The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 David Carter (autobiographies to read txt) 📖

She giggled at that. The full force of the law. Her, as weak as a kitten who could barely speak, drink or breathe, and him lashed to the chair, looking helpless. An image of Walter strapped to his seat swept back into Karen’s mind. God, how ill he looked, and then on to the last moment when the man in black fell on the phial. She never discovered what was in that damned thing. She didn’t want to know either. She wanted nothing more to do with it.

Then she added, ‘And two attempteds, don’t forget that.’

‘Ah yes, that too, two attempteds. No one will be charged with those.’

‘No one will be charged with any of them.’

‘True.’

‘Saves us the hassle of going to court, giving evidence.’

‘That’s true too, though I quite like that part, of seeing them in the dock before their peers, of witnessing justice being meted out.’

Karen could take or leave that experience; so long as they weren’t free to re-offend, that was the only thing that interested her.

Walter yawned and said, ‘I’d liked to have seen Sam in the dock much earlier.’

‘Goes without saying.’

‘No, the real question is, how much did the knowledge that Desiree was involved in the deaths of innocent civilians, assuming that to be true, after her confession to Sam, how much did that tip him over the edge?’

‘I think there was murder in him, it just needed a catalyst.’

‘You could be right, we’ll never know.’

‘There is one other outstanding question,’ said Karen.

‘And that is?’

‘How did Desiree die? Accident, suicide, or murder?’

‘The coroner said suicide.’

‘Coroners can be wrong.’

‘We can all be wrong, Karen.’

‘You’re right there, Guv.’

Chapter Fifty-Seven

When they arrived back at the station, Walter went straight to see Mrs West. He told her of the file. She kept it, told him there were things she needed to bone up on. Walter was disappointed but returned to reading the diaries. He had almost finished.

WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I toyed with the idea of becoming a minister. To tell the truth, it was not my idea, but that of the vicar, Blair McGowan. I would never have considered such a thing without his input. I studied hard and took the first informal examinations that I passed. The Rev was mighty happy at that, and I guess at the time I thought it might have impressed Machara.

All the while there was something bugging me. I found it hard to convince myself there was a Christian God. I mean, if there were, would there be so much suffering and evil in the world?

Or was the doubt in my mind the devil’s work?

Perhaps it was. But the thing that made me bin the whole preaching ethos, was the overwhelming feeling that the devil’s work was a damned sight more exciting, more alluring, more tempting, than anything our so called God had to offer. The big D puts temptation in all our ways, if you believe the Christian doctrine, and that much is easy to accept. My problem is I was always more inclined to bite the apple than walk away. I figured out pretty early that a potential vicar shouldn’t think that way.

Now, as I am coming toward the end of these diaries, you might think I should say sorry for what I have done. I can’t do that. I’m not sorry. I enjoyed my work. Desiree’s murder was worth at least what I accomplished in revenge. Maybe more so, despite the terrible things she did. To my mind, it was repayment to the world for her loss, and for my loss too.

If I had my time over again, I would do the same thing. Looking back on it now, as I write these words, the only surprise is that it took me so long to begin. If there is something eating you, whoever you are, wherever you are, something you need to accomplish, then do it now before it is too late.

I doubt I shall write much more. Things are coming to a head. Whosoever readeth these words, you may be assured they are the truth as I see it, and nothing but the truth.

I am not sad; I am not even disappointed; I am satisfied.

I can’t wish you well. I don’t wish any of you well. Just the opposite. I wish you all great unhappiness, and especially that black copper. I hope he rots in hell, and sooner rather than later. I hold him responsible. And remember this, Walter Darriteau, you and I will meet soon, nothing is more certain, so think about that!

Recognise those words?

They were among the first words you spoke to me - you pompous bastard!

The difference is, beyond the curtain, I shall be waiting for you, with a grin on my face, and a sharpened knife in my hand.

ARMITAGE SAMUEL HOLLOWAY, nee Shelbourne, Iona House, Chester.

WALTER SIGHED AND CLOSED his eyes. He set the book down and stretched his arms and legs. He still didn’t feel quite himself. Perhaps it was to be expected; perhaps he was getting old. Though he would never admit that, not even to himself. Threats from beyond the grave, from a psychopath. Was that a first?

He strolled outside and sat opposite Karen.

Cresta glanced across the desks.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Finished. You can have them.’

‘Great!’ she said. ‘Not before time,’ and she bolted to the private office before he changed his mind.

‘Well?’ said Karen. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘He threatened me with hell from beyond the grave. Said he’d be waiting for me.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Course not! I’m not going to hell.’

Karen grinned her cheeky grin and said, ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

Walter sniffed a laugh. He thought she was looking better, and as he was thinking of that, two strangers entered the office and strolled across the room as if they owned the place, as if they knew their way round blindfolded.

They were both just north of thirty and north