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

little left, and there was no point in keeping a smidgeon, so he had eaten the damned lot.

Not so long ago, weren’t spaghetti Bolognese sauce manufacturers forced to admit that it was bad for you to eat too much of the blessed stuff? Maybe once a week tops, they recommended, and he comforted himself that he would indeed only eat such a thing the once that week, conveniently overlooking the tiny fact that he had eaten enough for three or four people.

‘Bugger!’ he said aloud, and followed that with a hefty burp that he wouldn’t have released if there had been anyone else in the house.

The old landline phone in the hall rang.

Walter’s mood lifted for it would be one of three things. Work, and he always delighted in such things; it could never be too late for that. He glanced at his large watch. Just gone nine. It could also be those fools in India who pestered him occasionally. Usually to assure him that his computer operating system was not working properly, and they could fix it right there, right then, for less than three hundred pounds, which was fucking ridiculous, because he did not possess a bloody computer at home. Go away! Clowns!

But then again, it could be the lovely Carlene Henderson, and thinking about it he knew which he’d prefer, though secretly he’d have to admit his preferred caller would still be a close call between work, and Carlene.

Walter grabbed the old phone and set it to his ear.

‘Darriteau towers,’ he said, his rich earthy voice winging its way down the line and out into the night.

‘Indeed? And how is Mr Darriteau today?’

She possessed quite a deep voice herself, did Carlene.

‘I am fine thank you, and how is Mrs Henderson?’

‘Oh, please don’t call me that, I haven’t been a Mrs in ages.’

‘So what can I do for you, Miss Henderson?’

Carlene giggled wickedly at the thought of being a “miss”.

‘Actually I thought I might be able to do something for you.’

‘Really? Go on.’

‘The thing is, I’ve done barbequed chicken, and of course I have done far too much for one, as you do, and I was wondering if you might like to come round and partake.’

For a second Walter thought of juicy barbequed chicken, one of his all time favourites, and he tapped his full tum and wondered if by the time he went round there, maybe he might be able to fit some in. But no, there comes a time when even he had to say “no thanks”.

‘It’s the best offer I have had all day, but sad to say, I have already eaten, too much, if truth be told.’

‘Ah well. That’s a pity. Never mind, it’ll keep. What did you have?’

‘Spagbol.’

‘Nice, but fattening.’

‘Yes, but so is barbequed chicken.’

‘Not in moderation.’

‘My trouble is the “moderation” part.’

Carlene laughed that earthy laugh again.

‘You and me both.’

There was something quite endearing about it, that voice of hers, like an old fashioned Hollywood film star from the fifties or sixties. No Hollywood stars seemed to laugh like that these days, though come to think of it, the starlets in the twenty-first century came and went without ever making much of a lasting impression on the world, certainly that was how Walter saw things.

Carlene’s deep voice was talking again.

‘You could come round for a glass of wine anyway, if you fancy it, stay over even.... if you want.’

Wow, thought Walter. I hadn’t expected that.

‘What time?’

‘Any time you like.’

‘You got it. Be with you around ten.’

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘See you later, WD.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there,’ setting the phone gently down.

A thunderbolt rained down on the district.

Walter laughed heartily.

‘Thor’s at it again,’ he said aloud. ‘Maybe it’s a good omen,’ and he headed for the shower, and the fragrant shower gel he was intent on soaking himself in.

Ten

Belinda Cooper stepped silently from the bed and slipped on her soft white slippers. Behind the bedroom door was an old wooden baseball bat. It had been there for almost thirty years. Her father had picked it up in some local house clearance auction place, and had described it as a burglar deterrent, and all the while it had stood quietly there, it had worked. They had never once been troubled by burglars and thieves.

Bel didn’t think she was being troubled by burglars, not really, but one couldn’t be too careful. She bent down and silently picked up the heavy timber bat. Tried to open the bedroom door quietly, but knew that was impossible because the closing mechanism always creaked when being open and closed, but luckily, another thunderclap blanketed the sound.

She stood on the landing and listened.

Not a sound, other than the heavy rain on the stained glass window at the far end of the landing, and the distant sound of wind in the almost leafless trees across the road.

In films and TV programmes whenever someone was alone in a house, and that person thinks that someone else might be downstairs, they always go to the top of the stairs and call out, ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’

How ludicrous is that?

If you think there might be someone in the house, a thief or attacker or murderer even, the very last thing you are going to do is yell something, thus giving yourself away, and alerting the invader that you are coming for them. Belinda wasn’t stupid. She remained silent, and still.

She crept to the top of the stairs. The only light shining was the little coming from her pulled-to bedroom door. Switching on the landing light would only serve to alert whoever it was that might be downstairs, that someone was awake and moving. She wouldn’t switch anything on.

She listened hard down the stairs. Nothing new, nothing detected, nothing to indicate there was a person or persons in her house. She thought of retreating to her bedroom and getting her mobile and ringing for help, maybe ring Lena, maybe even ring the police. But didn’t that sound just too ridiculous for words.