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

LUKE FLOWERS WAS ENJOYING a very early breakfast. He had a busy day ahead, because the next day he would be leaving for Mexico. He had a lot to do. Melanie was coming round in an hour and that would enable him to say his goodbyes properly. He intended giving her something to remember him by. She’d be surprised at his decision to go abroad at such short notice, that was for sure, to Australia, so far as she was concerned, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say. He was a great believer in the maxim, just so long as it wasn’t out of sight, out of mind.

After he’d seen her off he’d still have time for Sahira. There would always be time for that, and though he wouldn’t have time to see anyone else, there were still several others that kept infiltrating into his busy brain.

THE IMAM SABIR WAS waiting in his office for the Khan family. He was wearing his best robes; made from the cloth his proud grandfather had bought for Sabir’s birthday, robes he would only wear on solemn occasions, such as this.

The Imam had adopted the name Sabir, for it meant patience, for he was astute enough to realise that it was one attribute he did not possess. He had hoped that through taking the name it might slowly seep into his consciousness. So far it hadn’t worked.

The Khan men were being shown toward his room. The Imam sat behind his polished mahogany desk. He would not get up. It wasn’t for him to get up. The three generations of Khans came into the room and glanced nervously down. This had never happened before, being summoned at an early hour in this way. Something important was clearly in the air, and none of the three could guess what.

The assistant Imam, an older man by the name of Hujjat, was standing to one side of Imam Sabir. Hujjat was also fully robed, but unlike Sabir, he was always happy to take a backseat, less ambitious, content to defer to Sabir. He didn’t make eye contact with his superior, nor with the summoned ones. Hujjat hailed from the Punjab; was pious, gentle and even-tempered, a man Wazir especially liked and respected.

Wazir softly said, ‘Hello Hujjat,’ barely breaking the silence.

Hujjat didn’t reply, didn’t smile, just pursed his lips and nodded slightly.

There were three plain chairs set out before the desk.

The Khans were not invited to sit.

Wazir was already becoming irritable.

Imam Sabir glanced up from his laptop computer, as if surprised. Saw the three men standing there, as if they had come into his domain uninvited, as if he, Sabir, had been impolite to them.

‘Oh, please gentleman, please do sit,’ and he beckoned toward the seats.

Ahmed said, ‘Thank you, Imam Sabir,’ and sat in the centre chair, Wazir to the left, Mohammed to his right.

The Imam looked upwards, as if to heaven, as if seeking inspiration, as if calling on all the patience that God might grant him. Then he gently closed the laptop with a click, and began.

‘Thank you for coming at short notice, and thank you for coming at such an early hour.’

‘It matters not what time you call, Imam,’ said Ahmed. ‘We would come at any time for you, you know that.’

‘For sure!’ said Mohammed, not wishing to be left out of any burgeoning conversation.

Wazir glanced across the room through his tired eyes. He had been wrong. Whatever the Imams wanted, it certainly wasn’t funds for food and famine, and he felt ashamed he could have thought such a thing. Something truly important was about to be said.

THE BELL TO THE DOOR at Luke’s flat rang. One long ring. Luke finished his coffee and jumped to his feet. Ran to the door, a spring in his step. Opened up.

She looked fabulous.

Two items of clothing only.

Short sleeved white blouse, tight fitting stone washed jeans.

First thing Saturday morning or not, she’d spent a great deal of time on her makeup, and she’d recently washed her blonde hair, and that was only as Luke would have expected.

He reached out onto the landing, grasped her left wrist and dragged her inside, cooing: ‘How’s my darling Melanie?’

A major smile cracked across her face.

He’d shaved and applied his best aftershave, over applied if anything, but over application was always far better than under, gelled his perfect hair too, and he looked so cute in that red jockey shirt and black trousers. What was it about him that excited her so, that brought butterflies to her entire being? That was something that still mystified her, but then it always had.

They kissed hungrily and when they came apart she said softly, ‘What’s all this about, Lukee baby?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Like what, Lukee?’ whispering her reply directly into his left ear, and dreaming that maybe, just maybe, he might propose. It was about time he had. Most of her lovers did after a few weeks. It sure wasn’t as she imagined he might do it, but so long as he did, that was all that mattered.

‘I’ve got something to show you.’

Melanie smirked. ‘Like what, Lukee?’

‘Get in that bedroom and get your kit off!’

‘But Luke, it’s not yet nine o’clock.’

‘Don’t care. Do as you are told!’

Thirty-One

The Imam Sabir sniffed and rubbed his nose. Then he began. ‘This is a matter of great delicacy.’

‘So we understand,’ said Ahmed.

The Imam held up his hand, as if to tell the middle Khan not to interrupt again. Ahmed sat back in his chair. He could recognise a reprimand when he saw one.

‘This matter concerns a member of your family.’

‘It’s bound to be Maaz again,’ muttered Wazir. ‘What’s the crazy boy been up to this time?’

Imam Hujjat fixed Wazir with his eyes and said sternly: ‘It has nothing to do with Maaz! Maaz is a decent, God fearing boy, and a man we have high hopes for.’

Wazir looked duly rebuked,