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

computer desk. On top, an ultra modern computer and printer with failed red printed notices discarded to one side. Gibbons recognised them from the Ladies’ loo.

Toilets Closed For Cleaning.

He said nothing, didn’t want to remind Karen of that dreadful day.

‘Maybe the diary’s on the computer,’ suggested Jenny.

‘Could be,’ said Karen. ‘Boot it up, Gibbo.’

Gibbons fired up the machine as Karen turned back to the info wall. Practically every newspaper article ever written on the case was up there, some with rude comments and threats scrawled over them, others blank. Gave her a weird feeling, staring at her own defaced face. She looked so worried up there, frightened even. Perhaps she was. Not an image any police officer would wish to portray. In future she’d address that. She shivered and turned back to the computer.

Jenny and Gibbons were standing over it.

‘Need a password, sarge,’ said Gibbons.

‘Could be anything,’ said Jenny.

‘Try Samantha,’ said Karen.

Didn’t work.

‘Let’s try Desiree,’ said Gibbons.

Didn’t work.

‘Try seven,’ said Karen.

Didn’t work.

‘How about Sam the man or son of Sam?’ said Jenny.

Neither worked.

‘What about, murdering bastard?’ said Gibbons.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Karen.

Didn’t work, anyway.

‘Could be anything,’ said Jenny again.

‘Bag the lot up and take it back to the station,’ said Karen. ‘They have password detection programs there. Won’t take them too long.’

Gibbons nodded and went outside to collect the police canvas bags from the boot of the car.

‘What about these?’ said Jenny, pointing at the samples and bottles.

‘I don’t think we should touch them,’ said Karen. ‘They could be hazardous. Think we need advice on that.’

Gibbons was back, overheard her, and said, ‘I agree. You saw what it did to Sam the man.’

‘Sam, the he-she thing,’ corrected Jenny.

‘Yeah, that to.’

Karen turned back to the shelves. Took out one of the red notebooks. Opened it for a better look, and noticed a date. It was a diary; they were all diaries, all seventeen of them, page a day diaries for the previous seventeen years.

Walter’s gruff voice flashed into her head.

Bag it up and bring it home. Don’t open it, don’t read it, and don’t give it to Mrs West or Cresta, not until I’ve seen it.

‘Give me a bag, Gibbo.’

He passed her a canvas bag. She counted them in, seventeen in all. Seventeen years of what? Hatred, violence, murder, what? A step-by-step account of how to terrorise and murder people. And for what? The guy was sick in the head, but weren’t they all? Bring back the rope, Karen thought, and yet, when it came to it, did she want that? To see and hear of criminals dangling to their deaths from the end of a rope?

She flexed her head and felt her neck beneath the dark polo necked jumper, still sore, still horribly marked. She remembered being hung, less than a week before. She recalled how it felt, the darkness of it, the panic, the final thoughts, the kicking of the feet, and all she could think about was the crazy image that when they found her, her knickers would be dangling around her ankles, and how crazy was that? She would never forget it. She could never forget it. Never, ever. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Bring back the rope.

Oh yes. Sooner the better!

Her mobile began bleating. She didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hello.’

‘Have you found it yet?’

It was Walter, and he sounded even more impatient than usual.

‘I haven’t found it,’ she said, but in the way she spoke, he guessed there was more to come.

‘Well? What?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Seventeen what? Diaries?’

‘Yes, page a day, crammed full, some days with added extras.’

‘You haven’t read them?’

‘Nope. Course not. When do I have the time to do that? How are you, anyway? Where are you?’

‘I’m still in bed, still plugged up. The docs said if it had been a few minutes longer I’d have died. I had to play merry hell to get the phone wheeled down here. I hope to be back in the morning.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘That’s rich coming from someone who’s just suffered a hanging!’

‘I was just thinking about that.’

‘Well, don’t.’

‘I can handle it, I’m twenty-five.’

‘Yeah, and I’m not, so what, big deal. I’ll see you in the morning, and don’t read them, and make sure fussy britches doesn’t see them either, not before I do. Lock them in the cupboard in the spare room.’

‘You’re asking a lot.’

‘I know. It’s what I’m paid for; it’s why you like me so much. Did you find any solicitor’s stuff?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Keep looking. I’ll have to go; the medical mafia are back, curtaining me off. God knows what torture they’re planning for me now. I wish I was down there with you. Ta-ta... and well done.’

She’d wanted to ask him for advice on what to do with the bottles and jars. Never mind, Mrs West could rule on that. Another job for HAZCHEM, most likely, the hazardous chemicals division. They’d had a busy twenty-four hours, ended up with a couple of bemused boffins from Eden Leys perched on their shoulders. She took out a tin of throat lozenges and slipped one into her mouth. Offered them round. The pair of them shook their heads.

‘The computer stuff’s in the car, sarge,’ said Gibbons.

‘You’d better go and protect it because Guv would have our guts for garters if someone stole it now.’

Gibbons nodded, realising how right she was, waved at Mrs Hymas through the window on his way out. No tea and cakes for him.

‘You’ll have to stay here,’ Karen said to Jenny. ‘No one is to enter the flat under any circumstances. Understand?’

‘Yes, sarge.’

‘I may come back myself, depends on what ma’am says. They’ll send some top brass down, but I won’t forget you. See if you can find any details of papers lodged at a solicitor’s. I’ll get more people down here as soon as I can.’

‘Thanks, sarge.’

‘Talk to Mrs Hymas if you like, have some tea and cakes, perhaps collect some for Walter, but don’t let her in here, and don’t tell her anything. I don’t need to remind you this is a major