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

PRENTON WAS PLEASANT. Three story Edwardian properties stretched along the main street, shops and banks and a post office on the ground floors, what looked liked spacious apartments above. Across the road were garages and petrol stations and smaller shops that sold wine and flowers and stationery, and all the things that were needed in suburbia.

Everywhere gaggles of sallow looking people gathered in groups, dressed in old and worn dark coats smelling of mothballs, brown and green and blue, though it wasn’t cold, and Wazir should know about that, because England was bitter. Folks gossiping and sharing news, and they would invariably stop talking and stare at Wazir as he approached, as if he was the first dark skinned man they had ever seen, which for many of them, he was.

He glanced in the window of an estate agent. Looked at the houses, and the prices, and beyond that to two bored looking staff, a man and a woman, the woman almost falling off her chair when she focussed on the dark and threatening looking stranger with the big bright eyes gawping through the glass, staring menacingly, she imagined, at her.

Wazir turned and set off down a side street. A long straight road crammed with almost identical semi detached houses. Why did the English like to live attached to their neighbours so much? he wondered, and pondered on which one of these houses could possibly be Gerrard Fox’s. In truth, it wasn’t as Gerrard Fox had portrayed his hometown.

It wasn’t what he had expected of Prenton either, on the much-praised Wirral peninsula. There must be better areas than this, he imagined. It was pleasant enough, there was no denying that, but it sure as heck wasn’t Beverly Hills, and Wazir Khan had set his sights far higher.

He returned to the main street and jumped a bus back down toward the river. He wouldn’t come this way again. In the future, he’d find somewhere else to live.

Somewhere nice.

Somewhere better.

Somewhere more exciting.

Somewhere with prospects.

Somewhere to build his empire.

Somewhere to spend the rest of his days.

Twenty-Eight

18 Moorcroft Road, Chester. Coming up teatime. The curtains were drawn, but that wasn’t unusual on the estate. Some residents were mighty protective of their precious possessions, and the fewer people that knew they existed, or could see them from the street; the more likely they would remain unmolested. Some curtains were never opened. Some lights were never switched off.

Karen pulled the nondescript Ford to a gentle standstill on the far side of the road and glanced at her boss. Gibbons and Hector Browne were in the back of the car. Three toddlers were playing with a big yellow toy dumper truck on the grass verge right outside the house.

The old fashioned radio crackled into life.

‘In position, Guv.’

It was the back-up crew covering the road round to the rear. Four men, all in civvies, another unmarked car; two of them unarmed, two of them armed, all with sweating palms. The car had been clocked by the local watchers, both cars had, long since, and phones were ringing all over the estate.

‘Wait for orders,’ purred Darriteau.

‘Got you, Guv.’

‘We are going in now, stay in the car, stay alert, keep the weapons out of sight.’

‘Got you, Guv.’

‘Come along, children,’ said Darriteau, and he heaved himself out of the car. Karen, Gibbons and Browne jumped out and followed Walter across the road.

The toddlers glanced up from their play. Karen smiled at one boy and he smiled back. The little girl looked worried, been listening to mummy, didn’t trust strangers, the third one, another boy, jumped up and down and ran away down the road, an anguished look on his face, shouting nonsense as if he were about to spill the beans.

Walter and his team were outside the front door. Exchanged a look. Walter’s hand relaxed in his right trouser pocket, caressing the trusted Glock pistol. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. Karen’s left hand in her light blouson pocket, hot and sweaty, wrapped around the handle.

Walter nodded Gibbons to the door. He glanced at Browne, bobbed his head, and stepped forward and pressed the bell.

No sound, no big barking dog, always a relief, no man shouting, then the distinct sound of footsteps inside approaching the door, heavy feet on a wooden surface.

The door opened and a hefty middle-aged woman peered out, stared at the four of them, coppers, obvious as hell. She vaguely recognised the big black bastard, he had something of a reputation locally, been in the papers in the past, and on the TV, and you couldn’t miss him.

Walter could see the guy’s photofit picture in her face, fatter and older, but distinctly Luke. It was all over her. This had to be the mother.

‘Mrs Flowers, we have a warrant for the arrest of Luke Flowers,’ said Walter, as Gibbons and Browne pushed past her and headed down the hall.

‘What the fuck! You can’t go down there,’ she screamed, and hurried after them. Walter followed too, saying, ‘Is Luke in, Mrs Flowers? It would save an awful lot of time. It’s for the best.’

She swivelled round and came back to him.

‘No, he is not! Hasn’t lived here for years! Now get these morons out of my house before I lose my temper!’

‘Where is he, Mrs Flowers?’

‘I have no fucking idea!’

‘He’s wanted for a very serious offence, Mrs Flowers,’ said Karen. ‘Murder and attempted murder.’

The woman’s mouth fell open. A short silence, and then she yelled, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ and as if a tiny hint of recognition had seeped into her brain, she said, ‘Not my Luke! Surely not. He’s a good boy!’

‘Where is he?’ asked Walter.

‘Told you, I have no idea, and even if I did...’

The hall phone began ringing.

Mrs Flowers snatched it up. ‘What!’

Then she calmed down a tad and said, ‘Yeah, they are here now, thanks for ringing, Ronnie, thanks for letting me know,’ and she put the phone down.

‘Upstairs clear!’ yelled Gibbons.

‘Kitchen clear!’ shouted Hector.

‘There is no sign of him here,’