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

belittle people, especially anyone Machara liked, and he’d insist that people listened to him and his brilliant ideas, and especially his new wife, who at first tolerated it, but gradually retreated into her shell until she never spoke at all, unless he spoke first.

‘I’d like some sirloin steak for dinner.’

‘Yes, Robertson, I’ll see what I can find.’

‘And we’ll go golfing again at the weekend. Carnoustie, I think.’

‘Yes, Robbie, whatever you say.’

‘And don’t call me Robbie!’

MACHARA DETESTED GOLF, but would never mention it, and would hack her way round Scotland’s championship links, embarrassing her husband, infuriating committee members who would reluctantly ban her. Though it made little difference, for there are thousands of golf courses across Scotland, as they moved up the coast to the next untouched collection of fresh holes.

‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ insisted Robertson.

‘Yes, dear,’ she would say, but she knew she wouldn’t, and she never did. She didn’t want to. She hated golf, and everything that went with it, and she grew to loathe Robertson Brothy.

Machara’s father was against divorce.

Prior to the marriage he had taken his only daughter to one side and had lectured her on the sanctity of marriage, imploring his beautiful girl to be certain that Robertson was indeed the man for her, before she agreed to anything. Blair was not blind to Robertson’s overbearing nature, (the Reverend liked Robertson to come calling at the vicarage for a day or so, but was mighty pleased to see him leave). But his daughter was blind to that. Sometimes love really is blind.

She had made her decision and would stick with it, whatever it took, for better or worse, however hard the rock strewn road became, however unhappy it made her. She had chosen him freely and fairly, and anyway, she couldn’t possibly divorce Robertson Brothy, because he was a Scot.

I confess I imagined the last part of the previous sentence, and I laughed at it too, maybe a little unkindly, when I did. I have made many dreadful decisions in my life and I take little comfort from knowing that I am not alone.

Would Machara do the same thing if she had her life over again?

Of course she would, because she was a passionate human being, and passionate human beings do not know their own minds. They make mistakes. They are guided by exterior forces, we all are. Our actions are often not what they should be, not truly our own. They are dictated by events and passion.

WALTER SET THE DIARY down and paused for thought. Read that line again.

Our actions are often not what they should be, not truly our own. They are dictated by events and passion.

Your actions, young man, were your own, and no one else’s, and no amount of window dressing, or fiddling with history, could ever alter that.

I REMEMBER MY EIGHTEENTH birthday well. Dennis’s girlfriend, Jillian, had fixed me up with one weird girlfriend after another. I don’t know why, but they all reminded me of animals, giraffes, meerkats, chickens, walruses; you name it, they were all there, as if they’d just vacated the ark. I wasn’t a success with her zoo, and stopped taking the dates, or perhaps she stopped providing them. I can’t remember which.

They left me that night to go to the cinema, and I picked up my brown paper parcel, and the present they had given me, a pack of string vests, the only gift I received that year, and later I walked around the city walls three times, alone with my thoughts, before I retreated to my flat where I opened my parcel, took out the first of my maroon diaries, and began making notes, recalling a haphazard history of my life. If you are reading this you will know what I mean.

Soon afterwards, I embarked on a series of brief affairs, more by luck than judgement, brought about through alcohol. Thinking back on it, I can’t remember whether I was more or less drunk than the girls in question. Truth is, we were both stoned.

As you might gather from my coldness toward the business, they were not great successes. I’d discovered women, but I hadn’t found my woman, and that wouldn’t change for a good few years.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Walter was getting a headache. Sam’s writing was tiny, and it took considerable concentration to get through it. Karen came knocking again and entered. Walter glanced up. ‘How goes it?’

‘OK, everything of interest is now out of Iona. No solicitor’s details anywhere. Perhaps we should start ringing round the usual suspects and ask them.’

‘It’s a thought, but give it a little longer.’

‘One bit of good news.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘We’ve cracked the computer password.’

‘And?’

‘It was Ionahouse.’

‘That was difficult. And?’

‘Nothing much, love letters, the usual flattering stuff that men write.’

Walter wasn’t sure what men wrote in love letters. He couldn’t remember that far back. Come to think of it, he wondered if he had ever written a true love letter... or received one.

‘Like what?’ he said, striving to sound disinterested.

‘You know, the usual cock and bull.’

‘Like what?’ he mumbled again, staring down at volume nine.

‘You don’t need me to tell you that; use your imagination. You can read them yourself if you like.’

‘Mmm, maybe later.’

She glanced down at him. He seemed barely to notice she was there. She glanced at the diaries. She was becoming interested in those damned books. He seemed riveted, and she regretted not taking a quick peek when she had the chance. It was a pity they were going on the Cresta run next.

‘See you later,’ Karen said, and she let herself out.

‘Mmm, yeah.’

MY LIFE CHANGED THE day I met the woman of my dreams.

As so often happens in matters of the heart, it was by accident. If I had been five minutes earlier, or she five minutes later, I would never have seen her, or met her. Our paths would never have crossed, and we would never have known