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

The phone in the private quarters rings.

Ahmed answers.

It is the local Imam.

He wants to speak with Ahmed, and Mohammed, and Wazir too, if the old man is up to it.

He wants to see them in the morning, first thing. Can they come before eight o’clock? It was a most delicate matter that cannot be discussed over the telephone.

Ahmed immediately agrees, and goes off to find his father. He is watching cricket, the ubiquitous Indian Premier League. ‘It’ll be something and nothing, the summons,’ mutters Wazir. ‘They probably need more funds for some project in Pakistan, take your chequebook.’

That was the usual cause of excitement at the mosque.

‘Watch the cricket, boy,’ implored his father. ‘Watch the Indian batsmen, they know how to play the game.’

Ahmed’s cricket watching days were long behind him.

He was a worried man.

He saw black clouds everywhere.

Thirty

The Incident Room was packed. Still before 8am, and the aroma of bacon butties filled the air. Jenny Thompson rushed round with cups of coffee, she didn’t need to do that, but Walter was happy she had. Karen declined. Gibbo happily seized the unwanted cup.

‘Listen up,’ said Walter, getting to his feet, the polystyrene cup steaming in his hand. ‘Thanks to all who came in early; and thanks for all those who came in on their day off, and so to business. Luke Flowers,’ and they all glanced at the photofit on the wall that everyone believed to be accurate. ‘He is not living with his mother; she says he’s got a caravan or chalet up on the North Wales’ coast, Rhyl, somewhere like that. Somehow I think Mrs Flowers is being protective. We know he likes travelling abroad, just come back from Venice, according to his mother, he doesn’t sound like a caravan type of guy to me. I think he has a flat somewhere here in the city. He’s not on the electoral roll, but it shouldn’t be that difficult to trace his address. Gibbons and Jenny, I want you to get round the local travel agents. He must have booked that holiday abroad somewhere, and they will surely have his address, and if he does have a flat he should be paying council tax. Hector, that’s your job, find him on the council tax roll, and we are in business.’

Hector nodded his head and seemed to appreciate being given a job all to himself. Said, ‘Sure, Guv, that makes sense.’

‘You two,’ Walter continued, pointing to two junior officers that he was ashamed to say he couldn’t name. ‘Get on to the local health centres and libraries. You might have some joy there. Don’t take any flannel from the health centres either, they can be an awkward bunch of lilies on those helpdesks; we don’t want to know about any damned medical records, we just want an address. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death, and maybe they’ll understand, and check out the dentists too,’ he shouted to no one in particular. ‘Find one with a pretty daughter with a boyfriend called Luke, and you could find his address that way.’

‘Sure, Guv,’ they all said together.

‘And remember this, this guy has killed one person, and thinks he’s killed another. He’s armed and dangerous and not to be messed with. He won’t hesitate to shoot again. I don’t want any dead heroes. I don’t want to have to tell someone’s mother their faultless offspring has stopped a slug. As soon as you find an address, you tell me, got that?’

Walter scanned the room and everyone nodded and muttered, ‘Sure thing, boss,’ and stuff like that, even his boss, Mrs West, who was standing observing proceedings, propped up in her office doorway, nodded her assent.

She did a lot of that, nodding and staff observation. It was as if the bi-annual officer appraisal reports were never far from her mind, as she took five minutes out to watch each officer in turn. They all knew she was doing it because she always did, all felt her steely eyes settling upon them; usually when they had something to say. They’d answer Walter, and then nervously glance at John, as she was known, to try and gauge how they had done.

It unnerved some of them. It sure as hell unnerved Walter.

‘Any questions?’ asked Walter.

‘Where did he get the gun?’ asked Hector, unable to pass up on an opportunity to speak.

‘God knows,’ said Walter. ‘There are suppliers of such things, hopefully when we find Luke it will lead us to the gunsmith. Anything else?’

No one had.

‘Right, get on with it! I want to make an arrest before teatime; drinks on me if we do.’

‘That’s more like it!’ said Gibbons. ‘Mine’s a double vodka.’

‘Come along, children! Be on your way,’ yelled Walter, beckoning those that were going out through the door.

THE KHANS PULLED THEIR black BMW 5 Series into the mosque car park. Ahmed was driving, he usually did. His son Mohammed sat beside him, and the old man, Wazir, was in the back, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy.

‘Just before we go in,’ said Ahmed, ‘does anyone have any late thoughts on why we are here?’

Wazir opened his eyes and said, ‘Pound to a penny they want money. Famine and flood. The same old stories.’

‘Famine and flood are not to be ridiculed,’ said Mohammed, from the front seat, turning round and fixing his eyes on his grandfather, who so far as Mohammed was concerned, was getting more out of touch with reality every passing week.

‘I know that!’ snapped Wazir, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘I was only saying...’

‘For what it’s worth,’ said Ahmed, ‘I think it’s something a good deal more serious than that.’

‘Like what?’ asked Mohammed.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Wazir. ‘Let’s go in and get to the bottom of it,’ and he opened the car door and slowly pulled himself out onto the tarmac.

Mohammed and his father shared a look and joined him and headed for the