Carter - Kissing a Killer

Kissing a Killer.

An Inspector Walter Darriteau murder mystery.

David Carter & TrackerDog Media 2017

Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke

www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

Cover design by Indie Designz http://www.indiedesignz.com

First Edition.

The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by TrackerDog Media, 118 Ringwood Road, Walkford, Christchurch, Dorset BH23 5RF, England. Please contact us for wholesale and distribution enquiries at: getcarter6@aol.com

Enquiries welcomed from overseas and secondary publishers.

H e was strong. Incredibly strong. She stared up into his dark unblinking eyes. Nothing there. No pity, no emotion, no feeling, no humanity, nothing but an iciness that chilled her bones.

When you are close to death your whole life flashes before you, so they say, but it was not Eleanor Wrights life that flashed through her tortured brain, but his, the attacker, her killer designate, the cold strong nameless man who held her so.

Why was he doing this? Why did he hate her so much? Why did he hate himself so much? Perhaps he had been abused as a little boy. Perhaps his father had beaten him. Maybe he didnt have a father and had grown up wild. Maybe hed been beaten by a wicked stepmother, and this was his idea of revenge. All of those things were possible, or none of them at all. Maybe he simply had a screw loose. There are lots of guys wandering about with loose and missing screws, and she knew that well enough, just as most women do.

It was her mothers scolding face that next presented itself to her racing brain. Eleanor recalled the conversation as if she had hours to live, days even. It only took a second.

You know what you are doing is so wrong!

I need the money, mum!

Get a fucking job then!

What, like you? Serving teas and sandwiches all day to the afternoon coffin dodgers for the minimum wage? I dont think so! Not a bloody chance!

At least its honest.... and respectable.

Dont start down that line again!

Dont you think God sees what you are doing... every time you do those perverted things?

God! God? What did your so-called God ever do for you?

He gave me you, for a start!

Well you drew the bloody booby prize there!

Dont be so wicked! I am blessed. You are blessed too. On the day of judgement...

Yeah, yeah, well I have news for you, mother dear; theres no such fucking thing as a God! Or any crappy day of judgement either. Youre in for a big disappointment, Im off out. Derek said hed treat me to a curry.

And that Dereks a useless article too!

Yeah right, and the hot men are queuing up to see you as well.

Dont involve me in your sordid business!

I t had been a fairly typical mother/daughter conversation in the Wright family in recent times, but Eleanors full attention was brought back to the here and now, to the man in front of her, strangling her.

She wanted to scream, but he was never going to allow that. And anyway, the caravan was remote, at least half a mile to the next one, and being November that was almost certainly vacant anyway. She could hear the rain drumming on the roof. It was getting heavier too. Screaming would be a total waste of precious energy. She stared up again into those dark eyes. If only she could stab him in those cold eyes with her long and strong fingernails; that would make him think twice, but hed thought of that. Hed come prepared. She recalled his exact words when he had tapped on her caravan door.

Youre open for business, I believe?

Its a bit late, aint it?

Never too late for business, bonny lass. Come on, open up, Ive plenty of cash, and we have all night.

Cant you come back tomorrow? Im not really in the mood.

No! Open up! Its starting to rain, and he had leant on the flimsy door, and she was never going to resist, for one simple reason. She liked the look of him, and the sound of his calm voice, and his neat understated smile, and the thought of plenty of cash.

He was so much better looking than the aging creeps who normally found their way down to her old caravan beside the swirling river Dee. Often violent, often drunk, often in need of a damned good wash, often in filthy smoke-ridden clothes, often out of shape and flabby, the kind of gone-to-seed guys that normal women would run a mile from. Thats why they needed her, or someone like her, though they didnt really want to pay for it, and often barely had enough cash even for a quick BJ.

Eleanor Wright knew that her name and whereabouts were an open secret in the local pubs. Fact was, that when she had first started doing tricks she might even have encouraged the landlords to Send em down to see me after youve finished with them! Though shed wiped that idiotic chapter from her mind with a big sigh and a shake of the head.

Shed stood across the caravan from him, weighing him up, as he appeared to be her, as they usually did. It was a little strange. A young fit good-looking guy like him having to visit the local whore. Youd think he could find a girl of his own. Hed make a fab boyfriend for someone, and for a moment she allowed herself to daydream. Maybe he could become her boyfriend. Maybe they could go steady, and who knew where that might lead? Hed sure as hell make a heck of a husband, the kind of guy any girl would love to enter the pub with, on his arm. Tall, fit, smart, healthy. But the days when young men like him would look at her seriously had long gone. Whorings a hard business. It leaves its mark, even on a twenty-something, and there was nowt she could do about that now.

She set her newly nail-polished hands on her hips and pouted and said, So what is it you want?

His soft reply seeped through the caravan.

Bit of rough, bit of slap, lots of sex.

All right, she said, going to the door and flipping over the catch. Hundred quid.

He left out a short sharp grunt and shook his head.

Not a chance! Fifty quid, and think yourself lucky, and he opened his wallet and took out a fifty pound note and tossed it on the plastic topped coffee table.

Eleanor glanced down at it. It was a brand new note, straight from the bank, or the ATM, by the look of it, and fifty quid was fifty quid, and a girl had to eat, and obtain other vital provisions too.

All right, she said again. But not too rough.

She thought she detected another slight smile, maybe more of a smirk.

Come here! he ordered, and she did as he asked without a seconds hesitation.

He took hold of her shoulders and spun her round. He pulled a length of thick cord from his trouser pocket. Hed come prepared, she remembered thinking that, but then they often did, as he wound it round one wrist and then the other, and pulled it tight and knotted it, tying her hands together behind her back.