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

Mrs Greenaway and Army were jubilant. The shop had enjoyed its best ever day thanks to Mrs Greenaway’s reputation, and Armitage’s burgeoning skills. Some of the wedding bouquets that went out were better than Mrs Greenaway had ever seen. The till had been singing, and Army knew he would rack up a decent bonus. Mrs Greenaway was a sensible woman, and fair too. She recognised the raw talent she had on her hands, and she wasn’t about to let him slip through her fingers by paying him buttons.

Armitage was the best paid boy in his school.

He was still keeping busy, crouched down amongst the remaining blooms.

They had finished all that day’s special orders; he was using the time to prepare an eye-catching new display that would sit in the centre of the small window. He saw the police officers enter the shop, but that wasn’t unusual. Officers were always dropping in on the traders in the town, ensuring that everything was just so.

Mrs Greenaway smiled a greeting, and they forced a smile back. Army thought nothing of it and carried on caressing the delphiniums. One officer whispered something in her ear. Army watched on. The cheerfulness on Mrs Greenaway’s face and the bonhomie in her body language vanished, replaced by one of shock.

She’d known Donald Shelbourne. True, she hadn’t got on with him as well as she had with Kay, but she’d known him for a dozen years at least.

How dreadful.

What could be the matter? thought Army. Perhaps one of the complicated wedding displays had collapsed.

She came over and said they had terrible news.

His father’s car had been involved in an accident on the way to Oulton Park. His father, his father’s second wife, and her son, had all been killed. She was most dreadfully sorry. There was nothing more she could say.

The police officers stood in the background, their hats in hand; their faces sorrowful. They were used to the drama of death, but this was the pits.

Perhaps it hadn’t sunk in.

Children do not think of death as adults do.

Perhaps it seemed to Armitage like playing dead in the playground. One minute you’re down and out, the next, you’re up and grinning and running again, smiling at the non-existent camera of life, as if nothing had happened.

Adults’ deaths are different.

One officer came over and said, ‘Now then young man, you are going to have to be brave. I’m afraid you won’t be able to go home tonight.’

Perhaps at that point Armitage experienced something of the difficulties he was about to face.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, trying to cope, ‘I shall live with Mrs Greenaway, won’t I?’ and he glanced across at her and smiled.

Mrs Greenaway didn’t smile.

‘Oh, but you can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I only have a small cottage, just the one bedroom, there isn’t the room, and anyway, I can’t possibly look after a small boy.’

It was Army’s turn to appear downcast.

What was happening to the world?

Why couldn’t Mrs Greenaway look after him?

What would become of him now?

Where would he sleep?

Where would he go?

Who would feed him and wash his clothes?

The second officer stepped forward, for he thought the boy was about to cry, and said, ‘Now, now, you’re not to worry about a thing, you hear me? Everything will be fine; we’ll look after you. You can be sure of that. You can come with us. We will take you into care.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was four days before Jago Cripps’s body was discovered. He had taken occasional unscheduled periods off work before; he had never been considered the reliable type, but after four days of absence, the credit card company grew angry and rang the emergency number they had on file, his mother’s.

She possessed a spare key for the flat, and with great trepidation she set out to visit. Horrific thoughts rushed through her head as she drove the twenty-minute journey across town. She slipped the key in the door, and let herself in, seeing the general untidiness and empty wine bottles, smelling the dreadful odour, crossing the flat to push open the main bedroom door, seeing the corpse of her only son, and all that dried blood, so much of it. A sight never to be forgotten.

Jago’s mother’s hands went to her mouth.

She bent over as if she were about to vomit.

Nothing came, other than a hideous wail from the far-flung reaches of her cold soul. It wasn’t like her Jago to commit suicide. Not at all. What had gone so horrifyingly wrong?

The wailing went on for some time.

Three people in the block of flats heard it.

No one came running.

It was ten minutes before she had gathered herself. She had retreated to the sitting room and had sat and cried, alone in the stink, and the silence.

Her eyes alighted on the landline phone. Who should she call first, her estranged husband, or the police?

The police. It had to be the police.

She grabbed the phone and poked in 999, dead slow because of shaking hands, and she didn’t want to miss a number.

Karen was the first in the Incident Room to connect things together. She called to Walter, ‘We may have another one, suspected suicide, maybe, maybe,’ and the look of doubt on her face alerted him.

‘Where?’

‘Harberry House, close to the new gym.’

‘Get a car, we’ll check it out.’

TEN MINUTES IS ALL it took. Some paramedics were already there. One of them was standing in the bedroom doorway, peering down at the mess; the other was comforting the mother whose blood pressure had skyrocketed. Walter sent the medics on their way, explaining that as it was a crime scene, nothing was to be touched. The body was not going anywhere. They could take the mother away though, ostensibly for a check-up. Walter explained he would see her later, he would deal with everything, and she wasn’t to worry.

Some hope.

After they’d gone, Karen summoned reinforcements. SOCO, and the doctor, and sufficient manpower, person-power, to search the grounds and interview everyone