Five Dead Rooks: Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau (The Inspector Walter Darriteau Books Book 7) Read online

  Five Dead Rooks

  David Carter

  Published by David Carter, 2019.

  Five Dead Rooks

  An Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mystery

  © Copyright David Carter & TrackerDog Media 2019

  118 Ringwood Road, Walkford,

  Christchurch, Dorset BH23 5RF, England

  Web: www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

  Follow David on twitter @TheBookBloke

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information and storage retrieval systems (with the exception of those purchasing by download), without permission in writing from the publishers. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by David Carter

  Down into the Darkness

  Grist Vergette's Curious Clock

  The Inconvenient Unborn

  The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

  The Twelfth Apostle

  The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

  The Sound of Sirens

  Kissing a Killer

  The Death Broker

  The Bunny and the Bear - A Cold and Frosty Winter

  State Sponsored Terror

  The Legal & the Illicit

  Five Dead Rooks

  Watch for more at David Carter’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By David Carter

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Author’s Notes

  Sign up for David Carter's Mailing List

  Further Reading: The Legal & the Illicit

  Also By David Carter

  About the Author

  In Memoriam

  John William Carter

  1946-2018

  One

  SUPERINTENDENT RAY Lookman stood in the hallway and admired himself in the long mirror. Tall, handsome, clean-cut, a man with a purpose, a man looked up to by his colleagues and friends. How impressed his mother would have been, but that couldn’t be helped. She was long gone, and still as much missed as ever.

  He stole one last look before turning away to the small hall table where he always left his ID. Picked it up and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. Pulled open the single drawer and grabbed the small but heavy cosh he never went without, and slid it into his deep right trouser pocket.

  He could handle himself well enough, but there had been occasions when a little extra punch power had proven necessary. The cosh was now his best friend. It may not have been regulation police issue; nothing could have been further from the truth, for he’d bought it in an unregulated and unlawful gun shop in Thailand during one of his regular visits to that amazing country.

  He had taken the risk of smuggling it back into the UK, something that he later marvelled at, his own ingenuity and daring, though why he should be surprised at that he could not imagine, for he had always possessed those qualities in abundance. Breaking the law by a law enforcement officer, who’d have thought it!

  Ray glanced at the barometer that had once lived in his mother’s house. Twelve degrees C, the last third of March, the clocks would go forward an hour on the coming weekend, and though the weather had been unseasonably warm, it still grew cold at nights, and he still took his dark green overcoat cum raincoat with him when out on business, the one with the large square pockets, where all kinds of evidence and accoutrements could be secreted away.

  He adored working the night shift, always had, for there was something inherently exciting about it, and anyone could hide in the dark, even detectives out working, and especially when the moon was absent, and street lighting was reduced or out of action, something that happened far more often than it should have done, and more than any local politician would ever care to admit on camera.

  He slipped on the grubby coat. That grubbiness did not worry him for his business was grubby, and occasionally he needed to fit in with his surroundings. The dog was getting excited. Thought he might be getting an additional late walk. He was to be disappointed. Ray Lookman zipped up the heavy brass zipper and collected the last piece of essential equipment, his heavy bunch of keys, for there would be no going anywhere without them. Still time for one last glance in the glass, a slight cold smile followed by an approving nod, patted the hound, and Ray was out of the flat and on his way.

  Outside, the temperature was dropping fast. He’d exited the block through the rear communal doors, the ones that overlooked the long bank of white–doored up and over garages, the kind that clanked and banged every time, no matter how much care the operator took in opening.

  He sniffed and felt the cold air on his throat, walked briskly over to the garages, number 14, predictably the same number as his apartment. He paused and glanced back over his shoulder, and across towards the red brick flat-faced rectangular block that glowered and towered above him. 70s construction, never a doubt about that, wouldn’t last so long, but it would do... for now.

  Half the lights in the block were on, and all the curtains and blinds were drawn, except one, Mrs Bradley’s, the nosey widower who lived in the flat directly above Ray. She came to the window, the groaning metallic garage door no doubt alerting her, must have woken her from her pre-bedtime doze, and over twelve feet she was as quick as a running rat. It was all he could do not to gesticulate at her, though he would not give her that satisfaction.

  He went inside the darkened garage and beeped open the Mercedes 200 series saloon, not the latest model, and not the lowest of mileage either, but smart enough for all that. Ray liked it, thought it gave a man of his standing adequate kudos and charisma. He fired up the engine, backed out the garage, slipped it into forward gear, and sped away without giving her the satisfaction of glancing up.

  The dash clock told him it was 22.20. He turned on the heating and radio. Easy listening music with occasional sports-news breaks and that was okay with Ray. He had an important appointment and was way too early, but that didn’t bother him for he liked to be early, and he liked driving around the ancient city of Chester at night too.

  He’d cruise around for more than an hour, noting various regular characters as he did so, hanging around whe
re they shouldn’t. Young girls, and some not so young, loitering on street corners looking for business. Shadowy, maybe male figures, though by no means certain, all slim and hoodied up, lit ciggies on lips, recently bought mobiles jammed to the ears, whispering prices and places, and listening to orders and needs and begging requests, and complaints.

  Such people would always be there if you knew where to look, as the rest of the world thought about settling down to sleep. They always had been in Ray Lookman’s time and probably always would. The Superintendent pulled a face and looked away and drove on, for he had bigger fish to fry than amateur whores and rookie dealers looking to cut a deal, literally, whilst trying to make a name for themselves in one of the most cutthroat and dangerous businesses there was on our bustling planet.

  He stopped at an all night tea bar, bought a coffee and a slab of dark chocolate, and returned to the car and sat and snacked away, as he watched some late night drunks noisily pass by. There was even time for a short doze and by the time he switched back on, the digital clock had clicked over to 12.46. A new day, a Wednesday, and Ray had always had a certain fondness for Wednesdays, and why shouldn’t he? It was the day he was born, or at least his mother had insisted that to be the case, and indeed, years later when he had finally checked, it confirmed it too.

  Wednesday was also the day his father had died, and that was another good cause for celebration, and other good things had occurred on Wednesday too, such as that first time with kinky Shirley Morrell, when they were both just sixteen, in her house, in her bedroom on that narrow bed, when her parents were away at some swimming gala. My God; he would never forget that, or her. Yeah, good things happened to Ray Lookman on Wednesdays. Always had, and always would.

  Two

  THE RUM & BASE CLUB closed on Tuesday night/Wednesday mornings at around 1.00am. There was once a time when the owner, Bilk Thomas, would have campaigned to have those hours extended, but once he’d passed forty-five he couldn’t be bothered with all that nonsense any longer.

  He still stayed open later at the weekends when he made the bulk of his money, and by the time 1.00am came round on a Wednesday he was ready for bed, and alone at that.

  Bilk had been in the nightclub game for more than twenty years. There were not too many local cities and towns where he hadn’t tried his luck. Stafford, Stoke, Liverpool, Southport, and Shrewsbury had all seen Bilk establishments at one time or another, but the Rum & Base Club in Chester had been in existence for ten years, a lifetime in clubland, and he already knew that it would be his last stop on the clubbing scene. There had been noises from one or two punters showing an interest in maybe buying the place, and if any of them ever found the bottle to set down on his bar sufficient hard cash, Bilk had decided to snap their hand off.

  It was a decent place, the Rum & Base, set as it was in a sprawling Chester city basement beneath some civil servant offices that were never occupied at night. That kept the noise complaints down a tad. It was never a youth place either, despite the name, and if the young brigade ever managed to infiltrate, they invariably didn’t stay long when they heard the tunes that Bilk insisted the DJ’s played.

  His customers were thirty-somethings and forty-somethings and fifty-somethings and sixty somethings, and God forbid, even older than that on occasion, and the pumping thumping music had to fit the bill. Shouty louty crappy yappy rappy sounds were definitely frowned upon, though the odd one still slipped through, when Bilk would promptly scowl his disapproval at the DJ. On occasions in the Rum & Base it wasn’t so much grab-a-granny night, but grab-a-great-granny!

  But that was cool. Why not? The clientele rarely strayed above merry into the obnoxious, they always seemed to produce sufficient cash, most important to Bilk’s mind, and maybe a few of them were re-mortgaging and equity releasing from their houses to fund their newly acquired boisterous lifestyle, and why shouldn’t they?

  They were only going to live just the once, like all the rest of us, and if they wanted to pee their children’s inheritance up against Bilk’s walls, then who the hell was he to object. Some of them stumbled into Bilk’s club three nights a week, and more at Christmas, and many of them came equipped with half used tubes of Voltarol in case they were hit by unexpected muscle spasms.

  Some of them were decent looking too, those old un’s. It’s surprising how attractive certain sixty plus ladies get, when one is on the wrong side of forty, Bilk had sure as hell noticed that, especially if viewed them from behind, and so what if they had endured shit marriages to shit husbands, and had now jettisoned them with the intent of finding excitement and fulfilment and happiness, and maybe with a younger lover too. Bilk wasn’t the one to raise an eyebrow or pour cold water, especially when the double Bacardies and vodkas and Southern Comforts flowed across his fake marble bars at a rate that would have sunk many a youngster.

  Bilk had big overheads weighing on his shoulders. And geez, some of those old girls could sure as hell stick away the booze with seemingly no after effects, and good booze it was too, for Bilk was known for that. He had never watered down a drink in his life, he knew his clients would sniff that malarkey out in a heartbeat, and would dance off to the competition. Neither had he slipped crap brands into expensive bottles before sliding them back onto the optics, well, not after that trouble in Stafford twenty years before, a stain on his reputation that had thankfully been long forgotten.

  Tuesday night going into Wednesday morning was one of the quietest periods of the week. That didn’t worry him unduly. Nowhere would be packed out on a Wednesday, not unless they were doing special deals that punters couldn’t miss, and he had no inclination to join any race to the bottom.

  Bilk stood propped up on the customer’s side of the bar, scratching his eyebrows, and glancing across at the bored looking bar staff, Mary Learmount and the olive skinned Candice Perbedy. They were both still thirty-somethings, just about, and looked as bored as Bilk felt, for there was not much drinking and not much buying going on, as the DJ tried hard to fill the cavernous place with noise, though the sounds had slipped over into sentimental slowies when those still dancing, and waiting to dance, would endeavour to get closer to their desired target.

  Bilk glanced across at Mary who was serving two grey haired women who looked north of seventy if they were a day, with real big gins. Mary’s wavy hair bounced on her shoulders as she smiled and exchanged a bit of banter with the old girls, as she took the cash and slapped it in the till. She still carried the V word, voluptuous, or at least she did in Bilk’s eyes, even if she had put on a wee bit too much weight around the hips. But she was good-hearted and invariably happy, and reliable as rain in an English summer.

  Bilk enjoyed working with her and having her around, and that applied to both of them. He didn’t fancy her at all, and even if he did he wouldn’t have got far, for she had recently been courted and won by an older freshly divorced grey-haired man who possessed a “fucking castle” of a house up at Ness, or at least that was how Mary gleefully described it to anyone who cared to listen.

  Bilk’s chances with Candice weren’t much better. She was tall and super slim, almost six feet, big exploding curly hair, and fond of short skirts and dresses that kept the punters eyes glued to where they shouldn’t. But Candice was most certainly spoken for, hooked up to a seven feet, yes really, seven feet basketball player from up Manchester way, and no one would ever mess with the Toronto Tower. He’d probably call in later, to pick up and drive her home, just in case Bilk or anyone else overstepped the mark, and got cheeky. Candice would always have admirers, at least for a few years yet.

  SUPERINTENDENT RAY Lookman drove his silver car around the city one last time before zeroing in on the Rum & Base. He parked on a double yellow line around a hundred yards from the old building that housed the Base. If he was interrupted by anyone for waiting there he’d flash his ID and invite them on their way, with a flea in their ear and a short and curt sentence, ‘I’m on night ops, now sod off!’

  But
no one bothered him. It was first thing Wednesday morning and probably the quietest time in the city. The weekend might now start for some on Thursdays, but Wednesday was still ignored and alone and pretty dead, and that was how Ray liked it. He glanced at the dash clock. 01.16. The Rum & Base had finally closed, the super slim tall thing had come out, Ray had noticed her before, several times if truth be told, arm in arm with a lamp standard of a bloke, and the pair of them had jumped into a ridiculous old American car and had roared away.

  The other slightly dumpy woman had come out too, followed by Bilk. Ray could hear their cooed goodnights slithering through the cold night air and in through the slightly open car window. Mary Learmount headed away in the opposite direction, as Bilk made an issue of banging the door shutters and locking up and crossing the road, where he jumped into his Japanese hybrid car, clipped on his seatbelt, and hushed away, as some of those electro things do.

  Ray started the Merc; he wouldn’t have changed cars for anything, not for the hushy thing, nor the elongated Yank, and slowly he followed the white Hybrid at a respectable distance. Traffic was light and if some idiot overtook him and got in the way he could deal with that, and anyway, Ray knew well enough where Bilk Thomas lived, and pound to a penny that was where he was heading. Where else would he go on a Wednesday in the old city after the clubs had closed? A mistress maybe, or even a boyfriend, though Ray’s intelligence told him that Bilk possessed neither of those.

  It was a nice house, Bilk Towers; four bed detached property, though why Bilk would need four bedrooms when he obviously lived alone was anyone’s guess. Mock Tudor, thirties’ construction, big rooms, tall ceilings, decent sized gardens, unlike the houses of today where every square inch or was it centimetres, were treated as prized possessions and fought over like gold, which in a way it was.

  No doubt the city council was under great pressure from central government to build as many new homes as possible, and if that meant cramming ten houses on a site that ideally was made for only four, then so be it, who were they to argue? One thing that no one could ever make any more of was land. You made the best of what there was, for there would never be any more, not ever. And one day it would run out, and then the only alternatives would be, either to build upward with the birds, or burrow down amongst the moles and worms, or better still, find another planet together with a decent way of getting there, to pollute and ruin.