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

Langley Wells had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, but he did know that baking wasn’t for him. He wanted a job that was clean and comfortable, where he could wear nice clothes, one where he could sleep in until at least 8am. It wasn’t asking a lot, he reasoned, as he pondered on how he could attain his goals and dreams.

His father had been generous too, giving Langley more pocket money than any of his friends, and if that wasn’t enough, his mother topped it up, believing that his father never gave the boy a thing.

Langley wasn’t about to set her straight.

He wasn’t interested in most of the things that the other kids on the estate went crazy over. Expensive cards of footballers’ ugly mugs stuck into albums, used and manky postage stamps, what was the point in spending good money on that? Trashy plastic toys that wouldn’t see out the week. 45’s you’d play a handful of times and soon become bored with, and any of the other faddish rubbish that everyone would be ashamed of buying two months down the line.

No, the young Langley valued his hard earned money far more than that, and he wasn’t about to squander it on worthless junk.

It was Willie Masefield who first asked Langley Wells for a loan. They were at school one morning just before lessons were about to begin. Langley and Willie shared a desk

‘I need ten bob,’ Willie floated in the air, ‘to buy a new tender for my engine. The old one’s knackered. I could pay you back on Thursday, it’s my birthday, Thursday is. Granddad always gives me cash for my birthday present.’

Langley pondered on the idea for a second.

‘I might be able to help you,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling as if thinking, another queer trait that all the male Wells family adopted.

‘Could you? Really?’ said Willie, excitedly.

‘Maybe. You certain you could pay me back on Thursday?’

Willie nodded, and gasped, ‘Sure thing, pal.’

‘I’d want fifteen shillings back.’

‘What!’

‘You heard me; I’d want fifteen shillings back.’

‘Bit steep ain’t it?’

‘Take it or leave it.’

Willie Masefield could comfortably afford fifteen shillings, after his birthday he could, and he so wanted that black coal tender with the yellow British Railways logo painted on the side.

‘I’ll take it!’ he said, holding out his hand as if to shake on the deal.

That surprised Langley.

He had never shaken anyone’s hand before, not to seal a deal, but he did so at that moment, though afterwards he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Willie’s hand was fleshy and hot and sweaty. Not nice at all. It would put Langley Wells off shaking on deals forever.

‘Well?’ said Willie. ‘When can I have the money?’

‘Now,’ said Langley, delving into his deep pockets where his mother’s discarded maroon purse spent most of its time. It was a tiny purse, yet it bulged with coins, and to Willie’s amazement, banknotes too. No other kid on the estate possessed money like that. Langley dragged out a shrivelled and torn rust coloured ten-shilling note. Laid it on the desk. Ironed it out with his wooden ruler. Picked it up and offered it across to his friend.

The temptation was too much to resist. Willie grabbed it.

Langley did not let go.

‘I’m giving you this on condition that you pay me back fifteen shillings on Thursday.’

‘I know. So you said.’

‘Don’t even think of letting me down.’

‘I won’t.’

Langley fixed Willie with his steel grey eyes. Said, ‘I’ll poke your eye out if you do.’

Willie glanced at Langley’s strong forearms and an horrific thought flashed into his mind of running around the playground with one eye; and one patch. Instinctively he knew that Langley meant every word.

Both of the boys were eleven.

THE DEAL WENT WELL. Willie had his coal tender, and on the Thursday Langley was at school early, sitting at the desk, anxiously waiting. Willie joined him shortly afterwards and pursed his lips. Langley imagined Willie was preparing an excuse. He couldn’t wait to get down to business.

‘Got it?’ he said.

Langley was pleased to see Willie nodding.

Langley held out his hand.

Willie reached into his satchel, opened his plastic lunch box. There was an unsealed white envelope in there. Willie held it close to his face so that Langley couldn’t see inside, pulled out a crisp new ten-shilling note, and slid it across the timber.

Birthday present from grandpa by the look of it; imagined Langley. He casually picked it up and said, ‘And the rest?’

‘My mum says...’

‘I don’t care what your fucking mum says! Pay up... or go blind!’

Willie peered into Langley’s face. He didn’t like what he saw, and he didn’t want any hassle. Opened the envelope again, took out two pristine and shiny silver half crowns, and reluctantly set them down on the desk.

‘Thank you,’ said Langley as he scooped them up. ‘Nice to do business with you, Willie,’ and he rammed the whole fifteen bob into the maroon purse, and snapped it shut.

The cash would stay there forever, until next time.

Willie was close to tears.

AFTER THAT, WORD WENT round the school that if anyone ever needed any cash, no matter how small the amount, no matter how quickly the borrower needed it, no matter what they wanted it for, just don’t tell your parents, Langley Wells could probably help. He began keeping a notebook, a small red card backed affair he’d bought in the post office for nine-pence, thin lined, all the better to cram more data into.

Business boomed, especially on Mondays, dinner money day, when some of the kids would often be short. In his specialised market Langley had no competitors; and it wasn’t long before he was expanding.

Mrs Buxton was her name, a skinny wastrel of a thing who was always complaining about something or other, four kids, no husband, always in and out of the bookies, always dying for a fag and a pint and a hand out giro cheque. It wasn’t hard to figure out that she would