Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  Mrs French returned with a silver tray bearing a tall 1970s Portmeirion porcelain coffee pot, startling jagged black-and-white pattern, with three matching tall and narrow cups, almost beaker-like, perched uncomfortably on thick saucers, the cups boasting silly little handles that proved too small to accommodate Walter’s fingers.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs French,’ said Jago, ‘we’ll sort that,’ as she set the tray down. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, glancing across at Walter and Karen, and wondering why they were there. ‘Take it as you like it.’

  Karen did the pouring, as Walter said, ‘He also said something about this thing happened every fifteen years. He was most particular about that. Only every fifteen years, he repeated. Mean anything to you?’

  Jago scratched his chin and pulled a mean face.

  ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid. I mean really, Inspector, can you remember odd events that happened fifteen years ago?’

  ‘I would if they were substantial enough.’

  ‘That’s my point; I can’t remember anything meaningful happening fifteen years ago.’

  Karen took up the story, ‘He was bragging about belonging to a secret society that was much more important and more influential than the Masons. That strike a chord?’

  ‘Sergeant, one thing my father was not, was a braggart.’

  Walter clarified, ‘Substantial drink had been taken, Jago. Perhaps that added a tinge to the conversation it didn’t merit.’

  ‘Possible, I suppose.’

  Walter said, ‘Was he into secret societies?’

  Jago sniffed and looked uncomfortable, but said, ‘As I mentioned before, he did get involved with some weirdish groups. He’d been doing that for years. I have no idea if any of them could be described as secret. But he did once mention that I might like to join him. But that kind of thing always left me cold. I told him not to waste his money, or mine, and do something more useful. He didn’t appreciate my response, and we didn’t talk about it again after that.’

  ‘Do you have a name for this group?’ asked Karen.

  ‘I believe he mentioned it once. Latin sounding, if memory serves.’

  ‘Mandamus is Latin,’ persisted Karen.

  ‘I know that! But it was nothing to do with Mandamus. It began with a Q, but I can’t remember any more than that.’

  Walter set his tall cup down and said, ‘Did he keep a diary?’

  ‘Yes, I think he did. One of those big fellows, page a day type thing. He fell into the habit of keeping one when working, and kept it on. Lots of fellows do that long afterwards, keep doing exactly the same things in retirement they did during their forty-five-year working life.’

  ‘Would you know where it is?’

  ‘Not a clue, but I’ll have a quick look in his study before you go.’

  ‘That would be kind.’

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked Karen, which even to Walter’s ears sounded abrupt.

  ‘Not sure of the relevance of that, but no I don’t. Always hated the house. Far too big and unwieldy, and expensive to run. I think he only bought it because he could. People do that. I see it all the time at work. Couples buying vast houses and then wondering who the hell’s going to mow the bloody lawns and clean the pond, trim the damned oaks, resurface the driveway, replace the guttering, and all those jobs cost mighty big bucks. No, I have a large apartment in town by the canal and it suits me fine. One service charge covers everything. Five minute brisk walk to the office, no garden to worry about, and if I want a snorter or two with my friends after work, I can do that without worrying about driving, and running into your over-zealous chaps. No, city living is for me these days. I know what I like. This house will go up for sale soon. I’m amazed at its value, to be honest. Already given Mrs French her cards, poor thing, probably why she’s moping and down in the mouth. But I’m sure she’ll find another appointment. Super woman, super.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Walter.

  ‘Good, crack on,’ said Jago, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve loads to do, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Your father mentioned something about ridding the streets of vermin. Mean anything to you?’

  Jago laughed a loud, rough laugh.

  ‘Hah! There you are. Whisky talking, I’d wager. Are we talking rodents or reprobates?’

  ‘You tell us.’

  ‘I have no idea. Really, Inspector, it was an old man, tongue loosened by drink, showing off to people because he could. He loved being the centre of attention. Maybe enjoying one last hurrah, and sadly, that’s how it turned out.’

  Walter nodded and said, ‘Quite possibly, Jago. The diary, sir? That would be great.’

  ‘Sure, you stay there, have another coffee, I’ll be back in less than five.’

  Karen and Walter shared a look as Walter finished his drink.

  Jago was as good as his word. Hustling back into the room three minutes later, a large black leather-bound diary boasting shiny metal trimmed corners, tucked under his arm.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, handing it to Walter, and sitting down. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Two weeks’ time,’ he said, flipping it open.

  Karen crowded round his arm for a better look.

  ‘11.30am, chiropodist’s appointment.’

  Jago laughed and said, ‘He has, or had, bad feet, runs in the family. But I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for, is it?’

  Karen said, ‘Come back a day, Guv.’

  Walter sniffed and read the entry.

  ‘1pm: The Friends of Cheshire’s Bees.’

  Jago nodded and grinned at Karen and said, ‘What did I tell you? Any and every bunch of weirdos going and my old dad would be there, eager to get involved. I know he mentioned something about keeping bees, but I don’t think it was secret,’ and the guy chuckled, falsely, to Walter’s ear.

  Walter turned the page, coming another day closer to the present. There wasn’t any writing there at all, just a small inked sketch, a mini picture, better than a cartoon; that he’d taken some care and time over.

  ‘Well, look at that,’ said Karen, glancing from Walter to Jago and back again. ‘Interesting, eh?’

  ‘What is it?’ said Jago, jumping up to cross the room to get a proper look.

  Eight

  In the Chelsea coffee shop in the mid-1980s, Suzanne Meade sat at their small table and watched the smart young man carry the coffees over. The smile never left his face.

  A second later he placed the mugs on the table and sat beside her so that both were sitting with their backs to the wall.

  ‘I didn’t know whether you wanted sugar,’ he said, ‘so I brought you both,’ dumping three sachets of brown and white, and two paper serviettes beside the mugs.

  ‘Nope, not for me.’

  ‘I guessed that,’ he said, ripping open two brown and tossing them into the nearest mug.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said. ‘On holiday.’

  ‘Oh yeah, me and three pals are thinking of going snorkeling in the Red Sea.’

  ‘Lucky you! That sounds dead glam.’

  ‘Yeah, it is, but a bit expensive.’

  ‘You only live once,’ she said, sipping coffee.

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘You haven’t told me yours, either.’

  ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,’ and they both laughed.

  The guy took the initiative.

  ‘My name’s Eamonn,’ offering his manicured hand across the table.

  ‘Nice name,’ she said, taking his hand, allowing him to shake hers firmly, as she shook too, grinning and saying, ‘I’m Suzanne.’

  Neither seemed in any hurry to let go, as he said, ‘That’s a nice name, too.’

  ‘Glad you like it. And how old are you, Eamonn?’

  ‘Twenty-three. How old are you?’

  ‘You should never ask how old a lady is.’

  ‘That’s not fair! I just
told you how old I am.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. How old do you think I am?’

  Eamonn made a big effort at studying her flawless, unlined face.

  ‘I’d say you are a very well preserved twenty-one.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’

  ‘Well, how old? Come on, fairs fair.’

  ‘Seventeen,’ she said, taking another coffee sip.

  ‘Jeez! I hadn’t bargained on cradle snatching.’

  ‘You cheeky thing!’ she said in mock rebuke, as she tap-slapped his impressive forearm. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Be my guest. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Tell me everything I need to know about Benidorm?’

  ‘What like children’s activities, that kind of thing?’

  Suzanne’s pink mouth fell open.

  ‘We’re going to fall out if you persist in that line.’

  ‘All right, sorry,’ as he told her about the best bars and nightspots, and secret coves and beaches that most people never found, and loads more things besides.

  Suzanne asked lots of questions and he was eager to answer, as they chatted for more than an hour, never a break in conversation, pausing only to buy a second coffee, at ease in each other’s company.

  Eamonn thought it time to try his luck.

  ‘Can I have your phone number?’

  Suzanne smiled and shifted in her seat before saying, ‘I’m not in the habit of...’

  ‘I know...’ and he mimicked her. ‘I’m not in the habit of giving out my number to complete strangers. The thing is, we’re no longer strangers.’

  ‘No, what are we then?’

  ‘Lovers to be,’ he said, fixing his blue eyes on her impressive hazel peepers.

  ‘Hah!’ said Suzanne, ‘you should be so lucky. Never going to happen, mate; don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘Aw, and I thought we were getting on so well. Do you want my phone number?’

  ‘No, I don’t; thanks.’

  ‘Come on, give a fella a chance, you’ll regret it if you don’t,’ and those words struck a chord deep within her, for Suzanne knew she would regret it if she didn’t see him again.

  She opened her bag and took out a smart silver ball-pen her dad gave her for her sixteenth birthday. Tugged one of the white paper serviettes close, and began writing the familiar London number, 01-236-6863.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, looking chuffed as he stuffed the serviette in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Don’t ring late at night,’ she said. ‘Dad doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And if I’m not in, leave a message.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And never ring when you are drunk.’

  ‘That won’t happen. I don’t get drunk.’

  Suzanne grinned and said, ‘I’m not sure I believe that,’ and there was a brief pause before she said, ‘I’ve got to be off in a sec.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. What’s your surname, by the way?’

  ‘Meade,’ she said, ‘and yours?’

  ‘Banaghan,’ he said in a rush, and two seconds later they stared at one another through stony faces.

  Eamonn sat back hard in his seat, scratched his bottom lip, and said, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re Howard Meade’s girl.’

  ‘I am, and you’re Liam Banaghan’s son, the same Liam Banaghan who ordered my brother Grahame’s murder.’

  ‘Come on! That’s not true!’

  ‘What’s not true? That you’re his son, or your family murdered Grahame?’

  ‘Course I’m his son, but we didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘I should have known you were too good to be true!’

  ‘Don’t say that, I’m the same guy as ten minutes ago.’

  ‘You are not! There could never be anything between us. You must know that. Dad would never let you anywhere near me. He’d kill you first. You should have said who you were from the beginning.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know you were a bloody Meade?’

  ‘You’ve spoilt everything, Eamonn Banaghan. I’m going!’ and Suzanne gathered her things together, making ready to stand. ‘Give me that phone number!’

  ‘Oh, come on, kid.’

  ‘Give it! And don’t call me kid!’

  Eamonn retrieved the serviette. She snatched it from him and jammed it in her bag before standing.

  He grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Look! It doesn’t have to be like this, our families always at war, looking over our shoulders. You and I get on great, don’t we? Why shouldn’t the families too? This could be a whole new start for us, for everyone.’

  ‘Get real! In your dreams, dope-boy. It’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Listen, Suzanne, give me a minute. What we have here is special. I know that and you know it too. We shouldn’t toss it away as if it means nothing. Listen to me and listen to your heart. I’ll be here every day at the same time until Friday. After that, I’ll never come again. If you want to see me again, to talk to me again, all you have to do is stop by. No strings attached, no worries, nothing.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s never going to happen!’

  ‘I believe it will. And you’ll regret it if it doesn’t.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now let me go!’

  Other coffee drinkers and loungers close by were taking an interest in the smart young couple’s fiery tiff.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Think it over, Miss Meade.’

  Suzanne didn’t answer, but stormed off towards the door and out into the still sleeting afternoon, scurrying away, close to tears, as if she’d been dumped.

  Nine

  Sergeant Teddy Vairs wasn’t the kind of man to sit on his backside in the station waiting for things to happen. He called Walter over, told him to get a car ready, and meet him in the back car park in ten.

  Walter was happier outside working across the local manor, and he was pleased to see the Granadas all out and travelling, as he booked out another Sierra. Vairs appeared five minutes later, jumped in the car, pointed forward and said, ‘Drive,’ and Walter slipped the car in gear and cruised out onto the busy city streets.

  ‘Where to, sarge?’

  ‘I thought it might be a good idea to pay a visit to Banaghan’s workplace. Call unannounced, maybe catch them with their pants down, shake the Christmas tree if it’s still up, and see what baubles come crashing down.’

  Walter wasn’t convinced of the strategy, but he was a rookie and knew nothing, and said, ‘And where might that be?’

  ‘You need to do your homework, Darriteau. Concentrate on the Meade and Banaghan organisations. You need to know every damn thing about those nests of vipers, make myself clear?’

  ‘Sure, sarge, yes, but where is the Banaghan place?’

  ‘Chelsea Fields Industrial Estate. It’s out Merton way, about six miles from here,’ and Walter nodded, happy in the knowledge he knew where it was. He’d been called there once as a PC when some robbers were reported on the roof of a warehouse. When he arrived, he discovered the fresh body of a young man who’d fallen through an awning on the front of the building. There was no sign of anyone else, no other damage, and they never discovered what happened. Traffic was horrendous as they crawled all the way to Merton.

  ‘Can’t you go any quicker?’ whinged Vairs.

  Walter sighed and pointed ahead at gridlocked vehicles and that placated the man for a while. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the Chelsea Fields Estate.

  Walter said, ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘Unit B40 slash 50.’

  They cruised through numerous parked vans and lorries of every size and colour, where men were coming and going, chatting and yelling, making deliveries, picking up collections, starting engines and squirting back out onto the busy streets, as replacements bustled their way in, seeking their destination.

  Unit B40 Slash 50 was something else. The most impressive and spacious building
in the area. The wide building was clad in modern grey and blue boards, the left third double-story office accommodation, lots of glass, with a smart blue-doored entrance. Outside, Walter counted nine cars, including several high end numbers that must have cost big bucks.

  The right two-thirds of the building was more industrial. Maybe storage for materials and somewhere safe to keep trucks and vans when not in use. There were two huge roller shutter doors, both up and wide open. They could see men inside in boiler suits hustling about, yellow Banaghan logos on their chests, looking busy. Two tranny vans were in there with bonnets up, being serviced, and rows of pallets of bricks, bagged sand, gravel, and cement.

  Outside, three articulated lorries were parked facing outwards, ready to go, and a number of modern transit vans in the yellow and blue Banaghan colours. Walter counted eleven, neatly lined up, all washed and scrubbed as if the boss demanded cleanliness in all things.

  But unlike the other units, because of the size of the site, there were still wide open areas, with several noticeable signs that said: UNAUTHORISED PARKERS WILL BE CASTRATED AND SENT TO THE TOWER - RED HOT POKER AWAITS - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

  Vairs read the signs, scoffed and said, ‘They’re illegal for a start.’

  Walter pulled onto the fresh tarmac and parked next to the executive cars, and they got out of the Sierra. Vairs rammed his trilby on his head and stared up at the wide frontage. In huge letters stretching across the entire fascia, just below the roof line, a massive sign read: Banaghan Construction PLC and a fancy BC logo that some design company had charged a small fortune to create in the obligatory blue and yellow.

  ‘BC. Before Christ,’ said Vairs, heading for the entrance. ‘Bloody Crooks, more like.’

  He pushed the glass door hard and swept in, Walter following, trying not to get too excited. Inside was a sweeping grey reception counter with two smart girls sitting and talking about which of the two Michaels was sexier, George or Jackson.

  Vairs sniffed and said, ‘Is Mr Banaghan Senior in?’

  One of the girls jumped on the phone, the other said, ‘I don’t think he’s in today, got an appointment elsewhere.’