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

time. He didn’t reply, not a word, but pulled the bat back, hard and true, against her slim throat, pinning her to him, her back to his toned chest. She tried to get her hands and arms up between the bat and her throat, but had missed her opportunity.

She was young-ish and fit-ish and would not go down without a fight. She tried to kick him with her heels, but soft slip-on slippers were never going to bother him. Where were her stilettos when she needed them? If only she had slipped them on, the ones with the tall slimline metal heels. They could have done real damage. She tried to wriggle free, feinting one way, to the left, only to switch all her strength and energy back immediately to the right, but again he appeared to read her every move. He held her fast.

She tried to turn her head around to face him in the darkness, from where she could perhaps reach up and bite him, and if nothing else, the restraining wood of the timber would be less of a threat on the back of her neck than on her naked throat, but again he sensed her line of thinking. And he was strong, so very strong. He held her still. Looking away from him, though she could not see a thing. It was as if the hunting cat playing with the tiny mouse had enjoyed its fun, and now it was time for the denouement. He snapped the baseball bat back towards him with all the strength he possessed.

It was more than enough.

Way more than enough.

He broke two vertebrae as if they were seasoned twigs. He’d broken her neck. Human beings rarely survive a broken neck without immediate and knowledgeable assistance. Thirty-six year old Belinda Cooper would receive neither.

The invader sniffed and tossed the timber bat onto the double bed. He thought of turning on the light, but didn’t wish to imprint on his brain the scene that he alone had created. He clapped his gloved hands gently together as if in triumph, and left the room. Ambled down the stairs and into the drawing room. Went to the double French doors, opened them, and stepped outside. It wasn’t raining any longer. He turned around and locked the doors, and tossed the key through the broken pane, and across the room. It fell to the carpet with the tiniest of thuds, bouncing once.

He grinned to himself. Walked around the side of the house. Opened and closed the tall timber side gate. Ambled out onto the pavement as if he owned the place. Glanced at his watch. The neon hands told him it was twenty to one. Peered up and down the road and glanced at the sky. The thick clouds were finally breaking up. A hint of moonlight filled the sky. There was no one about. No late night dog walkers, no courting couples, no moving cars in the road, no revellers making their way home after a night on the town, not even a shifty burglar looking for an easy and unguarded and unprotected home.

He made his way to the end of the road. The orange sodium streetlights were popping out. Chester Council cost cutting measures darkening the area. He smiled to himself. It had been an exciting evening. Better than last time, for sure, and now it was finished. All over. He’d never do anything like that again. That was something. That was the plan. He walked for ten minutes through suburbia, back to the Cayton Cerisa that was obediently waiting for him, parked up by the canal.

He opened the car and removed the two large pebbles he had carefully set on the front passenger seat. Took off the gloves, inserted a pebble in each, crossed the road to the canal, bent down as if to tie his shoes, and gently dropped both heavy gloves into the murky water. A nearby coot cooed three times at being disturbed. The gloves sank to the bottom and nestled into the cold mud. No one would ever look for them. No one would ever think to. He re-crossed the road, jumped in the car, started the quiet and silky engine, and purred away on the fifteen-minute trip home.

What a stupid woman she was, he thought, on reflection, to imagine that she could outfox him, and out-fight him. It had come as something of a surprise, her resistance. Courageous though, you had to give her that. He shook his head and banished all thoughts of the evening from his mind. He would try never to think of it, and of her, ever again. He was strong, very strong, in mind and body, and he knew it too, in the prime of his life, and it would carry him through. Always.

Thirteen

Karen usually slept soundly, but that night sleep would not come. She tossed and turned and glanced at the clock several times as if to check it was time to rise and dress. By 6am she’d had enough. Slipped from the bed and went into the shower. Let the water run very hot and then icy cold. Dried and dressed, slacks and blouse, light jacket, and through to the kitchen.

She rarely ate breakfast. Went to the fridge and took out a bottle of flavoured water. Opened it and swigged a little, grabbed a large green apple from the overflowing fruit bowl, collected her keys and let herself out.

Her car was sleeping in the garage. The up and over metal door creaked and banged as she opened it, alerting her neighbours she was up and out early. She drove into the old city and parked in the big car park across the road from the central police station, behind the law courts, down by the river. She’d bought a parking season ticket there and it was expensive, and was intent on getting her money’s worth.

She was the first of the regular team in the office. She logged into