by David Carter
Falling
David Carter
Published by David Carter, 2021.
Falling
An Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Case
© David Carter & TrackerDog Media 2021
Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke
www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk
First edition
The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Falling
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Author’s Notes
Sign up for David Carter's Mailing List
Further Reading: Old Cold Bones
Also By David Carter
About the Author
By the same author:
The Inspector Walter Darriteau Books:
The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over
The Sound of Sirens
The Twelfth Apostle
Kissing a Killer
The Legal & the Illicit
The Death Broker
Five Dead Rooks
Old Cold Bones
The Walter Darriteau Box Set – One
The Missing Man
Falling
Other Books:
State Sponsored Terror
The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene
The Inconvenient Unborn
Grist Vergette’s Curious Clock
Drift and Badger and the Search for Uncle Mo
Down into the Darkness
The Fish Catcher
The Bunny and the Bear
One
Grahame Meade was in a fantastic mood. Three hours before, his girlfriend, Diana Fowles, had accepted his proposal of marriage. Afterwards, she’d gone to Chelsea Hospital to do her late shift, while Grahame cracked a few beers with two mates, sharing his hot news.
After that, he hurried to his flat, for he didn’t want to miss his beloved Arsenal on the TV in the European Cup. His apartment was real nice inside, he’d spent big bucks on it, and Diana loved it to bits. But outside it was grotty and grim. The entrance located up a narrow dark alley, dank and smelly with the detritus of the 1980s that didn’t bear closer scrutiny. Not the kind of place anyone would want to visit, and in midwinter at ten to eight at night it was darker, colder, and creepier than ever.
He was relieved to slip the key in the lock, get inside, close the door, and dart upstairs, where he hustled into the sitting-room, aiming to get the TV on, super-quick. But he never made it. Beyond the sitting room door lurked two professional thugs. The moment Grahame entered the room, they attacked him.
The assault was long, sustained, and brutal. When they’d finished twenty minutes later, Grahame Meade was lying on the floor in the centre of the room, his bones broken, his face battered, bruised, and bloodied. But he was still alive. Not for long, as the bigger thug kicked him hard on what remained of his right ear, and soon after that, breathing stopped, and the life-force evaporated.
AT HALF-PAST TEN THE following morning, his body was discovered by two older brothers. They’d been sent by Howard Meade, the father, who wanted to know why the hell Grahame wasn’t at work. He hadn’t rung in either, and he’d been warned about that countless times in recent months. Johnny Meade, the eldest son, rang his father and told him what they’d discovered.
Howard Meade was a cold cuss and played it true to form. One of his sons had been killed, so what? The kid shouldn’t have been so careless. Howard wouldn’t let a minor hiccup interrupt his day. It wasn’t the end of the world, and maybe in their line of business it was to be expected. He still had four sons, and could always produce more if necessary. There was nothing wrong with Howard’s stuff.
There were numerous tarts on the payroll who’d be happy to step in and produce more children, so long as the reward and lifestyle was attractive enough. Cynthia, his wife of thirty years could no longer do that, and after five sons and two daughters, all by some miracle, still alive, until now, plus two miscarriages, Cynthia figured she’d done her duty in that direction, and not many would argue.
She’d heard Howard joke many times he’d have to take a mistress to mother the next few, and though it was said in jest, Cynthia knew the truth. He wouldn’t hesitate if that was what he wanted, or needed. But for the moment, what was more important to Howard was finding out who was responsible, and fast; and only then could the revenge process begin.
Johnny Meade inherited the cold gene and was determined not to let the hideous sight of Grahame’s injuries bother him. His younger brother Billy was not cold and struggled with the stiff upper lip stuff his father drummed into the children.
Savage boxing matches between siblings was the sport of choice in the Meade household when younger, where the bigger, older boy ruled supreme, until he stepped in the ring with Howard and was knocked senseless in less than a round.
At the sight of Grahame’s battered and lifeless body, it was all Billy could do not to retch and wail. Johnny told him to man up, as he stared at the sage coloured phone in his hand and said, ‘What shall we do now, dad?’
‘What do you think you are going to do? You ring the damned cops and report a murder.’
‘Is that wise? With us being here?’
‘You found him. Someone might have seen you going in there. You didn’t kill your own brother, did you? Even the woodentops will realise that. If you bugger off, one way or another they will find out you were there. That will stink, and you’ll have some
explaining to do. You know what they are like. They’d pin it on you as soon as look at you. No, just get on with it. Ring them now, tell them what you see, the whole situation, wait there, answer everything truthfully, and get the hell back here as soon as you can.’
Johnny nodded and grunted, ‘I understand,’ and set the phone down. He grabbed it again and dialled 999.
Two
Inspector Walter Darriteau woke up with a startled look on his face. He gazed across at the digital clock. 6.55am. He gave himself a moment before struggling to sit up, shook his head and scratched his scalp. There was no one else in the house, and that was normal.
It had all been a dream. The Grahame Meade thing. But not a fict-dream, a fact-dream, and there’s a big difference between the two. Fact was, he’d recently been thinking about the Meade case though he wasn’t sure why, and that was probably what inspired the dream.
Everyone’s dreams are a mixture of fiction and faction, and sometimes it takes a moment to differentiate between the two. The attack had happened verbatim, just as he’d dreamt, but thirty or forty years before. He wasn’t sure how long without giving it more thought. And he should have remembered, for it was the first decent job Detective Constable Walter Darriteau had been assigned to.
The call came in to the Chelsea Station before eleven o’clock in the morning. It was interesting for several reasons, not least because the Meade family were well-known big time villains, and anything to do with that crowd always carried additional interest and a health warning.
Sergeant Teddy Vairs grabbed the job before anyone else could muscle in, as he barked across to Walter, ‘Darriteau, get your skates on! We’re off out; one of the Meade sons has been found murdered by the sound of things. Get a car and I’ll be with you in five. A Granada, yeah, grab one of those flash new Granadas, the gold one if there’s a choice.’
Walter hated driving the Granada. Too big, too square, unwieldy and spongy, a vehicle that looked dated on the day it was born. Surely Ford could do better than that. He might have to be creative in his explanation for taking something different. Even a Sierra was better, though on the first Sierra trip he’d taken, the gear stick came off in his hand as he went round a corner, much to Vairs’ amusement. The racist abuse the young Walter received didn’t bear thinking about, though it wasn’t unusual or challenged back then.
They waded through the litter and rubbish of the alleyway up to the front door. A uniform was on guard outside, an older guy who spent most of his days guarding things. Vairs nodded at the man and muttered, ‘Morning, Harry,’ as the guy touched his hat, glanced suspiciously at the young black kid, and opened the door.
The flat was smart inside, and that was a surprise. The kind of place Walter would love to have had as his own. Come to think of it, maybe with a gruesome murder happening there, it might put off most folks from buying or renting it, not that it would deter Walter.
Most houses have witnessed people dying in them at some point, but maybe not as violently as had happened there. People have to die somewhere. It didn’t matter to Walter; though the spectacular blood stains on the expensive turquoise carpet was a real bummer.
The moment they arrived, Vairs tore into the Meade boys as if they were the perps. He seemed more interested in unearthing something of interest as to what the Meade clan were involved in, rather than being sympathetic and making some effort to discover a lead to trace Grahame Meade’s killer.
Walter wanted to jump in and tell Vairs he needed to be more tactful and clever than he’d shown. But he bit his tongue. It was his first CID job, and he didn’t want to miss his chance, and he knew Vairs wouldn’t appreciate interference. As Teddy Vairs continued his relentless questioning of Johnny Meade, Walter took Billy to one side and said, ‘What do you reckon has gone on here?’
‘No idea, you’re the copper, though God knows why. I thought it was your job to solve crimes. Ain’t that what we taxpayers pay you for?’
‘Family enemies, you reckon? Could be something to do with that?’
‘No shit, Sherlock! The world and his wife know this is the work of the Banaghan crew,’ as Billy glanced back at Grahame’s battered body and shuddered.
Walter’s eyes followed that way too, but only for a second, as he turned back to Billy.
‘That’s as maybe, William, but we need evidence. We can’t put people away without it.’
Billy sniffed and said, ‘It’s never stopped you before,’ and he pointed towards the door, ‘Look! You should be out there looking for witnesses, not wasting your time here with me. You should be round the Banaghan’s place right now, checking their alibis, not hassling us. We’re the injured parties, for God’s sake. Get your priorities right!’
‘Why would the Banaghan’s want to murder Grahame?’
Billy looked at Walter askance, sighed and said, ‘You’re new on the job, I can see that, but I can’t believe even you could ask such a stupid question.’
‘You may think it’s stupid, but give me some honest answers and it could help unravel the mystery.’
‘There’s no mystery, Mr Black Boar,’ said Billy, and for a second he seemed to be losing control, the reaction Walter was seeking, because people not in control of themselves often spilt truths that otherwise might remain hidden. The guy gathered himself and said, ‘My brother, Grahame Meade, was murdered by that crew, and if you don’t do something about it, and quick, I reckon my dad will.’
‘That’s not the correct road to travel. Making threats against anyone could only lead you and your family into trouble. Take the moral high ground and let us deal with this. Tell us everything you know and they’ll be in the dock before the month is out. If you know anything that might help, ring me at the Chelsea Station. My name’s Walter Darriteau.’
Billy scoffed and shook his head.
‘I don’t care if your name’s Walter freaking Raleigh. I wouldn’t ring you if my mum was on fire.’
‘Think about it, William. It’s the way to go. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, means we all go blind and die of starvation. Is that what you want?’
Walter would never know if Billy would have answered because Vairs barged in.
‘Come on, Darriteau, back to the station. We’re wasting our time here with these pricks. And you two...’ glaring at the brothers, ‘get out of my sight!’
Johnny Meade said, ‘What about Grahame’s body?’
‘What about it?’
‘Can we take it?’
‘Don’t be a dipshit! Full post mortem. Head off, brain out, all out. Bloody mess. Millions of questions. It’ll be weeks before the coroner releases the body, you can be sure of that, and they’ll be precious little left of it by the time the scientific boys have finished. And mark my words,’ and Vairs pointed at the corpse, ‘That’s your future too, that’s where you are heading, the pair of you, if you don’t change your ways. Nothing is more certain.’
‘I pity you,’ said Billy, glaring into the back of Vairs’ grey eyes.
Vairs grinned and said, ‘Bugger off out of it and let the professionals get on with their job!’
‘Can we take his personal things?’ said Johnny. ‘Wallet, photos, the watch his fiancé gave him.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Walter. ‘This is a crime scene, all potential items of evidence. Nothing is to be removed. You’ll get everything back in due course. I promise you that.’
Billy said, ‘There’s a hundred and ninety quid in his wallet. Make sure that is noted and it doesn’t go missing.’
Walter made an issue of writing it in his notebook, muttering, ‘One hundred and ninety pounds.’
The Meade boys shared a last look, nodded and turned away, hustled through the door, skipped down the stairs, barged past the uniform, and a moment later were bounding down the cold alley.
Vairs fixed Walter with his icy eye.
‘You don’t make promises to the Meade gang, not about anything. Never! You get that? What were you thinking?’
‘Let him. You’ve forgotten my advice already, and that ain’t a good start. Don’t you remember what I said? Always do what the opposition least likes. That lot...’ and he raised his hand and pointed to the still open door, ‘are the opposition, and never forget it. It’s like Arsenal versus bloody Spurs... only worse, far worse.’
Walter paused a second and thought on his words.
‘I guess I was trying to play the good cop, hoping to tempt something out of the weaker brother.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And you won’t. And remember this, with the Meades, there are no good cops.’
Walter nodded and put his notebook away. The forensic boys were busy, and the SIO, the senior investigating officer, a pompous DCI, was throwing his weight around, a man Vairs detested.
Teddy Vairs nodded at Walter and said, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ and five minutes later they were jumping into the silver five-door Sierra and heading back to the Chelsea nick.
Three
Walter jumped the bus into Chester to work, something he did most days. It was early, but the bus was full. He knew a few of his co-passengers, and they knew him and what he did, and most would exchange polite nods before returning to their phones.
He thought about the Meade case all the way to work, which he shouldn’t have been doing, for that was all deep in the past. His mind should have been focused on the new operation Mrs West had foisted on him. But the Meade-Banaghan rivalry continued to force itself into Walter’s brain. Hardly surprising, for it was a monumental case.
Two feuding families, nine people in one and ten in the other, and that was before the distant relatives and foot-soldiers and hangers-on and guns for hire muscled in. Maybe it was because it was Walter’s first real CID experience and would never go away, and it sure made Mrs West’s current nonsense look piddling. Not that he would tell her that.
What was it she’d said? Fancy delving into the nuances and secrets and lies of a Chester secret society? No, was the obvious answer. Not bloody likely, but he could hardly tell his boss that. He sat at his desk and opened the file for the third time. Operation Brown Mole, another hideous moniker to conjure with. The whole thing had been instigated by a throwaway comment made by his boss’s husband, Donald. And it wasn’t the first time an inquiry had been opened through that channel. Perhaps the fact that Donald West was the Grand Sword Bearer in the local Lodge put him in a position where he might learn things others would not.
