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

‘Oh no, Jim, I won’t miss.’

‘Any questions?’

‘Yeah. Loads of them. How and when do I get paid?’

‘I was coming to that.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I’ll meet you in Thornton Hough, in the car park by the cricket ground. After it’s over you’ll come straight to me. It’s only ten minutes drive, max, there’s a map in the pack; you can’t go wrong. I’ll weigh you in there, and send you on your merry way.’

‘How will you know I’ve completed the job?’

‘I’ll know, my watchers will tell me.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’

‘You know me, Luke-ee, I’m an organiser.’

‘I take it you’ve got the piece in the bag?’

Jimmy nodded, didn’t say a word, set the padded packet on the bench between them.

‘And afterwards?’

‘You can return it when you get paid.’

Luke frowned and visualised the scene.

The tall black guy, super fit, radiating health and vitality, perfect teeth, big smile, diamonds in his ears, razor short hair, slashed eyebrows, big busty blonde at his side in a tight dress, with an inner city voice that could kill cuckoos, maybe a security guy or two in attendance as well. What about them?

‘What happens if there’s security?’

‘Shoot them dead!’

‘Just like that?’

‘Yes! If you have to.’

‘You don’t fuck about, do you?’

‘Never compromise your own safety. Look, the weather forecast is fantastic, everyone will be relaxed and in a good frame of mind. It’ll be the perfect Sunday morning. No one would ever imagine that some lunatic in the car park is about to blow away the England and Liverpool City centre forward. Trust me, it’ll be a doddle, it’ll come as a complete surprise, but if any hurray heroes do happen to get in the way, just do as I say: Shoot them dead!’

‘You are not asking much.’

‘It’s what you’re being paid for!’

There was a short silence as they both envisaged the scene; and the inevitable chaos afterwards. It would become one of those landmark days that everyone always remembered. Where were you the day the England centre forward was gunned down and killed? No one would ever forget that.

‘How long before I can come back?’

‘Six months, not before.’

‘How can I contact you?’

‘There’s a secure email address in the pack. Just make sure you talk in abstracts, and never use a name.’

‘I am not stupid, Jimmy.’

‘I know that, but you can’t be too careful.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘May as well. It’ll be the last chance you get, at least for the foreseeable future.’

‘What has Jermaine Keating done to deserve this?’

‘I told you, he’s made a lot of enemies, he hasn’t been paying his bills, he hasn’t been paying his debts, thinks he’s gone above everyone else, forgotten where he came from, forgotten who he owes, it’s more to knock him down a peg or two, than anything else.’

‘Blowing him away is not knocking him down a peg or two!’

‘Yes it is. It’s a warning to his cronies. One or two of his mates are treading the same disrespectful path. You do the job and they will know how dangerous the path really is.’

‘You are marking their card.’

‘Absolutely! Big time. In future they would rather step on an IED.’

Luke pulled a face. Guessed there was more to it than met the eye. More to it than he would ever know. Didn’t care less.

Didn’t want to know.

There was always more to it.

Everything seemed clear enough.

Ten seconds work.

Big payday.

One hundred grand!

Simple as that.

Dozens of people would kill to be in his killing shoes.

That was a gimme.

Luke was already counting his blessings.

He had three days to wind down his affairs, literally in some cases.

He’d have to make some final assignations to give himself some fresh memories to take away. He’d have to concoct a story they would all believe, and an idea had germed in his mind, a new job in Australia, six month’s trial so he couldn’t possibly take them with him, maybe later when he saw how the job panned out. Yeah, that had some mileage in it. It would be interesting to see which of them took his impending departure the hardest.

Luke giggled like a kid. Sometimes life was truly sweet.

‘Any more questions?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Nope. None.’

‘Good, see you on Sunday at the cricket ground in Thornton Hough.’

‘You will Jimmy, you will.’

The pink jogger was coming back. Luke smiled at the girl and she smiled back. Then she was past and gone.

Somewhere close by a gaggle of geese were kicking up a racket.

Luke peered up the path.

Jimmy had gone too.

Luke Flowers was alone with his padded envelope, and his instructions that would change English football forever.

Twenty-Four

1948, and Wazir Khan and his family were still standing on the quayside. He approached three dock workers who were taking a break, leaning against a brick wall, opened brown paper packs of cheese sandwiches in their filthy hands. ‘Please,’ said Wazir, ‘Please, where I find?’ and he showed them the old piece of paper.

The men stared at the scruffy strangers, the foreigners invading their homeland, glanced disdainfully at the oft-folded note, as if it contained vital words of an illegal proposition.

‘Upper Pearli?’ said one.

‘They all live up that way,’ said another.

‘Fuck off!’ said the third. ‘Fuck off back to where you came from! We don’t want youse lot round here!’

There was beer on their breath. Wazir peered into their hateful bloodshot eyes. It wasn’t as he had imagined. It wasn’t as he’d hoped. He turned and beckoned his family away from the men, away from the quay. They picked up their tiny bags and headed down the dock road toward the big buildings they could see in the distance. It began to rain. Ahmed the boy began to shiver. Above them, the overhead dock railway clattered along. They took shelter beneath, out of the rain, out of the wind, as the Khan family hurried on toward the big buildings.

Wazir noticed two policemen coming toward them. He guessed they were policemen, he had seen pictures in books of English policemen; indeed some police in India wore similar, if lighter weight uniforms.