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

through the crack in the curtains, in the moonlight Karen was already there, pulling the unmarked BMW to a halt outside.

He went out and locked the front door and eased into the car and Karen pulled away and headed for the river.

‘Know any more?’ he asked.

‘Not much, armed response are already there. Place packed apparently. Some guy just came in and blew the singer away, member of the band, lead guitar or something.’

Walter resisted making a crack about the poor choice of music, or the crap playing, and stared ahead and already they could see pulsing blue light swirling around the roofs of the old buildings at the end of the narrow road.

He knew The Ship well, used to go there quite a bit himself, but fell out of love with the place when it was taken over by the twenty somethings and their shouty louty music.

A minute later and Walter and Karen were walking through the bar. The uniforms were busy taking statements, kids huddled around tables, an older man who an hour before had been unsuccessfully glad-eyeing the young things, looking guilty and eager to get home to his wife and kids. The woman licensee was still standing behind the bar.

She’d regained her composure and stood upright with her arms folded across her chest. She nodded at Walter as he came through the lounge. She’d seen him before, and you wouldn’t forget Walter Darriteau in a hurry, though he hadn’t been in for ages, and she wondered why.

The dead guy was still there where he’d landed on his back on the apology for a stage. The doctor was already there too, staring down and pulling faces.

‘There you are, Walter,’ he said, ‘I thought you might show up. This time you can ask me the time of death.’

‘Thanks, doc. What was the time of death?’

‘Six minutes past eleven, I know that because these guys tell me they had just finished playing at five past and death was pretty much instantaneous.’

Walter bobbed his head. Looked at the tall white guy standing to one side, the guy with his arms folded across his chest.

‘What was the dead guy’s name?’

‘Jeff something or other.’

‘Jeff what?’ snapped Walter.

‘Player,’ said the Chinese guy. ‘Jeff Player.’

‘Appropriate name,’ said Walter, glancing down at the holed guitar. ‘Was he a good player?’

‘He didn’t play at all, he was hopeless, he wasn’t even in the band, bit of a loner,’ said the white guy.

‘So what was he doing with the guitar?’

‘I asked him to hold it for me, keep it safe, make sure it wasn’t nicked while I went to the bog. He couldn’t even do that right.’

‘So you’re the guitar player?’

The white guy grinned. ‘Yeah sure. That’s me.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Neil, Neil Swaythling.’

‘And you didn’t see the shooting?’

‘Nope. Heard it though.’

‘Did you see it?’ Walter asked the Chinese guy.

‘Couldn’t miss it. Happened right next to me.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Ang Ung, spelt NG, my mates call me Nug.’

Ang Ung, smart name, thought Walter.

‘Did you know the killer?’

‘Nope. Never seen him before.’

‘Did any of you know the killer?’

The Asian guy behind the drums shook his head. The black guy was putting his horn away in its case, didn’t say anything, didn’t shake his head one way or the other.

‘You! What’s your name?’

The black guy stared at Walter in that look he’d seen a million times before. The I hate coppers look, and especially black coppers... like you.

‘You talking to me?’

‘We can do this here, or we can do it down the station, it could take all night, it’s no problem for me.’

‘Johnny,’ he said.

‘Johnny what?’

‘Phillips.’

‘And are you known to us, Johnny Phillips?’

‘These days it’s hard not to be.’

Maybe he had a point.

‘Did you recognise the killer?’

‘Course not. I’d have said so if I had.’

That was a moot point.

‘Thank you... Johnny.’

Karen came back to Walter’s side. She’d been checking on how the interviews were progressing, looking for any ID on the assassin.

‘Surprise surprise, no one knew him,’ she whispered.

Walter bobbed his head and whispered back, ‘Where have I heard the name Swaythling before?’

‘There’s the builder bloke,’ she said, ‘that’s the only Swaythling I know.’

‘Ah yes, Homes for the Discerning,’ he whispered, parroting their advertising speak. Swaythling Homes built only a small number of properties, but they came individually designed and built, invariably on a huge plot, every one completely different, and every one with a huge price ticket attached, a price that began with seven figures and went sharply upwards. Walter turned to the white guy and said, ‘Could it have been meant for you?’

Neil shrugged his shoulders. ‘The bullets?’

‘What else?’

‘Been wondering that meself.’

‘I’m not surprised you thought about it. Can you think of any reason why someone might want to kill you?’

‘Nope. Definitely not!’

‘Do you deal drugs?’

‘Do me a favour, and even if I did, I’m hardly likely to tell you.’

‘You might, if you were a dealer...  if you valued your life.’

‘I don’t! Don’t touch the stuff. Never have done. Don’t deal, don’t smoke. Don’t approve of it! None of us do.’

Karen glanced round the band.

The black guy suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘It’s an odd line up for a band,’ Walter said, glancing at the logo on the base drum. ALL at the top and SOULS beneath. ‘What kind of stuff do you play?’

‘Mixture, everyone brings something to the table, fusion music,’ said Neil.

‘Fusion music is...’ started Karen.

‘I know what fusion is!’ barked Walter, stopping her in mid sentence. ‘And if I didn’t there’s a big clue in the phrase.’

‘Sure Guv, sorry.’

Walter glanced at the guy at the back. ‘What’s your name, drummer?’

‘Shastri.’

‘First name?’

‘Patna.’

‘Did you recognise him, Patna Shastri, did you know him?’

‘I did not.’

‘But you did see him, and you could give us an accurate description?’

‘Course,’ he said, nodding. ‘And I’ve got a very good memory.’

Walter bobbed his head, happy to hear something positive.

‘And you all did... you all could?’

‘Not me,’ said Neil.

‘Other than you,’ said Walter.

No further disagreement.

‘I want you down the station right now, all of you, while the killer’s image is fresh in your minds. Make up photofits, we’ll