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

‘Yes!’

‘Why?’

‘Needs must.’

‘I’ll never understand men.’

‘There’s nothing to understand. Just prepare yourself.’

‘For what?’

‘To meet your maker.’

It was when he’d said that, that she’d recalled that miserable conversation with her overweight mother.

‘I don’t believe in God,’ she gabbled, trying hard to speak.

‘Not many people do,’ he said, and this time he did smirk. ‘Until they are about to meet him, or her, and then everyone does.’

She wanted to stab him in the eye, but that was impossible. She wanted to knee him in the groin, but already her legs were weakening. She thought of spitting in his face, into those dark intense eyes. It would be her final act, to spit in the face of her killer, but was that really how she wanted to sign off from this confusing and cruel world? With anger and spite? Right there, it didn’t seem to her to be the right thing to do, and anyway, his grip was tightening. It was unlikely she could find sufficient puff to spit at all. Right there, she knew she would find it hard to manage a dribble.

He squeezed again, not fatally, but frighteningly, as if he was enjoying it. Prolonging the play, getting off on building up to a climax. She leant towards him and reached up. He smelt her cheap perfume.

He imagined she was about to bite him, on the throat or nose, lips or cheek.

‘Don’t you bite me, bitch!’

‘No,’ she said, the tiniest of whispers, or had he relaxed his grip sufficiently to allow her reply?

‘Kiss,’ she muttered, and standing on tiptoes she planted a gentle kiss in the centre of his unlined forehead. She pulled away; and saw the lipstick on his fine face.

She tried to smile, but could not.

The dark was coming down fast.

The truth was, she wasn’t all that bothered. In the previous eighteen months she’d thought about doing it herself many a time. At least this way she would never take with her any feelings of guilt.

The perfect suicide.

Have someone else do it for you.

Don’t some people pay a lot of money for that in Switzerland these days?

He said nothing further.

Not a word.

His eyes stared down at her, right through her, unblinking.

He was a nice man.

In different circumstances he could have been a very nice man.

Suffocation.

Panic.

Involuntary struggling.

Even if you want to go, you still struggle. Funny that.

The body overrules the brain.

He was strong. Incredibly strong.

He held her tight and tighter still, as she slipped away, and the last thing she remembered before all went black, was planting that kiss on the face of her killer.

At least she had gone out with style, and love.

That was something.

In Eleanor Wright’s confused world, it was everything.

She was a very loving person, was Eleanor, and love is all you need.

It really is true. Love is all you need.

Two

He held her hard and still for a further two minutes. She was limp in his hands, but growing heavier. Her eyes were wide open as if they were about to pop, but it was clear to him they had ceased to see. Another thirty seconds, he thought, and he began counting them down.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and he grinned to himself, and let her go. She fell to the floor in a heap at his feet. He leant down and straightened her out, though he didn’t really know why he’d done that. Felt for a pulse. There was none. He would have been surprised if there was. He reached across to the coffee table and retrieved the fifty-pound note and slipped it back in his pocket.

Stood up and went to the door. Unclipped it and went outside. The rain was heavier still, and thick cloud covered the moon and stars. He peered across the fields, back to the twisty unmade up lane that led up to the main road. From the caravan doorway he could not see a single light anywhere, and that was just as he liked it. There was a plane going over, still quite high, maybe going into Hawarden airport, but the chances of anyone up there seeing him down in the caravan doorway were a million to one.

He skipped outside and went to the end of the caravan, and the group of large old-fashioned blue gas canisters gathered there. They heated the place and provided fuel for the rare bit of cooking Eleanor did to impress an occasional client she deemed worthy of food. An old-fashioned gas canister for an old-fashioned caravan.

He reached behind the first canister, feeling for the red plastic container he had quietly placed there before he’d tapped on the door. The container was wet to the touch but that didn’t matter. It was watertight. Found the handle and grabbed and lifted it and took it inside and closed the door behind him.

The dead girl was on her back, staring at the ceiling, exactly where he’d left her. Her mouth was wide open and that was inviting enough. He crouched down beside her and unscrewed the top. He brought the container carefully to her mouth and gently tipped in liquid, as if she’d asked for a drink of lemonade. The thick clear fluid gurgled down her throat. A smell of petrol filled the small caravan. It was surprising how much went down there. Far more then he’d have guessed.

And then she was full, and overflowing, and petrol began spreading out on the floor, across the old lino that led away to an even older piece of red and green patterned carpet. He stood up and stepped away, and began throwing petrol over the furniture and bedding and old wooden fitments, and then back to the girl and that short purple dress with the white frilly trim. He emptied the last of the petrol all over her clothing, soaking her, and set the empty container on the small worktop.

Took another look around.

Had he touched anything?

Not that he could remember, other than the door and the container and the girl, and none of those really mattered, for with a little