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

WALTER’S TEAM SEARCHED Luke’s flat. Found something interesting. A loaded gun wrapped in an American sweatshirt. It was a British made Webley Scott automatic pistol, 9 millimetre, an ugly, dated looking thing. Walter had seen one like it before, years ago, when he was attached to Scotland Yard.

There had been an anti-apartheid rally and riot going on outside the South African embassy, windows were broken, and a main door damaged. Things had turned nasty. An in house security guard, probably a BOSS South African secret service agent, had been knocked over in the melee. A similar gun had tumbled from his pocket and had been kicked away by a rioter. The young Darriteau had gained a mention in reports by dashing in and recovering the weapon before it fell into the wrong hands, just as well he had, for it was fully loaded.

This one was fully loaded too, six rounds, way more than enough to kill someone. Walter pondered on whether Luke Flowers was looking to kill someone else, and if so, who, and where, and when. One thing was for sure, Luke would have to come back to the flat to retrieve the gun, unless he had another one stashed away somewhere else.

‘Hector?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Go downstairs and man the front door. Keep an eye out for Luke, and keep out of sight.’

‘Sure, Guv.’

BUT LUKE DIDN’T RETURN to Glanford House, and time was marching on, and the team were growing hungry, and that included Walter, and that was nothing new.

Thirty-Three

Luke finished his early lunch of poached eggs on toast with lots of brown sauce, and set down the complimentary newspaper the Laughing Cavalier provided. He went outside to walk the meal off before he’d head for the Red Rose Motel. He hurried along the riverbank, across the pedestrian bridge, and back along the opposite bank, past the bench where he had sat with Jimmy Mitchell, admiring the joggers.

There was no one sitting there now, and no joggers either, and then on toward the old stone bridge that linked Handbridge to the city.

He crossed the bridge going back into town, took the first left, and found a vacant seat. During the week those seats would be much sought after, people would hang around like hungry gulls, waiting for someone to vacate a place, giggling office girls sharing their lunches, and tales of last night’s hot date, or of gossip about a new guy who had turned up in their department.

But it was Saturday, and though there were lots of people about, they were a whole different crowd at the weekend; they weren’t stopping and pausing to eat. There was more urgency in their body language, in their movement, as there always was on a late Saturday morning, coming up lunchtime, as if they had vital shopping to find in the city, or were going on a first lunch date with a potential lover, or were in search of concert tickets, or were hurrying to catch a train or bus to the evil twin sisters, as Luke thought of them, the big, hard cities of Liverpool and Manchester, an hour or so away.

He found a vacant seat and sat down. Pulled out his mobile. He would make a few final calls while he still had the chance, for he knew better than to neglect his women friends for too long. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, too true, but one still had to keep in touch. He spent ten minutes on goodbye phone calls, and then put his phone away for he’d spotted a taxi coming. He jumped up and waved, and the old black cab rumbled to a standstill.

Luke clambered in and shouted: ‘Red Rose Motel.’

‘Gotcha,’ said the driver, and the cab snorted and shook, and blew out black smoke and rumbled away.

IN THE STATE OF KERALA the atmosphere remained tense. Doors opened and closed. Muffled male conversation. Hushed phone calls were being made. Calls to the mosque. Long distance calls. International calls to the real State of Kerala on the subcontinent, calls to Pakistan, calls to London. More calls back to the mosque. The phones had rarely been so hot.

AT A QUARTER TO TWELVE Wazir was still sitting in the same seat, still staring ahead, still looking sad, still thinking hard on the family crisis. Ahmed and Mohammed stood before the window. Maaz was ordered to bring Sahira back to the sitting room. Mohammed glanced at his expensive wristwatch, a present from Wazir on his last birthday.

Mohammed nodded Maaz away, and he stood up and went to fetch Sahira. He was back within minutes, ushering her into the room without saying a word. Then he strode over and sat beside Wazir, and stared up at the girl, his erstwhile sister, who he now looked upon as if she were a hunk of rotting fish.

‘Look father, I can explain...’

‘Shut up girl!’ snapped Mohammed.

‘Show some respect!’ yelled Maaz.

Wazir touched Maaz’s wrist, and the young man fell silent.

Mohammed held up his hand. Adopted a suitably grave face.

‘As you know, Sahira, we have been seeking a suitable husband for you for some time. With the gracious assistance of Imam Sabir, and Imam Hujjat, at the mosque, this important work has now been completed.’

Sahira shook her head violently. Said, ‘No father. I don’t want to be married.’

‘Quiet girl!’ insisted Ahmed.

Mohammed continued.

‘Tomorrow you will fly to Pakistan. We have managed to obtain a standby flight. You will be married in three days time to a warlord who is based in the city of Chitral in the far north of the country, not far from the Afghan border. The man is well known to people at the mosque. They speak highly of him, they say he is a good man, kind and understanding, he will make you a good husband, though he is sixty-eight, and he does not speak English. You will need to learn the language, and you will need to do that fast.’

The Khan