Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  ‘Even if it happened that way, I don’t know what you expect me to say. It’s all news to me. I find the suggestion astonishing that you think my father went round murdering people, and I don’t see any evidence of it.’

  ‘Most of the evidence is circumstantial, I’ll give you that.’

  Jago took that as a small win, as if he were in court, and said, ‘But really, Darriteau, dad is dead. I don’t believe he was involved in murderous conspiracies, but if he was, it’s all in the past, and about to be buried.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. Though I am a burrowing terrier when I only know so much.’

  Jago grinned and said, ‘I’ve heard that about you, Darriteau. But there’s no one alive to be taken to court, and it must end there.’

  ‘You might think that, but intelligence suggests that on the fifteen year cycle, another murder is scheduled about now, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. That’s what keeps us hard at it, and anyone would do the same if they believed a shred of evidence or intelligence could save someone’s life.’

  Jago spread his hands to either side, and said, ‘I agree with that. I wish I could help, Darriteau, but I can’t.’

  Walter sighed and sat back in his chair.

  Mrs French reappeared with coffee and cholesterol packed crunchies. She set them on the table and glanced at Jago. He smiled across at Karen and said, ‘Would you mind doing the honours?’

  Karen nodded and said, ‘Sure.’

  Mrs French took her cue and turned and began heading away.

  ‘Actually,’ said Walter, ‘I’d like Mrs French to stay.’

  She paused, thinking he might have found her a job interview, and glanced at Jago for permission to remain.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, shaking his head; and Mrs French slid onto the sofa beside Walter.

  Karen paused and passed round choco-bicks, before pouring coffee, asking Mrs French if she’d like one, though they’d be a cup light.

  ‘I’ve just had one,’ she said, grinning. ‘Cook always likes to test the merchandise before delivering to table. But I’ll have a biscuit if that’s okay, Mr Wilderton?’

  He blew out heavy as if he’d never heard the like, nodded her on, saying, ‘Sure, join the party.’

  After biscuits were crunched and excellent coffee sipped and savoured, Walter said, ‘Now, Mrs French, what can you tell us about the missing diaries from fifteen and thirty years ago?’

  ‘Me?’ she said, the biscuit on its way to her thin-lipped mouth. ‘What would I know?’

  ‘Maybe out of misplaced loyalty, and after seeing the sketch in this year’s book, you took it on yourself to find the two missing volumes, and were shocked at what you saw, and hid them.’

  She dropped the biscuit.

  ‘Me? Don’t be daft. Is this because I asked you if you could find me a job? Is that why you are ganging up on me?’

  ‘We’re not ganging up on you, Mrs French; we’re trying to save someone getting murdered by this out of control and evil secret society.’

  ‘I know nothing about that!’

  ‘I think you know a little, and I also know that if you know something, however small, and someone gets murdered because you failed to tell us, you could be charged as an accessory to murder. I wouldn’t want to do that, but I would, and I urge you to do the right thing before it’s too late.’

  ‘You’re mad. Mental! I’ve given this family untold service over many years and this is the thanks I get?’ she said, glancing doe-eyed at Jago.

  Walter continued.

  ‘Where did you hide the diaries, Mrs French, in the kitchen area, are they?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t have them!’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we,’ said Walter, standing up. ‘This way is it?’ pointing towards the kitchen.

  ‘But you can’t go rooting through my things!’

  ‘Oh, but I think we can.’

  Jago said, ‘Do you have the diaries, Mrs French? Come on, old girl, we all make silly mistakes sometimes. It’s time to come clean, set things straight, eh?’

  She stood up. Went to speak, but didn’t, and glanced round the room at each of them in turn, before pointing towards the kitchen. She paused and tried to say something, and this time words appeared.

  ‘I didn’t mean any harm by it. Mr Wilderton Senior was always good to me. I didn’t think it fair that people besmirch his reputation. He was an old-fashioned gent, and there are precious few of those about these days. Oh, he was mouthy sometimes, yes occasionally couldn’t keep his hands to himself, but I can’t believe he ever harmed a living soul.’

  Walter widened his eyes and said, ‘Where are they, Mrs French?’

  She pulled a handkerchief from her pinny and began dabbing her eyes. Tears were close, though they didn’t appear.

  ‘Scullery,’ she mumbled, and began moving that way.

  Walter nodded Karen to go with her.

  Jago said, ‘I don’t know what to say, Darriteau. I can only apologise. I’d never have dreamt that she would do such a stupid thing.’

  A minute later they returned, Karen carrying two page-a-day diaries, the missing ones from fifteen and thirty years before. She handed the thirty year one to Walter. He flipped it open. Jago came round for a better look, shaking his head, wondering what the hell they might reveal.

  Karen sat down and opened the fifteen. Searched through six pages from around the same time of year, glanced across at the Guv, caught his eye, and nodded. He nodded back. The pages from fifteen and thirty years before made interesting viewing.

  Thirty-Eight

  The morning after the chess club fiasco, Walter was at his desk earlier than usual. He’d been practising his lines and report throughout the night. But no matter how he phrased it, he knew it sounded dreadful.

  Vairs arrived early too, keen to hear of his great success. It took Walter less than a minute to destroy his dreams.

  ‘Are you telling me that pretty little girl is a lesbian?’

  ‘That’s what she says.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. She’s having you on.’

  ‘No, sarge. There was something in her eyes that told me she wasn’t interested in men. You know how it is when you hear something and you instinctively know it’s the truth. It was there, in spades. She meant it, all right.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not a case that she didn’t fancy you, or you simply failed to charm her?’

  ‘No sarge, it wasn’t that.’

  ‘The top brass ain’t gonna like it.’

  ‘Can’t be helped, sarge. It is as it is.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Well, go on! I wanna know everything.’

  ‘Okay, but you won’t like that either.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  ‘She said it was a put-up job, pumping her for info, a plan created and instigated by you, and we should have known better. She said she had an IQ of 141, and that was probably greater than yours and mine put together.’

  Walter thought it tactful to omit her more colourful thoughts on Sergeant Vairs.

  ‘Cheeky mare! Is that high? A 141?’

  ‘Genius level.’

  ‘Shit! I have no idea what mine is.’

  ‘Not many people do. Don’t worry about it. She said if her father knew what had happened, he would go crazy and make an official complaint.’

  ‘She’s not going to do that, is she? Tell her dad.’

  ‘She said she wouldn’t on condition I never went near the club again,’ and Walter recalled leaving the Athenaeum, as Horace Pilley accosted him.

  ‘Enjoy yourself?’ said Horace.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Three losses out of three. Two were close, one a thrashing.’

  ‘Thrashed by Caroline, was it?’

  Walter nodded.

  ‘You’re not alone there; I can assure you. But never mind, that’s a usual score for newcomers, zero from
three. The standard here is high. I can lend you a few books if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll need more than that.’

  There was a momentary silence before Pilley said, ‘We don’t give refunds, you know.’

  Walter smiled and said, ‘I’m not asking for one.’

  Pilley nodded and said, ‘Ah, okay, well done. You have to try these things. Good luck to you,’ and he turned and hustled away.

  In the nick, Walter glanced across at Vairs. His mind seemed to be churning over on something, maybe conjuring up another of his weird off-the-wall plans he was known for.

  Vairs said, ‘If you stay away, do you think she’ll keep quiet?’

  Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘Every chance.’

  ‘That’s something, I guess.’

  The phone before him burbled.

  Vairs snatched it up.

  Walter heard him say, ‘Yes sir, he’s here now. Certainly, sir,’ and the phone went down. ‘The Chief Super wants to see you.’

  Walter bit his lip, stood up and mumbled, ‘Great.’

  Vairs said, ‘It might be prudent not to mention anything about a possible complaint from Meade.’

  ‘Sure, sarge, let’s hope Meade doesn’t make one,’ and he ambled away down the corridor.

  He was away for half an hour. Vairs wanted to know everything said. Walter coughed it up, though there was nothing he and Vairs hadn’t discussed before. Vairs went quiet, wondering if he’d get the blame for sending the young Darriteau out to do a job he proved incapable of doing.

  To make matters worse, the Whitstable and Sandwich drug running case collapsed that morning on a tiny technicality, and that didn’t go down well either, and there were bound to be recriminations.

  As she often did, Stella Hollyoak broke the morose feeling in the room, her early morning smile a tonic on a big down day.

  ‘Look at this lot,’ she said, smirking and delivering three black bin bags of collected rubbish from the Meade and Banaghan empires. ‘Someone’s going to be busy,’ as she dropped them at the side of Walter’s desk.

  Vairs returned to the present. He glanced at Stella. She looked better than ever.

  ‘What are you doing this morning?’ he said, ‘hoping to rope her into the paper chase search.

  ‘I am off out to the local junior schools across the borough. The little darlings have started stealing apples and oranges from the local fruit and veg shops, supermarkets, that kind of thing. They have pillaged some of them, and my job is to warn the kids about it, and advise them they could end up in prison if they persist along that fruity road. Frighten them, if need be, I’ve been told. Hey ho, big time crime, eh? It’s what I joined the force for.’

  ‘It’s true, you can be bloody frightening,’ muttered Vairs, looking her up and down.

  ‘Thanks, sarge, I’ll take that as a compliment,’ and she grinned at Walter and hurried away to find her coat, for it was mighty cold out.

  ‘Well?’ said Vairs. ‘What are you waiting for?’ nodding at the bags.

  Walter sighed and grabbed the first one and tore it open. He did a quick search, seeking spent ribbons. It was there he knew treasure might be found. But the only ribbon present was a useless old-fashioned smudgy thing, a worn out devil that would never reveal any secrets.

  The second bag was worse. No ribbon at all. But he found several well-used sheets of carbon paper, though it was impossible to read anything when held to the light.

  But the third bag provided black gold. At the bottom, he found a carbon ribbon. For a moment he thought it had been discarded, unused. Maybe they thought it was a faulty one and had jettisoned it before it got near the machine. It looked pristine. But when Walter eased it open, he found it was spent from start to finish. He glanced back at the paperwork to check where it had come from. As he hoped, it was another Banaghan piece, and he recalled that smart, dismissive girl working hard outside the boss’s office.

  Walter exhaled and looked across the desks. Vairs had gone out to see, in his words, ‘The best snout a man ever had, and he’ll only talk to me if I am alone,’ and Walter wondered if that was true about seeing an informer. Or was it bravado, trying to inject a positive note into an awful day. Perhaps the man needed some fresh air. Either way, Walter was happy to see his berth vacant, for he could get on with things without hindrance, or be roped into another of his ludicrous schemes, and that was how he liked it.

  Walter’s feet ached, and he had no idea why. Before he started on the ribbon, he reached below the desk, undid his shoes, and the aching subsided.

  He transcribed the lettering into usable and readable letters, notes and reports, and there amongst it was a quick and juicy love letter, no doubt dashed off in quick time in the lunch hour, to some guy called Sexy Simon. He was a lucky man, if this was to be believed. She was busy fixing up a date for Saturday night, with colourful promises and hints as to what she might wear. Walter smirked and continued down the ribbon, and within an hour, he came across something quite different.

  Thirty-Nine

  In Chester, Walter knew Mrs West wanted an update on the secret society scam, a weird inquiry her husband had instigated. Walter had made progress, but not sufficient, and another death was due, if the intel was to be believed.

  Right on cue his phone burbled to life. The dreaded summons, and he reached beneath the desk, fastened his shoes, glanced a resigned look at Karen, and ambled towards her office where he went inside, closed the door, and sat down.

  ‘I put you onto all this, didn’t I,’ she said, which seemed a superfluous comment to Walter. What did she want? A gold star?

  ‘You did, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, where are we up to?’

  Walter sat back and sighed.

  ‘Try not to sound quite so bored!’

  ‘No, ma’am, I’m not bored, just a little frustrated we haven’t made as much headway as I would have liked.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He told her of the two missing diaries Mrs French had hidden, diaries that included two more detailed, if small sketches. The first from thirty years ago showed a small fishing smack on the high seas, a man at the stern in turned down wellington boots, chunky jumper, and a bobble hat. He was grasping the ship’s wheel, looking content, a quarter moon in the background. At the bows, another man had jumped overboard, or maybe he’d been pushed, in mid air, about to clash with the angry sea.

  ‘God!’ she said, staring at the pic, ‘that’s too realistic for comfort.’

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  ‘And the second one?’

  Walter found the pic on his phone and passed it over.

  It wasn’t as detailed but by the same hand, and it showed two shadowy men working hard in woodland, digging what appeared to be a grave, a large rolled-up piece of cloth set to one side.

  ‘So the person who drew these sketches knew what happened to Peter Craig and Kelly Jones.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter, ‘looks that way, and that was the late Torquil Wilderton, former king legal eagle of this parish. There are other non related drawings in the diaries drawn by him in the same style. But the real question is, did he draw them before or after the events?’

  ‘I think before.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because he did another one for this year, and so far we haven’t unearthed a matching suspicious death.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the gallows,’ she said, sitting back in her seat, sucking her pen. ‘So if he knew before the events he was either party to what happened, or carried out the killings himself.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The current hanging catastrophe might already have happened and we haven’t discovered it yet.’

  ‘Possibly, ma’am, but I don’t think so. If they stick to schedule, and they seem sticklers for punctuality, the hanging is scheduled to happen today or tomorrow.’

  ‘So we’re expecting it to happen?’

  Walte
r bobbed his head and said, ‘Put it this way, no one would be surprised if such a thing turned up.’

  ‘But it could happen anywhere, and at any time.’

  ‘Correct again, but we don’t have any more to go on than that.’

  Mrs West sighed and said, ‘It’s a bugger. What about the cotdos thing?’

  ‘Ah yes, that has been testing my mind. Wilderton Junior, who is older than me, Jago of this parish, rang me out of the blue, and mentioned that his father said he was up to his neck in the cotdos business, and couldn’t talk. But Torquil didn’t elaborate, and Jago insists he knows nothing more than that.’

  ‘You think it’s an acronym?’

  ‘We think that’s likely because we can’t find anything anywhere about cotdos or kotdos or cottdos or kottdos, or anything close.’

  ‘So if it’s an acronym, what does it mean?’

  ‘Now there you have me. Karen suggested the dos part could be disk operating system, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Surely the C is Chester?’

  ‘Likely, ma’am, but I have been lying awake playing around with the letters, but nothing sensible comes spewing forth. Chester, what? You know more about these societies than I do. Have you any suggestions?’

  ‘I don’t belong to any weird societies or groups!’

  ‘No, I realise that, ma’am. But your contacts and experience in this area are deeper than mine.’

  ‘You don’t need to beat about the bush, Walter. We both know you are talking about my husband.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, does he have any ideas?’

  ‘I asked him, but he came back blank, though to be honest, Walter, that is not unusual.’

  He thought that an appropriate moment to laugh gently, though if she noticed he couldn’t tell. She was busy experimenting with cotdos.

  ‘Chester organisation that does ’orrible shit!’

  ‘Mmm... you might be nearer there than you think.’

  ‘Chester organisation to deliver our souls.’

  ‘Closer, I suspect. But I wondered if the first word could be “cleanse”.’