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

‘Aiding a man wanted for murder carries severe penalties,’ said Walter. ‘Even if he is your own son.’

‘Listen to yourselves! My son could no more kill next door’s cat, as murder a human being,’ yet even as she was speaking those words she was recalling the regular thousand pounds in cash that dumped into her bank account. Where had that come from? She had always known he was involved in something shady. Who wasn’t these days? But assumed it was dodgy DVDs and CDs and knock off phones and computer software. He had always been something of a whiz at that kind of thing.

‘Someone is going to get badly hurt, Mrs Flowers. You could help us stop that,’ said Walter.

‘Tell that to the fairies, you’re away with the mixer, man!’

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Karen.

‘I’m telling you nottin’.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Walter. ‘Your choice. Cuff her Gibbons and take her down the station, we’ve got all day.’

Gibbons produced a pair of steel cuffs, shiny, strong, new and cold.

‘Oh eh, there’s no need for that,’ she protested.

‘You can help us here, or you can help us there; it’s up to you,’ said Walter, attempting a smile.

‘Why don’t we go into the front room and sit down,’ suggested Karen, beckoning them all into the Flowers’ lounge as if she owned the place, and she took Mrs Flowers by the arm and led her inside and sat her on the sofa. Karen balanced on the arm, as Walter sat in the comfy looking armchair opposite.

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Walter.

Mrs Flowers breathed out heavily and glanced around the room, at her own house filled with coppers, the two young blokes were now in the hall, leaning on the lounge doorframe looking in. She’d brain Luke for bringing trouble like this to her door the next time she saw him.

‘Before he went to Venice.’

‘When was that?’ asked Karen.

‘Three, maybe four weeks ago.’

‘Why did he go to Venice?’ asked Walter.

‘Holiday. Took his girlfriend. Posh bit of stuff, by all accounts. Too good to be introduced to me.’

‘Do you know who she is, and where she lives?’ asked Karen.

Mrs Flowers shook her head. Sighed hard. ‘Think he’s ashamed of me, doesn’t like me meeting his girls. Father’s a dentist, think that’s what he said.’

‘Where does Luke live now?’ asked Walter.

Mrs Flowers always knew that question was coming and she didn’t want to answer it. She didn’t want this gang of desperate coppers on her son’s tail. Said the first thing that came into her head.

‘He’s got a caravan or summat, no, maybe it’s a chalet, on the coast up near Rhyl.’

‘Come on, Mrs Flowers, you can do better than that, you must know where your son lives.’

‘I don’t!’ she snapped. ‘He’s at that stage when he likes his independence, doesn’t want me dropping in on him every five minutes. Cramps his style, he says. Rings me now and again, and that’s about it.’

The look in her eyes told Walter that that was at least partly true. The woman had been abandoned by her husband, and now by her children, and had been left alone to grow old by herself; to face old age alone, sitting on that comfy sofa, with nothing more for company than a 65” television. The kid had probably bought that as some kind of compensation, as if he were fulfilling his family duties, or maybe salving his conscience. Walter had seen it a thousand times before. People grow slow, fat and old, and sometimes the relatives just don’t want to know.

Then she said, ‘You won’t hurt him, will you? He’s all I’ve got.’

‘We don’t want to hurt him, please believe me on that,’ said Walter. ‘But we do need to speak to him urgently; and he does need to come forward. He will be safe with us; you have my word on that.’

She stared across the room at the black man and into his still and determined eyes, and she believed the policeman, and that was a first.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, and out of nowhere a tear formed in the corner of her eye and stuttered over her ample cheek.

Karen saw it and put her hand on Mrs Flowers’ shoulder and gave her a squeeze and said, ‘Can we make you a cup of tea or something?’

‘No!’ she snapped regaining her composure. ‘The only thing I want is for you to get out of my house.’

‘Have you got an up to date photo?’ asked Walter.

‘No!’ she said again, only school ones, ‘he was most particular about that, never wanted his photo taken, hated it, said it would bring him terrible bad luck.’

‘I wonder why,’ said Karen under her breath.

Walter bobbed his head and took a card from his wallet and set it on the tile-topped coffee table.

‘That’s my number, call me any time.’

Mrs Flowers said nothing.

The officers let themselves out. They hadn’t really expected to make an arrest, but it would have been nice.

Twenty-Nine

The first time Wazir Khan visited Chester he knew it was the place for him. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt at home there. He had been scouting out various towns with a view to relocating his family, Southport, Frodsham, Prestatyn, Formby, he had visited them all, considered them all, but it was the city of Chester that captured his heart.

Jimmy Mac gave Wazzie a glowing reference, so much so that the Chester City Bus Company could hardly refuse him a position, and because their accounting and reporting of cash taken was far more stringent, Wazir was no longer able to supplement his income, though he didn’t really mind. It didn’t unduly worry him for he was happy to be away from the deceit and shame of stealing money on a daily basis from the local public purse.

He found a small first floor flat in Brook Street just around the corner from Chester General Railway Station. The flat was damp and cold, partly