Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  ‘About the letters?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Let’s just say we haven’t unearthed the hoped-for smoking gun gem just yet.’

  ‘I thought that too.’

  Walter had been thinking about her, too much, if truth be told. He knew he was pushing his luck, maybe trying too early, but he’d try anyway, because that was the way he was made.

  ‘Do you fancy going to the pictures one night?’ he mumbled in a rush, hoping hard, and never once taking his eyes from the desk.

  It took her by surprise, and it was a while before she replied.

  ‘Oh, I can’t, Walter. Sorry, I’m spoken for. James and I are getting engaged.’

  ‘Sod’s law,’ said Walter in a hurry. ‘He’s a lucky man, this James person. All the best women are either married or engaged.’

  ‘That’s not true, man. There are plenty of single girls about. That Madeleine on the switchboard for one, she’s looking for someone. Why don’t you give her a go?’

  ‘She’s grotesque!’

  ‘Walter! She’s not that bad! Come on. Big teeth that all point in different directions, maybe, but she’s a sweet kid, and anyway, looks aren’t everything, DC Darriteau.’

  ‘I know that. But she’s not for me, but thanks for the tip.’

  ‘You’re welcome, you’ll find someone soon, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Are you happy with this James geezer?’

  ‘Of course I am! He’s a real charmer. I wouldn’t be getting engaged if I wasn’t.’

  Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘Watch out for...’ but before he could complete the sentence, Vairs arrived, bounding to the desk, looking hopeful, saying, ‘How are my two lovebirds doing? Finished, I hope? Juicy intel revealed for your favourite sergeant’s inspection?’

  Walter said, ‘We’ve just this minute finished.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, now you...’ glancing down at Stella, ‘Hop it!’ and he yanked his thumb towards the far door.

  Stella bobbed her head, didn’t say anything, stood up and made herself scarce. Vairs watched her go, his eyes transfixed by her skirt.

  ‘By God, I’m going to give that one some trouble when I get the chance,’ he said, as he sat down beside Walter.

  ‘She’s engaged, sarge.’

  ‘Engaged, married, so what? They’re all fair game. You need to learn that, if nothing else.’ A moment later he added, ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She told me, James, someone or other.’

  ‘In the force?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doing all morning? Having cosy chats about your personal lives?’

  ‘No, not at all. It just came out in casual conversation.’

  ‘Yeah, right. You haven’t been sniffing round her, have you?’

  ‘No, I have not. Not my type at all.’

  Vairs bobbed his head and said, ‘I’m not sure I believe you. Bad news on the Sheldon Supplies thing, by the way.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘The powers that be think it’s interesting, which it could be, but if we went in there heavy handed, someone might ask how we knew about it, and that could lead them to figuring out how we know. They’re not prepared to blow the possible lead on next to nothing.’

  ‘I see. Makes sense, I guess.’

  ‘The info source, ribbons, letters and spent carbon paper, is a good one and must be cherished until it produces the kingpin key connection.’

  Walter agreed and showed him the new letters that could have double meanings. Vairs wasn’t convinced and said, ‘Leave that for now. Have you found out who collects Banaghan’s office rubbish?’

  ‘Not yet, Sarge, been busy finishing this.’

  ‘Too much talking, that’s your trouble, Darriteau. Get a bloody move on. Multi-tasking, that’s the new buzzword. And while you’re on it, get the same arrangement in place for the opposition.’

  ‘You mean the Meades?’

  ‘Of course I mean the Meades. Who else do you think is involved in this turf war?’

  ‘On it, sarge. Leave it with me.’

  Eighteen

  Walter and Karen Greenwood sat back in the Chester nick, comparing notes and ideas. Not that they had much to consider. A secret society whose name might begin with Q, and something going to happen in less than two weeks. But what and where?

  Karen said, ‘If this thing that happens, whatever it is, only occurs every fifteen years, what could it be? And why only every fifteen years?’

  ‘We know there’s been some crazy talk about ridding Chester’s streets of vermin of the human kind, and that suggests kidnap and forcible expulsion, ranging all the way up to outright murder.’

  ‘But why fifteen years? The number fifteen must mean something.’

  ‘Perhaps they reason that one murder every fifteen years is long enough between incidents for anyone to connect them. Maybe we should be reviewing all murders, suspicious deaths, and people going missing without explanation, say one month either side of today, from fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Do you want me to spend hours on that, Guv?’

  ‘Why not? Mrs West wants it sorting one way or the other. But it will take a lot of time and I think you are going to need help.’

  ‘I think I can handle it.’

  ‘I think you can’t. On average, 750 people go missing in Britain every day. A two-month period would produce a fig of, let me think, 60 times 750, equals around 45,000 missing souls. There are just over a million people living in Cheshire, one sixty-fifth of the country’s population, so 45,000 divided by 65 equates to, let me see, as he used the quick calculator on his phone, almost 700 people unaccounted for, vanished if you prefer, in Cheshire in that two-month time frame. You are going to need help.’

  ‘When you put it like that, I guess you’re right.’

  ‘I am right. We can spare Jenny Thompson and Martin Kane for a week. Get them onboard and be quick about it.’

  ‘I’ll get them genned up straight away.’

  ‘You do that. Start with any unsolved murders in the wider area. Then look at unexplained deaths. That’s where we are most likely to make progress. Yes, the overall numbers look big, but with some detective work, you can discount a big percentage who’ve simply decided to clear off and start a new life elsewhere. Sadly, it happens, and all too often.’

  ‘And if we find suitable candidates. What then?’

  ‘Look at the cause of death, if that information is available. And if you want to dig real deep, go back another fifteen years and see if you can match anything there, and maybe even another fifteen before that. You might be lucky and stumble on some crazy pattern.’

  ‘You serious, Guv? You want me to look at deaths from forty-five years ago?’

  ‘It’s not that long ago.’

  ‘It’s two generations!’

  ‘Trust me; it’s not long ago, Karen. We are only talking about around 1977.’

  ‘Ancient history for most of us, Guv.’

  ‘The year of punk and new wave, last live concert for Led Zep, Elvis died, and France stopped using the guillotine.’

  ‘You are full of useless trivia. Never put you down as a punk fan?’

  ‘I’m not, but I recognise its importance.’

  ‘Funny thing to remember about the guillotine too.’

  ‘Funny thing to use to kill people, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe our secret Q society has resurrected the guillotine. That would be interesting.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. That could get bloody. But many a true word spoken in jest, and anyway, isn’t the gallows in the frame?’

  ‘Lethal injection is so much better.’

  ‘I never know when you are being serious, Greenwood.’

  Karen grinned knowingly and stood up to go and see Martin and Jenny, leaving with one parting comment, ‘I’m not always sure myself.’

  The phone before Wa
lter burbled to life.

  Walter picked up.

  A man’s voice, quite deep, mature maybe, and then Walter recognised it as Jags Wilderton.

  ‘Ah, Darriteau, just the man.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Jags?’

  ‘Maybe it’s something I can do for you.’

  ‘I hope so; I need a break, fire away.’

  ‘I thought of something else I perhaps should have mentioned before.’

  ‘Go on, always interested in afterthoughts, Jago.’

  ‘A couple of weeks before he died I rang father to ask him if there was anything he’d like for his birthday. Usually I’d buy him something totally inappropriate, and he’d promptly give it away. So I thought this time I’d ask him what he’d like.’

  ‘And? Go on.’

  ‘We didn’t get round to talking about birthday presents, not that day, because he sounded quite hassled.’

  ‘So what did you talk about?’

  ‘He said, and it stuck in my mind because it was odd, he said, Do you mind if I call you back, I’m up to my eyes in the cotdos business.’

  ‘Cotdos?’

  ‘For a moment I thought he said cot death, so I asked him to clarify, and he definitely said cotdos, leastways that’s how it sounded. I couldn’t be sure of the spelling.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what he was talking about?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  ‘Did you ever discuss it again?’

  ‘Never, I thought it was just one of the dozens of weird groups and societies he patronised, and I figured he’d moved on to something else when he never mentioned it again.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Jago. I’ll look at that. Actually, I’m glad you’ve called. I wanted to talk about the diary.’

  ‘Oh? What about it?’

  ‘You said your father kept a diary every year.’

  ‘He most certainly did.’

  ‘And you have them all?’

  ‘I do, somewhere, though they might be at risk of being binned before the house sale.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t throw them away. Is there any chance you could dig out the ones from fifteen and thirty years ago?’

  ‘Thirty years? You’re asking a lot there.’

  ‘I know. The policeman’s lot, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And if I find them, what then?’

  ‘Have a look at today’s date, say one week before and after, and see if there are any more strange sketches, or indeed anything else in the way of comments that might link to the hangman, or seem at odds with his usual entries.’

  ‘Okay, Darriteau, it might take a wee while.’

  ‘At your convenience, Jago. But it could help.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll call back if and when I have anything to report.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it,’ and Jago cut off.

  Mrs French set the phone down, too. Why shouldn’t she monitor calls when her services had been dispensed with at such short notice, and in such a mean fashion? No one else would look after her interests. That was crystal clear.

  Karen returned. She said Martin and Jenny would join them in an hour. They were finishing off something else. Walter told her of Jago’s call and the weird word, cotdos, and Karen jumped on Google.

  There are not many words in the English language that produce almost no results. Cotdos was one of them.

  Karen said, ‘Maybe it’s kotdos with a K, more like a Greek word.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Walter. ‘Try it.’

  The same result. Practically nothing.

  ‘Perhaps it’s an acronym?’ said Karen.

  ‘I thought that too.’

  ‘If it starts with a C that could be Chester, and the dos part looks like disk operating system, to me.’

  Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘It could be. We’ve got nothing better. You concentrate on the other thing. I’ll try to figure out what cotdos means.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ and she began delving back fifteen years, into the dark ages, when she was still a pre-teen.

  Nineteen

  The evening in Gornall’s office was a highly charged affair. Greg Morrell was up for election to the Brotherhood. Kneeling half naked with his back to those assembled, as they decided his fate was a nerve-racking business.

  Everyone paid attention to the Worshipful Master. He stood up, cleared his throat, and spoke with the authority of his position.

  ‘It is simple and easy. That man whose eyes do not see...’ and he pointed at the kneeling one, ‘One Gregory Morrell, wishes to join our Brotherhood. It is for you and you alone, gentlemen, to decide his fitness and worthiness to become a member. You will indicate in the usual manner whether you approve or not. The man must receive ten endorsements. Should he fail to reach that figure he should be dressed, warned as to his future conduct, and removed from our presence and the building, without delay.’

  Gornall glanced round at the assembled membership. Without exception, they silently nodded. The Worshipful Master glared at the IG at the end of the left side of the horseshoe. He raised his arm and hand and extended his thumb high and jabbed it in the air. The Senior Warden recorded the vote of approval in the minutes. Gornall nodded at the IG, and then at the man seated next to him. He took his cue and decided, thumb erect, and his duty was done. It took less than ten minutes to finish voting. The Senior Warden made a big issue of counting the numbers, though everyone knew the score. Gregory Morrell was in.

  Gornall stood and said, ‘Turn the probationer round.’

  The IG’s grabbed his arms and swivelled him about to face the horseshoe table. All the now kindly faces were looking him up and down.

  Gornall formally announced the score: ‘The result of the vote this evening was twelve votes in favour of Gregory Morrell being admitted to our Brotherhood, and two against. Gregory Ames Morrell is thus officially elected to our august body.’

  Greg grinned every which way and wished the goose pimples would vanish.

  Gornall said, ‘Dress the man!’ and the IG’s brought back his clothing and helped him dress.

  In the next second he was helped from the dais, as the Worshipful Master and Senior Warden arrived at his side, hands and arms outstretched, ready to shake the newcomer’s hand.

  Someone produced fifteen glasses of vintage port that were passed round, and Gornall called the toast: ‘To Gregory Morrell... and the Brotherhood.’

  ‘Gregory Morrell... the Brotherhood!’

  Each man crowded round and shook Greg’s hand, most of them saying congratulations, and glad to have you with us, and well done. Greg thanked them one by one, but couldn’t help wondering which two of the bastards had blackballed him.

  Afterwards, George Gornall took Greg to one side and whispered, ‘We need to get on with matters in hand sooner rather than later. Time is of the essence.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Greg, ‘the sooner the better.’

  Gornall nodded and said, ‘Can you come by at the same time two days from now?’

  ‘Sure, not a problem.’

  ‘Good, we’ll see you then, and don’t forget.’

  The port glasses were refilled one time. Between sips, Gornall made it known that business was complete. Everyone should get home to their wives, mistresses, children, lovers, and husbands, and they all departed in a fine frame of mind.

  The Brotherhood was back to its correct membership of fifteen souls, trusty and true. Most of them were aware that when they were a man down, bad things could happen, and sometimes did.

  Twenty

  Back in the eighties, the Meade family, in their seven story, seven bedroom house in South Street, Mayfair, close to Hyde Park, sat down for Sunday lunch at one o’clock sharp. Everyone was there except Grahame. He’d been laid to rest amongst big crowds in nearby Brompton cemetery that week.

  Howard Meade, as head of the family, demanded their attendance, and as he paid all the bills and allowances, no one was in the mood to defy him. He sat at one end of the table, exami
ning his damaged family, set out before him. On the left side, John, William, and Richard, opposite Roger, Suzanne, and Caroline, all positioned by age. John the eldest at twenty-nine, round to Caroline, the youngest at sixteen. Cynthia, the mother creature, sat at the far end, sipping wine, and grieving and missing Grahame like hell, for he should have been there too.

  The double doors at the far end opened and the butler and his maid came in. They eased a heated trolley into the large room, and across the pink and turquoise patterned frilled carpet. The prawn cocktail starters had been demolished, and the detritus cleared away.

  The butler, John, approached the head of the table and said, ‘Will you carve, sir, or shall I?’

  ‘My job, John. If a man can’t carve his Sunday joint in his own house, it’s a rum do. The beginning of the end for civilisation, as we know it.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ as a closed silver serving dish was set before him. The maid produced eight heated dinner plates and set them down, before bringing ample tureens of mixed vegetables to the table. Gravy and horseradish sauce followed, and the table was done.

  Howard opened the silver dish. Everyone watched with interest. A sumptuous joint was revealed, cooked to perfection on the outside, presumably pink inside, steaming, still with a faint sizzle, introducing a rich meaty aroma to the room.

  Howard dismissed the servants with a wave, grabbed the carving tools, and began slicing generous portions for all.

  ‘Plates,’ he said, and John began with his, as two fat slices were downloaded, as slicing continued until everyone had their Sunday meat.

  William, the second son, said, ‘What is the meat this week, father?’

  ‘Veal,’ said Howard, ‘we haven’t had it in ages, and you can’t beat a nice slice of tender veal.’

  Stacks of vegetables were added; gravy and sauce as required, and when everyone was ready, serious eating began.