The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4

back down the hill to the station before the trains grew busy.
THE DRIVER HAD PLANNED the day with great care. A quiet railway station where expresses rushed through. A small or non-existent staff. A lack of CCTV, and a trial run that had uncovered no unforeseen problems. Today would be the day. Mostyn would be the place.

Chapter Five
James Kingston was still thinking of Harry and poor Bethan, as he crossed the railway bridge and strolled on to the platform that would take him eastward back toward Chester, the line that followed the soft muddy, sandy coast.
Harry volunteered to stay with him until the unreliable stopping train arrived, but James sent Harry on his way with, ‘You have so much to think about and arrange, you get on home,’ and anyway there was an express due through, and James came from an age when little boys were hypnotised by railway trains. He was looking forward to it and reprimanded himself for not bringing his digital camera.
The driver sat in the car watching. There was one person on the platform, but you only need one. One cold soul, peering up the track, seeking trains, hoping one would arrive soon.
The driver stepped from the car. Headed for the platform entrance, specially chosen padded trainers enabling silent movement. The man on the platform still stared along the track. A vague rumbling, then the lines sang, an audible hum, the sound of bogies on steel rail, crossing the junction, over the points, louder now, approaching, exciting, exhilarating.
Most people step back from the platform edge when a train rushes through, especially when it’s an express that will not slow or stop. James was keener for a better look. He stepped forward. The diesel loco pulling ten carriages was entering the station, hurtling toward him, acceleration, the Llandudno Junction to London Euston Express, stopping at Chester and Crewe and nowhere else. Yellow and red, raw power. How impressive a beast she was.
The car driver stepped forward too. No one about. Why would there be? This was a quiet unmanned station, the rush hour had yet to begin, and this train wasn’t stopping.
Hand up. Palm open. Small of the back. The gentlest of prods. Falling forward, over the edge, into the abyss. Disappeared. Dispatched. A split second look of panic and terror on the engine driver’s face as the train flashed by. The cold soul had disappeared. Mangled beneath hundreds of tonnes of thrashing iron and steel. No one could survive that. What had been his final thoughts? Pondered the pusher. Maybe he uttered a prayer. Who knows? Who cares?
100 Ways to Kill People.
Push them under a train.
The driver grinned and turned about and headed back toward the car. It had been more enjoyable than before, and that was a surprise. Perhaps it was because last time it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. This time it was meticulously planned.
Desi had perished that way.
It was only right.
It was only a surprise it had taken so long for the idea to germ.
Desi was avenged, or at least partly.
Desi would never be forgotten.
Back in the car. Engine on. Left trainer pressing C. Right trainer pressing A. Acceleration. Away from the station. Away from Mostyn, and away from Wales.
But what about next time? What then?
There would always be a next time.
WALTER ARRIVED LATE at the police station. He had been to the dentist. His left cheek was puffier than usual. Karen was already there, gabbling on the telephone. He gawped at her and she set the phone down and smiled across at him.
‘I’ve been to the dentist,’ he snuffled.
‘I can see that.’
‘Anything happening?’
‘There is. Another suspicious death,’ she said, ‘over the border in Wales.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘A middle-aged man fell beneath the London express at Mostyn.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Maybe, but get this, he was a preacher.’
‘That is interesting. Any witnesses?’
‘None that we know of, though the driver glimpsed something. He’s very cut up about it.’
‘Perhaps cut up is not the best phrase in the circumstances.’
‘Sorry, but get this, Guv, the dead guy was well known.’
‘In what way?’
‘Remember that vicar from the cathedral, the one traffic did for drink driving and the papers got hold of it. It’s him.’
‘I remember. RIGHT REVEREND WRONG.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘What was he doing in Mostyn?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you know where the engine driver lives?’
‘Yep. Nantwich.’
‘That’s handy, on our patch. He’ll be taking leave for sure.’
‘He is. I’ve just spoken to him; he’s in all day.’
‘I think we should see him.’
‘OK Guv, I’ll arrange a car.’
‘One other thing, Karen, did you dig up anything weird on Marian Rivers?’
‘Nope. Nothing at all. I don’t think she’s involved.’
Walter sighed and waddled toward the coffee machine.
‘We’ll go in half an hour, do you want a coffee?’
‘Nope, bad for you, ruin my diet,’ and she grabbed and sucked hard on her bottle of flavoured water.
IT TOOK LESS THAN HALF an hour to drive to Nantwich, Karen keeping within the speed limit most of the time. The driver’s name was Bill Brambles, and he lived in a typical railwayman’s terraced cottage that hadn’t changed in a hundred years. It was two minutes walk from the station, handy for work. They heard a passing two-carriage passenger train as they walked up the short path.
There was no bell, just a big brass knocker. Karen thumped it twice, and the door opened a moment later. She smiled at the red-faced guy, short, stubby, maybe forty-five, thinning black hair, unshaven, bags under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well.
‘Mr Brambles?’ she said.
The guy nodded.
‘I’m Sergeant Karen Greenwood, we spoke earlier.’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Inspector Darriteau.’
The guy nodded at Walter, and Walter nodded back.
‘Come on in.’
They went through to a small back kitchen and sat at a table and chairs, yellow topped; the kind of thing you can buy in a charity shop for next to nothing.
‘Wanna cuppa tea?’
‘No ta,’ said Walter. Karen shook her head.
‘I’d just like you to tell us in your own words what happened,’ said Walter.
‘I’ve already told the Railway Police.’
‘Yes, we know