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

‘Anything else I should know?’ asked Cresta.

There was nothing of consequence, so Cresta leant over and whispered in Walter’s ear, ‘Perhaps we could have a quiet word in private.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Now?’

‘No time like the present.’

WALTER LED HER AWAY down the corridor to a quiet comfortable room set aside for such heart-to-hearts.

Cresta sat down and crossed her legs. Walter sniffed the air.

‘I don’t want you to feel I am taking over. I am not.’

‘I know that.’

‘Good. I’d like to make a few suggestions for the press conference.’

‘Fine by me. They have never been my favourite aspect of police work.’

‘Excellent. Here’s what I’d like you to do.’

Chapter Ten

Sam lay back on the bed, propped up against four pillows, nibbling a pre-prepared tuna salad, watching the old-fashioned spare television parked on the chest of drawers. The national news came on. Nothing. Not a thing. What was wrong with these people? What did Sam have to do to gain their attention?

The local news came on, that oh so irritating music. The dumpy, dusky girl with the nasal voice. She was gabbling on about a party of local scouts who were flying to Tanzania to walk, or was it climb; up Mount Kilimanjaro. They still needed additional sponsorship, if anyone was interested. But three quarters of the way through, she interrupted what she was saying and said: ‘We’re going over now live to Chester Police Headquarters for a news conference,’ there was an excited frisson in her voice, as if something different was about to happen.

Sam sat up straight and paid attention, slipped the salad on the bedside table.

Could they have woken up at last?

They had!

Sam’s mouth fell open. Blue eyes widened.

The small room filling the tiny screen was packed. The moving camera switched from showing the chatting journalists seated in rows, to the bank of desks at the front. There were three officers behind the desks, a fat black guy who looked due for retirement, a slim blonde who looked as if she had stepped straight in from the gymnasium, and a middle-aged white guy, introduced as Bernie Porter, the Police Press Officer.

He opened the meeting, introduced the players.

‘Inspector Walter Darriteau.’

Sam grabbed a pad and a pen and began making notes. Darriteau? What kind of name was that? Hardly a Cheshire man, was he? Sergeant Karen Greenwood. She was a pretty kid, maybe mid twenties, but there was a hardness about her. The kind of veneer a prostitute develops, thought Sam, though only in a good way. It was difficult to describe, kind of the reverse side of the coin. She looked fit, her unblemished skin pulled tight over her unmarked face, like a kid playing games with a balloon.

The black guy was doing all the talking. Was there a slight West Indian accent there? Or maybe Sam was imagining it. Bet he’s a cricket fan.

Darriteau had spoken about the man on the highway and had progressed to the death at Mostyn Station. He was appealing for witnesses, someone must have seen the incident, the police were putting up a substantial reward, gee whiz, mumbled Sam, from zilch to this in a few minutes. This was more like it, and Darriteau moved on to another unexplained death on the New Cut, where a sixty-year-old man had died in mysterious circumstances.

Were you there?

Did you see anything?

I might have been, grinned Sam. I might have done.

Anyone walking in the vicinity was advised, instructed, pleaded, it was difficult to tell which, to come forward. ‘We need your help,’ said the guy, staring into the camera. ‘I need your help.’

He glanced at Karen as if for approval and she half smiled and nodded. All the while a strapline was streaming across the foot of the screen, black letters on a yellow background, telephone numbers direct to the twenty-four-hour manned hotline in the Chester Incident Room.

Then the guy turned to the side and faced a new camera.

A much closer close-up, as close as could be, if they went any nearer they’d cut off his considerable thatch of grey hair. Walter’s lugubrious face dominated the screen, huge dark, satanic eyes, Sam thought, like a nightmare big brother figure, staring into a million living rooms, putting people off their dinner.

‘I want you to know I am coming to get you, and I shall find you wherever you are. I want you to think about that, and I want you to show courage. I want you to give yourself up, to hand yourself in at any police station, because you know that is the right thing to do, because you know I will catch you in the end, nothing is more certain, and that day is coming, and remember this, you and I will meet soon, so think about that. Hand yourself in and save yourself further anguish. The victims do not deserve their fate. You know it’s right. I know it’s right. I believe you are a clever person, and deep down you want to bring this to an early end. Think about it, and do the right thing.’

Walter nodded and turned back to the front.

He had made it personal.

In cases like this, he always did.

The camera cut back to Bernie Porter. He thanked Inspector Darriteau; he thanked the sergeant, said they would not be taking questions. It didn’t stop journalists trying their luck and firing a barrage of questions at the panel. Bernie Porter threw up his hands and repeated, ‘No questions!’ and wound up the meeting.

The TV Company switched back to the studio. Nasal nose pulled an impressed face, and in the next moment they were showing library pictures of the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

Sam sat still, staring ahead. Biting lips. Whispered, ‘Walter Darriteau, Inspector Walter Darriteau, you and I will meet soon, yeah, right.’

WALTER RETURNED TO the Incident Room and was greeted by a sporadic round of applause. He smiled and half waved and bobbed his head and sat down.

Cresta came bubbling across the room.

‘Perfect!’ she cooed. ‘Just perfect,’