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

to wherever they were going, like a harbinger of doom.

Gross! Look at that. Yuck! I’ll just take a few more, perhaps from over there, a better angle. You never know when you’ll get another chance!

The sight of the remains of the person formerly known as Desiree Holloway would affect the minds of the unfortunate souls summoned to clear up the mess for years to come.

Didn’t seem to affect the passengers much.

Belatedly, the station closed.

Services were suspended.

Police summoned, and cleaners too.

Passengers were still arriving.

It was nothing to do with them.

What the hell’s going on?

Railways of today, eh? Waste of space! I remember when... blah blah blah.

Tempers flared.

They simply had to get where they were going. Had to!

But they wouldn’t. And they couldn’t. And they didn’t.

Not for several hours afterwards.

It was an hour later before anyone noticed the fancy maroon suitcase, still sitting unattended on the platform, close to the edge where Desiree had placed it. Could it be a bomb, someone said. It contained her expensive dinner outfit, culled from the Manchester bazaars, never worn before, never worn again, not by Desiree Holloway, not by anyone.

THE SCIENTISTS’ SOCIETY Annual Dinner and Presentation went ahead as planned, oblivious to the bloody events up at Crewe. The committee were furious with the young woman for not turning up, but most particularly, for failing to return the much loved Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy. No one had ever done that before. One crusty old sod said, ‘That’s what you get for giving it to a woman in the first place. We might have known!’

‘Shut up, Lionel!’

The winner of the silver cup was a gawky tall girl wearing dreadful black specs. She was assured it would be hers, just as soon as it could be located. It had gone missing in transit. Nothing to worry about. Sorry about that. You’ll have it in a few days. In the meantime, the committee went into emergency session.

Later, the Gold Shield was presented to the scientist of the year, Michael Fixington of Allied Chemical Industries, for his innovative work in non-drip paints. Michael was amazed, as was everyone else.

THREE DAYS LATER WHEN the Society discovered the truth, the committee met in emergency session.

‘I’d like to apologise,’ muttered Lionel.

‘I should think so,’ sniffed three of the others.

‘Well? What are we going to do about it?’

Many ideas were mooted.

A posthumous award. A special award. A citation. A press release. What exactly?

Then Lionel said, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t make such a big fuss about it. There is a rumour she committed suicide, after all.’

‘Did she? I didn’t know that.’

Doubts and rumours filled the room.

Much nodding and muttering.

The committee pondered for an hour and did nothing.

Desiree Mitford Holloway would soon be forgotten. There would always be a bigger, brighter star next year. There always was.

Nothing ever changed, not really.

There wouldn’t be a Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy though, leastways, not the original. They didn’t even get back the few mutilated pieces of scrap metal that were found. A month later the gawky girl in the glasses was delighted to receive a gleaming replica.

It didn’t bother her for a second. Why should it?

Chapter Forty-Five

Walter glanced back at the coffee table. At the bottles. Three full bottles, different coloured caps. They looked like spent indigestion relief bottles. They weren’t spent any longer. They were full of scarlet liquid. Looked like blood to him, and he had seen plenty of that in the previous thirty years.

There was another smaller container too, a phial, he’d guess that’s what you’d called it. Clear glass, clear liquid inside, tiny white label, tiny white print. He squinted, but couldn’t read a thing.

He knew his best chance was to engage the man in black in conversation, to play for time. Walter’s hostage dealing training kicked in. He’d been on a refresher course only six months before. Mrs West’s idea, and for once she might have been right. Cresta Raddish would have loved it, been in her element, trying to read the mind of the hostage taker, concentrating on the central issue of having the hostage released in one piece. It was the only thing that mattered, except in this case, Walter was the hostage.

‘So,’ said Walter, ‘how did you get into cross-dressing?’

The man was busy putting out another item on the table like a stallholder setting up at an antique fair.

Walter didn’t like the look of that one either.

It was a large syringe.

The man in black let slip a sarcastic little laugh. A girlish laugh.

‘Well?’ persisted Walter. ‘Did you get your rocks off on it? Was it Desiree Holloway? Was it her idea? Was she into all that kinky stuff?’

‘You don’t know anything!’

‘You’re right, I don’t, but I’d like to. If you are going to kill me, what’s the harm in telling me, you might as well, you’re not ashamed of it, are you?’

‘Course not!’

‘So how did you get into it? And what do I call you, by the way? You must have a name.’

‘Sam, you can call me Sam.’

‘So, how did it happen, Sam, your idea or hers?’

‘I know what you are after!’

‘I’m not after anything. I’m hardly in a position to be after anything, am I?’ said Walter, glancing down at the hand ties.

‘Yes, well, just so long as you understand that. If I were in your position, I’d be saying a few prayers to your God, if I were you, if you believe in that kind of thing. You haven’t much time left.’

‘Do you believe in God, Sam?’

He thought about that for a second.

‘Yes, maybe, sometimes.’

‘And you’re ready to meet him, knowing what you have done?’

‘God will be merciful. And anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion that God is a woman.’

‘That’s a novel take.’

‘Let’s face it, Walter; none of us has any idea what God is like. God could be a gigantic chicken for all we know, and imagine how angry that great Cock in the sky will be when we meet it. Had chicken for dinner, did you? That’s not