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

DAVID BAKER FINALLY pulled off the road and into a small car park. Ahead of them was a long single-story stone building. It looked a little like a traditional Welsh cottage and that wasn’t surprising, for they were only a couple of miles from the Welsh border. There were five or six other cars in the car park, and a warm glow coming from the small square windows.

‘What’s this place?’ asked Karen.

‘It’s the best kept secret in Cheshire.’

‘You’ve been here before?’

‘Yes, two or three times.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘A former girlfriend brought me.’

That was a little nugget. Could the former girlfriend possibly have been Belinda Cooper? In any event, it gave Karen an easy way in to starting a casual conversation about previous partners without it appearing too obvious, at least that was her hope.

‘What’s it called?’

‘Ali’s place.’

‘Ali?’

‘Yep,’ David said, getting out of the car into the freshening wind. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’

WALTER BREATHED OUT heavy and thought of Grizelda Rekatic. She had quite specifically said that she never lied. Her mother had drummed that into her, and Walter believed her too. She said that Miro was in bed with her, sleeping at the time of Belinda’s death, and if that was the case, Miro was not the man either. He could only have done it if he had woken up, dressed and left the house without his wife noticing. Murdered Belinda, and raced home again and slipped back into bed, without waking his wife. Was that possible? Yes it was. Was it likely? Not in Walter’s world.

Additionally, he had left Ellie’s caravan at around 8pm, that fact was supported by the cab company, and the fire hadn’t gone up till around midnight. It had been witnessed by Mr Duffield who lived up the lane. That all pointed to someone else, at least one other person going down Marigold Lane after Miro had left. If that were the case, that too let Miro off the hook. Walter was reluctant to set him free, for in his mind he was a man full of dreadful faults and weaknesses, an incredibly unlikeable person, but facts were facts, and honest people were honest people, and he believed that Grizelda Rekatic was indeed honest. He’d bet his pension on that. For now, Miro appeared innocent, and the Mirror man was excused.

Next up, Ronald Speight, another most unlikeable person, in Walter’s eyes. Perhaps deep down Belinda Cooper was attracted to unlikeable men, maybe without even realising it. Some women are. Though Iain and Gareth didn’t quite fit into that box. Walter squished open a second can and poured and sipped, and poured and sipped, and thought and thought.

ALI CAMPERDOWN WAS a Scot who’d come to Chester twenty-five years before, to take up a position as a Sous Chef in a top Chester hotel, which sounded kind of grand, but sous chef simply means under chef in French, or deputy chef, or assistant chef, if you prefer.

But like many others before him he worked hard, moved up the table, salted away a little capital, and helped by his Scottish acquisitiveness and careful nature, he set about opening his own small restaurant. He’d launched Ali’s place five years before, and though it was still something of a hidden gem, slowly he was building a decent business, based on quality and selectivity.

Unsurprisingly, he specialised in Scottish produce, maintaining his sources of supply from way back when, importing from north of the border the majority of his ingredients. River caught Scottish Salmon, none of your fish farm frauds for him, and Aberdeen Angus beef, were staples, as were hand collected shellfish and seaweed, and the sweetest raspberries you could ever find, grown on the slopes of the pretty Ochil hills where as a boy, he had spent many happy hours, picking and eating the juiciest fruit, and fabulously getting paid a few pennies for doing so.

The only way to obtain a table in Ali’s place was by booking, and David Baker had done that; determined, as he was, to impress Karen Greenwood. Inside the restaurant to the right, was a blazing log fire, and opposite that a tiny stone bar, where Ali held court, greeting his diners personally, warm handshakes and mwah-mwah’s all around.

He remembered David Baker. He’d been in a few times before, and Ali Camperdown made a point of always remembering his clientele, and their names, and why not, for his prices were sky high, and anyone willing and able to splash the cash into Ali’s till at least deserved to be remembered. This time Baker had brought with him an incredibly attractive blonde in a yes-yes-yes dress that no man would ever miss, and she was a fair bit younger than the women he usually accompanied.

Intros and aperitifs duly over, they were shown through to a small and intimate table in the far corner. The little place was already almost full with a gentle of hum of satisfied conversation reverberating back from the ancient grey stone walls.

‘It’s fab in here,’ she said, allowing David to tuck the chair in beneath her.

‘Wait till you’ve eaten before you decide that,’ he grinned, taking his seat and smiling across the table.

He handed her the small menu, only four choices, but wasn’t that far better than fifty-four? Four choices alone meant more attention to each, and the greater probability of fresh and carefully chosen ingredients.

‘Don’t look at the price,’ he said. ‘My treat.’

Too late, for she had already glanced at the tariffs.

Goodness me. What was he after?

Predictably, she chose the salmon, and he the steak, and both were perfect.

‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me about the lady who first brought you here.’

‘Just a woman I once knew.’

‘No, Mr Baker, you are not getting away with that, I want all the goss,’ she said, linking her hands and smiling and gazing into his dark chocolate eyes, while leaning slightly across the white cotton cloth.

RONALD