Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  Cod Florentine, oven chips, and mushy peas on the menu, from the local German owned cheapjack supermarket, but decent enough. Greg and Haley sat in front of the TV, meals balanced on laps, watching North West Tonight, the evening local news magazine from the Beeb.

  It featured an outside broadcast where a smart guy was standing beside a rushing river, mic in hand, staring into the camera, trying to look serious, which wasn’t always easy.

  Behind him was what looked like a high and wide brick bridge standing on stilts. He pointed up at it before glancing back at the camera, saying, ‘Sometime on Wednesday night a man fell from up there to his death. This isn’t an unusual place for suicides, but rumours and reports are coming in that this man’s death was not suicide but murder. The police have released the man’s name as Shane Fellday, a resident of Saltney in Chester. No more information is available at this time. If you were in the vicinity between 10pm and 4am on the night of Wednesday to Thursday, the police would like to talk to you. Their number is...’ and he read the number as it scrolled across the foot of the screen.

  Hayley Morrell stopped eating, set her meal to one side and said, ‘That’s our Shane they’re talking about, isn’t it?’

  ‘He’s not “our” Shane,’ said her father. ‘He was a filthy drug dealing idiot who brought misery and death to many folks in this town.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but he would never do that, kill himself. He wasn’t the type.’

  ‘Course he was! He was a drug dealer and a drug user. Everyone knows hard drugs bring on massive mood swings, and they can often lead to suicide. It stands to reason. I’m not surprised he topped himself. In fact, I’m glad he’s dead. The world will travel on to a better place without the likes of Shane Fellday on board.’

  There was a short thinking-time silence where little eating went on, until Haley said, ‘Where did you go that night, dad?’

  ‘I told you, broken down lorry at Gledrid.’

  ‘Well, even if you did, that’s down that way too, isn’t it? Maybe only ten minutes’ drive away. You had nothing to do with it, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. Think what you are saying, girl.’

  ‘I have given it a lot of thought, and another real peculiar thing strikes me, dad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you went out that night, you didn’t take the car. You went on foot.’

  WALTER AND KAREN HAD another concentrated go at Jago, with Brax still in attendance. He was sure earning his pennies.

  Karen said, ‘Mr Gornall is here, and he’s talking away in the other room. Is there anything you’d like to add about his involvement in this business?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Walter. ‘We know you two are as thick as thieves...’

  Braxton interrupted, saying, ‘I think that question needs to be rephrased.’

  Walter nodded and said, ‘We know you two are close friends. He’s been recorded asking you for advice on the falling. This refers to the falling of Shane Fellday from that aqueduct, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I know nothing about that.’

  ‘So why is Gornall asking you about it?’

  ‘I have no idea. You’d better ask him.’

  ‘Oh, we will, and sooner or later I’m confident he will start pointing fingers. What is his position in this secret society? Foot soldier, head sharang, what?’

  Jago sighed hard and glanced at Braxton. The American nodded his client into action.

  ‘He’s the leading light,’ said Jago, ‘so I believe. But as I have told you till I am blue in the face, I am not and never have been a member.’

  ‘Were you near the aqueduct on Wednesday night?’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’

  ‘So, where were you?’ asked Karen.

  ‘In bed, at home, in the flat, by myself.’

  ‘So no one can corroborate that?’ said Walter.

  ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

  Walter said, ‘Let’s go back fifteen years.’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘I’m trying to make the leap from your cosy love afternoon trysts, to Kelly Jones being murdered, and I’m finding that a hard link to make.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. So am I.’

  ‘Something must have happened between you, something cataclysmic that changed everything, and I can’t help imagining that this included your father. What happened, Jago?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘I think you do. Did your father come home early one day and catch you in flagrante?’

  ‘It was nothing like that.’

  ‘So what was it like?’

  Jago squirmed in his seat and glanced at Brax for support. He had nothing to add, pulled a face, and nodded Jago to reply.

  ‘We’re going round in circles, Darriteau. You’re like a dog with a rancid bone. But you’re digging in the wrong place.’

  ‘Where should we be digging, Jago?’

  ‘Gornall and Fisher know more than they are letting on.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask them. I can’t say any more. I’m finished with it,’ and he glanced at Braxton again and said, ‘Can we have a break?’

  Walter answered the question.

  ‘We’ll break when I say we break and not before.’

  Brax thought he should say something and added, ‘My client is getting exhausted. Maybe we could take a rest.’

  ‘My answer to you,’ said Walter, ‘is the same as I have just said to Jago. We’ll carry on until I am satisfied. Your client knew the deceased woman. He was besotted with her. He used to visit her at the brothel, but that was not enough for him, so he coerced her into visiting him at home for additional afternoon sessions. But something brought that to a crashing end when Kelly Jones was brutally murdered and buried in an unmarked and illegal grave.’

  ‘I didn’t coerce her,’ muttered Jago, ‘she was always up for it. She couldn’t come down often enough. If you must know, she grabbed a taxi most times.’

  Karen said, ‘She fleeced you, didn’t she? Bled you dry. Was that the catalyst that brought matters to a head? She was taking more and more of your money until it became a problem for you, and you thought the only way out was to finish her off.’

  ‘No, that’s not how it was at all.’

  Walter said, ‘I think it was, Jago. And it dovetailed with your initiation ceremony into the silly-billy boys’ club. That initiation included murdering someone, and you were happy to oblige by strangling Kelly Jones, no doubt after one of your sordid afternoon sessions.’

  Jago shouted, ‘It was never sordid. Never! I couldn’t possibly have killed her!’

  ‘Why not, Jago? Why not?’

  He calmed down a tad and sat back in his chair, lowered his voice and said, ‘Because I loved her, Darriteau, body and soul. We planned to get married.’

  A solitary tear appeared in the corner of his left eye and dribbled down his unshaven cheek.

  Karen saw it, and so did Walter. Braxton did too when Jago pulled out a blue and white tartan handkerchief and wiped it away. Brax had not realised before what a weak and foolish character his boss was, and that gave him food for thought.

  Walter stood up and said, ‘Interview suspended at...’ and he read out the time.

  Braxton said, ‘I don’t suppose we could have a refill?’ pointing at the mugs.’

  Walter said, ‘Sure,’ and they left Jago and Brax to stew over the latest developments.

  Outside, Walter called for tea before sitting back at his desk. Karen joined him and said, ‘What did you make of that?’

  IN THE MORRELL HOUSEHOLD, Greg got round to answering Haley’s question about him going out on foot.

  ‘I got one of the guys to take me there.’

  ‘Which guy?

  ‘One of the truck maintenance fellas.’

  ‘Which fella?’

  ‘What’s all this inte
rest in my movements? Get on and eat your tea, and stop talking crap,’ and he grabbed his half eaten meal, went into the kitchen and tossed the plate on the drainer. ‘And so as you know, I’ll be out late again tonight.’

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got a lorry coming in from Turkey. It’s a new run for us. I want to make sure everything’s okay and running fine.’

  Haley thought he was making things up as he went along. She finished her dinner and switched channels to see if there was anything more being said about Shane. Despite everything, she had a sweet spot for Fellday, and the thought of him being tossed from a high bridge was too terrible to contemplate.

  DOUGLAS FISHER WAS the next in the firing line. He confirmed Gornall’s story about playing cards till 3am. Not a surprise. He also said he was the number two in the secret society that he called the Brotherhood, confirming that George Gornall was the head man. No major decisions were made without George’s say so.

  But he denied any knowledge of systematic murders being conducted by the group, knew nothing about Fellday, denied ever knowing him, and neither had he ever met or knew anything about Kelly Jones. He said the same thing about Peter Craig, pointing out that was thirty years ago, and he wasn’t involved. He said he didn’t know Gornall or Wilderton back then. That sounded plausible, and he’d answered the questions promptly without hesitation, as if he knew he was treading on safe ground.

  But Doug Fisher faced a conundrum. He’d liked to have mentioned Greg Morrell, and place him in the frame for Fellday’s murder. After all, it was Greg who pushed him off the aqueduct. But Doug couldn’t think of a way of saying that without revealing he was there.

  Walter and Karen had another go at Gornall. They both knew they were within a single slip-up of someone spilling the beans, but it was still to come. Gornall was the same as before, too confident for his own good. He knew Fisher couldn’t put him in the frame without incriminating himself and believed that was rock solid.

  The same, pretty much, applied to Jago Wilderton. And because each man had their own position to protect, Gornall believed he would be home before bedtime. Walter and Karen both thought Jago held the key, and it was back to him and Braxton, a man they caught yawning big time when they entered the room.

  ‘Thanks for the refreshments,’ he said, pointing at the mugs, and this time he meant it. Walter and Karen sat down, and the interview resumed.

  Walter said, ‘I know what it’s like when an older man falls in love with a younger woman. Believe you me, I’ve been there, and more than once.’

  Jago nodded across the table. Maybe Mr Bumble understood his predicament.

  ‘It hits you in the guts,’ continued Walter, tapping his stomach. ‘Right here. You think about the girl all the time. You want to be with her every minute of every hour. And when you are apart, you can’t help pondering and wondering what they are up to, and who they are with. That can be mental torture. It tears you to pieces. That not right, Jago?’

  ‘Spot on, Darriteau, spot on,’ said Jago. ‘24/7.’

  ‘I mean,’ continued Walter, ‘it’s bad enough when the girl is faithful to one particular man. But in your case, Jago, where the girl makes her living by seeing other men, and lots of different men at all hours of the day and night, young men, old men, fat men, skinny men, youths, pensioners, unhealthy men, violent men, I can’t imagine how hurtful, tortuous, and painful that must be.’

  ‘It was hell, Darriteau, living hell. I tried to get her to stop. So many times, I tried. It was heartbreaking.’

  ‘And then something horrendous happens. The Brotherhood, as I believe it was called, are looking for their once every fifteen year sacrifice. And someone proposes, it might even have been your dear dad, that it would be a good idea to put the alluring Kelly Jones in the frame. After all, it fits so well. The thought of ridding society of verminous members. She’s a pro, for God’s sake, a hooker, a call-girl, a good-time girl, the local bike, a grubby tart, a filthy hussy who’ll do it for money with anyone and everyone, and all the other dreadful names those girls are called are trotted out and misused. Yet many of those misunderstood women are forced into prostitution through necessity. Who’d ever miss a common prostitute? No one! A woman leading young men astray, a woman who every upstanding wife would be appalled to discover their cute husband regularly visited.’

  Jago grunted a deep grunt, and for a second Walter thought he might burst into speech. But his jowls looked more pronounced than before, quivering, as he sat hard back in his chair, his left arm at his side, his right hand supporting his chin, as he remained silent.

  Walter began again.

  ‘But there’s a man who doesn’t want the Brotherhood to have her as the sacrifice, because he can’t contemplate the thought of leaving her, of being without her, of never seeing her again. He wants her for his own, this exciting dame, and even have children by her, and he rings her up and calls her down to the Plough Lane house, but with what thought in mind, Jago?’

  Walter answered his rhetorical question.

  ‘Because he wants to warn her of impending danger! But more than that, he wants to marry her so that she’s his and his alone. On hearing the imploring and exciting nature of the phone call, she jumps a cab and can’t get down the A41 quick enough. Perhaps she bunks out of regular appointments, citing a dreadful migraine, and gaining the wrath of the impatient brothel keeper.

  ‘Back at the house, maybe the guy has visited the fancy jewellers in the town. Perhaps he’s bought the biggest and most impressive engagement ring in the store. He wants to prove his love for her by presenting the most sensational ring either of them have ever seen.’

  Walter paused and glanced into Jago’s moist eyes, and continued.

  ‘But something terrible happens, something that will change his life forever, and hers. Something that will cause her violent and horrific death. Someone interrupted that special meeting; didn’t they, Jago? Someone gets in the way. And that person spoils everything, and those fantastical plans and dreams are destroyed in an instant. One minute, absolute happiness, the next, total despair, dark, depressing, and fatal.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ yelled Jago. ‘I’ve heard enough. I can’t stand this any longer.’

  ‘What brought it to an end, Jago? Come on, man, get it off your chest. We all need to know what went down. Did you kill her by mistake in a fit of passion... or was it a fit of rage? Which one was it?’

  ‘No, Darriteau, no, it wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t kill her!’

  ‘Then tell us, Jago. How did she die? How did it happen? We need to know!’

  WHEN GREGORY MORRELL left the house, it was still full daylight. Haley went to the front room window, peered through the lace curtains, and watched him walking away, canvas style tool bag or sports bag in his left hand, as he moved fast down the street. Where was he going? Who was he going to meet? And was there an incoming load from Turkey, or was that another fanciful thought he’d thrown into the mix?

  Either way, it seemed to her to be another lie. She had always been able to tell when her father was lying. Many kids can do that, suss out parent’s lies, and many parents should bear that in mind.

  In the days before, he had been scouting out another potential candidate for the full Brotherhood treatment. So what if Gornall and Fisher had decreed nothing like it must occur for another fifteen years. Fifteen years? Give me strength! The world could go to hell in a pandemic or a global firestorm before fifteen years elapsed. No! More action was needed, and he was the man to do it.

  All the shops opposite the Bear’s Claw had closed for the day. The empty shop was still vacant, the TO LET sign still in the window, seeking foolish entrepreneurial people to sink their life savings into another retail business soon to become another loss-making and doomed concern. Like most of the others on the street.

  At least his business was protected. People would always need freight. Food, drink, clothing, gadgets they couldn’t do without, medicines
, they all had to be shifted and delivered by wagons like the ones he held sway over. Greg ordered a truck to Paris, and the thing went there real quick. Greg ordered a wagon to bring back wines and spirits from Spain, and the lorry did as it was told.

  It reminded him of his childhood, playing on the sitting room floor with his big toy trucks. He’d never grown up, and didn’t want to, either. He enjoyed bossing things about and was dead chuffed when Haley bought him an “I’m the BOSS!” mug for his birthday.

  Ciaran Webb was his name. The lucky man selected to become Greg’s first solo victim. He was a scabby bastard, too. Mid twenties, thin as a lamppost, short greasy blond hair brushed forward, and then cut all the way round, leaving a neat fringe across the top of his forehead. Pudding basin haircuts were sure back in style, and they looked as hideous and ludicrous in the twenty-first century as they had ever done.

  He was a robber, but not in the conventional sense. A robber going about his business every day, in full view of everyone, robbing hard-earned pounds from anyone stupid enough to have anything to do with him. And there would always be dozens of customers wanting and needing his services.

  He called himself Ciaran’s Bank of Chester. He thought that funny and clever, and would lend money short-term to just about anyone. It was a simple deal. Clear, clean cash. None of that cheque or credit card nonsense. You want fifty quid? Here, have your fifty quid right now, cash in hand. But remember, it’s seventy-five quid back on Saturday night, come what may, without fail.

  People paid up too, for they knew they might need him again one day. He wasn’t a big guy, either, and would never best anyone in a fair fight. He didn’t scare a soul, not even his little brothers. But he didn’t need to be scary. If you didn’t pay him, he’d pour acid on your new car. Or throw bricks through your windows at two in the morning, or slash your tyres. Or find out when you were out, or on holiday, and persuade the local young thieves to break in and steal what the hell they liked. They could keep it all, so long as they made a real mess of the place before they left. And if that didn’t work, he’d threaten to throw that same acid over the borrower’s wife. Not that he ever had. Not yet.