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

by David Carter

  Lunch was great. Everyone ate too much, but that didn’t matter for it didn’t happen often. Karen asked Sarah what she did for a living.

  Sarah grinned at Walter and said, ‘Do you want to answer that?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘you tell them.’

  Sarah nodded and began.

  ‘I work on the cold meat counter in Bestdas. That’s how I met him. He was always coming in at the end of the day, moony eyed, looking hungry, eyeing up the meat.’

  ‘I’ll bet that wasn’t the only thing he was eyeing up,’ said Harry.

  Barbara said, ‘Thank you, Harry Cameron, let Sarah finish, eh?’

  ‘And then I noticed he was coming in more often, sometimes every day, and my colleagues started teasing me, saying he must fancy me.’

  ‘And did you?’ said Karen, smirking at Walter.

  Walter sat back in his chair, grinned and said, ‘No names, no pack-drill.’

  ‘I never know what that phrase means,’ said Barbara.

  Harry knew and would not be denied.

  ‘Pack-drill was a punishment given to soldiers in the British Army, requiring them to drill in heavy uniform, carrying a heavy pack.’

  ‘Now we know,’ said Barbara, stifling a yawn, exchanging a disinterested look with Sarah.

  David Baker said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I would never have put you down as a shop assistant selling cold meat.’

  Sarah grinned at Walter.

  He said, ‘Don’t knock it. Tell them what you used to do.’

  She seemed reluctant, but started anyway.

  ‘I was an airline pilot, PeasyJet. Did 284 flights with never an incident, but towards the end I had a feeling creeping over me that I’d been lucky, and eventually I was going to get caught up in something horrific. I don’t know why, but I guess it was telling me it was time to call it a day and move on. I saw this job in the paper and applied to tide me over, but found I liked it. I enjoyed meeting the customers, seeing them come back, day after day.’

  ‘Like Walter...’ said Karen, smirking.

  ‘Yes, him and many others. Now they want to make me Manager – Cold Meats. They’ve even printed some fancy nametags. I don’t think any of them have a clue I used to fly an Airbus over their heads to Barcelona three times a week.’

  Walter said, ‘She hides her light under a bushel too much.’

  ‘There speaketh a man in love,’ said Harry.

  Karen glanced at Sarah who for a moment was quite flustered, though no one else seemed to notice.

  Barbara said, ‘You don’t want to do that, hide your light.’

  ‘I don’t. But I don’t feel the need to brag about it every day. I enjoyed my time there, but I’m glad I’m out of it now. It was stressful and I’ll never go back.’

  ‘Interesting though this is,’ said Harry, ‘what’s the latest on my murder?’

  Barbara said, ‘I guess inevitably, we’d start talking shop.’

  ‘Actually, I enjoy talking murders,’ said Sarah, ‘it’s so interesting.’

  ‘That’s the crux of the matter,’ said Walter, ‘we cannot prove if we have a murder. It would help if we could.’

  ‘No, but we have a finger,’ said Karen, and that produced scrunched faces, and requests for more juicy information about how it was severed.

  David Baker said, ‘You want to be careful talking murders with these people. They thought I was the killer in a previous case, and I almost ended up in the dock.’

  ‘No!’ said Sarah and Barbara as one, eager for more information.

  ‘Yes, and it turned out to be one of their own all along.’

  ‘The least said about that the better,’ said Walter, ‘and remember, everything we say is confidential and must not be repeated outside this room.’

  Barbara said, ‘How many murderers have you caught, Walter?’

  ‘Not enough,’ he said, wiping his mouth on the linen.

  Karen said, ‘More than his fair share.’

  Harry added, ‘And from what I hear, far more than I ever did.’

  Barbara said, ‘Tell us more, Walter. Which was the most horrid one? The worst killer?’

  Walter glanced around the table. Eating and drinking had come to a standstill in the silent room, as they stared at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘That’s easy,’ he said, ‘Cutthroat Charlie, in London, before I came to Chester,’ and they all wanted to hear more about Cutthroat Charlie, as Walter obliged without exaggeration, for none was necessary.

  When he was done, Barbara breathed out heavy and seized her opportunity to take the conversation elsewhere, offering them sliced beef to take home. No one refused, as Sarah grinned and complained they would put her out of business.

  Time zoomed by, the clock nudged four, and it was soon time to go. Walter went to shake Harry’s hand. Harry saw the blurred limb approaching, grabbed it tight, pulled Walter close and whispered in his ear, ‘Non alcoholic beer is like a woman who doesn’t kiss.’

  ‘Ha-hah,’ said Walter. ‘I should have known I couldn’t fool a detective.’

  ‘Little warmth and no follow through, know what I mean, though I appreciate the gesture. You will keep me informed, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Harry, I won’t forget.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday morning dawned bright and clear, the April weather spoiling everyone. Walter was in early but not as early as Jenny. Karen arrived five minutes later, unscrewed the top of her fruit flavoured water, took a swig, and sat down.

  She glanced across at Walter. He looked okay, if a little tired. Maybe he’d had a heavy weekend with the new girlfriend.

  ‘Sarah was nice.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘A bit buxom, mind.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with buxom.’

  ‘No, of course not, and I’d never have guessed she was an airline pilot.’

  ‘Everyone says that, I like to put it out there. It’s a real achievement.’

  ‘It is. So...’ she said, sitting back in her seat, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘Are we bringing Susan Woodhams in for a meet?’

  Walter thought about that and said, ‘No, we don’t have enough to prosecute. The CPS won’t run with what we have.’

  ‘You said you’d contact her.’

  ‘I know that! I’ll call her now; tell her we are stopping by at 11am.’

  ‘What are you going to say?’

  Walter sat back and sighed.

  ‘Not sure, play it by ear; see if she has anything interesting to add. If she hasn’t, I’ll tell her the inquiry remains open. Keep her on tenterhooks. As long as she thinks it’s ongoing she knows we could come calling any time. Even the early hours knock on the door.’

  ‘I think she’s looking for an early closure, to put it to bed.’

  ‘I’ll bet she is! But it’s her fault. She shouldn’t be conspiring and planning to murder her husband.’

  ‘It was over twenty years ago, Guv. Maybe she’s been worrying about it ever since.’

  ‘That’s not the point. For all we know she might have been successful in having her better half executed. We haven’t found him alive. Think of it that way, and she’s getting off lightly. I have no sympathy for her, and neither should you.’

  Karen pursed her lips and bobbed her head, as Walter picked up the phone and dialled the Woodhams’ apartment.

  Two minutes later he said, ‘Job done!’ setting the phone down. ‘Fixed for 11am. Car needed.’

  ‘Leave it with me. How did she sound?’

  ‘Relaxed. Not even a minor irritant in her day.’

  ‘She’s one cool woman.’

  ‘Yes, but maybe she won’t be so laid back when we tell her enquiries are proceeding.’

  IN CARRINGTON LODGE, Susan Woodhams glanced at the big modern clock. Plenty of time to plan and prepare. But what to wear? The wardrobes were packed, there must be something fresh. She’d stay with the suit look because it suited her, so to speak.
Navy, the expensive one with the naughty short skirt. Be interesting to see if he noticed. But he was a man, and something of a man’s man, at that. Of course he’d notice. Susan turned away and headed for the bathroom.

  At twenty minutes to eleven she was ready. It was strange but she felt nervous which was ridiculous. It wasn’t a date. But she hoped he’d come alone, leave that smart know-all of a blonde bitch behind, because she would get in the way. Susan went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was half a bottle of Aussie white left from the night before, and who cared if it was south of eleven o’clock? She poured a slug and took it through to the sitting room.

  Sat down and took a gulp. Maybe the big man would arrest her and cart her off to the copshop on a murder charge, as she deserved. If that happened it might be the last glass of wine she would drink for twenty years, perhaps the last glass she would ever drink, and that was a sobering thought. It inspired her to a second gulp, though it didn’t have any effect. Drink never does when you really want it to.

  She sat back, closed her eyes, and thought about her life. It had been a mistake, and a damned big one, to consider killing the cretin. But personal feelings and jealousy were such powerful forces when unleashed, especially when she was younger.

  Could such a thing still happen at her time of life? Just because she was older it didn’t mean she couldn’t experience those ferocious feelings again. If the same circumstances arose she might be worse. Susan had always known she was a hot-tempered woman, though she preferred to call it passionate, and the years had done little to dampen that.

  She smirked. It would be great to be in love again. Only then could such a situation arise. Fiery passion; that was what she needed and wanted, with a good man, and she wasn’t alone in that. Romance novels were the bestselling genre for a good reason.

  She reached out to finish the glass. The doorbell rang. Susan glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to. The man was early. Maybe he wanted to catch her out. Perhaps he was eager to make an arrest. She stood up, smoothed her skirt down, grabbed the glass, ran it into the kitchen out of sight, and headed for the front door.

  As she made her way there a strange thought entered her head. If he was taking her away, and if she went on trial for murder, a killing she had already confessed to, maybe it would be the last time she’d ever open that door, and the final time she would leave her adored home. Who’d water the cacti? Who’d let Sharon in?

  Susan didn’t need a cleaner but had plenty of cash, and she might as well spend it on a skivvy than anything else. Sharon wasn’t brilliant but it was nice to have someone else clean the loo. And who would open her mail and pay the utility bills, and who’d throw away the sour milk in the fridge, and attend the residents’ meetings? It was amazing how many thoughts could crash through a human brain in the ten seconds it took to leave the kitchen and head for the door, reach up, grab the handle, and open up.

  She fixed on her naughty face, why not? He was a handsome sod in a rugged all embracing favourite uncle kind of way. Any woman would adore being lost in those massive arms and bearlike chest. Chance would be a fine thing, but one could dream.

  Susan turned the handle. Prepared herself by looking up, smirked, opened the door, and saw the big man standing there, quizzical look on his face.

  She didn’t feel well. Maybe it was the wine; perhaps it had been too early, after all. Her legs turned to jelly. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes dimmed and closed as she fell backwards, banging her head, knocking herself out.

  The big bloke stepped into the apartment. Stooped down and picked her up as if she were a straw doll. Took her through to the sitting room where he set her on the sofa. Went to the kitchen, noticed the empty wine glass. Maybe the drink had brought on the fainting spell. It was too early to be drinking that potent brew. He grabbed a cloth, ran it under the cold tap, and squeezed hard. The startled water jumped free as if in terrific pain. He hurried back to the unconscious prone woman, dropped to his knees, and dabbed the cold cloth across her made-up forehead.

  ‘Susan Woodhams,’ he said, his kind voice penetrating her mind as if it were coming from a doctor after general anaesthetic, present, but unanswerable, commanding, as if in a dream, and no one ever answers back in dreams. ‘Susan Woodhams, come on, you’ve fainted, that’s all it is. You’re fine. You’ve fainted, girl. Come on, or I’ll call an ambulance.’

  There was movement in the eye area. Her lids were still closed, but were trying. Her breathing was slow and steady but out of nowhere speeded up, as if preparing her. She coughed, gulped air, and her eyes opened. The big man’s face was close to hers. He had nice eyes. She had noticed that before and she’d always liked sparkly eyes. But she didn’t like the long baggy blue jersey he was wearing, and he looked older too. Maybe he’d been doing things he shouldn’t, like burning the candle at both ends.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I was worried about you for a second. You’ve been on the booze, I can smell it on your breath, and it’s too early for that.’

  ‘Jack bloody Woodhams!’ she said. ‘I thought you were dead! What the hell are you doing in my flat?’

  ‘Checking on you, of course. I couldn’t help wondering if the beautiful woman who’d confessed to murder needed my help. As you can see, I’m alive and kicking, albeit a little worn at the edges,’ and he tugged up his left sleeve, and flashed his three-fingered hand.

  Susan stared at the ugly thing, sat up straight and said, ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  Jack smirked and said, ‘I think you might know more about that, than I.’

  ‘What the hell did they do to you?’ she said, as she grabbed his mutilated hand and took it to her lipsticked mouth.

  ‘Putting the pieces together I reckon I got off lightly, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. But you made me so furious. I’ve never experienced anger like it. You let me down. If I couldn’t have you to myself no other cow was going to get you. We were married, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, and I know I wasn’t always the best behaved husband, so maybe I deserved the finger thing.’

  ‘You damn well did! And more besides. But how did you know about the investigation?’

  ‘The internet is a powerful beast. I always monitored the local websites, keeping in touch with things, and intended coming home one day. And then I saw the article about the crazy local woman who’d ordered her husband’s killing, and thought that a funny case... until I saw it was about me.’

  ‘Why did you come here and not go to the police?’

  ‘I’d never go to the police. That’s not my style. No, I think we both have a great deal of making up to do, don’t you? I thought I’d take my wife round the Rows to buy a making-up present, and you still are my wife, because I’m not dead, and we’re not divorced.’

  ‘What, after I ordered your killing?’

  Jack wafted his big right hand away.

  ‘All in the past. Part of the excitement of life. A mere trifle. Do you want me to take you shopping, or not?’

  ‘You always were a mad sod!’

  ‘That’s why you love me, isn’t it?’

  Susan wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, and as she considered her reply, the doorbell rang, three times.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ he said, springing to his feet.

  ‘It’ll be the coppers.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘To charge me with murder; or maybe it’ll be attempted murder now.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ve confessed to a crime that never existed. I’ll sort it,’ and he strode away toward the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Outside, standing in the corridor, Walter pursed his lips and glanced at Karen. They could hear noise inside, footsteps maybe. He mumbled, ‘At least she’s home, not done a runner.’

  Karen said, ‘To hell with it, Guv, I think we should charge her.’

  ‘So do I, but we haven’t enough evidenc
e.’

  ‘Yet!’ said Karen. ‘But we’ll find it.’

  Jack Woodhams grabbed the handle, turned it and tugged the door open. There was a big black guy there, not as tall as himself, but about as wide. To his left, hovering in the background; was an attractive blonde. Jack’s eyes swivelled that way, they always did.

  The callers looked surprised.

  Walter checked out the guy. Big bloke, maybe mid fifties, but still quite fit. The baggy and long blue jersey didn’t seem to match the man. Perhaps it had been left in the washing machine too long for the sleeves had stretched, covering his hands.

  Karen said, ‘We’re police officers, this is Inspector Walter...’

  ‘I know who you are. You’d better come in,’ and he stood to one side as the coppers entered the flat.

  Before they reached the sitting room, Walter grabbed the guy’s left arm, stopping him dead, as he tugged up the jersey sleeve. No left pinky.

  ‘Jack Woodhams,’ he said, ‘you are alive.’

  Karen paused and watched.

  Jack said, ‘It looks that way, so your business here is finished.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Walter, as he let go, and they strolled in to see Susan Woodhams, prone on the sofa, fully recovered, smirk on her face, reclining like the Queen of Sheba awaiting guests.

  Karen said, ‘How long have you been back in the UK?’

  ‘Arrived yesterday, came straight here this morning.’

  ‘Well,’ said Susan, making no effort to get up, ‘this is nice. Quite a surprise all round, wouldn’t you say?’

  Walter ignored her and spoke to Jack.

  ‘This lady, your wife, paid local gangsters to have you murdered. Lucky for you, they chickened out and made do with slicing off your finger as an incentive for you to flee the country, and you duly obliged.’

  ‘I doubt you can prove that.’

  ‘I think we can,’ said Karen, ‘we have your finger in custody, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Even if you do, I doubt it’s usable.’

  ‘How did you lose your finger, Mr Woodhams?’ asked Walter.