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

Sure enough there came a day when she had no money to feed the kids. The pasta jar was empty. It was her daughter Denise who suggested the idea. Denise was hungry and so were the siblings.

‘Why don’t you try Langley?’

‘Try Langley for what?’

‘Money of course, mum, he’s loaded.’

‘And he’d lend me some?’

‘Course he would. He lends to everyone.’

Mrs B pursed her lips and thought she’d give it a try.

‘Look after the kids,’ she said to the ten-year-old Denise, and she shot out of the house.

Lots of the estate kids hung around outside the red brick post office after school where they bought crisps and cola and sweeties and comics, and even if Langley wasn’t there, one of the others were bound to know where he was.

He was usually to be found hanging about because it was a good place to do business. There would always be some kid willing to borrow a couple of bob to buy some chocolate or an ice cream and a bottle of Corona. Three bob back tomorrow. Not too bad. It suited both parties well. Most of the kids could always find three bob later if they really needed to, if they needed to pay back Langley Wells, even if they had to sneak it from their mother’s purse, or the gas or electric meter money tin.

Mrs Buxton hustled over and saw him loitering there, leaning up against the side brick wall of the post office. The ugly little bugger was admiring the short skirt on Willie Masefield’s younger sister, Rosie.

‘Langley, love,’ she called, ‘can I have a word with you?’

Langley did not like being called Langley love, and he didn’t like Mrs Buxton either, and wondered what the hell she wanted, as he wandered sulkily across toward her.

‘I need a little bit of money, Langley love, just to tide me over.’

Langley switched on.

‘How much do you want?’

She only wanted a fiver but thought she’d try it on; see what the queer little twerp was made of.

‘I could do with twenty notes.’

Langley pulled a face, whistled through his teeth like they did in the old black and white movies. He could stump up the cash if need be, that wasn’t a problem. Mrs Buxton was the problem. He didn’t rate her, not one bit, and he wondered how and when he’d see his hard earned money back.

‘When will I get paid?’

‘Thursday, Langley love, when my benefit comes in.’

Langley pulled a face and stared at the clouds. Then he said, ‘Thirty quid back, Thursday without fail.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Suit yourself,’ and he turned on his heels, he wasn’t really that bothered, and headed back toward Rosie Masefield who was now skipping on a big rope being swung by two of her pals, her pink skirt flicking up interestingly on the down jump.

‘Oh, Langley love, wait a sec. You’re all right, you’re a good boy, I can do that, yeah, thirty quid back on Thursday. I can do that. I’ll see you right.’

Langley paused and turned back and peered into her darting eyes. Against his better judgement he agreed. There was something dangerous about it, something pioneering, with her being an adult, of sorts. It brought a feeling of excitement and exhilaration over him, and he liked that, he liked it a lot.

He took out his newer, larger, black leather purse, and yanked two tenners free. Held them screwed up in his balled hand. Offered them to her, palm down, so no one could see.

‘Thirty back, Thursday night,’ he reiterated through the side of his mouth, ‘I’ll call at five; make sure the money’s ready.’

‘You’ll get your cash back, you little monkey, I’m trustworthy, me.’

She’d wanted to say little prick, not monkey, but guessed correctly that that might have screwed up the deal.

Langley stared at her, and slowly opened his hand, and the hot balled tenners flopped into her grubby mitt.

‘Ta, love,’ she said, and she shot off toward the bookmakers for she knew the evening meeting at Haydock was just about to begin. The kids could wait a wee while yet.

It was the biggest loan he’d ever made, and it brought with it the biggest excitement, and the biggest worry.

THURSDAY NIGHT TURNED out a bright sunny evening. Langley was knocking on the Buxton’s door at dead on five. He valued punctuality, he valued reliability, and if he expected his customers to be punctual and reliable, the least he could do was be the same. Young Denise came to the door.

‘Hiya, Langley.’

‘Hi, Denise. Is your mum in?’

‘Yeah, sure. Come in.’

She was slumped on the sofa; staring at the telly, a mean look on her skinny face. She’d lost a bit of weight, and she didn’t have much to lose. Maybe she wasn’t eating well. The kids were dreadfully skinny too. Denise had legs like matchsticks.

‘S’pose you’ve come for your money ’ave ya?’

‘Yes, Mrs Buxton.’

‘Don’t you Mrs Buxton me!’

‘We said five o’clock, Thursday. It is Thursday, it is five o’clock,’ he said, glancing pointedly at the mantelpiece clock.

‘I can’t give you all of it; the best I can manage is a freaking fiver.’

‘No good, Mrs Buxton. I don’t do instalments. It’s all or nothing.’

‘Suit yourself, it’s nothing then.’

Langley had planned for such an event. He reached into his pocket. Took out a box of matches. Struck a match. Denise’s eyes lit up, stared into the flame. It reminded her of bonfire night. Langley presented the burning match toward the crammed newspaper rack.

‘If you don’t pay me right now, I’ll burn the house down.’

‘Watch what you are doin’, you little bastard!’

‘Pay me then!’

‘Like fuck! You can kiss my arse!’

Langley lit the corner of a section of the red-topped daily trash that was hanging out of the rack. Smoke began filling the room. Flames licked up the side.

‘Mum!’ screamed Denise.

‘All right, all right! I’ll pay! Put that fucking fire out!’ she screamed, as she leapt from the couch.

Langley grabbed a cushion and smothered the fire.

Mrs B went to the kitchen, came