The Missing Man: An Inspector Walter Darriteau Novella (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 9)

by David Carter

  ‘The press tagged it the Robin Hood murder.’

  ‘I’d have thought William Tell more appropriate. Don’t think Robin Hood used a crossbow.’

  ‘Well whatever, but if Eddie Fratelli was involved in the Jack Woodhams killing, if indeed Jack Woodhams was murdered, it all ends here because both Trevor Tapscott and Eddie Fratelli are dead.’

  Walter and Karen shared a look across the desks.

  He said, ‘Thanks, Jen, I’ll get back to you if I need anything else.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, nodding a fast nod, ‘sorry, Guv.’

  ‘Not your fault, well done,’ and Jenny turned about and hurried away.

  Karen said, ‘Looks like that could be it, unless you can persuade Mrs West to dig up the flyover. Failing that, Susan Woodhams is in the clear.’

  ‘Looks that way. Bugs me though that someone confesses to a murder and then walks away with a smirk on her face.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to ring Harry Cameron,’ and he picked up the phone. ‘Give him the news that any investigation into a murder on his watch has stalled and died.’

  ‘He might be happy to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, he might.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Walter searched in his diary for the Cameron’s number. Found it straightaway. Poked in the digits. The phone rang four times, and Barbara answered.

  ‘Good morning, Barbara, is Harry about?’

  ‘Hello, Walter, nice to hear your voice. All that cake gone?’

  ‘Long since.’

  ‘Nice, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nice doesn’t do it justice.’

  Barbara giggled and said, ‘Just a sec, I’ll get him for you.’

  A moment later Harry’s voice boomed through.

  ‘Morning, my man. Have you solved my murder yet?’

  ‘Not quite, Harry,’ said Walter, and he told him about Trevor Tapscott meeting his grisly end on the M53, and of how they’d tracked down his associate, Eddie Fratelli, and of his violent death when mixed up in gang wars in nearby Liverpool.

  ‘Crikey, you have been a busy man.’

  Barbara said to Harry, ‘Ask them... ask him!’

  ‘Just a minute, Walter, Barbara’s cackling away about something.’

  Walter listened hard. He imagined Harry with his hand over the phone so Walter couldn’t hear, but he heard well enough.

  Harry whispered, ‘I’m talking to Walter about a murder!’ trying hard to keep irritation from his voice.

  ‘I know that, but ask him anyway.’

  ‘They won’t want to...’

  Walter grinned and said, ‘What is it Harry, what are you supposed to ask me?’

  ‘Oh, it’s something and nothing, Walter. She wants to know if you and Karen would like to come for Sunday lunch. She likes to put on a big Sunday roast. Bring your partners too, that kind of thing... unless Karen is your partner.’

  ‘Nothing like that, Harry, we’re just hardworking colleagues.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but one can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Thanks for the invite, Harry. I’ll get back to you on that. Must check duties and what’s in the diary. You know how it is. See what Karen’s up to, as well.’

  ‘Of course, any time. But back to business. It’s a pity about the other thing. I can’t say as I’m happy that you could have unearthed a murder on my watch, but the notion that someone might have got away with it sticks in the craw.’

  ‘Precisely, Harry. That’s the main reason we have taken it as far as we have.’

  ‘Well, thanks for ringing, let me know about Sunday.’

  ‘Not a problem, I’ll confirm one way or the other, and regards to Barbara,’ and the phones went down.

  Karen said, ‘What was that about?’

  ‘They’ve invited us to Sunday lunch.’

  ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘Nope, bring a partner too.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘And which of your legions of admirers are you considering taking?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. What about you?’

  ‘My first reaction is to say no thanks, but I really liked Barbara. I might take them up on it.’

  ‘I don’t think it would do any harm. Maybe he might remember something else. Who would you take?’

  ‘David, probably.’

  ‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten about him. Let me know one way or the other tomorrow morning and I’ll ring Harry.’

  Karen nodded and took a green apple from her bag and began gnawing with her amazing teeth.

  Three hours later Harry rang back.

  Walter said, ‘We haven’t decided yet, Harry, I’ll call you back in the morning.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m ringing, Walter. I’ve been thinking about what you said. The name Eddie Fratelli was rumbling round my brain. About ten minutes ago it came back to me.’

  ‘What did, Harry?’

  ‘Eddie had a cousin. His name was Paul Fratelli, though Eddie liked to call him Paulo or Pauli, though I don’t think Paul ever referred to himself that way. From what I remember he did hang round with Eddie and Trevor, though not much. It was as if he didn’t want to be involved.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Anyway, he was younger than Eddie and he’s probably still about. He might be able to tell you something about Eddie and Trevor.’

  ‘You could be right. I wonder if he still lives in the city.’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure you’ll be able to dig something up.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry. I’ll look into it. I’ll update you when I ring in the morning.’

  ‘Cheers, Walter, be lucky,’ and Harry cut off.

  Walter glanced at Karen.

  ‘Get the gist of that?’

  ‘Yes, Eddie had a cousin. Do you want me to check it out?’

  ‘No, I think Jenny deserves a quick go at it, seeing as she’s done the others,’ and he stood up and ambled over to tell her about Paul.

  She was back in less than half an hour.

  ‘At last,’ she said, ‘someone still with us. According to the records Paul Fratelli is alive. He’s fifty-one and lives in Overleigh Road, Handbridge, close to the tall-steepled church.’

  ‘There are some beautiful old houses over there,’ said Karen, ‘and some of them are massive.’

  Walter said, ‘Is he known to us?’

  Jenny glanced at her printout.

  ‘Not really, few traffic things, all minor.’

  ‘Thanks, Jen,’ said Walter, taking the paperwork from her, as she nodded and smiled and skipped away.

  Karen said, ‘You think Paul Fratelli will be able to tell us what happened to Jack Woodhams?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it must be worth a try.’

  ‘If he’s fifty-one, chances are he’ll be at work. Maybe we should go visit after six.’

  Walter glanced through the window. Watery April sunshine stared back.

  ‘You’re probably right. But it’s a lovely day, and maybe there’s a chatty wife at home who might tell us something interesting before she realises how important it is. Come on, no time like the present.’

  Karen grinned and stood up and said, ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a cunning man.’

  ‘Yes, often, and many far worse things too.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  They found the house easy enough, three doors from the tall spired church. Edwardian, or maybe Victorian. Three stories, not including the basement, small front garden with a pull-in for an average car, a royal blue Cayton Cerisa waiting to be backed out. Walter felt the bonnet. Cold. Hadn’t been moved in a while.

  Karen thought it was a “very” house. Very tall, very sharp-pointed gable, very long windows top to toe; very dark brickwork, very desirable, being two minutes walk across the river to town, and very expensive.

  It
wasn’t detached but joined to its neighbour, and Karen guessed that once inside you’d never know due to the thickness of its walls. The city builders hadn’t skimped back in the day. It was scary looking too, and wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of a Stephen King novel in some fancy shade of dark purple, with a curly moon smirking in the background.

  Walter ambled up the path, found the white bell push to the right of the impressive door, and pressed. They could hear the bell inside. Loud too, one long continuous clatter that should bring the owner of the Cayton running to see who was calling. And it did. A minute later, a slim man ran down four flights of stairs and opened up with a flourish.

  Both officers took everything in. Under six foot, skinny, slim, wiry, call it what you like, but fit for a fifty-one-year-old. Clean shaven, recently done, a sharp Cologne aroma seeping from the building onto the street. Full head of wavy dark brown hair, greying at the temples, but cut short. Had the look of a man who spent a lot of time in the barber’s chair. Walter imagined him relaxing beneath the revolving red and white pole, gossiping with a long-time friend.

  Angular face, maybe Mediterranean heritage... like an Italian. It all made sense, odds on this was Paul Fratelli, cousin of the late Eddie Fratelli, a man wanted in connection with the possible murder of Jack Woodhams. Except it was too late. Eddie was dead, killed in inter-gang violence. What goes around comes around. Could this smart smiling guy be involved with organised crime and gangs too? Rule nothing out.

  Karen said, ‘Are you Paul Fratelli?’

  The man half smiled, and took a moment out before answering.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘We’re pol...’ but before she could complete the sentence he interrupted.

  ‘I know, you’re police. I recognise the gentleman’s face, though I can’t imagine why you are here.’

  Karen finished the introductions as Walter said, ‘We’d like a chat about your late cousin, Edward Fratelli.’

  ‘I thought you might. But that was years ago. I’m not involved in the motor trade, and I have no connection with any people Eddie and Trevor mixed with back in the day.’

  ‘That may be true,’ said Walter, ‘but you might be able to help us with something else. We’d appreciate ten minutes of your time.’

  Mr Fratelli pursed his lips, made up his mind, held the door wide open, and said, ‘You’d better come in. Whatever it is you want to discuss, I’d like to get it finished and done with.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Walter, stepping into the colourful Victorian tiled hallway, Karen following him in.

  ‘You’d better come up to my office, but I hope you’re fit. It’s forty steps to the top.’

  ‘Lead on,’ said Walter, and they began their climb up the emerald-green carpeted stairs.

  His spacious office was at the front of the house and looked out across lower buildings opposite. Beyond the disused mismatched chimneys was a glimpse of the river, the sunlight reflecting back like molten gold. Karen figured they were standing in the gable. She glanced round the square room. There was a large old style desk set in the centre, big black leather chair behind, smaller red chair in front, and a white cricket stool to one side, covered in books.

  Along the wall behind the black chair was an enormous antique bookcase holding maybe a hundred books, framed photos, a pair of neat speakers, and various other bits and pieces that adorn man caves across the nation. Paul removed the books from the stool, set them on the floor in the corner, and beckoned them to sit.

  Walter and Karen sat down. Paul did too, looking comfortable in the big seat. On the desk was a modern computer with a big thin screen, plus an open laptop, with various pens, books, and papers covering every square millimetre of timber.

  ‘Are you a writer?’ asked Karen.

  Full marks for observation was the instant thought that flashed through Paul’s mind, but he kept that to himself and nodded and said, ‘Yes, I try.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Walter, ‘you write gory murder mystery thrillers based in Chester?’

  Paul grinned and said, ‘Ah no, you couldn’t be further from the truth. I write historical biographies. My current project is about Garibaldi and the unification of Italy.’

  Walter smirked and said, ‘Giuseppe Garibaldi, 1807 to 1882.’

  Paul bobbed his head, smiled and said, ‘Correct, I’m impressed.’

  ‘A charismatic man, I’d like to have met him, and I’d like to read your book.’

  ‘An inspirational man to many. The book should be out next year and I hope you do read it. But I’m sure you didn’t come visiting to discuss Italian history.’

  ‘No,’ said Walter, ‘You’re right. It’s Edward Fratelli we want to talk about.’

  ‘Thought it might be. Fire away. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Certain information suggests that Trevor Tapscott and Eddie Fratelli conspired together to murder another man named Jack Woodhams.’

  Paul clasped his small hands in front of his chest, but didn’t comment.

  Walter continued.

  ‘We want to put this business to bed; leave you in peace and move on to more pressing matters.’

  He still didn’t speak. Seemed to be weighing up his answer.

  Karen said, ‘Have you heard the name Jack Woodhams?’

  ‘I’m thinking that maybe I should have a solicitor present.’

  Walter breathed in heavy and out again and said, ‘That’s for you, but this is a friendly chat off the record. We’re here because you may be able to help us close the file, nothing else.’

  ‘And if I help you, will you go away and not return?’

  ‘Yes, so long as you haven’t committed any crime.’

  ‘I can assure you, I have not.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to worry about,’ said Karen. ‘Jack Woodhams, did you ever meet him?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘That’s a somewhat strange answer,’ said Walter, ‘either you did or you didn’t.’

  Paul leaned back in his chair and said, ‘They came here one evening, not Woodhams, Tapscott and Eddie. They were both real excited about something. Jumpy, which they often were, but hyper-jumpy, if you can picture that.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Walter.

  ‘They asked for double scotches, said they needed them to calm themselves down.’

  ‘And you obliged?’

  ‘Eddie wasn’t the kind of person to argue with.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the house were they?’

  ‘Not sure of the relevance of that, but they were in the front drawing room, downstairs.’

  ‘And you went and fetched two whiskies?’ said Karen.

  ‘I did.’

  Walter said, ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Eddie asked me, correction, told me, to leave the room. Said he had something important, something confidential he wanted to discuss with Tapscott.’

  ‘And you left them alone in your own house?’ said Karen.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you have no idea what they talked about?’ said Walter.

  ‘I didn’t say that...’ said Paul, smirking, as if he knew a lot more. ‘I could hear them talking through the door, but muffled voices, annoyingly loud but you can’t quite make out the words, all kind of blurred.’

  ‘You listened at the door?’ said Karen.

  ‘I did, for my sins; had to press my ear hard to the polished timber.’

  ‘And?’ said Walter.

  ‘I didn’t like what they were saying.’

  ‘We’ve come this far,’ said Walter, ‘we might as well see it through to the end.’

  Paul sighed hard and nodded and said, ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘Tell us what they said.’

  ‘There were raised voices; it helped me to hear snatches. Sometimes they were both talking at once, even shouting. They were real angry; the scotch hadn’t calmed them one bit.’

  Walter said, ‘Content, Mr Fratelli, content. What did they say?’
<
br />   For a moment, Karen thought the man was about to clam up. But he didn’t.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paul Fratelli scratched his neat nose, and again high on his cheek beneath his clipped sideburns, as if he were thinking whether he should continue. After some consideration, he did.

  ‘I didn’t like Trevor Tapscott, and I didn’t much like my cousin, either. But blood’s thicker than water. If it had been Tapscott by himself, I wouldn’t have given him house room. But it isn’t easy to turn your back on family.’

  Walter said, ‘Tell us what they said and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘This conversation took place many years ago.’

  Karen said, ‘We know that. Are you saying you don’t remember?’

  ‘No, just the opposite. I remember every word, and you would too if people were in your house discussing killing someone.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Walter. ‘As best you can.’

  ‘It went something like this: Trevor Tapscott said: We’re getting paid anyway, we don’t need to kill him.’

  ‘Eddie said: Of course we have to kill him. We’ve agreed to do it. If we don’t do the business, he’ll go home to his wife.’

  ‘I’m not happy about it, Ed. Frightening people is one thing, murdering a human being is something else.’

  ‘You didn’t say that when you took the woman’s deposit!’

  ‘That’s different. I couldn’t resist a pile of cash being flashed before my eyes.’

  ‘If we kill Woodhams, as we agreed to, it’ll do our reputation the world of good. We’ll no longer be considered losers and wasters and no-marks and fourth division. It’ll get round. We’ll become feared. People will look up to us. It’ll push us into a different league. Come on, Trev, you’ve got to step up to the plate. This is our big opportunity.’

  ‘It will get round, you’re right, and back to the Old Bill, and they’ll come looking. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life in Hornby Road nick.’

  ‘What do you want to do, then? Give her the money back? Admit we are freaking useless?’

  ‘No, of course not. Maybe we could persuade this guy to leave the area, better still, leave the country.’