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

locally based Americans who worked in the American banks. Luke was drinking orange juice because he was expecting the call. Made his excuses and went outside and ambled along the riverbank to listen to the news.

‘Wellington road flats, lockups behind, half an hour. Wearing a black leather jacket. Don’t buy the wrong shoes!’

Jimmy rang off without another word. Luke pursed his lips and slipped the phone away. Went back into the pub, emptied his drink, said his goodbyes and left. The adrenalin kicked in. It was the best high imaginable, better than drugs, better than money, better than sex, better even than sex with Melanie Kirton, though that was a close run thing.

He walked smartly across the city, smiled at a couple of neat female passers-by, apologised when he went to take the same slab of pavement as an oncoming pair of business type gents. He was in a good mood, no point in having conflict over pavement real estate, there was still time to fix that flight to Venice the following day, all he had to do was settle the score, and that was what he was about to do.

There was no one about at the lockups. The place was deserted, and perfect.

Fourteen prefabricated garages on either side, metal up and over doors, fading coloured graffiti on three of them, featuring the names and logos of rock bands, some that Luke knew and liked, and breaking outfits that even he had never heard of. All that kind of youth crap design. All the garage doors were locked bar one. The open garage was empty, other than for a dozing black cat hoping a rat might stumble by.

Between the garages was a dusty unmade road, compressed rough gravel, dry as a bone. At the far end was a solid high wall with ancient shattered green glass set in the cement on the top. Luke thought that was illegal. Damn well should be, someone might get hurt.

Perfect place for an ambush, perfect place for a killing; one way in, same way out, Luke instantly appreciated that, retreated back to the main road. Crossed over, propped himself up outside a bookmakers that was set next to the bus stop, and a big new orange wastepaper bin. He grabbed an old newspaper from the bin. Pretended to read the racing pages. He had a good view from where he was. Anyone coming out of the flats would have to pass by on the other side of the road, before cutting up the jigger toward the garages.

Five minutes passed and nothing happened. Ten minutes, and Luke was sweating in his slacks. Fifteen and he was getting worried. Twenty, as he flicked his wrist again and glanced at the silver Rolex he had treated himself to on his last trip to Geneva.

On the other side of the road a tall guy came round the corner, black leather jacket, walking purposefully toward the jigger, turned right, cut up toward the garages. Luke dumped the paper, dashed across the road between bad tempered traffic, cut up the alley, shadowing the target. Crept to the end where the lane turned left. There the pre-fabbed garages stretched out on either side, high glass-topped wall at the far end.

Slipped the gun from his pocket. Peered around the corner.

The guy was walking purposefully away down the centre of the lane, heading for his garage.

Luke followed. There was still no one about, just the rumble of traffic from the main road.

‘Neil?’ he called, friendly like, ‘I think you forgot this.’

Neil turned round and saw the gunman; saw the gun in his hand. Didn’t run. Didn’t panic. Began walking back toward Luke, a cocky swagger about him.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he demanded.

Luke didn’t answer.

‘Who are you working for?’

Luke didn’t answer.

‘Fuck off out if it!’

Luke didn’t move a muscle.

He wasn’t lacking courage, this Neil character; Luke noted that, they weren’t usually like him.

Neil ignored the gun, scowled, and kept on coming.

No skinny street punk was going to cow him.

Luke grinned and raised the gun; aimed and fired.

One, two, three, four!

The beginning of a rock number for the leader of the band. All Souls. Arseholes! All four, striking home thudding into Neil’s torso and chest. His eyes carried that disbelieving look, as if no one ever believes they could be the one who was getting shot. It was something that only ever happened to other guys. It was something that only happened to losers on the telly, in the movies and in books, but not in real life, and certainly not in pretty Chester in the middle of a sunny summer’s afternoon. That would be impossible. Unthinkable.

Neil fell on his back, arms outstretched, surprised look still on his face. Didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound.

‘One, two, three, four,’ whispered Luke. ‘Start singing your prayers, punk.’

Neil Swaythling didn’t sing, didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelid.

Luke heard some kids coming up the jigger, maybe three, maybe four, sounded about eleven-years-old, and then a football being booted against a wall. It was as good a place to play footie as any, quiet and off the road. Time to leave. Luke turned round and walked quickly away, past the kids. One had a Chelsea shirt on, one a Manu, one Liverpool, one Everton, some mixture, some team, some arguments. The kids barely noticed him, so busy were they trapping and heading and shooting and shouting and chewing gum, and showing off.

Luke hurried back toward the city centre, the gun still hot in his pocket. Sat on a bench in the busy square close to the statue of the baby elephant. Rang Jimmy.

‘This time I’ve bought the correct shoes.’

‘I bloody hope so.’

‘When can you pay me?’

‘Tomorrow, same time, same place.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Luke rang off, feeling good, headed down the hill toward the travel agents. Went inside, chatted up the smart, dark girl. She assured him he could still be on the following evening’s flight from Manchester. Last late rooms available in the Royal Palace Hotel, Venice, so the computer