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

ordeal of speaking to a policeman was the worst torture imaginable.

‘I know that! I wouldn’t have invited you here if I thought you were.’

Walter bobbed his head.

Hoped Wells would start speaking again, and he did.

‘Do you want my information or not?’

‘Of course I do, Langley. All information from the public is gratefully received, and will be fully investigated. You can be assured of that.’

Wells nervously shook his head. His bottom lip came out. He looked from side to side for comfort and support, as if he half expected to see his sons standing there, but the room was silent and empty.

‘This information is anonymous.’

‘If you want.’

‘I do!’

Langley Wells took a big breath.

‘The prick’s name is Luke Flowers.’

It didn’t mean anything to Walter, but that wasn’t important. A name had voluntarily spilled from Wells’ own mouth and that had to mean something, though Walter was still unclear as to why Wells was talking to him.

‘Does he live on the estate?’

‘I have no idea, and I don’t want to know either!’

That came out in a rush and carried a hint of spite, and then as if Wells had thought better of it he said, ‘Not any more, but I’m sure you won’t have any trouble in finding him.’

‘Why did he do it?’

‘No idea!’

‘Drugs?’

‘Told you... no idea!’

‘This Luke Flowers character, was he working for himself, or for someone else?’

‘Don’t know that either! But it was nothing to do with me, you can be sure of that. Gerry Swaythling is a friend of mine, and I don’t care whether you believe that or not.’

‘Gerry Swaythling is paying you a great deal of money. You can afford to be friends.’

‘Don’t start that all over again!’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘No! There isn’t. I’ve said far too much already.’

ONE OF THE BENEFITS of wearing a considerable pair of trousers was that small objects could be effortlessly concealed in deep pockets. Walter stopped the car in a private road of fifties detached houses not more than five minutes drive away, where each house was protected by a high hedge. That protection worked two ways. He couldn’t see in, but no one in the houses could see Walter sitting in the car. He fished out the state of the art mini recorder and played the conversation back.

YOU ARE REFERRING TO the Jeff Player killing?

You know who did it?

I have heard a few things, things I don’t like.

HE HADN’T BEEN TRYING to entrap Langley Wells. He knew the evidence wouldn’t be admissible anyway. He’d done it for the sheer hell of it, and if Langley Wells had admitted to crimes, it would simply encourage their investigation.

As it was, Langley Wells had fingered the killer. Walter wondered precisely who Luke Flowers was, and where he was at that moment, and, if he hadn’t done it off his own bat, then who the heck was the young man working for? But most of all, Walter pondered on why Wells had told him about it in the first place.

HE RANG KAREN AT THE office.

‘We have a name in the frame.’

‘For the Player killing?’

‘The same.’

‘Did Wells tell you that?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So? Who is it?’

‘Luke Flowers.’

‘Means nothing to me,’ she said.

‘Me neither; and it’s a name I would remember.’

‘I’ll run it through the computer.’

‘Do that, I’ll be back soon.’

SIX MINUTES LATER AND Walter was ducking the car into the underground car park. A minute after that he was in the private office playing the tape to Karen.

DOES ANYONE KNOW YOU are here?

Only my sergeant.

Ah yes, the sex bomb.

You think so?

Not me, the boys!

Can’t say as I have noticed.

Liar!

‘SKIP THAT BIT,’ SAID Walter.

Karen laughed and fast-forwarded.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Walter, slumping in his chair.

‘We have one Luke Flowers in the system. Luke Edward Flowers, to be precise.’

‘And?’

Karen opened her diary and slipped a printout containing a photo across the desk. It was unmistakeable, the likeness to the photofit and artist impressions, though the official photograph had clearly been taken some years before.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

Karen smiled. ‘I wanted to hear what you had first.’

‘Cheeky! Where does he live?’

‘The address we have is Moorcroft Avenue on the same estate, about a quarter of a mile away from Langley’s place.’

‘I don’t think he lives there now,’ said Walter.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just a feeling.’

‘He’s not on the voters’ roll,’ said Karen.

Walter sniffed loudly. ‘Voters’ roll be damned, when did people like him ever vote?’

‘I think he might still live there.’

‘I’ll bet he doesn’t,’ said Walter.

‘Wanna bet?’

‘How much?’

‘A tenner?’

‘Done! Organise an arrest warrant, organise a car; and get some backup too, and make sure you wear a vest.’

‘Your concern is touching, Guv.’

‘It’s not you I am worrying about. It’s my hide that gets kicked black and blue if my sergeant is mashed.’

‘I am not planning on that happening.’

‘Good! And take a gun.’

‘Oh, you can rely on that.’

‘By the way, what was he done for?’

‘Copying and selling CDs at car boot sales. Seventeen he was at the time.’

‘Big time?’

‘Oh yes, had 5,000 items in the car when he was arrested, must have made a lot of money, got six month’s youth detention.’

‘Obviously didn’t cure him.’

‘Course not! What do you expect?’

Twenty-Seven

1950’s Liverpool: and Wazir Khan surprisingly landed a decent job. Everyone had told him that the English would never employ an Indian Muslim, but Wazir took little notice of that. He was determined to find employment, and duly did. In his spare time he had been pounding the streets, and his wanderings had taken him to the Skelhorne Street city centre bus station.

Wazir had knocked politely on the office door, had entered when commanded, and stood before a broad man sipping a mug of the sweetest stewed tea imaginable. Jimmy McTavish was his name, and Jimmy McTavish interviewed Wazzie, as he was to become known, in ten minutes, and employed him in another ten.

Wazir Khan was happy and amazed in equal measure. He would become a bus conductor employed by the