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

was about. Two friends he’d met in a sleazy city-centre pub grabbed whatever they could, threw it into the back of a white van, and made their escape.

Jimmy Mitchell had carelessly failed to spot the cameras that had watched his every move. They were still a relatively new thing back then, and Jimmy was arrested and convicted of conspiracy and theft, something he could hardly deny when he saw the pictures. The judge didn’t believe his story that he barely knew his co-conspirators and added another year to his four-year sentence for insolence. Jimmy did not ID the men.

He enjoyed his break from society, tucked away in Shrewsbury prison on the banks of the sunny River Severn. He made new friends, learnt a great deal, and when he came out, using the contacts he’d made in Criminal College, he set up his own firm where he’d endeavour to supply any client with any product or service they required, no matter how outlandish or absurd it might be. So long as they could pay for it.

Any scruples he might have possessed were slowly flushed from him as he’d festered in his cell. Society had made an example of him, and in his turn, he would make an example of society.

His business model worked well. His clients never knew the identity of the agents Jimmy employed, while his agents never knew the identity of the person, persons, or businesses, for whom they were ultimately acting. Jimmy provided a safety buffer between the two, a broker dealing in skulduggery. Jimmy prospered, and his reputation rapidly grew. The police tried hard to identify his clients, but rarely had any success.

From the outset the clients, some of whom Jimmy Mitchell had shared time with, fed him work, and in due course were duly impressed with his organisational skills, and results. The agents in the field loved Jimmy because he was always thorough in everything he did. He would set up much of the plan and would set the agent running, and besides that, he paid them promptly, and he paid them well.

Jimmy understood there were only three things that ever changed matters. The first was money, backhanders, bribery, call it what you like; the second was threats, which were often enough by themselves, especially if the threats were directed at the loved ones of the target, rather than at the target himself, or herself.

Funny that, thought Jim, so many people were more afraid of violence against their family, lovers, or friends, than they ever were against themselves. He didn’t think that way. Never had.

The third event altering factor; was violence.

Jimmy was not afraid to issue orders divvying up brutality, indeed in the early days he deemed it necessary to gain the necessary kudos and respect he needed. He was proved correct. Cutting off the occasional body part and packing it nicely in a gift box and delivering it to a target always worked wonders, though some parts carried more effect than others.

Not many people could stomach that.

The clients soon came to respect Jimmy Mitchell, because they feared him. His business grew and prospered. Jimmy became a wealthy man who could do anything he wanted.

Eventually his tentacles stretched far and wide, covering the whole of Cheshire, spreading out across the map like black ink on a fresh blotter, throughout North Wales, the Wirral Peninsula, North Shropshire, and more recently into the heart of the twin squabbling cities of Liverpool and Manchester, where there was always a tense atmosphere, and considerable numbers of commissions to be gained. Specialists like Jimmy Mitchell were always in high demand.

Following Luke’s recent failure to eradicate the Swaythling kid, Jim had alerted his entire network that the real guitarist had to be found. Top priority, five big ones in it for the spotter, and they only had to name the time and place, nothing more. Jimmy would deal with the rest.

It was easy money for someone, and the streetwalkers knew it and gave it their undivided attention. It didn’t take long.

Bunny Almond came back with the news that Jimmy was desperate to hear, and it was as well he had, because Jimmy’s client was more than a little miffed at Luke’s failure to hit the target.

‘Tell me what you know, cheapskate,’ said Jimmy, pressing the mobile harder to his ear. He was addressing Bunny Almond, and cheapskate was Jim’s nickname for the mixed race guy. Jimmy always used nicknames, especially when using mobile phones, because he always worried about who might be listening.

He’d only use the same mobile for a maximum of two weeks and then lob it in the canal and buy a newer, better one. It was a bit of a pain having to distribute a new number all the time, but better that than run any risks.

Bunny did not like the nickname, but he’d let that pass. Jimmy was a good employer and Bunny was desperate for cash, he needed a hit, and five big ones provided a great deal of happiness.

‘He’s in his flat right now, he’s talking to two people, a blonde girl and a young fit fucker, think they could be filth, but he’ll be going out soon. He often does in the late afternoon, he’s got some older woman up on the Wirral, wealthy bitch, word is she pays him, couldn’t comment on that, lucky bastard, I say. He always wears a black leather jacket when he goes to plug her.’

‘Where’s the best place for action?’

‘That’s easy. Two rows of lockups at the back of the flats. One way in, one way out, very quiet there in the afternoons before the worker bees come home, ideal place. The guitar player has to go there to collect his car, half an hour I’d say.’

‘Well done, cheapo, and you’d better be right.’

‘I am right. When do I get paid?’

‘I’ll ring you later.’

Jimmy rang off and rang Luke.

He was lounging in a packed bar down by the river with friends. The place was full of tourists and