The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4, David Carter [diy ebook reader .txt] 📗

and sandwiches all day to the afternoon coffin dodgers for the minimum wage? I don’t think so! Not a bloody chance!’

‘At least it’s honest.... and respectable.’

‘Don’t start down that line again!’

‘Don’t you think God sees what you are doing... every time you do those perverted things?’

‘God! God? What did your so-called God ever do for you?’

‘He gave me you, for a start!’

‘Well you drew the bloody booby prize there!’

‘Don’t be so wicked! I am blessed. You are blessed too. On the day of judgement...’

‘Yeah, yeah, well I have news for you, mother dear; there’s no such fucking thing as a God! Or any crappy day of judgement either. You’re in for a big disappointment, I’m off out. Derek said he’d treat me to a curry.’

‘And that Derek’s a useless article too!’

‘Yeah right, and the hot men are queuing up to see you as well.’

‘Don’t involve me in your sordid business!’

IT HAD BEEN A FAIRLY typical mother/daughter conversation in the Wright family in recent times, but Eleanor’s full attention was brought back to the here and now, to the man in front of her, strangling her.

She wanted to scream, but he was never going to allow that. And anyway, the caravan was remote, at least half a mile to the next one, and being November that was almost certainly vacant anyway. She could hear the rain drumming on the roof. It was getting heavier too. Screaming would be a total waste of precious energy. She stared up again into those dark eyes. If only she could stab him in those cold eyes with her long and strong fingernails; that would make him think twice, but he’d thought of that. He’d come prepared. She recalled his exact words when he had tapped on her caravan door.

‘You’re open for business, I believe?’

‘It’s a bit late, ain’t it?’

‘Never too late for business, bonny lass. Come on, open up, I’ve plenty of cash, and we have all night.’

‘Can’t you come back tomorrow? I’m not really in the mood.’

‘No! Open up! It’s starting to rain,’ and he had leant on the flimsy door, and she was never going to resist, for one simple reason. She liked the look of him, and the sound of his calm voice, and his neat understated smile, and the thought of plenty of cash.

He was so much better looking than the aging creeps who normally found their way down to her old caravan beside the swirling River Dee. Often violent, often drunk, often in need of a damned good wash, often in filthy smoke-ridden clothes, often out of shape and flabby, the kind of gone-to-seed guys that normal women would run a mile from. That’s why they needed her, or someone like her, though they didn’t really want to pay for it, and often barely had enough cash even for a quick BJ.

Eleanor Wright knew that her name and whereabouts were an open secret in the local pubs. Fact was, that when she had first started doing tricks she might even have encouraged the landlords to “Send ’em down to see me after you’ve finished with them!” Though she’d wiped that idiotic chapter from her mind with a big sigh and a shake of the head.

She’d stood across the caravan from him, weighing him up, as he appeared to be her, as they usually did. It was a little strange. A young fit good-looking guy like him having to visit the local whore. You’d think he could find a girl of his own. He’d make a fab boyfriend for someone, and for a moment she allowed herself to daydream.

Maybe he could become her boyfriend. Maybe they could go steady, and who knew where that might lead? He’d sure as hell make a heck of a husband, the kind of guy any girl would love to enter the pub with, on his arm. Tall, fit, smart, healthy. But the days when young men like him would look at her seriously had long gone. Whoring’s a hard business. It leaves its mark, even on a twenty-something, and there was nowt she could do about that now.

She set her newly nail-polished hands on her hips and pouted and said, ‘So what is it you want?’

His soft reply seeped through the caravan.

‘Bit of rough, bit of slap, lots of sex.’

‘All right,’ she said, going to the door and flipping over the catch. ‘Hundred quid.’

He left out a short sharp grunt and shook his head.

‘Not a chance! Fifty quid, and think yourself lucky,’ and he opened his wallet and took out a fifty pound note and tossed it on the plastic topped coffee table.

Eleanor glanced down at it. It was a brand new note, straight from the bank, or the ATM, by the look of it, and fifty quid was fifty quid, and a girl had to eat, and obtain other vital provisions too.

‘All right,’ she said again. ‘But not too rough.’

She thought she detected another slight smile, maybe more of a smirk.

‘Come here!’ he ordered, and she did as he asked without a second’s hesitation.

He took hold of her shoulders and spun her round. He pulled a length of thick cord from his trouser pocket. He’d come prepared, she remembered thinking that, but then they often did, as he wound it round one wrist and then the other, and pulled it tight and knotted it, tying her hands together behind her back.

‘Not too tight!’

‘Shut it, bitch!’

He was going to be one of those.

An abuser, hopefully more vocal, than physical. But fact was, she liked him, there was something quite different about this guy, even slightly exciting, and with a little luck she might even enjoy what he had in mind. It did happen, occasionally, though not often.

He spun her round again and stared down into her green eyes. She wasn’t even scared of him. That would have to change. He slipped his hands around her pretty white neck and squeezed. Not too hard. There was no hurry.

She tried to breathe, and couldn’t.

‘No!’ she