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

‘Got you, sarge.’

‘We’ll see if we can break into the computer.’

‘Good luck with that. See you later.’

‘Yeah, you will.’

Chapter Fifty-Two

Walter was a man of his word. He was back in the office first thing the next day. He looked dreadful, as if he’d had the lifeblood sucked from him, which was pretty close to what had happened. Karen was there too, and she looked little better. She slipped him the key to the metal cupboard, as Mrs West came in.

She barked a shrill Good Morning everybody, glanced at Walter, thought about saying: You look terrible, thought better of it, and mumbled: Good to see you back; and hurried toward her office, went inside, and closed the door. Walter and Karen shared a look.

‘You’re going to have to tell her,’ Karen said.

‘I know. I’ll do it now, before she’s wide awake.’

He stood up and limped toward her office door, knocked hard once so he wouldn’t have to do it again.

‘Come!’ came the distant voice.

Walter went inside.

‘Ah, Walter,’ she said, ‘sit down, I wanted a word with you. How are you anyway?’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘They tell me I’ll live, which is good enough for me, and more than the unlucky six have to look forward to.’

‘True, but at least, thanks to you and the team’s fine efforts, there won’t be a seventh.’

It seemed small compensation, though not much, and nothing for the relatives of the dead.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re wrapping everything up?’

‘Busy on it now, ma’am.’

‘And the general debriefing?’

‘Arranged for this afternoon, half-past two.’

‘Good. Is Cresta in?’

‘Not yet, due in any minute.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

Walter took a deep breath.

‘The killer left a diary, ma’am.’

‘A diary?’

‘Yes, seventeen volumes.’

‘And where are they?’

‘Locked in the cupboard, ma’am.’

‘And why wasn’t I told?’

‘With everything going on, I don’t think they wanted to bother you with it.’

Mrs West sniffed. She didn’t believe that. She grabbed her bag and took out an embroidered handkerchief and blew her pink nose. Walter glanced away. For some reason he found it funny and had to fight not to laugh.

Once done with the hankie, she said, ‘Seventeen volumes, you say?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well, I can’t be spending all day reading that. I’ve staff assessments to complete, up to and including this case, on everyone, Walter, including yours, and God alone knows what else,’ and she glanced at him over the top of her pink framed specs. ‘They are probably full of childish ramblings. Could you read them ASAP and report back?’

‘Of course, ma’am, if that’s what you want.’

‘Yes, Walter, it is, do that, and note anything important I need to know.’

‘Fine, ma’am, I’ll get on with it right now. When I have finished with them, is it all right if Cresta sees them?’

She thought about that for a second, pulled a face, and then said, ‘Don’t see why not.’

‘Right-ho, ma’am.’

‘And I don’t think you should be here all day, you look bloody awful, go home and get some rest as soon as you can.’

‘Yes, ma’am, thank you, I will,’ though the thought of going home to a boarded up kitchen window, and an empty house full of all too recent memories of torture and near death, was not one to tempt him home early. He’d stay for as long as he could keep his eyes open. She nodded him away, and he was glad to be out of there.

‘Well?’ said Karen.

‘I’m assigned to read them all, starting now.’

‘Good. And am I in the clear?’

‘Course,’ he said, unable to keep a smile infiltrating over his drawn face. ‘Would I dump you in it?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ she grinned, as she watched him limping away toward the private office, key in hand.

THEY WERE MAROON, ALL seventeen of them, made by the same manufacturer, and each one still had the price sticker affixed to the back cover. A seventeen-year record of inflation in the British stationery industry. He opened the earliest one, sat back and began reading, and was struck by the carefully constructed handwriting.

This wasn’t a hurried record; this was a detailed account of the guy’s life, a considered account, as if he had debated long into the night over every word. It soon became apparent the entries were not written on the day in question, but often some time afterwards, as if he’d left blank pages to be filled in later, as if he’d wanted to reflect on events before committing them to paper.

How many people could do that?

Keep a regular and detailed diary, but leave matters to mature before recording them. It was obvious he’d gone back, sometimes years later, to change and add material, perhaps recently recalled or discovered.

Walter had seen nothing like them before.

As in most diaries, Sam had recorded everyday events, met so and so in the pub, drank too much wine, Shirley was there and I fancied her. But also detailed personal items that many people wouldn’t care to see written down. Intimate details of all the dirty little habits that everyone possesses, and everyone denies.

It didn’t make for easy reading.

It was clear Sam hadn’t enjoyed an easy life, but Walter had expected that. No one goes out and murders six people at random, and tries hard to complete the hand of seven, if they have enjoyed a comfortable and contented existence.

Or do they?

Walter pondered on the point.

Had there ever been a random serial killer who had enjoyed a trouble free, stress-free life, with nothing hidden in their background, to suggest at what was to come? He was struggling to name a case, and he had known more than enough.

The main point in studying the diaries, so far as Walter was concerned, was to see if there were any pointers or hints as to what he, Walter Darriteau, or his successors, could have done differently in the case. Or do differently next time. Any tiny thing that might have enabled them to apprehend the killer earlier; any missed fact that might have