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

cooker, went to the hall door, pushed her way through without letting the dog into the kitchen. The dog wanted to play, the dog wanted to eat, the dog would have licked Norman’s face clean, given the chance.

Carole hustled to the phone. Dialled triple nine.

‘Ambulance quick, my husband is cooking! Quick as you can. I think he’s dying!’

THE AMBULANCE SET OFF five minutes later, the driver and his mate laughing at the tale they’d been told about a bloke roasting a dinner, set himself on fire by all accounts, and now he was cooking too. You had to smile. You couldn’t make it up. You heard such weird tales in the job. You’d better get your foot down, before he gets cold!

BOBBY WATSON HAD BEEN having trouble with his hearing. He was on the way to the evening surgery to have them syringed.

He was thinking of buying a new colour television complete with the new revolutionary front-loading video recording machine. You could record dirty movies on them, and stop the picture still and replay the filthiest moments, and how clever was that? He still had most of the money he’d screwed out of the tight arse Langley Wells, and Langley wouldn’t miss the money, everyone knew he was loaded, though Bobby would have to borrow more, and this time he’d have to use one of Langley’s competitors, and they would welcome the business too, because word was, they were struggling to compete with the ugly little git.

Bobby skipped across the road to jump the bus the three stops to the surgery. Thought he heard the bus coming. Probably not, with his ears. Glanced up to see the ambulance hurtling round the corner. Dashing toward the house of the roasting man, dashing toward Bobby Watson.

Bobby stood frozen, transfixed in the middle of the road.

‘Look out!’ yelled the paramedic, sitting alongside the driver.

Too late.

The aging, but chunky ambulance, smacked Bobby Watson full in the face, knocked him into the air, kicked him hard, bashed him again as he fell to earth, and then ran him over him for good measure. The ambulance skidded to a halt, half way on the grass verge. The paramedic jumped out and rushed back to inspect the carnage, as the driver slumped in his seat, shaking his head, cursing the day.

LANGLEY WELLS WOULD never recover the money from Bobby Watson; and he never did.

WEIRD RESULTS OCCASIONALLY spring from unexpected events, and they did from the sudden and violent death of Bobby Watson.

People began talking. Gossip was rife.

When Langley first heard of Bobby’s violent death he was mortified. His business had never before suffered such a loss. He would have to work doubly hard to recoup the damage.

But he need not have worried, for when he returned from his honeymoon in Corfu, the first time he had ever travelled to the sunny Med, he was surprised to discover that all his clients were totally up to date with their repayments, not one laggard among them. More than that, many of them now adopted a more reverential air toward him. Spoke to him more politely too, asked him for advice even, something that no one had ever done before.

He made discreet enquiries to find out why.

The intelligence he received back amazed him.

Common wisdom had it that Langley Wells had ordered Bobby’s execution. No one believed it had been an accident. Everyone knew that Bobby Watson was in hock to Langley Wells for hundreds of pounds, and everyone knew that Bobby had taken a stand and had reneged on the debt, and how it had cost him.

Langley Wells was simply putting matters straight; everyone believed that, it was obvious. It was only to be expected. It was a lesson to them all. Don’t pay, don’t live, an easy equation, the man had a history of it, setting fire to people’s homes, bullying and intimidating them, it was no surprise. It was simple. If you borrowed money from Langley Wells you paid him back, whatever it took, and woe betide you if you didn’t.

Langley smiled inwardly and never uttered a word.

Business boomed like it had never done before.

Two of his thorny competitors simply melted away, frightened at what might happen to them. The aftermath of the peculiar death of Bobby Watson rumbled on for years.

Norman McIntyre was OK though, after a year or so, and several painful skin grafts, though his face never quite recovered.

He never once laughed at ugly people again after that.

Carole Mac went back to work, determined more than ever to keep her family from the iron grip of Langley Wells, and his ilk. She’d heard there might be a few extra hours available at the school, maybe even weekends too. She’d take it if she could. Of course she would. She needed the money. The whole family did.

Thirteen

It was a couple of minutes to four when Luke pushed the doorbell at the Kirton’s four bedroom detached family home. Melanie was in for a big surprise. He’d grown a thick moustache and was taller than before, Cuban heels, and most weirdly of all, he’d gone orange.

‘What the hell?’ she said, as she opened the front door, as Pugsley tried to dash out and race next door, to where a black poodle resided that Pugsley was sweet on.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ she said, as she grabbed his collar and dragged him back to the kitchen.

‘This it?’ said Luke, glancing down at the single case.

‘Yep, plus my hand luggage,’ she said. ‘I’ll be with you in a mo.’

Luke turned about and hurried back to the car and rammed the case in the back of his silver sports. He was eager to get away, didn’t want anything to do with either of the parents who were stuck up pricks, so far as he was concerned.

He sat in the car and watched her lock the front door. He wasn’t sure he liked the primrose trouser suit, but the jacket was short and