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

had to be careful which taxi firm he used, for Carrie the Cab, who always did the late duty, was a former girlfriend, and he didn’t really want to meet her.

‘Why don’t you get a car, Walter?’

‘I have a driver who drives me around all day. I get the bus into work. It’s only ten minutes and it’s a good service. I don’t need a car, or the worry of maintaining such a thing. I can always get a car if I need one.’

‘Nice to have, though, especially on a night like tonight.’

‘You have a car, don’t you?’

‘Course I do.’

‘There you are then, if we need a car you can always take me out.’

She smiled and kissed him again, just a quick peck. She quite liked the “we” part he mentioned.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Are you going to stay over?’

‘No, can’t do that.’

‘But you’ll stay for a while?’

‘Oh yes, I’ll stay for a while.’

‘How long.’

‘Till two, if you want.’

‘Oh yes, Walter, I want.’

They both laughed and sipped their drinks and then Carlene said, ‘Bloody marvellous invention, the Internet, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is, though it’s not without its faults. What made you say that?’

Carlene smiled that warm smile again and said, ‘But for the Internet I would never have met you, would I?’

‘Ah, I see. Yes, it has its uses, that’s for sure.’

Walter’s glass was empty.

‘Do you want another?’

‘Later. Much later.’

ACROSS TOWN, KAREN stayed up late. Till midnight to be precise, channel surfing the TV, waiting for David Baker to make a contrite phone call, as he made his way home, apologising for standing her up, after she’d gone to so much effort.

But the dork didn’t ring.

She wondered where he was now, and what he was doing.

She wondered if he had been truthful with her. Did he really go and see a corn miller to sort out some complicated contract? It didn’t seem likely to her. Maybe that was just so much of a smokescreen, when in reality he’d double booked his dates, and was right at that very moment jazzing it up with another woman. That made sense, and that was one thing she would not tolerate, him two-timing her.

She was a detective and a damned good one at that. She knew how to extract the truth from people, often without them knowing it. She had been on enough courses to learn how to do precisely that, though in truth, she had always possessed that particular knack.

Much of the technique centred on asking the same set of questions twice, on two different occasions, fitted into seemingly ordinary conversation, and where the answers differed, there were the lies. If he were lying to her she would find out. If he were lying to her he wouldn’t see her for dust. Toast, he’d be. Burnt toast.

She crawled into bed at twenty past twelve, miserable and confused, for there had been no late night telephone call. It would be a fitful unsatisfying sleep and she wondered why that was; yet she instinctively knew the reason why. She liked him. It was obvious. She liked him a lot, though she tried hard not to show it, yet images of David cavorting with other women were never far from her mind.

IN ANOTHER APARTMENT in another part of town Walter was in bed by twenty past twelve, and had been for quite some time. He’d stay there until half past one, when hot barbequed chicken would be served up in the kitchen, alongside fresh coffee and warm buttered rolls, by a happy looking curvy lady.

Twelve

Belinda Cooper retreated to the hallway. The lightning had finally abated. She thought again about switching on the lights, but that was a double-edge sword. She might be able to see him, but he would be able to see her. In her mind she was now the hunter. Hunters live off stealth and surprise. She didn’t want him to be able to see her. She didn’t want him to know where she was.

She didn’t want him to see the heavy blow she’d issue when the opportunity arose. She imagined the strike raining down on his fragile head. No human skull is a match for a heavy baseball bat. That’s why drug dealers keep them in their cars and flats and houses, as she had read in those thrillers countless times. Silent but deadly. It was simply a case of setting up the opportunity. The lights would stay off. If it were necessary, she would kill him. She was ready for that. But where was he? He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the hall. He wasn’t in the drawing room. That only left the front lounge, or failing that, upstairs.

The silent power of touch told her the door to the front lounge was closed. She tried to recall when it was last open. Could he and would he have gone in there? Had he opened the door and stepped inside, and then closed it again? It seemed unlikely. And what was he doing in her house anyway? What was the motive for his late night visit? What was he after? Robbery? Rape? A violent thrill? Simply to scare her, or terrify her? Or something much worse, like murder? And why was he playing these stupid games? Like disappearing and reappearing. What was that all about? Perhaps he was toying with her as a cat does with a mouse, before killing and devouring it.

A noise came from upstairs. Not a crashing breaking noise, but a slight bumping sound, as if he had knocked something off her dressing table, or disturbed something in the bathroom. He wasn’t in the front lounge; that was now certain. He was upstairs, doing God knows what. But was he luring her into a trap? There was only one thing to do. Go and find out. Her hands deposited sweat on the varnished bat handle, as she stepped over the telltale stair, and started up the stairs.

In total dark