Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  Walter was there, as was Mrs West, and the close-knit members of the team, three of them looking like walking wounded. Darren’s neck-brace was still on, and would be for a couple of weeks yet. Jenny’s arm was in a sling, though it was the fingers that were damaged and mending, while Karen had downsized the plaster on her nose and cheek, as the cut slowly healed and vanished. They’d all receive bravery commendations, especially Jenny, and well deserved they were too.

  In truth, it wasn’t a funeral at all.

  There were no limousines and no service and no programme, and no favourite songs and no prayers and no happy memories of a cherished person, now departed, not even a vicar mumbling words. The Chief Constable had suggested the ashes be sprinkled over the lawned garden anonymously, and the sooner the better, and with as little fuss as possible, and that explained the time, and the place.

  None of the team wanted that, no one there at all, hence their attendance. They stood in a short line on the path overlooking the grey frosted lawn, Walter, Darren, Karen, Jenny, and Mrs West, Walter holding before him a small urn of ashes. Feminine footsteps could be heard approaching, echoing along the path in the cold still air, and that set the rooks off again.

  The humans turned to look.

  Corla Revelation nodded a slight morning greeting as she approached. She looked smart too, in a good quality long black coat, black hat set at a jaunty angle, and matching shiny shoes.

  ‘Who the hell told her the time and date?’ muttered an irritated Mrs West.

  ‘Not me,’ said Walter.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Jenny.

  ‘As if,’ said Karen.

  Darren snorted and shook his head.

  ‘Hello, Corla,’ said Walter, as she joined them. ‘How did you know the time and place?’

  ‘Really, Walter. Do you still doubt my powers and gifts?’

  ‘You mean, you saw the time and place in your mind?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I? What more proof do you need?’

  She smiled gently up at Walter and took her place beside him.

  Mrs West had no time for such nonsense.

  She said, ‘Top brass have suggested no service and no prayers for the deceased for the shame he brought on the Force. I suggest a minute’s silence for contemplation and reflection. After that, Walter, if you would be so kind as to do the honours.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, flicking up his wrist and checking his overlarge wristwatch, as the second hand set off.

  That minute took ages.

  It began to snow harder, large dainty flakes slowly falling from the dark grey sky, blanketing the lawn, whitening everything in seconds. The rooks started up again. Caw! Caw! Maybe in protest at the heavier snow, or the mixed bunch of people below out earlier than usual, on their garden of remembrance.

  And then it was over, and Walter stepped a pace forward onto the whitened grass and removed the top from the casket, and turned and handed the lid to Darren. Walter glanced at each of them in turn. Mrs West nodded him on, anxious to be finished and out of there. Walter turned back to the front and shook ashes from the urn. A dollop fell before them onto the snow. He shook again. A larger amount spilt out, just as a squall came through and picked up the tiny grey cloud, and dispersed it across the frosty and lightly dusted lawn. Another shake, and the casket was empty. Hector Browne had vanished.

  They stared down at the strange smudge in the snow, the last sign that DC Hector Browne had ever existed. By noon, the winter sun would be sufficiently strong to burn off the frost and snow, and even the smudge would vanish.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mrs West, lightly clapping her gloved hands together. ‘That’s everything, best foot forward,’ and she stepped out, Karen beside her, making small talk, heading back toward the cars. Darren and Jenny exchanged glances and fell in behind. Corla linked Walter’s arm and said, ‘Hope you don’t mind escorting me.’

  ‘Of course not. Why did you come?’

  ‘I read in the press all the good things he did. I guess I felt a little guilty.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About saying I was glad he was dead. I no longer think and feel that, just sad and sorry he did the things he did.’

  ‘We all feel that way, but never forget this: He murdered two women in cold blood, that’s the most important thing. They are where the sympathy should lie.’

  ‘And he’d have murdered me too if he could.’

  Walter nodded and muttered, ‘Quite possibly.’

  Corla shivered and said, ‘There’s something else I wanted to mention.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I hope you don’t think this an inappropriate moment.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do I still qualify for the reward?’

  ‘Ah, maybe not the right time to discuss that right now.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. Will you ring me sometime, let me know what you think?’

  Walter nodded and said, ‘Sure, I’ll ring you,’ and he glanced back over his shoulder at the smudge in the snow. The rooks were there, looking busy, pecking and investigating, maybe sensing an early breakfast. They’d be disappointed. The smudge was already dissipating. Hector Browne was no more.

  Back at the cars, Mrs West, Karen and Darren jumped into the first one, as Walter offered Corla a lift back into town.

  She smiled and nodded and said, ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he said, glancing at Jenny’s sling.

  ‘Thanks, Guv,’ she said, carefully getting into the back, and the cars rolled away, and Hector Browne’s life was over, though he would always be remembered, but for all the wrong reasons.

  A couple of days later Walter checked out the reward thing. As far as he was concerned he would have been happy enough for Corla to receive something, for she certainly set them on the way to closing the case, but the man who put up the cash, one Gareth Williams, solicitor of the parish, pointed out that as there had been no successful prosecution, he didn’t deem it appropriate that any payment be made. Knowing the man, Walter wasn’t surprised, and it fell to him to break the news to Corla.

  He picked up the phone and prodded in her number.

  ‘Can’t say as I am surprised,’ she said, before adding, ‘I can put curses on people, you know.’

  ‘Not on me, I hope.’

  ‘No Walter, not on you. Never.’

  ‘While I’m here, there is one other matter.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, unable to keep a note of expectancy from her voice.

  ‘I can’t turn my eyes away from illegal broadcasting emanating from Portobello Towers.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Maybe not, but pass on some well-meant advice, will you. I am bound to forward what I know to the appropriate authorities.’

  ‘You’ll never stop them, not completely.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but they can expect high-powered visitors, and soon.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip. Anything else you want to ask me?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Fair enough. Stay in touch, Walter.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I will,’ and gently set the phone down.

  At lunchtime he left the office and jumped a cab for Easton Road. The same yellow Cayton was parked outside number 56. He made his way upstairs and rang the bell to 3A. Mary Warner opened up with a smile. It was a pastel green day. She looked kind of cute.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was just passing and I thought you might like to know that our enquiries about the other matter have now all been completed.’

  ‘Derek’s in the clear, is he?’

  ‘Of course he is, he was never really involved.’

  ‘I know that, Mr Darriteau. I do read the papers and watch TV.’

  ‘Yes of course you do, I just thought you’d like to know.’

  Mary grinned and said, ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Another time, maybe. It lo
oks like you were on the way out.’

  ‘I was actually, just nipping into town.’

  ‘Any chance you could offer an overworked policeman a lift?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, suddenly lost for words.

  ‘Such a terrible business.’

  ‘Yes, truly appalling.’

  ‘It must have been frightful for you, one of your own colleagues involved like that, such a shock, I imagine.’

  ‘It was, I haven’t quite come to terms with it.’

  Mary bobbed her head and said, ‘I’ll just get my things, raincoat and stuff.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, kicking his heels on the cold landing outside, though he didn’t have long to wait, for a minute later she joined him, locked the flat door, and in another minute they were downstairs, and she was beeping the cute Cayton open, and they both climbed in.

  On the short trip to town he blurted out, ‘Do you like music?’

  ‘I love music. Why?’

  ‘There’s a choral concert on, at the Cathedral, Mozart, I think it is, 8pm tomorrow, I was wondering if you’d like to go.’

  ‘I’d love to go.’

  ‘Great! I’ll call for you, 7.30, if that’s okay?’

  ‘That’s fine. It’s a date.’

  ‘Just one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can we go in your car?’

  ‘Of course,’ and then she said, ‘you’re not banned, are you, from driving?’

  Walter guffawed.

  ‘Course not. It’s just that I’m a car-less person at present.’

  ‘Not a problem, I adore driving.’

  She dropped him in town, and he hurried back to the office to see Mrs West, to take up her offer of the free tickets, before she gave them to someone else.

  David Baker arrived at Karen’s apartment at 8pm. She’d pulled out all the stops and had bought expensive wine, organic steaks, and avocado, and had gone to the trouble of making her own unique version of Baked Alaska.

  Earlier, she’d found a quiet hour and a half to have her fine blonde hair washed and styled and gently trimmed, and back at the flat she’d slipped into that little black dress again, and she looked stunning.

  Maybe tonight I’ll find out how much he really likes me, she pondered, unable to keep an expectant and excited grin from invading her fair face. The bell rang from downstairs and she jumped to it and sprang the door open, and a minute later he entered her flat, and by heaven he looked good. Tall dark and handsome, and he looked fitter too, as if he had been secretly working out, as if he was trying to impress her, and how cool was that? Try harder. Her earlier suggestion came back into her mind. Maybe he was, trying harder, it certainly looked that way.

  He was carrying a large bouquet of red roses.

  ‘For me?’ she said, reaching out for them.

  ‘I guess,’ he said, coolly, as she took them and set them to one side, for they both had more important things in mind. He reached out and tugged her to him, and kissed her expectant lips, a mere brushing welcoming kiss that immediately morphed into a hard and heavy and passionate one. She hadn’t been kissed like that since the days of Rodney, and maybe David Baker was an even better kisser than Rodders; and that was certainly a pleasant surprise.

  She let him kiss her again, as if to check it was as wonderful as she’d imagined, and indeed it was, and how brilliant it was to be able to relax, and lose oneself without worry or fear.

  This time she could rest easy in knowing that she wasn’t in the arms of a dangerous man, while kissing, and being kissed by, a killer. Probably.

  Author’s Notes

  Thank you for buying and reading my book and I hope you enjoyed it. When you have a spare few minutes I’d really appreciate you posting a brief review on any of the main book websites, Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes & Noble etc. That would be very kind of you.

  As always, all mistakes in this book are mine and mine alone. My friends and I work very hard in eradicating the little blighters, but occasionally little beasties and bugs still slip through, and I hope they didn’t detract from your enjoyment too much. We kill them whenever we can!

  If you’d like to read more of Walter Darriteau and his team you can do so right away. Please check out “The Murder Diaries – Seven Times Over”, “The Sound of Sirens”, and “The Twelfth Apostle”, all of which are out now and available to buy for a very modest sum!!!

  Next year, there will be an all-new Walter Darriteau murder/mystery story released, God willing, and he’s very excited about that, as am I, so do look out for that. Please check out my website www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk for the latest news and reviews on that, and my other books too. You can also contact me via the website on any matter if you’d like to do so. It would be great to hear from you.

  Thank you again for supporting independent writers and publishers. Without you, we wouldn’t exist. Have a great day, and don’t have nightmares – David.

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