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

six, slim build, small feet, nice lips, clear skin, pretty face, short neatly trimmed light brown hair, maybe a touch of blond, maybe a touch of highlighting, bright blue eyes, and a pert bum, a pretty boy, or a pretty girl?

Walter grinned.

The man in black grinned back.

‘You recognise me?’ he said.

‘In a way.’

‘Good, that’s good, Walter. It shows if nothing else that you are not totally incompetent, pretty much, but not completely.’

The man retreated to the hallway, picked up the sports bag; came back inside; swept the empty cans from the coffee table with a metallic clang, set the bag in their place.

‘You know why I am here?’

‘I guess you have come to try to kill me.’

‘Wrong! Incorrect! I haven’t come to try to kill you. I have come to complete my task. I will kill you, in a few minutes from now. It’s your own fault. You should have left the bitch to die. That was a big mistake. It’s say your prayers time for you, Wally.’

Walter didn’t answer. He didn’t have anything to say. He was fighting his mind clear of alcohol. Thinking how he might get out of there. Glanced at his mobile phone on top of the TV. Couldn’t remember if he’d charged it. Couldn’t figure how to get hold of it. Couldn’t think how he could use it. The landline in the hall might as well have been in Mongolia. The man in black began taking items from his bag, setting them down on the table before him.

Walter glanced at them.

He didn’t like what he saw.

He didn’t like what he saw at all.

Chapter Forty-Four

A year after Desiree won the Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy, she was invited back to London, up for the big prize, the Golden Shield. The Shield was different because it was the top prize any British scientist could win, but it was different in another way too. The winner didn’t know who had won it. There were five nominations, and the name of the lucky recipient was known only to the eight souls who sat on the Scientists’ Society Committee.

Desiree was on the shortlist, nothing more, though secretly, she was confident of picking up the top prize, though she was far too modest to suggest such a thing, even to her mentor, Jill Craigieson. She had been poorly with a bout of serious back trouble. It happened often, and she was resting up at home. She rang Desiree the night before she set off for London and wished her well.

When she’d called, Desiree was in the process of giving the Berrington silver cup its final clean and polish. It was as she knew it would be, brighter, more gleaming, spotless; cleaner than when she’d picked it up and clasped it to her breast a year before. She imagined the sparkle would bring her luck, bring her the success her outstanding work deserved. She didn’t want to hand it back, though she would happily exchange it for the Gold Shield.

This time the Chester to London train changed at Crewe.

When she arrived there, she found the station busy. The previous London train had been cancelled due to the wrong kind of leaves on the line, or the wrong kind of snow in the air, or the wrong kind of electricity in the wires, or the wrong kind of idiot in management, which was probably closer to the truth. Desiree wasn’t alone in thinking that, as she checked her two bags were still at her side, the same smart maroon suitcase from the previous year, and the worn crinkly purpose built black case housing the Sir Fred Berrington Cup.

Whatever the reason for the non-arrival of the previous London service, passengers were backing up. The platform was crowded and becoming more so, standing room only, people nudging in from the rear, passengers flooding out of the waiting rooms, not wanting to be left behind, people dashing down the steps from the passenger bridge only to be confronted by thick crowds, travellers desperately trying to wheedle their way closer to finding a carriage door, when the train eventually arrived.

“Please stand clear! The next train arriving at Platform Three will NOT be stopping at this station. Please stand well clear!”

Desiree exchanged a nervous look with her neighbours and sniffed a rebuke. How could anyone stand clear when the pressure from behind was easing more people forward toward the track, toward the rails?

It was laughable.

A tall bespectacled man in a tweed suit standing at the front, three along from Desi, turned around and gawped across the packed heads, back toward the station buildings and shouted: ‘Stop pushing at the back! We cannot move any further forward! Please stop pushing!’

The pressure eased for a matter of moments. Some people used the lull to edge into better positions, slip a tad forward, closer to the rails, reintroducing pressure, only more so than before.

Desi felt her feet being pushed forward and dug in her heels.

She glanced down at her bags. They were slightly behind her, as if some invisible tide was washing her out. She manoeuvred the maroon case forward with a touch of her toe, while picking up and cuddling the black one.

The non-stopping train was rumbling toward the station approach. Past the signal box, past the end of the platform, entering the main body of the station, a rhythmic, thundering beat as the heavily laden express began to whip through.

Out of nowhere, the voice returned.

She hadn’t expected it.

She hadn’t wanted it.

She shook her head and tried to obliterate it.

Jump, bitch! Jump!

Go on!

Jump, bitch! Jump!

The voice of destiny, and this time it was the unmistakable voice of the hateful Toby Malone.

No! I won’t. Go away! Leave me alone!

Do as you’re told!

Jump, bitch! Jump!

Let’s face it darling... you know you want to!

Come and join me!

Jump! Do it! Do it now!

No! No! I don’t! I won’t!

Still more people had arrived at the rear, more pressure, more eagerness to get closer to the front, regardless of the massive weight of