. Crept up the path. Opened the side gate, not too difficult, just the one bolt, no padlock, pushed open, not too noisy, slipped through, eased closed, stood still in the absolute blackness, eyes growing accustomed to the dark, tiptoed down the alleyway, hand out ahead; feeling for bins or bikes. All clear. Nothing there.

Somewhere nearby a dog barked, not next door, maybe three or four houses away. Not an alarmed bark, not a people come running bark, maybe a play bark, or an I’m hungry bark. At the back of the house, down the garden, beyond the hedge, he could see similar properties through the bushes and pruned trees. Some lights were on over there, all the curtains and blinds were closed; no one was looking out, no kid playing up at well gone bedtime. One house had security lighting illuminating a flat extension. Two cats were yowling and fighting there, the black and white one breaking off and dashing away. A fraction of light filtered over the hedge into the garden where he stood. The man shrugged and turned back to the house that interested him.

He stared up at the old home. Jammed on the rear of the building as an afterthought was a small single story extension, pebble-dash and brick, perhaps a kitchen. It boasted a wide window, three panes across, no curtains or blinds, nothing. There was no light on inside, just the hint of brightness filtering in from another room, or maybe from the hallway. The window frames were the original wooden structures. They had begun to perish. His gloved hand rubbed one corner. A little came away on his thumb. He set the bag on the floor, stooped down, opened up, the metal zip sounding like gunfire, took out a small jemmy, stood up, inserted it in the vertical edge of