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

old red Vauxhall, buggered it is,’ said Crocker. ‘Hope to get my own soon.’

They all looked out and there it was, second from the end.

‘And you’ve never met Eleanor Wright?’ asked Hector.

‘No I haven’t, said so, didn’t I.’

Hector and Darren shared a look and nodded, and couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and Darren muttered something about thanking him for his time, and in the next second they were walking away across the road to examine the car.

‘What do you think?’ asked Darren.

‘Could be him,’ said Hector. ‘Slippery git.’

‘He is that,’ and Darren took a small plastic bag from his pocket and slipped on a pair of wafer thin plastic gloves and bent down and looked at the tyres. There were some small pieces of mud there, and muddy marks on the edges of the tyres too, but that meant nothing, for with that storm last night and the rain before that, and the wet and muddy roads, almost every car in the city would be sporting muddy marks that morning. Nevertheless he carefully peeled a few small lumps from the rubber and slipped them in the bag, and sealed it, and placed it in his jacket pocket.

Hector nodded and said, ‘Where to now?’

‘The pubs of course, Heck, the pubs.’

Fourteen

At smack on ten o’clock Walter received a telephone call. It was from Janice Jefferson. Walter told Karen to listen in. ‘Inspector Darriteau?’

‘That’s me.’

‘You slipped a card through my door. I suppose it’s about poor Ellie. Terrible isn’t it? I’m still in shock.’

‘So you’ve heard?’

‘Yeah, when I saw your card I rang Ellie out of habit, we shared most things, bezzie pals you might even say, and when I couldn’t get her, I rang her mother. She told me the news, I still can’t believe it.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘The day before I went to Madeira.’

‘How was she?’

‘To tell you the truth Inspector, she was a little on edge.’

‘Why. What was causing that?’

‘Not sure exactly, but there were men in her life. Some of them she liked, and some of them she didn’t. She was no angel, that’s for sure, but maybe you know that already.’

‘We are not here to judge anyone. All we want to do is find out what happened to her.’

‘Well Inspector, she told me things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Terrible things.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I’d rather not, not right now.’

‘Can we come and have a chat?’

‘I guess.’

‘When’s suitable for you?’

‘You can come now if you like. I’m not working at pres, I’m between jobs, I’m at my sister’s for the day.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Portobello Towers. It’s....’

‘I know where it is.’

‘Thought you might. Number 35. Second top floor, but you’re in luck. The lift’s working, for a change.’

‘See you in half an hour, Janice, and thanks for calling.’

‘You’re welcome, I just feel so sorry for Ellie; she had a filthy life.’

Walter rang off and glanced at Karen.

‘Car?’ she said.

‘Sure, I’ll just have a quick word with Mrs West. See you downstairs in ten.’

AT THAT HOUR OF THE day all the good cars had been grabbed, and the best Karen could do was an aging Ford saloon with a smell all of its own. Strangely, Karen quite liked it, for it had a big engine and it was quick, a throaty gas-guzzler, that was true, the kind of car that was being rapidly phased out because of high running costs. Petrol, car tax, and insurance were all penalisingly dear, and someone in budgets was bound to spot that, and kill it before long.

Portobello Towers was a sixties tower block on the Beacon estate, the kind of place where people stayed because they could not find or afford anywhere better, the kind of place where people lived until they moved on and moved up, the kind of place where immigrants, illegal and otherwise, were found accommodation, the kind of place where long-term residents grew old before their time, and then could never move out, and the kind of place where kids, and not so young kids, set up and ran illegal pirate radio stations.

The tower blocks were ideal places to erect aerials high in the sky, where Ofcom radio aerial inspectors could be spotted from half a mile away, and the broadcasting equipment dismantled, and taken down and hidden before the authorities arrived. It was an ongoing irritant that was never quite solved because the people charged with doing so were overworked, and always had something better or more urgent to occupy their time.

Janice was right. The lifts were working, and that was a relief. Number 35 was on the eighth floor. Karen knocked softly on the light blue door.

A young woman, presumably Janice, came to the door and let them in. There was a radio on, broadcasting the latest pop, and then the song finished and a station jingle came on. Dee-Bee-Cee – Deva Broadcasting Company – The Happy Sound of Free Pirate Radio for Chester and the North West.

That pirate radio station again, cocky, cocksure, and confident with it, with seemingly not a care in the world about prosecution, both Walter and Karen noticed that. Janice rushed to the set and switched it off.

Another almost identical young woman was sitting in an old sofa in the nice looking lounge. She grinned at the visitors. She had a toddler of a little boy on her knee who clearly was about to fall asleep.

Both of the young women boasted deep tans, fake or real, pondered Walter. Possibly real, maybe they had been to Madeira together.

‘This is Chantelle, my younger sister, and he’s Benny, aren’t you Ben?’ said Janice.

Right on cue Benny’s eyelids fell closed, and Chantelle stood up and took him into a bedroom to put down, hopefully for a couple of quiet hours.

‘Sit down, will ya?’ said Janice, and they did.

‘You’ve been to Madeira?’ said Walter.

‘Yeah. Great it was. I didn’t want to come back.’

‘And you’re not working?’ asked Karen.

‘No,’ said Janice, immediately going on the defensive. ‘It’s not a crime, is it? No work and going