by David Carter
‘Anything that looks odd or interesting, any trace of Shane Fellday or Jago Wilderton having been there. You know the score. It will jump out at you if it’s there.’
‘Okey-doke, leave it with me.’
After he’d gone, Karen said, ‘Did you mean what you said in the interviews about falling in love with younger women?’
Walter sighed and sat back in his chair.
‘I think that happens with lots of men, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, but it was no one closer to home, was it?’
There was a brief silence before Walter grinned and said, ‘What? Like you, you mean?’
‘Well, I just thought...’
‘No,’ said Walter, ‘it was ages ago and nothing to do with you... or anyone hereabouts.’
‘Ah, that’s all right then. I’m in the clear,’ and she grinned at him.
He picked up the phone and rang someone, anyone, he didn’t care who.
Sixty-Six
The houses of Gornall, Fisher, and Morrell were searched. The police didn’t need a warrant to do that. They could search any house if they had arrested the owner for a serious crime such as murder; so long as they believed vital evidence relating to the arrest could be inside.
At Gornall’s impressive place, they discovered a firearm, an old Beretta. Tests showed it was a working weapon, capable of killing people, and a pistol that was unlicensed and illegal. They also found copious documents relating to the Brotherhood, or an organisation grandly named, The Quindecim Society in association with the Devantic Brotherhood.
Later examination showed illegal activities including murder going back decades, though the deeper they delved into the past, the less accurate the records and history appeared to be. Someone had attempted to give it an ancient history and gravitas it didn’t merit.
They also discovered each member donated 5% of their income, and because some of those guys were long-time members and top earners, the total amount collected was substantial. George Gornall and Douglas Fisher controlled the money, the lion’s share going to gorgeous George. Subsequent investigations showed Gornall Brothers Publishing had been propped up and expanded using funds siphoned from the Brotherhood’s coffers. Another offence to join an ever-increasing list.
Of the current fifteen members, three were in custody about to be charged with murder, while the other twelve would all be arrested and charged with aiding and abetting murder, a serious offence, and that would put the Brotherhood out of business, albeit temporarily. Jago Wilderton was not among the membership. He had been telling the truth about that.
It took a while for the members to realise how serious a charge they faced. Their solicitors put them straight. The Accessories and Abettors Act of 1861 stated an accessory to an indictable offence should be treated in the same way as if they had committed the crime. The important words were: Whoever shall aid, abet, counsel, or procure the commission of any indictable offence, shall be tried, indicted, and punished as a principal offender.
Mrs West loved it, as did the team. The courtroom and the dock were bound to be crowded.
In Doug Fisher’s house they found nothing incriminating other than £5,000 in used notes, sealed in a polythene bag, hidden in an old water tank in the musty and dusty attic. When asked about it he shook his head and remained silent, which seemed pointless to the investigating officers. Keeping £5,000 in cash in any house was never a criminal offence, so long as it was obtained legally.
He appointed a fuzzy-haired woman solicitor who was determined to enjoy her five minutes of fame. She told him not to answer any questions, other than mumbling the standard “no comment”. Dopey Douglas bowed his head and did as he was told. Not that it did him any good; or her either.
The Morrell’s house proved even more barren when it came to fresh evidence, though on Greg Morrell’s phone they found twenty photos of Shane Fellday. It seemed Greg had been monitoring, tracking and photographing the man for some weeks before his violent death. Greg also had some explaining to do regarding the contents of his bag. It all added to the mountain of circumstantial incriminating evidence.
Darren found the Welsh Diviner and went inside. He enjoyed his work, took his time, and searched everywhere. There was no money or drugs onboard. But he did find strips of torn blue linen, pieces that matched the cloth they already possessed. They fitted together like a jigsaw.
As for Ciaran Webb, the police kept a close eye on his recovery progress. On the day he was discharged, and it was weeks later, after extensive and painful reconstruction surgery, he was stopped on the Countess of Chester steps, taken into custody and charged with running an illegal money-lending business. They had his phone revealing thousands of trades and hundreds of contacts. He was also charged with carrying an offensive weapon, the nasty little knife that in the wrong moment; could have killed.
The court took a dim view of his business and his weaponry, and gave him a twelve month holiday at the taxpayer’s expense. Ciaran’s Bank had made its last loan.
Away from work, Wirral Wendy turned out to be a Baptist and an impressive singer, too. She sure had the lungs for it. She persuaded Walter to accompany her one Sunday afternoon, though he wasn’t keen. He’d always considered Baptists somewhat cranky, though each to their own. Religion’s a funny thing and you criticise it at your peril. Every member of every religion, church, and sect always believe theirs was the one true path.
He continued seeing Wendy for a while, without attending church again, and he remembered that childish Walter and Wendy moniker. Her surname was Cooper; her mischievous friends called her WC, especially on their frequent nights out. Walter attended some of those too and they were decent, though he had no plans to order a tailor-made suit.
Sixty-Seven
Walter sat back in his overflowing bath. He’d chucked in the remaining bath crème from Abdul’s. It was pretty good. He’d stop by and pick up another couple of bottles if he had any left.
It was strange how things turned out, both in the Banaghan Meade business, and more recently, the Wilderton Gornall affair. Who would have believed it?
In the first, two families at war, culling and killing the next generation. One young man brutally murdered in his own apartment, a keen guy on the happiest day of his life after his girlfriend had uttered the big YES word, saying: Of course I’ll marry you, Grahame! A young couple with their whole lives before them, and all snuffed out by masculine egos demanding they be top dog, while all others should be eliminated.
And the Meade’s response? They sank to new levels of depravity when they kidnapped, murdered, and butchered one of the Banaghan girls. If that wasn’t horrific enough, they’d served up lean joints of the poor girl, tricking her family into eating it, and even feasting on it themselves.
If people in far-flung tropical islands had done such a heinous thing, imagine the outrage and disgust that would have followed. But it happened in London, and because it was so disgusting and unbelievable it was hushed up, the dining element, deemed to be too shocking for the modern minds of the 1980s. But it sure happened.
As far as Gornall, Fisher, and Morrell were concerned, it was only a matter of time before they stood in the dock in the Castle in Chester.
Lounging in that bath, Walter imagined the old judge intoning on the evilness within those members of society, taking matters into their own hands. Resorting to vigilantism could never be tolerated and would be stamped out. If the judge wasn’t minded to give each of them life in prison before the trial, he sure as heck was at its conclusion.
Haley and her brother clung onto the house, providing they could dodge the swingeing compensation claims orchestrated by Yellow Justice. The Fellday family received some money, most of it coming from the Gornall coffers, but not as much as they’d hoped.
On the other side of town, the Brotherhood went quiet, falling into a deep sleep for ten years. But one day it would revive and reform. There’s a skein of characters in society who can’t pass throu
gh life without forming clubs and cliques, where they preach to grateful participants that only members share their secrets, values, and benefits; though it might cost them cash to do so.
Walter reflected on finishing his last report on the killings of Peter Craig and Kelly Jones. He would submit it to the powers that be, confident it would be accepted. Peter Craig was restrained by red liquorice strings, another implausible fact, liquorice that contributed to his death by drowning. That would be accepted, as was his explanation for the sad and violent end of Kelly Jones.
Both cases would be removed from the unsolved murders file and transferred to the solved box, and most people would be happy about that.
That left the carbon ribbon trick. That wheeze was dead in the water. Modern firms and businesses and organisations rarely used carbon ribbons or typewriters of any kind, contenting themselves with computers and email and text messages and conference calls. But it worked well once.
There was still much work to be done. Complicated trials don’t last for weeks without huge amounts of evidence being prepared, statements taken and recorded, and made available to entitled parties. It’s a system perfected over eight hundred years, an evolving legal beast that will go on for as long as humans exist, because some humans are made that way.
Jago Wilderton was not charged with anything. How he got away with it was something of a mystery. Mrs West wasn’t keen to discuss it further, repeating her well-worn mantra: bring me solid evidence and it will be looked at again. When he was quizzed about cotdos, he denied he’d thrown it in as a red herring, repeating that the only thing he knew about it came from his father, as he had said all along. He was as puzzled by it as everyone else. Walter didn’t believe him, but couldn’t prove otherwise. He’s still fiddling with the word, trying to make something of it.
Suzanne Meade denied shooting Eamonn in the head, and his cute intact face supported that. She laughed it off, saying the witnesses must have been confused amongst the swirling smoke.
In the weeks and months that followed, Jago found many of his legal world friends becoming distant. He reckoned it would blow over and things would return to normal, though it hasn’t happened.
One of Walter’s greatest attributes was his memory, and he would remember everything about Jago’s involvement, particularly the lies he told about not knowing Kelly Jones at all, and not being present when she died. If he could lie about that, what else had he lied about?
Jago Wilderton kept his record of never being charged with a criminal offence, but there’s still time.
The detailed work perfecting thousands of pages of evidence continued. But interrupting those vital tasks, the polishing, honing, and double-checking of every fact, before anyone stepped near the courtroom, the following day something major arrived to interfere with the whole process.
Karen started it off as she hurried back to her desk.
‘Tell me all the hot news,’ she said; her eyes wide, her breath short, her face a picture.
Walter’s tired eyes left the screen, his brow furrowed, as he replied, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what? What are you blathering on about?’
‘There’s a fresh case up for allocation, and a big one too, judging by the hushed tones and closed doors and grave faces and whispered conversations.’
‘Get to the point, sergeant. Tell me what you know!’
‘I don’t know much at all, Guv,’ said Karen in a rush, ‘that’s why I asked you. But the word going round is hands, or hand.’
‘Hands?’ said Walter, ordering his blood pressure to remain becalmed. ‘What about hands?’
‘No, it was definitely singular,’ she clarified, ‘one hand. Hand!’
‘For heaven’s sake!’
‘That’s all I know, Guv. Honest! Lots of talk about a missing hand.’
Walter grunted, sighed big, and reached under the desk to do up his shoes. A missing hand could mean another murder, and murders were his business, and at his age, there might not be too many more.
Whose hand was it? Where was the hand? How had it been removed? How old, both the person’s age, and the time elapsed since removal? He was hooked. He stood up and sniffed and turned his body towards Mrs West’s office door, before setting off in pursuit of information, and who knows, maybe a missing hand, before anyone else landed the case.
Karen’s voice trailed after him, ‘Good luck with that, Guv.’
Walter snorted and limped away.
Author’s Notes
Thank you for buying and reading my book and I hope you enjoyed it. As always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. I’d love it if you would place a brief review on any of the main bookselling sites. That would be very kind, and it does help me.
We independent authors need all the help we can get.
As I always say, next year there will be another Inspector Walter Darriteau story coming along; and I hope that will be the case this year.
In the meantime, don’t have nightmares, and do have lots of fun.
Best wishes to you wherever you may be,
David.
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Did you love Falling? Then you should read Old Cold Bones by David Carter!
There's evil in all of us – even you!
All it needs is the correct circumstances and the evil oozes out.
Inspector Walter Darriteau has been fighting evil all his working life. He may be nearing retirement but the fight goes on.
"Old Cold Bones" introduces the reader to characters they will never forget.
Clive Lilley's an old lag whose best days are behind him. So why is he calling Walter, telling him about a forthcoming robbery, though he has no idea where or when, or who's involved.
Over at the Chester city antique auctions a priceless Ming Vase has gone under the hammer, but that brings a whole load of trouble.
Madeleine Martello has lived a fractious life. She's an opinionated independent woman who won't suffer fools or authority. So what's her story and where does she fit into all of this?
And a young man goes missing though no one seems concerned about it, except maybe Walter.
Four baffling strands that keep Walter and the team thinking and dreaming and working until they're exhausted. Will it be enough? "Old Cold Bones" will tell you.
There's evil in all of us – even you.
Can you keep it under control, and more to the point, do you want to?
This is the eighth standalone Walter Darriteau murder thriller. It's a chunky novel too, running to more than 500 pages, an ideal summer read for your slow down holiday, or equally at home for long winter nights, or when you might be housebound – which you could be!
Read more at David Carter’s site.
Also by David Carter
Grist Vergette's Curious Clock
The Inconvenient Unborn
The Death Broker
The Bunny and the Bear - A Cold and Frosty Winter
Falling
Watch for more at David Carter’s site.
About the Author
David Carter lives in the south of England and has written more than 20 books including a series of murder/mysteries featuring his detective Inspector Walter Darriteau based in Chester, Merseyside, Liverpool, and North Wales.
If you’re interested in this genre look out for The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over, The Sound of Sirens, The Twelfth Apostle and Kissing a Killer, aIl featuring Walter Darriteau.
David has also written a male equivalent chicklit novel dubbed “manlit” by some. The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene features a character who doesn’t treat women well and it comes back to haun
t him.
Margaret Henderson Smith, a seasoned writer in her own right, wrote about Gringo Greene:
In its easy style it simply bounces along, every page sheer entertainment, compulsively turned, but at the same time I found myself grateful for the sheer length of this chunky, fun-filled book because I never wanted to reach the end. I feel sure readers will be hankering after a sequel, or a prequel as Carter puts it and I hope the author will oblige.
From the start, the reader readily engages with the characters, the context, the setting, the story. With its low-key running plot gradually stepping up as the story progresses, Carter has the balance just right for he allows no distraction from each of Gringo’s lover’s own tales. This has got to be one of the most fascinating books I've ever read, for Carter has the knack of placing the reader in the thick of it. One is hardly aware one is reading, the experience of interacting with the characters is strangely powerful, and I read this with the ease of watching a film. I congratulate the author on this work for it takes a very clever author to be able to hold the reader’s fascination continuously in this way. He has created a superb male `slick-lit’ character in Gringo Greene and the work has much to commend it. Within its genre, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read and it goes without saying I highly recommend it.
David’s aim is to release one full-length novel every year, though two would be nice! There’s a much-requested sequel to Gringo Greene in the offing, time permitting. Read more on David’s books and see lots of reviews at: www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk
And you can get in touch and follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke.
