The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4

some distant busy road. An aeroplane came over the brow of the green hills, an executive jet, losing height, coming in to land at Hawarden airport. The skinny fisherman glanced up at the plane and back at the water, flexed the rod, peered at the surface, hoping for evidence of prey. He set the rod on the rest and stood with hands on hips, breathing hard, dying for a cigarette. He would have another in a second, peered up at the watery sun. It hurt his eyes.
Sam went on tiptoe. Closed on the prey. Crept forward. One last look around. The old man hadn’t heard a thing. Perhaps he was going deaf. No one on the far bank. No boats on the Cut. Not another soul in sight. They had the world to themselves.
Hand up. Palm forward. Small of the back. Hefty shove.
The old man went in head first.
SPLOSH!
He didn’t utter a word.
The water was freezing.
William Camber panicked and began thrashing around. His heart rate exploded. He was desperate to cough. His arms and shoulders and chest were freezing. He was desperate to breathe. He had never been a swimmer, swimming was for the fishes, he used to say. The tidal current swept him further out. He slipped beneath the surface and smacked the water with open hands, searching for air, but which way was up?
A sudden updraught brought him back to the surface. His head popped up like a cork. He gasped for breath, coughed and spat. He was facing the bank where his fishing rod stood. No whippet. Why hadn’t he brought the damned dog with him? He couldn’t remember. Safety was a long way off, and standing beside his fishing gear was a slight, grinning figure. Baseball cap pulled down over its round face, skinny jeans, and nondescript woollen jacket.
‘What did you do that for?’ William yelled.
The figure waved him goodbye.
The effort of shouting spent energy William could ill afford.
The current swept him into the centre of the canal, the deepest, coldest area. His legs lost all feeling. He could no longer kick. His arms were weak and feeble. They were going the same way. He grimaced in agony.
His head slipped beneath the surface. There was no sign of him. He’d gone. The driver felt elated. It had been so easy.
100 Ways to Kill People.
Push them in the Cut.
A hand broke the surface. He wasn’t dead.
It wouldn’t be long in coming.
William’s white arm rose into the sky. The fist clenched like some communist black and white propaganda movie from the fifties. It shook at the figure on the bank, at the world in general, at all the people who had ignored him, hurt and belittled him. It retreated into the water, and was gone and would soon be forgotten.
Sam grinned and turned about. Pulled out the book of birds and strolled away along the bank. What species could be recorded today? Barnacle goose, yes, tick, Canada goose, yes, another tick, kestrel, yes, mute swan, yes, lots of ticks; it had been a good day. It had been a wonderful day.

Chapter Nine
The gaunt figure was washed up the following morning, downstream beyond the new road bridge, below the power station at Connah’s Quay, dumped by the retreating tide. One hand was missing, essential foodstuff for three hungry fox cubs.
Two power workers had noticed the figure. They thought it was a mannequin, probably chucked into the water by a local band of mischievous kids. It didn’t once move; it must be a mannequin. One of the engineers wasn’t convinced and clambered down to take a closer look.
He was right. It wasn’t a mannequin.
The body was in Wales, nothing to do with the English, well beyond Walter’s jurisdiction. There, the Heddlu Gogledd Cymru ruled, the North Wales Police Service, but Walter had a pal in Prestatyn by the name of Dai Williams, and they would regularly speak and exchange intelligence and gossip. Dai was aware of Walter’s interest in the unexplained death at Mostyn station, hence one of his first calls was to him.
‘No ID yet, Walter,’ he said, in his happy singsong Welsh voice. ‘No one has been reported missing who fits the description, white man, difficult to age, we are saying between fifty and eighty, cause of death, drowning, no obvious injuries other than one nibbled paw.’
THREE HOURS LATER THE police patrols found the rod and bag and eventual identification. The dead man was one William Camber from Chester, aged sixty, no known relatives, and William Camber left behind one last mystery.
Was it suicide, accident, or murder?
Walter and Karen knew the answer to that. They couldn’t prove it, they had precious little evidence, they simply knew.
They were no longer seeking a double murderer, but a triple, and that was a rarity, and there was something else of interest. William Camber was an atheist. He had never shown any interest in churches or religion. The vicar murdering Islamist theory could be put to bed. They were looking for a serial killer; and a random striker at that.
Random killers were always the hardest to catch.
One of the telephones rang.
Karen snatched it up.
Walter heard her say, ‘Yes, he’s here, sure, I’ll send him in.’
‘What is it?’ Walter snapped, though he had a good idea who it was.
‘Mrs West wants to see you, right away.’
Walter cursed aloud.
Mrs West, known behind her back as John, was Walter’s superior officer. Her name was Joan West, and she was ten years younger than Walter. She would often use the telephone to speak to her staff, even if they were sitting in the office right next door, preferring to keep her door closed whenever she could. It wasn’t how the book suggested a station was run, but she didn’t care about that. It had served her well in the past and she wasn’t about to change.
Walter stood up and waddled across the office mumbling, ‘That’s all I bloody need.’
He knocked and went inside.
‘Sit down, Walter.’
‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’
‘Yes. I