Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  ‘No matter,’ said Vairs. ‘We’ll find our own way, upstairs is it?’ and he swept round the end of the counter and headed for the stairs. The girls glanced at the nice black guy, askance. He produced ID and said, ‘We’re police officers, don’t panic, we won’t be long,’ as he ran after Vairs, who yelled, ‘Come on, Darriteau, keep up!’

  The stairs were grey and bright-blue banistered, as they hustled up and through a set of double self-closing fire doors, and on to a wide open office with floor to ceiling windows. Vairs glanced round to get his bearings. Maybe a dozen smart desks, all bearing small square white monitors displaying green figures and letters and numbers, and God knows what else. Most of the desks housed a single person.

  On the far wall was a massive Data General computer with twin spools spinning round, first slowly and then super-fast, and then slow again, as if doing some kind of crazy dance, looking like a massive demented owl.

  Towards the left side, against the end wall, were two large offices, visible through floor to ceiling glass partitions. The one in the corner had one huge desk in the centre, with no one inside. The boss’s domain for sure, but empty. The pop fans downstairs were right.

  The left office housed four guys, and they were all in. Two were sitting, talking on phones, two standing drinking coffee, staring through the glass, with their backs turned. Under-managers maybe, or junior family oiks waiting for the day when the dad would pop off, and they could grin at everyone and move into the big desk.

  Outside the big boss’s room was a nice single desk with a pretty young woman typing on an IBM golf ball typewriter. She was concentrating real hard, furrowed lines across her forehead, no doubt producing confidential correspondence for the bosses. To her left was a chunky metal wastepaper bin, full to overflowing with screwed up failures.

  Vairs closed on her and removed his hat, Walter at his side, observing, as Vairs said to the girl, ‘Mr Banaghan Senior not in today?’

  Her mouth fell open as she thought of words, but nothing came. Her concentration had been shattered. To hell with it. She wasn’t a receptionist. Those two daffy bints downstairs should have taken care of this. Mr Banaghan Senior would be furious. But before she could speak, the door of the under-manager’s room was thrown open, and two young men flew out.

  They had to be two of Banaghan’s boys; the likeness was unmistakable, though the father didn’t boast the same ubiquitous mullet haircut. One of them they had seen before. Eoin and Cormac, sons two and three, who hustled up to the coppers, as Eoin said, ‘Mr Vairs, you know you shouldn’t be here. You don’t have an appointment, and I suspect you don’t have a warrant, either.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, junior,’ said Vairs. ‘I just wanted a quick word with your father.’

  ‘Well, as you can see he’s not here today,’ said Eoin, beckoning them away towards the doors. ‘I’d be grateful if you left the premises.’

  ‘And if we don’t? Maybe we could wait, perhaps in his room for Liam to return.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Cormac, eager to get into the conversation, eyeballing the black fella who, he reckoned, fancied himself.

  Eoin said, ‘Look, Mr Vairs, we don’t like violence, but if you don’t leave right now, I’ll summon ten truck drivers and they will throw you out, and they are not gentle men.’

  ‘We don’t like threats, do we, Darriteau?’

  Walter thought he’d better say something.

  ‘We do not, sarge, no. Violence is taboo in all scenarios.’

  Eoin glanced at his brother and said, ‘Cormac, ring the drivers. Get them here now!’

  ‘Don’t fill your nappies, boys! I can see the main man is absent. We’ll be on our way,’ and Vairs turned about and ambled through banks of busy desks, where the inhabitants had stopped working to stare at the unwelcome ones.

  A minute later, back in the car, Vairs said, ‘Well, that was fun.’

  Walter wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think anything concrete had been achieved. No doubt one of the Banaghan boys would be onto the lawyers at that second, urging them to make an official complaint to the Chief Constable, though Walter didn’t feel it the right moment to advise Vairs of his misgivings.

  ‘What did you make of that?’ persisted Vairs.

  ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘What was impressive?’

  ‘The whole damned place. No shortage of cash there.’

  ‘Of course there’s no shortage of cash. The whole business is rotten to the core. Run by crooks for the benefit of crooks. Give me strength, Darriteau. Never be impressed by the flashing wealth of criminals.’

  Walter thought about that for a second and said, ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘We’re going to bring the whole rotten tower of shite crashing down on top of them.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that?’

  ‘By accruing evidence, Darriteau, how do you think?’

  There was another pause until Walter said, ‘I noticed one thing.’

  ‘What was that, Van der Valk?’

  ‘The pretty girl outside the principal office.’

  ‘Jeez, Darriteau! We were supposed to be looking for evidence, not sizing up potential shag-fests for the weekend!’

  ‘No, sarge, you misunderstand me.’

  ‘Go on! Enlighten me, wonder-brain.’

  ‘The wastepaper bin.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was full of rejected correspondence. Screwed up and abandoned first drafts, but more importantly, a spent typewriter ribbon.’

  Ten

  In Mandamus, Jago Wilderton stared down at the picture his father had drawn in his diary. It was a view of a tortured soul hanging from the scaffold. There was no one else present in the sketch, but the timbers had been drawn with great clarity, down to the knots in the wood.

  The hanging man’s face was a picture of agony, while his clothes looked trendy and modern, casual gear, not ancient garb. Jago Wilderton grimaced and scratched his neck.

  Walter said, ‘A strange thing to draw, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is, maybe it was just a doodle while he was thinking of other things.’

  ‘One thing that picture is not, is a doodle.’

  ‘So, Inspector, do you have any idea what it might represent?’

  ‘None at all, I was hoping you might shed some light.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting the secret society my late father was supposedly involved in was considering hanging a man?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Jago. I’ve been asked to look into this business and that is what we are doing. If there’s nothing more you can add, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘I have nothing.’

  Walter nodded and said, ‘Can I keep the diary?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  Karen took out her phone and said, ‘Is it okay if I take a photo?’ nodding at the sketch.

  ‘Sure, if you want to, though I have no idea why you would.’

  Karen didn’t wait a moment in case he changed his mind, took two quick shots, glanced at Walter, and nodded.

  He stood up and said, ‘Thanks again for your help, Jago.’

  ‘Always keen to help the police, you know that, Darriteau. Mrs French will show you out,’ and he turned away and disappeared.

  At the door, Mrs French grasped Walter’s forearm and said, ‘Could I have a quick word, Inspector?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, nodding Karen away to the car.

  ‘I don’t know if Mr Wilderton told you but I will be leaving here soon. I’ve been working for the family for almost twenty years and it’s come as quite a shock.’

  ‘I am sure it has.’

  ‘I know you are a gentleman who knows lots of people, and I hate to ask, but if you hear of anyone looking for staff, could you put a word in for me, or maybe call me?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Walter, ‘but most of the people I know are not the kind of folks you would want to meet.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, of course, but you must meet pleasant people too.’

  ‘That’s true, though not so many who can afford to employ housekeeping staff.’

  ‘Ah well, thank you, I just thought I’d ask.’

  Walter gave her a sympathetic smile, nodded and headed away to the car.

  Karen said, ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘She’s looking for a job. Getting a little desperate, by the sound of things.’

  ‘Didn’t Jago treat her rather uncaringly?’

  ‘Yes, he wasn’t that concerned, was he?’

  ‘And here was me thinking she was asking you out on a date.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Why don’t you take her on? You could do with someone to keep your place in order.’

  ‘I can’t afford a housekeeper on my pay, and even if I could...’ though he didn’t expand on that. ‘Let’s get away from here, find a quiet spot where we can talk things over.’

  Karen nodded, started the car, and headed down to a lay-by she knew by the canal, pulled in and cut the engine.

  Walter blew out hard and said, ‘The picture.’

  Karen produced it on her mobile, and said, ‘An odd thing to draw, and in such detail too.’

  ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’

  ‘Maybe Jago put his finger on it. Perhaps Torquers’ bunch of weirdos really are planning to hang someone.’

  ‘Could be, but why and where?’

  ‘Search me. But if one was planning such a thing you’d need carpentry expertise to create a scaffold like that, and where the heck would you set it up?’

  Walter said, ‘Maybe it’s not an exact representation, just the method. To hang someone all you need is a length of rope and a branch.’

  ‘Ridding vermin from the streets, you reckon?’

  ‘Could be just that.’

  ‘Brings to mind thieves and burglars, loan sharks, and drug dealers.’

  ‘Possibly. They’re the most likely.’

  ‘Did I detect a wee bit of frostiness between you and Jago?’

  ‘Not frostiness, exactly. But we have been on different sides in a few big cases. I’ve won some, and he’s won some, and you know how it is. The more contentious ones can create feelings and thoughts that are inclined to carry over, but nothing worse than that.’

  ‘Any thoughts on the Latin sounding name beginning with Q?’

  ‘I had one idea about that.’

  ‘Care to share?’

  ‘It’s pretty basic, but the Latin for fifteen is quindecim.’

  ‘That would fit. How do you know all this stuff?’

  Walter shrugged and said, ‘Random thoughts and facts accrued over far too long. The important question is, why does this thing, whatever it is, only occur every fifteen years?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe it’s a religious thing, like that passion play business.’

  ‘I don’t see any religious symbolism in that drawing.’

  ‘Well, if it’s going to happen, we have twelve days tops, to stop it.’

  ‘Yes, the clock’s ticking, but where the hell do we begin?’

  Karen had nothing concrete to offer, pulled a face and said, ‘Back to the station, Guv, and let’s see if anyone else has picked up any weird vibes.’

  Eleven

  Eamonn Banaghan was at the coffee shop early, where he lounged around for four hours. Suzanne didn’t show. He went on Wednesday and Thursday too, with the same result. Attended on the Friday, the last day, making an early start, and waited for five hours, and still nothing happened.

  But he was getting noticed. The miserable guy, moping all day, buying an occasional coffee and muffin, but not much else. It was obvious he was hoping to catch up with someone.

  Some of the staff felt sorry for him, even became a little interested, for he was quite cute. But others, the owners and management, didn’t appreciate a table being taken for hours that wasn’t earning its keep. Young love, eh? More trouble than enough.

  Eamonn glanced at his Omega watch. His backside was aching from sitting all day. He’d give her another ten minutes. If she didn’t show, he’d give up and leave. It puzzled him she hadn’t turned up because he was sure she was interested. So where the hell was she? Maybe she’d caught a dose of the winter flu that was rampaging through the borough. But even if she had, if she was interested enough, he figured she would try and stop by. No, flu wasn’t the reason, he was sure of that.

  He drained the last dregs of lukewarm coffee, and glanced at the main window to check the weather. The cold winter drizzle looked as if it had passed through. To hell with it, and with her. It was time to go. It was her loss. The main door opened and a slight figure came in, well wrapped up in a big-collared purple coat, a fine white woollen scarf cloaking her face, and a smart hat hiding her hair.

  She scanned the room. Saw him sitting in the usual seat, peering at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d arrived. Suzanne ambled over as Eamonn stood up. But she didn’t sit down, just pulled her coat tight around her and said, ‘Close your mouth, boy, you look ridiculous. I’m surprised you’re still here.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve come at all.’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘The usual?’

  Suzanne nodded in silence and sat down as he danced across the floor towards the counter. He was back in two minutes, two cappuccinos in hand. She’d undone the coat and removed the scarf and hat and looked more relaxed.

  ‘I nearly didn’t come at all, got a terrible cold.’

  He glanced into her face. Her eyes were streaming, and her nose was as red as Rudolf’s.

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Well, Banaghan, Junior, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’

  ‘I can imagine. So have I.’

  ‘If, and it’s a big if, we were to go out together, there would have to be some clearly understood and very strict rules.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more.’

  She sipped coffee as if thinking of her next sentence.

  ‘My dad would kill you if he knew, and I’m not kidding.’

  ‘I know. My dad’s just as crazy. Dads, eh? They’re all mad. So what are these rules you’ve come up with?’

  ‘First, if we ever go out, we must go to places a long way from here. I know loads of local people and I imagine you do too. We both have enormous families and we can’t take the risk of people seeing us together... and reporting back.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And if we go out once and I don’t think there’s any mileage in it, I’ll tell you, and that will be that. No appeal, and no going back. You’ve got to agree to my terms and respect my wishes.’

  ‘I’ll just have to work harder to make sure you think it could go somewhere.’

  Suzanne bobbed her head and continued.

  ‘We take everything slowly, I won’t be rushed. If you hassle me, that will be that. Over and out, kaput. Understand?’

  ‘Sure, I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

  ‘And you must never ring me at home.’

  ‘Fair enough, I don’t have your number, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure you could find it if you wanted it, but you mustn’t call. Not ever. That understood?’

  ‘Sure. I won’t call, I promise.’

  ‘And while we are seeing each other, you never go out with other women.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘It’s easy to say that, Eamonn, but I’m serious. You are a good-looking guy; there are thousands of girls who’d jump at the chance to date you.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment. It’s more of a freaking hazard.’

  ‘Whatever. And the same rules apply to you, with men?’

  ‘Sure, you don’t need to worry about that. But hear this, if you ever let me down, even once, that will be that. I’ll be gone and you
’ll be history. No second chances.’

  ‘I won’t let you down. You can count on that.’

  Her stern face moderated a touch, though her amazing smile was still absent.

  Eamonn thought it the correct moment to push a little.

  ‘So, are we going out, and if so, when, and where shall we go?’

  She sat back, took out her handkerchief and blew her nose, then shook her head as if she was struggling, looked him hard in the eye, and said through a croaky voice, ‘You can take me out to dinner, Tuesday night.’

  Eamonn smiled and said, ‘It’s a date. Where shall we meet?’

  ‘You suggest somewhere.’

  He thought about it for a second and came up with an obscure pub.

  ‘Where is it?’

  He told her the street.

  She nodded and said, ‘I’ll be there at eight. If you’re not there by five past, I’ll be gone, and so will you.’

  ‘I’ll be there. I’ll pick you up in my grey Audi Quattro.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘Don’t tell a living soul. You have no idea how important this is.’

  ‘I won’t say a word... and I do understand.’

  ‘We’ll see. Goodbye, Mr Banaghan,’ and she stood up and hurried away without looking back.

  ‘Yes!’ he said to himself, pondering on what he might wear on Tuesday, and wondering what she might wear too.

  Twelve

  The young Walter and Teddy Vairs sat in the Sierra outside Banaghan’s impressive warehouse and office complex, discussing their recent foray into the heart of Banaghan’s rotten empire.

  Vairs said, ‘You’d like to read those discarded and rejected letters, or summat?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I guess, though I don’t suppose it would tell us much.’

  ‘The ribbon’s the icing on the cake.’

  ‘I don’t get you, Darriteau. How are you going to learn anything from a discarded typewriter ribbon?’

  ‘Because it’s a carbon ribbon.’

  ‘You’ve lost me again. What’s the significance of that?’