The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

The young man hid in the shadows, cigarette in hand. Moonless night, dry too, a hint of June balminess in the air. He thought he heard someone coming and peeked out from the disused shop entrance. He was right. He had heard someone, but not the man he was waiting for. Pulled back into the shop doorway, took a drag on the fag. The stranger ambled by on the other side of the road, yanked along by a short-sighted Alsatian dog.

There was music in the air, soft rock, slipping from the Friday night pub across the way, drifting down the road, floating across the river, vibrating through the city.

Another man came round the corner. This time, the right man, an older guy wearing an expensive tweed cap, carrying a packet. He walked fast toward the doorway where the young man was taking one last suck on the ciggie, before tossing it to the ground and dancing it out. The older guy stopped in the doorway, right up close, peered through the darkness at the young guy. Said, ‘You ready?’

The young bloke nodded. Didn’t speak.

The older guy handed him the packet. It wasn’t sealed, just folded over at the flap end, and said, ‘It’s the tall white guy, the guitarist, lead singer; you can’t miss him.’

The young bloke grabbed the packet and nodded and said, ‘When do I get paid?’

‘When you deliver the goods.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘OK, two o’clock, by the clock.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Don’t fuck up!’ the old guy said, and he turned around and walked smartly away.

The young guy opened the packet. Took out the handgun. Gleamed in the moonlight. Nice piece. Easy in the hand. Easy on the trigger. Not too large, not too small. Slipped it in the right blouson pocket. Stepped out of the shadows. Headed toward the pub.

THE MUSIC WAS GETTING louder, reaching a climax, the end of the song, the end of the session, it had gone eleven and the live music licence expired at eleven o’clock.

Sissy Burke, the licensee nodded at the boys to stop. She’d already had one warning from the police about over-running, and she didn’t want another. Her licence was at stake.

Sweat was pouring down the lead singer’s face. Half a dozen pretty girls were hanging about, sipping the last of their drinks, glancing at the singer, seeking eye contact, looking for recognition, hoping to get lucky. His straight black hair was sticking together, plastered to his forehead. He was very sweaty, but still cool.

He needed a pee.

He needed a wash.

‘Hey, Jeff,’ he said, ‘hold my guitar a mo, I’m going to the bog.’

Jeff jumped on the stage. It was more of a platform, set at one end of the lounge bar. He’d been angling to join ALL SOULS for weeks. Thought his big moment had finally arrived. Grabbed the guitar and stood at the mic and glanced at the other guys. Imagined himself on lead vocal. Imagined himself on lead guitar. Imagined the women staring at him in the way they looked at Neil. Jeff felt good; grinned and began strumming the guitar.

Sissy shot him a look. Glanced her displeasure at the others. They shrugged their shoulders and looked away. It was nothing to do with them. Jeff caught the mood and stopped strumming, began composing a silent song in his head.

The young guy walked into the pub. It was still pretty full. The music had stopped but the conversation was bubbling. Friday night and the weekend starts here, lots of smart guys hanging about, gaggles of pretty women in sophisticated weekend frocks, sexy summer shorts, tight jeans and tiny skirts, some drinking, some laughing, some joking, some planning on getting a burger, some planning on getting laid, some wanting to be sick, some holding empty glasses and discussing where they were going next, some checking on their remaining funds, some checking in their bags for their ciggies and tabs and lighters they would bring out the moment they were outside.

The young guy made his way through the bar toward the makeshift stage. All four ALL SOULS were there. The Asian guy on drums, packing his sticks away, the Chinese guy polishing his violin, the mean looking black guy holding his trumpet down by his side, trying to look cool, trying to connect with the women, not wanting to go home alone, and the long lanky piece of shit in the middle, the white guy, the lead singer and guitarist, with a distant look on his face, and a price on his head.

Pulled the gun from his pocket, pointed it at the white guy’s torso, no second thoughts, let go four shots in quick succession, one, two, three, four, as if he was about to launch into a classic sixties rock song.

At the sound of the first shot a moment of stunned disbelief crashed through the bar. Someone was playing a joke, right? A second of silence. Then screaming and yelling broke out, and looks of disbelief at the sight of the guitarist blown on his back, bleeding, still clutching the guitar, not moving a muscle, eyes wide open, staring out in disbelief, not comprehending what had happened, hurting, shocked, and dying on his back like a beached and injured turtle.

The young guy turned round, waved the smoking gun at the crowded bar. Girls screamed, parted like the Red Sea. He grinned and walked through the valley of death and out into the balmy night, gaining speed as he went, hurrying round the corner, the hot gun back in his pocket, his neat new car just up the road. One minute later and he had vanished into the night, laughing as he went.

NEIL HAD BEEN WASHING his hands when he heard the first shot. Thought it was some kind of prank. Heard the second and third and fourth. Some racket, some joke. Shook his hands dry and ran outside.

The girls were still screaming, the boys looking shocked, dazed and confused. Some were calling the police on their mobiles,