The Missing Man: An Inspector Walter Darriteau Novella (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 9)

by David Carter

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Harry’s dying to meet you, but Inspector,’ lowering her voice and clasping Walter’s arm through his thick jacket, ‘He’s getting a little frail, not quite the man he was, but then again, aren’t we all?’ and she laughed nervously, and showed them into the sitting room.

  Harry Cameron was perched in a small armchair in the corner, a chair that appeared to embrace him at all points. His straight hair was white, his skin pink, his limbs thin as a spider’s, sticking out at all angles. Blue eyes, but maybe they weren’t so good, for there was a white walking stick leaning against the side of the chair.

  ‘I won’t get up if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but you are welcome here any time. It’s great to have visitors from the old city,’ and he smiled with a toothy grin that told Karen that years before he’d once been one for the ladies. Walter went to him, clasped the man’s hand and shook it, though not too hard, for the hand was bent and warped and fragile.

  Walter said, ‘It’s my pleasure, I’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘Aye, and I’ll bet it was all bad!’ he said with another grin.

  Karen followed on and the guy said, ‘What a beautiful hand you have, soft and feminine,’ and he pulled it to his mouth to kiss.

  ‘What’s he like?’ said Barbara. ‘Watch yourself; he can be a little wicked.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s good wickedness,’ said Harry.

  Karen grinned and said, ‘You be a trifle wicked, why not?’

  There was a three-bar electric fire pushed in against one wall with one bar glowing, and Walter wondered if only one bar was on for fiscal reasons, though Harry would have been on a good pension. It wasn’t really necessary for it was a decent day in rural Cheshire. Maybe Harry suffered from cold legs and needed extra heat. But with four people crowded into the small room it soon became warm.

  There were three similar small armchairs on display, and Walter helped Barbara pull them in a circle, with a G-plan coffee table in the centre.

  ‘Now then,’ said Barbara, ‘drink first, do you prefer coffee or tea? I can do either, and both are available in decaf if you like.’

  ‘No alcohol,’ moaned Harry with a smile, ‘banned from the house by the authority, one of the many penalties of growing old. Bastard, if you ask me.’

  ‘Harry!’ said Barbara, ‘watch your language, and in front of guests.’

  Walter said, ‘Coffee for me, thanks.’

  ‘Decaf?’

  ‘No, stronger the better,’ and Barbara grinned and glanced at Karen.

  She thought it best to be polite and took coffee too, and Barbara said, ‘That’s four coffees, three full strength and one decaf for the naughty man in the corner. Would you come and give me a hand, Karen?’

  ‘Sure,’ and the women disappeared into the back kitchen that overlooked the garden where early vegetable growing was well underway. An economic measure or a hobby? Probably something of both. A minute later, happy feminine chattering and laughter could be heard, as the men shared a satisfied look that said: if the women were happy, all was well with the world.

  ‘So,’ said Harry. ‘How is everyone back at base?’

  ‘You know how it is, Mr Cameron, ongoing reviews of every goddamned thing that moves at least once a week.’

  ‘Nothing changes there; I don’t miss that, and please call me Harry.’

  ‘I will. Nice spot you have here.’

  ‘We like it. You must see the view from behind the church before you go.’

  ‘We’ll do that.’

  ‘Now then, Walter, nice though it is to have you here to discuss pretty views and share coffee, I’m sure you have something more important on your mind. Care to kick things off while we are alone?’

  ‘You know how it is, Harry. We have a few vague unconnected facts and we’re trying to piece things together to make sense of it. We think a serious crime may have been committed, a possible murder, but we don’t have a body or murder weapon, or suspect or witnesses, and when you take into consideration it happened, or may have happened, over twenty years ago, some of the people involved are either dead or have disappeared.’

  ‘What you need is an eye witness, someone who paid great attention to detail, someone who was present back then.’

  Walter grinned and said, ‘You’re right. Know anyone like that?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Harry with a laugh. ‘Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you’ve got and I’ll add anything I know.’

  Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘It started with a phone call from a Mrs Susan Woodhams.’

  ‘Name means nothing to me,’ he said, shaking his head, scratching his chin, but clearly going into thinking mode, as if he were sorting through cabinets of names and faces filed alphabetically in his mind, and W was a heck of a long way through.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Walter, ‘she’s unknown to me and to the force.’

  ‘Tell me more, I’m intrigued.’

  Chapter Nine

  In the kitchen, Barbara and Karen were hard at work, putting the finishing touches to a veritable feast. A variety of sandwiches, ham, cheese and onion, beef, and smoked salmon too. Plus a large chocolate cake Barbara had coincidentally baked that morning.

  ‘Where did you get all this stuff?’ asked Karen.

  ‘When I knew you were coming I popped down to Bestdas in Whitchurch. It only takes ten minutes either way.’

  Barbara moved to trimming the crusts off the sandwiches and placing them artistically on a three tier cake stand until they resembled something from the Ritz. The coffee percolator was bubbling and ready, as Barbara said, ‘Mugs okay, you reckon?’

  ‘Course!’ said Karen. ‘We never use anything else.’

  ‘Slip the kettle on, Harry must have decaf and it’s instant but don’t tell him, he’ll never know,’ and the women shared a laugh.

  Karen wanted to finish and get back to the men to hear what they were saying. But Barbara was happy to have her there for she missed lady chatter, and with such a striking and well-turned out young woman. Barbara missed that for she liked to think she was still fashionable and presentable, and who knows, one day she might be free to put that to the test.

  ‘You take the coffees, there’s a tray there,’ nodding to a selection of trays tucked in at the end of the worktop, ‘and I’ll bring the food. Make sure Harry gets the right drink.’

  In the sitting room Walter said, ‘There was an officer in charge back then called David Robertson. You ever meet him?’

  ‘I did, unfortunately. Didn’t care for the man. He’s dead now, did you know? I didn’t go to the funeral.’

  ‘Not many did, from what I’ve heard. Was he a difficult man?’

  ‘Not difficult, exactly, but cold. Always gave the feeling he didn’t care much for his men and women. But the real reason he was unpopular was because he was eager to take the credit when things went well. When things went tits up, apologies for the language, he would go out of his way to pin blame on others. Yours truly included, on occasion. You know the kind of guy. The Service has always been riddled with selfish people, though I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. I don’t suppose it’s that much different today.’

  ‘I’m lucky in that respect. My boss can be a pain sometimes, but she’s always fair and gives credit where it’s due. That’s all anyone wants.’

  The women returned laden with food and coffee. Walter stared down at the goodies as they were set out on the table. One triple level serving plate rammed with amazing sandwiches, plus another square white plate piled high with overspill, and a huge circular chocolate cake, almost a foot across, that looked as if it had just come out of the oven, thick chocolate icing dribbling down the side.

  ‘By gad!’ said Walter, ‘are you expecting half the village?’

  Harry laughed.

  ‘No, we always eat like this,’ teased Barbara, unable to contain her laughter, as Harry said, ‘Pay no attention to her, she always makes far too much food. It’s ama
zing the pair of us aren’t huge. Thankfully, there’s a gang of hungry badgers come round at sunset. They’ll polish off anything we don’t.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Walter, ‘I’ll put a decent dent in this, not that I’m a glutton, or anything.’

  Plates were handed round, filtered coffee was sipped by three of them, and considerable numbers of tiny perfect sandwiches were distributed and dispatched.

  Walter said, ‘This would cost a fortune in the city hotels.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Harry, ‘the tab will be on the table before you go.’

  Walter guffawed.

  Barbara said, ‘I suppose we women have interrupted your flow of conversation. Sorry about that. Is there anything you can share with us? It’s not hyper-secret, is it?’

  Walter paused, as he finished a beef sandwich containing best butter, he could always tell, and said, ‘I was telling Harry about Mrs Woodhams.’

  Karen picked up the story as Walter went in again for gravadlax smoked salmon on brown.

  ‘Yes, this Mrs Woodhams came to us and said she’d murdered her husband because he was flighty,’ and she smirked and rippled her eyebrows at Harry, not that he could see much, ‘so you’d better be careful over there, what you get up to,’ and everyone laughed at that.

  Barbara said, ‘Did she murder him herself? And if she did, how? Fascinating, isn’t it? I’ve always wondered how one would go about it...’

  Karen said, grinning, ‘Really? Have you thought of doing something similar?’

  ‘Oh, good God no, don’t be daft. But it’s funny the way the mind works sometimes.’

  ‘No,’ said Walter. ‘She didn’t do it herself, she employed a private detective to follow Jack, her husband, to prove he was being unfaithful, and he did. After that, she decided she wanted him dead and asked the detective to do it for a suitable fee. He threw his arms in the air and said, “no way, Jose, not my line at all!” But at the woman’s insistence, provided her with a name of two shifty characters who he said, might consider the job.’

  ‘You’d never think things like that would happen in Chester,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Goes on everywhere!’ snapped Harry, before realising it came out a little rude, and said, ‘sorry I was speaking as if I was back in the Service. Do you have names for the two hit-men?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ said Walter. ‘They were always referred to as Ted and Trevor.’

  Harry scratched his chin and muttered several times, ‘Ted and Trevor...’

  Karen said, ‘Don’t suppose that means anything to you does it, Mr Cameron?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m still thinking, and call me Harry.’

  Barbara said, ‘Do you know how the actual killing was carried out?’

  ‘No, we don’t, but we have visited the site where the man is supposed to be buried.’

  ‘That’s all the proof you need,’ said Harry. ‘If you dig up a corpse buried in an illegal graveyard you have your crime right there. Where was this?’

  ‘Just over the Welsh border,’ said Walter, before adding, ‘if Mrs Woodhams is to be believed. She says he was buried under the flyover on the main expressway into Wales.’

  ‘Good grief!’ said Harry. ‘That’s tricky.’

  ‘But isn’t it exciting?’ said Barbara. ‘You two are so lucky to lead such interesting lives. I never thought about that when Harry was working. But now I have a better understanding about things, and what he had to cope with.’

  ‘I remember it!’ said Harry, sipping his drink and pulling a face. The coffee was instant and awful. He could always tell.

  ‘Remember what?’ said Walter, getting excited.

  ‘The flyover being taken down. Caused havoc, it did, and it lasted for weeks. Robertson was forever on my back, as if it were my fault. He was getting earache from the higher-ups because they were receiving a fearsome time from Welsh MPs. They were complaining their constituents in Rhyl and Prestatyn, Llandudno and Colwyn Bay, were not getting their holidaymakers through in sufficient numbers to cover costs. Lots of people diverted north to the Lake District instead. It was a bad time for many along the coast.’

  Walter said, ‘We’ve traced the head of the Highways Department who carried out the flyover replacement, but he’s dead too. We thought there might have been some kind of backhander going on to accommodate Jack Woodhams’ body.’

  ‘You’re not having much luck,’ said Harry.

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Karen. ‘That’s why we’ve come to the experts.’

  Harry snorted.

  Barbara said, ‘Expert, singular, nowt to do with me.’

  Harry said, ‘She paid these men cash?’

  ‘Yes. £2,000 upfront and another £8,000 when the deed was done,’ said Walter.

  Harry set his mug down and said, ‘You have no proof the man was murdered?’

  ‘None,’ said Karen.

  ‘Has he ever been seen again?’

  ‘No,’ said Walter, ‘or to put it in Mrs Woodhams more colourful language, “he’s late back for his tea”. More than twenty years late, and no trace of him since.’

  ‘And I’m guessing dismantling the flyover is out of the question?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Karen, ‘we could only consider doing that if we could prove he’s been killed.’

  ‘Chicken and egg,’ said Harry. ‘Produce evidence he’s buried there and digging could begin, but the only possible evidence is to unearth the body, or find the killers.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Walter, going in for two ham on white and hoping no one was counting.

  ‘And you think Ted and Trevor are false names?’ said Harry.

  ‘That seems to be the unanimous opinion. No one involved in murder or attempted murder would give out their real names.’

  ‘Yes, you’d think that. But one thing I learned in thirty years on the job was that a large percentage of criminals are not the brightest tools in the box. You get the occasional Mr Big who has a brain to match, and when that happens, the criminal underworld dance around such charismatic figures as if that charisma might rub off on them. But it never does. For the most part, the foot soldiers are as thick as two short planks, and my guess is that Ted and Trevor would fit into that category.’

  Walter said, ‘If everything runs to form they might well be dead too, in which case we are wasting our time, looking for murderers who no longer exist.’

  ‘It’s possible they are dead. It’s an inherent risk in their line of business. They drink hard, play hard and fight hard, and fighting drunks rarely live to a great age. But one thing I can tell you, Ted and Trevor are not false names.’

  Chapter Ten

  Walter and Karen shared a look to check they were hearing right; or had Harry expressed his opinion rather than a fact?

  But before either of them could ask him to clarify his comment, Barbara was on her feet, switching into scolding mode.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ she said, ‘Buck up! You’ve barely touched a thing, no wonder you are so thin,’ and she took another side plate, loaded it with a fresh selection of sandwiches, leant over and touched the plate on his cold hand, for him to take.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he moaned. ‘You know my appetite has abandoned me,’ and he glanced at Walter and whispered, ‘getting short of grinding teeth,’ and a moment later when Barbara was distracted, he slipped two sandwiches onto Karen’s plate.

  Barbara said, ‘All the more reason to get that food down you, come on!’

  ‘I’ll have a piece of cake in a minute.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing! You’ll have cake when you’ve eaten your lunch, and not before.’

  Harry hummed and hawed and said, ‘See what I have to cope with? It’s like being back in short pants with an overbearing mother. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to when you get old.’

  ‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Harry Cameron. What is he like? And I’m not your mother, either, and you should be grateful I still bother
with you,’ but all said in a teasing fashion with a grin on the face.

  Walter couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘Harry, you said, “Ted and Trevor are not false names”. Is that your opinion or do you know something concrete?’

  ‘I’m not dead yet, Walter. My mind still functions well enough, thank you very much, when so many of my old friends and contemporaries are locked away in secure accommodation, batty as mince.’

  ‘He’s talking about his best pal, John Sandy, and you know I don’t like that expression,’ said Barbara. ‘In just over two years he went from being the brightest storyteller in the pub, to a hopeless rambling case who couldn’t recognise his wife and kids. Sad to see and impossible to cope with, and the sooner they get to grips with dementia and Alzheimer’s the better. Every year they say they are on the verge of a major breakthrough, that a miraculous medication is coming soon with tests almost complete, but nothing seems to actually happen. I wish they’d get a move on for none of us want to visit that personal hell.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Walter. ‘My aunt Mimosa specialised in that field and I’m not sure much has changed between then and now.’

  ‘Walter and Karen don’t want to talk about that,’ said Harry. ‘They want to know about the Chester master criminals, Trevor and Ted, right, Karen?’

  ‘Anything you can tell us could prove invaluable,’ she said, tapping his arm.

  ‘It proves my point the pair of them were pretty thick. Trevor and Ted were certainly real blokes, and not false names. I remember them now. Small-time crooks; never amounted to much. Always playing the big I am, as if the big con or the big theft was just around the corner, and they were going to strike it rich. They used to drive round in what looked like flash cars. But they were older than they seemed; the vehicles, so much so, they often broke down. One did once on a stupid job where they’d stolen five hundred fax rolls from a sleepy office stationery store. They piled the first batch in the back of a shiny but knackered, red Jaguar. That was about their level, really. Permanently pathetic.’