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

She rather liked that. She’d always considered Gibbons to be some kind of boorish lager lout. She set the coffee machine burbling and told him to go through to the lounge area.

‘How do you like it?’ she said, straining what remained of her voice.

‘Milk, dash of shug-shug.’

She brought the mug in and set it on the coffee table, and sat on the two-seater sofa. He was sitting in the chair by the window. The curtains or blinds or whatever she had, were still wide open, and he could see the headlights of cars dashing along the inner ring road, and occasionally heard the sound of a honking impatient driver or the beep-borp of an ambulance. The sodium light glistened on the damp road and bounced off the contrasting flat and still waters of the canal. It was a peaceful picture. It was a nice place to live. Gibbons couldn’t wait to have a gaff like it.

‘So,’ she said, struggling to get out words. ‘How goes it?’

‘Yeah, good, Walter thinks we might make an arrest tomorrow.’

‘Yeah? Really?’

‘Yeah, that address you gave him, came up with a weird couple, Sam and Samantha Holloway. Walter thinks they are the same person, away today, back tomorrow, apparently. We’re going in early doors to the flat next door. When they, or he or she, or it comes home, we’ll be waiting.’

‘God, I hope so. That’s a relief, I can tell you. Have we been inside their place yet?’

‘Nope, search warrant all ready, being turned over tomorrow.’

‘It was Walter who put me on to it,’ she said.

‘Yeah, how?’

‘He figured out it was someone with a major grudge. Holloway was the one that stuck out. Obvious really when you think about it.’

‘It’s always obvious afterwards.’

‘Yeah, suppose so, I vaguely remember this guy, coming to the station three or four times, demanding that we investigate a suicide further, his girlfriend apparently. I never saw him myself, just remember the desk sergeant going on and on about this bloody nuisance who kept coming back. He was boring the life out of him.’

She coughed and tried to clear her throat. Perhaps she shouldn’t be talking at all, thought Gibbons, and he said, ‘So he thought, this guy, that the suicide was murder?’

‘Must have done.’

‘And could it have been?’

‘Nah, several witnesses said she jumped in front of the train, middle of the morning. No doubt.’

‘Bloody way to go.’

‘Terrible way. The station was unusually crammed.’

‘All pressed up against one another?’

‘Yep, probably.’

‘So someone behind could have given her the slightest of nudges, just enough to send her over the edge, and I suppose it was possible no one saw it.’

‘Maybe. We’ll never know now.’

‘So his girlfriend is killed, accident, murder or suicide, we don’t know which, and he broods about it for quite a while, and then goes on a murdering spree. Does that sound right to you?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Looks like something must have sent him or her over the edge. Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow.’

‘I bloody hope so; this case has gone on long enough.’

‘You can say that again,’ she said, reaching forward for her ice-cold cranberry juice she was sipping.

‘What do we know about the dead girlfriend?’ asked Gibbons.

‘Not much. Bit of a high flyer. Worked in some chemical company down on the Cheshire-Shropshire border, from what I recall.’

‘And what did the guy do?’

‘Don’t know, no idea, don’t think we ever knew. Did you find out anything yesterday?’

‘Jenny was telling me the old lady living next door said he was a writer; and a successful one, too. Apparently he’d won a million dollar contract in the States.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Gibbons pulled a face. ‘Seems far-fetched to me. Perhaps he’s a Walter Mitty type guy.’

‘Yeah, that rings true. Hopefully, we’ll find out tomorrow.’

Gibbons sipped coffee.

‘There’s something that’s worrying me,’ she said. ‘Something doesn’t fit. It’s why I asked you over.’

‘Yeah, like what?’

‘He tried to murder me, right?’

Gibbons drained his drink and said, ‘Yep, he did.’

‘Well, he now knows he didn’t succeed, doesn’t he?’

‘He does if he watches telly.’

‘Bound to, these people get off on publicity.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That he might come back, try again. Come here, maybe.’

‘No, he can’t. Does he know where you live?’

‘Hope not, but we all know with the bloody Internet you can always find out where anyone lives if you try hard enough.’

‘Don’t worry about it. This time tomorrow he’ll be behind bars.’

‘Yeah, but he’s not yet, is he? I don’t want to be alone. Could you stay over tonight? Sleep in the spare room? I’d feel a lot safer.’

Gibbons pulled a happy face. ‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’

‘It is; thanks. I appreciate it.’

Chapter Forty-Seven

Sam sat in the chair in the corner and closed his eyes tight. A picture of Desiree flooded into his head. It was so realistic, so colourful; so close, he could almost touch her, smell her; it was as if she was there with him. A contented expression spread over his cute face, and his eyes opened and he realised she wasn’t there at all. His face turned sour. Not a good moment for Walter.

Then Sam said, as if remembering he’d told Walter he would tell him all about her before he put him out of his misery, put him out of this world for good like an old dog being put down.

‘We were exactly the same size.’

‘You and Desiree?’

Sam bobbed his head. ‘Yep, identical, except for her narrower waist and boobies, of course. Same height, same weight, same shoe size. We seemed to fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw. I’d never experienced anything like it before, and she said exactly the same thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’d been out to dinner, some expensive place, she was doing so well in her work, didn’t mind paying, can you imagine that, a wonderful, beautiful woman who couldn’t get enough of me, and she paid as well!’

‘For the meal?’

‘Course for the meal. What do you think, sex? Geez, Desiree would never have to pay for sex; they were queuing round the