Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  Outside, a growing group of reporters and photographers were stamping their feet in the cold, swapping fags and trading snippets of information, photographing and questioning everyone who came and went.

  Inside, the phones were ringing off the hook. Politicians, local MPs, ministers, top dog coppers, and they all wanted news and answers, and fast. How could such a disgraceful incident happen in broad daylight in London on a January Sunday morning? Not to mention wrecking a multi-church parade where one poor young fellow was seriously injured. Monday’s newspapers would be full of it.

  In a quiet moment, Walter told Vairs that Rosanna had asked after him. He brushed it off as nothing, but Walter could tell he was chuffed. Stella Hollyoak came in soon after. She’d been assigned to the parade where she’d been delayed, taking mountains of statements from people who’d witnessed the bugler being run down. The latest news on the kid said he was in pain but would recover, given time.

  News arrived soon afterwards that a police motorcyclist had spotted Corky Caddick. The idiot was detained minutes later, arrested and on his way to the station. With his track record, he wouldn’t be driving any car for many a year.

  OVER THE FOLLOWING days, they reassembled the entire incident. Most of the input came from Vairs and Darriteau, which made sense seeing as they’d enjoyed a ringside seat. But their accounts differed after Walter had dashed down the mezzanine steps and they’d gone their separate ways.

  Had Vairs saved the CS from being shot dead? If he had, he could be in line for a police medal, though no one could pinpoint the incident, or name the shooter. Smoke bombs had been over-used, and many facts were cloudy.

  But from it all, four huge questions remained. Did Suzanne Meade murder Eamonn Banaghan? Eye witnesses said she had shot him in the face. Did she remove the body afterwards? It was still missing. She would have needed help to do that. And where was she hiding? It seemed she had disappeared without trace. And how, where, and when was Eilish Banaghan murdered, and who was responsible? That would keep everyone on their toes, interested and employed for weeks to come.

  An arrest warrant was issued on the Monday for Suzanne Meade, wanted in connection with Eamonn’s murder, with a juicy reward put up to entice the worms from the rotting wood. The CS put up a magnum of Champagne too, in house, for the officer who found her, and though Walter wasn’t a Champagne drinking kind of guy, he’d give it his best shot. He imagined he had as good a chance of finding her as anyone.

  In the event, two days later, VHS video arrived at ITN news. Much to the Met’s annoyance, it featured on that night’s News at Ten. It featured a smirking Suzanne reclining on a luxurious bed.

  ‘I’m having a little breaky-break,’ she cooed into the camera, minx-like, reminiscent of some TV celebrity, and clearly enjoying herself. ‘I’m wanted for murder. Can you believe? What a nonsense. And tomorrow it’s my birthday too, and yes I’m really eighteen, getting quite old,’ and she reached across to the bedside table on her right to grab a glass of bubbly. ‘Wish me a happy birthday, everyone,’ suppressing a hiccup, and she raised the glass and took a swig before adding, ‘Maybe tomorrow I might go out on the town. There’s a thought for you. The Ritz, here we come, or maybe Le Gavanne. Allow me to have a decent meal if nothing else,’ and she glanced coyly at the out of shot cameraman. ‘Is that it?’ she said, knowing full well it was not.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she added, ‘there is something else,’ and she beckoned to her left and called into screen a striking young man. He crawled onto the bed, one arm bandaged in a make-shift sling, as he cuddled up beside her.

  ‘See!’ she said, grinning into the camera. ‘If you don’t know, this is Eamonn Banaghan, alive and well, in person, so any investigation or potential charges into his murder is absolute poppycock. Poppycock, I said. Want to say a few words, Eamonn?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, hiding a smirk. ‘To everyone out there who knows me, I’m doing fine and I hope to see you all soon, especially you, mum. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in no time,’ and he glanced across at Suzanne and pecked her a kiss.

  She grinned into the camera, looking happier by the minute, before adding, ‘Oh, and in case any of you think this was recorded a week or two ago, here’s proof,’ and she reached down beside the bed and grabbed a daily tabloid newspaper dated that day.

  BRITISH DEFENCE MINISTER MICHAEL HESELTINE RESIGNS IN WAKE OF WESTLAND SCANDAL.

  ‘See!’ she said, ‘boring stuff, I know,’ tapping her mouth, feigning a yawn; ‘I think you’ll agree. But proof positive. And finally, as they say... that’s all from me today, stinky poo.’

  ‘It’s not stinky poo,’ corrected Eamonn, ‘it’s tickety boo,’ laughing aloud, and that provoked her into giggling like crazy, and seconds later the tape ended, the sound fizzed, and the screen went blank.

  Fifty-One

  Walter lay back in his bath in Chester. It was full to the brim. He’d gone the whole hog. Bath crystals, bubble bath, Rodux or whatever it was called, and special bath crème, a Christmas present from Abdul in the convenience store.

  Sure, it was out of date, but did bath crème deteriorate? Walter didn’t care. It smelt okay. By the look of the three plastic crates waiting on the rear shelf behind the counter, Abdul had plenty more to dish out. The water was hot and the steam high. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  He didn’t know why he had been thinking about the Banaghan Meade case so much in recent days, but was determined to bring that distraction to an end. Maybe it was because it was one of his first cases; and such a massive one at that. Nothing that had happened since had ever come close.

  He recalled the days they searched high and low for Suzanne and Eamonn after that manic Sunday, and couldn’t find them. They didn’t know of the Chelsea mews flat bolthole, and the runaways would be safe there for a while.

  Charges were clarified and made against various family members. Oonagh charged with grievous bodily harm for biting off Roger Meade’s ear. The judge came down hard on her, saying gang warfare was intolerable. Personal mutilation was an appalling crime, and he sentenced her to four years. Some thought that over-lenient. She was out in two and a half, rested and ready for the next chapter in her eventful life.

  Roger Meade, minus one ear, was charged with murdering Dermot and Liam Banaghan. His slippery brief pleaded it was self defence. The jury and the judge disagreed, and poor Roger got life. It was to mean life, too. Four years later he died after a mysterious incident in the prison exercise yard that left Roger unconscious and close to death. No one was ever brought to justice for the crime, and the file remained open.

  The heavy beating Cormac took at the hands of Billy Meade left him incapacitated. He never recovered and died in his sleep six years later. Billy Meade was charged with grievous bodily harm, Cormac was still alive at that stage; and several other offences too, and received nine years, serving seven in almost total silence.

  On release he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with any of the family, refused to see them, and soon afterwards emigrated to Australia. He found a job in park management, married Dana West, and produced four strapping boys, none of whom knew anything of his former life.

  Walter and Vairs concentrated on the hooligan Caz’s death, the only guy slain with a derringer bullet. But they could not trace the weapon, or any witness willing to say who fired the gun. Walter suspected it was Suzanne, with Vairs insisting it was one of the Meade boys. Walter was keen to prove his point by interrogating Suzanne, and he’d get his chance. One week later she and Eamonn Banaghan strolled smirking into the Chelsea Station, to offer their side of the story.

  She said she went to Eamonn’s aid after he’d been shot. She didn’t know by whom, and had managed to get him up and out through the back door to safety. Outside, they staggered away to the main road, hailed a cab, and returned to the flat, where she dressed and bandaged his wound. The bullet had grazed his upper arm, and she’d done a decent job with it. She said they planned to visit the Chelsea and
Westminster Hospital as soon as they left the station to have it checked out.

  Suzanne denied knowing anything about a derringer, and when Walter searched the Mews flat, they found nothing. Ammunition was discovered in the shooting range in the basement at Cornucopia, but that would never convict Suzanne on its own. The gun wasn’t there because she’d dropped it off Chelsea Bridge at the dead of night, where it sank into the mud at the bottom of the Thames. The glistening vehicle of death wouldn’t be seen by a human eye for two hundred years.

  Try as they might, they couldn’t put an acceptable case together against either Eamonn or Suzanne. They had pooled resources and were using the slipperiest barrister in town. The wise guy negotiated a fat bonus deal on the side for keeping them out of the courts. For all his oleaginous ways, he was brilliant at his job and they were released, pending further enquiries that went nowhere.

  She and Eamonn were still pushing for an amalgamation between the family businesses, but there was little enthusiasm for that. A year later they announced their engagement and were married another year down the line. A holiday in the Seychelles followed, though they were keen to get back to London, as both were prime movers in the respective businesses.

  Cynthia Meade was never interviewed. She had been growing thinner for several months before the final blow-up. Dark patches settled around her eyes and though she tried to hide it, she couldn’t. Most people thought it had started because she was scared and worried about losing Howard to another. That was exacerbated after his violent death. In reality, she had been attacked by the devil whose name she refused to speak. See-Aye-Enn-See-Eee-Are, she would call it.

  She’d first realised something was wrong nine months before when she’d consulted the trusted family doctor, persuading him to keep her secret, for she didn’t want a fuss. Cynthia Meade died twenty-one days after Howard, stunning the few Meades who remained alive.

  Two years later, Sergeant Teddy Vairs took early retirement at fifty-four. Something good came out of that. They promoted Walter to sergeant, though not without some objection, but no matter. The people who possessed the power rated him, and it sure helped when he passed the sergeant’s exams without difficulty. Some said it was a step backward, others crowded round and wished him well.

  Six months later, a weird thing happened. Walter was called to a bistro on the Fulham Road in what he called Restaurant-land. The owners were complaining of hoodlums pressurising them to pay protection money. The boss, a Greek Cypriot, who wasn’t short of hired muscle, thought it an idea to recruit additional aid through the police. Walter listened and took statements, and promised he would do his best.

  They stood about and shook heads, displaying maybe-maybe-not expressions, and Walter left the taverna and walked away. As he ambled along the road, he glanced in the windows of various eating establishments, pondering what he might eat that night, when he saw, sitting in the window of an Italian place, Rosanna Banaghan. She looked good too, even in her fifties, low cut maroon frock, hair long and frizzed and trendy. Walter could remember the image as if it was yesterday, and the whole ambience was one of great happiness. It was clear she’d moved on from Liam Banaghan, enjoying being out on the town, dining with a suave gent.

  Walter glanced at the guy. He knew him. But he never looked like that. It was Teddy Vairs. He’d allowed his hair to grow a little longer too, washed and cut by an expert, smart left parting, a little colour in his cheeks, close shaven, gleaming refurbished teeth, dark suit, white shirt, silk tie, no sign of grubby raincoats, trilby hats, or cigarettes. He looked a different man.

  Walter figured either Rosanna had insisted on the makeover, or maybe Teddy V had figured out he needed to make more effort to land the girl. Either way, it seemed to have worked. Walter thought of tapping on the window and grinning through the glass, even going inside and saying hello. But when spotting deliriously happy people wrapped up in each other’s company, the worst thing you can do is barge in and break the spell.

  Walter grinned, shook his head in a well I never kind of way, and strolled away. They deserved each other; and a happy life, too. He knew Vairs would keep her on the straight and narrow, and she’d keep him up to scratch. What Walter didn’t know was that one month after the Chelsea Fields shoot out, Teddy had called at Saint Patrick’s One to pass on his condolences to Rosanna. Eoin and Sheelagh met him and treated him with great suspicion. They had no intention of letting him see their distraught mother, when Rosanna came down the stairs and saw them talking.

  She nodded Eoin and Sheelagh away, led Vairs to Liam’s office, where they talked for an hour. A week later Vairs wrote her a letter, inviting her for a coffee. It took her an hour to accept. He was three years younger than her, not that it mattered, and it was trendy to take a younger lover, and she giggled at the thought. They had history. She had gone out with him maybe half a dozen times before she’d accepted Liam, and later in life, sometimes it was easier to date someone you knew than a complete stranger.

  She knew he was scruffy, everyone knew that. But beneath it all, he had potential. With some improvement, he could become almost passable. As it turned out, he was better than that. They began meeting for coffee. Moved on to seeing each other in the library, and lunched afterwards, where they talked as if they had never spoken before.

  Three months later she offered him a job, Security Director for the entire Banaghan group. He refused point blank, saying, he could never work for a criminal organisation, and let’s face it Ros, we both know Banaghans is rotten to the core.

  ‘You don’t get it, you plank! I’d be bringing you in to set everything straight. I pay good money but demand great results. I’m as eager as you to make sure we do everything right.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Course I’m sure; and I’ll double your pay. I can’t say fairer than that.’

  Vairs thought about it for a week. When they next met, he told her he’d run with it on two conditions. First, if he ever came across hidden illegal activities he’d report them to the police and walk away, and second, he’d have to serve his time out first. She agreed, and he did.

  Eamonn, Eoin, Sheelagh, and Aileen all thought their mother had gone ga-ga. But when he joined the company, they found they enjoyed his dry humour, his banter over supporting a different London football club, and his crazy stories about his weird wife, and even weirder life at the Met. They warmed to him, and none of them saw that coming.

  It was better still when he showed how everything could be run by the book. It brought a relieved satisfied feeling not to have to worry about visits from the law, and they all slept better. Banaghan Construction was a profitable business. It didn’t need to be a criminal enterprise to make shed-loads of cash. Liam had preferred it that way because it was exciting. He got a rush from it, of being the big shot, man about town, a guy to be reckoned with, a man with a dash of danger. But the kids didn’t feel the same way and wanted to put it behind them.

  Another strange thing came out of it too. Over time, the women became friends, though any discussion about past events was taboo, as was any mention of amalgamation. Hard to believe considering the murders and deaths, but the more they met, the more they loved it, until they began meeting monthly at the Ritz for dinner. One side would pick up the tab one month, the other the next, and one thing they all agreed on, men were barred.

  Rosanna, Sheelagh, and Aileen, plus Oonagh, fresh out of prison, met with Suzanne and Caroline from the Meades. Cautiously at first, but Prosecco has a way of smoothing away rough paths. There was another development too. Caroline took a shine to Aileen, and vice versa, and secretly they began dating. What they really wanted was to marry and have children, but those were preposterous ideas that would never come about. Maybe in a parallel universe, but not back then. It didn’t stop their love for each other growing by the month.

  But there was another marriage to keep the gossips happy. Teddy Vairs proposed in that Italian restaurant in Fulham. Rosanna smiled at her old
flame, now her new flame, and said, ‘I thought you’d never ask, ya chump.’

  ‘I’m asking now, and I haven’t yet received an answer.’

  She set her napkin down, stood up, beckoned Ted up too, and they leant over and hugged and kissed across the table above the lasagne, much to the amusement of other diners, who broke into applause.

  The new Mr and Mrs Vairs chose Italy for their honeymoon. Rosanna had been several times before and loved it, while Ted never had. He was interested in Julius Caesar and everything Roman, and was looking forward to it. They hired a smart Alfa Romeo GTV in red and set off from Bologna heading for Rome. An hour into the drive, as they crossed a high concrete bridge, Ted noticed cracks appearing in the road surface. He didn’t want to alarm Rosanna and didn’t say a word. But she noticed.

  ‘Ted!’ she cried, ‘the road’s cracking!’ pointing and panicking.

  ‘They have earthquakes in Italy,’ said Ted, touching her left thigh as a comforter. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Yes, but not on bloody bridges!’

  They let go an enormous sigh as they left the bridge behind, Rosanna glancing back to see if there was anything happening. She couldn’t see a thing and thought no more about it. A moment later they heard it. The bridge collapsed with a massive roar, falling into the valley in a billion pieces, unable to accommodate the weight of a convoy of MAN Diesel Concrete Mixer trucks scurrying across.

  ‘Good God!’ she said, ‘Do you think we should go back?’