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

same phone her parents had used, and a phone she had stubbornly refused to upgrade for that very reason. It was another direct connection to her only flesh and blood. She picked up the handset and felt for the number pad, trying to remember where the 9 was, readying to poke in three 9’s, practising her whispered lines. It was only then that she realised the handset was no longer connected to anything else. Someone had cut it free. Sometimes old tech didn’t work.

Final proof positive that a stranger had been in her house, or worse than that, was still in the building. A thought raced through her head in a millisecond. What should I do now? Go upstairs and get the mobile. Put all the lights on. Open all the windows and doors and scream the place down. Or get out of there, and run for your life.

In the darkness, Belinda was frightened. Terrified even, but there was something else there too. Shear enjoyment. The thrill and excitement of it. It was better than her favourite novel. Her heart raced. She was relishing the hunt. She wasn’t and never had been, a pathetic damsel in distress. Her mind flashed back to being a young teenager. That time her pushy mother had bought her a decent horse, with one aim in mind.

For her to join the hunting set, and mix with the great and the good of the county, maybe even one day to land a wealthy and titled husband, and to everyone’s amazement she found that she enjoyed it immensely, the hunting lark, and couldn’t wait for the next one, and the bloodier it was, the more she enjoyed it.

Back then it was quite legal to kill foxes, and occasionally other creatures too, when not too many nosey parker people with big mouths and big morals and small minds were about, and Bel remembered it as if it were yesterday, the first time, the day she was on hand when that big old insolent fox, Reynard, was torn to shreds before her eyes, and right afterwards the leader of the hunt had grabbed a still warm bloody piece of fresh fox flesh, and had wiped it across Belinda’s brow, the blood dripping into her eyes, seeping down into her pink mouth, knowing full well that she was a hunting kill virgin, and tradition was tradition, going back centuries. Everyone had to go through the initiation ceremony the first time; that was the way of things, and how bloody exciting it was too, literally.

Truth was, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, the most exhilarating day of her entire life, and five failed relationships with five failed men had never come close to matching that day in any way.

In the darkness she smiled a cold smile. Flexed her muscles around the bat handle, and thought to herself, okay, mister fox, mister invader, mister burglar, mister man, mister tiny mind, you, my friend, have invaded my territory. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and now you must pay the price.

Belinda Cooper is gunning for you, or to be more precise, batting for you, for your life, and before the daylight returned, blood was sure to be spilt. It was simply a question of whose. The hunt was truly on.

Eleven 

Walter arrived at Carlene Henderson’s smart modern flat at a quarter past ten. He rang the intercom and turned around and squinted up at the hostile sky. The storm has been going on for several hours and showed no sign of abating. Flash lightning lit up the sky, as Carlene’s deep voice floated from the square metal box beside the door.

‘Is that you, Walter?’

‘Were you expecting someone else?’

‘No, Mr Darriteau. You’d better come in out of the rain,’ and the half glazed security door sprang open.

Carlene’s neat flat was on the second floor. No lift, so Walter took the stairs gently, not wishing to arrive breathless. The door was open and she was standing just inside. Walter smiled and entered and closed the door behind him.

‘Thought you might like a top up for your wine cellar,’ he said, passing over the bottle of white she liked, hurriedly acquired in Abdul’s off licence before he closed.

‘Ooh thanks,’ she said, taking it and setting it temporarily on the small but tall hall table.

‘Let me take your coat,’ she said. ‘You’re soaking, what a wild night it is,’ as Walter slipped off his raincoat and hung it on the 60s style coat stand. She held her arms wide. She was a particularly tactile woman, was Carlene, one of the reasons he liked her so, and in the next moment they enjoyed a huge hug.

She’d slipped on a dark blue figure hugging satin dress. She’d had it ages, but it was an expensive thing. It rustled when it was squeezed, and it rustled now, and that was kind of nice too, as Walter kissed her ample lips.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered.

‘Thank you for asking me.’

She grabbed his huge hand and led him through into the kitchen cum sitting room. The aroma of barbequed chicken was unmissable. On the kitchen bar lay a large white plate, and on the plate, numerous pieces of succulent fare unashamedly displayed themselves.

‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ she said, nodding at the still warm goodies.

‘Maybe later.’

‘I’ll slip them back in the oven to keep warm,’ she said, going about her business. ‘You sit down. Fancy a beer? Or wine?’

Walter sat in the black leather sofa and muttered, ‘A beer would be great. Heavy one if you’ve got it.’

Carlene was well aware he liked stout and had bought in supplies specially. She squished open a can, carefully tipped it into a tall glass, and went over and handed it to Walter. He took it and sipped it, as she collected a large glass of white wine and sat beside him and linked his arm.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Taxi,’ which was true, though he’d