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

Her head was moving slowly from side to side.

‘I won’t do it, father. I won’t.’

‘You will do it! Or face the ultimate.’

Sahira stared at the men; saw the stony looks on their faces, not a scrap of compassion to be seen.

‘No, father.’

Mohammed pressed on.

‘You may take one bag. Make sure that you do not pack any western clothes, or any cosmetics or technology of any kind. Maaz will check the items in your bag when you have done.’

‘I won’t do it, father.’

‘You will do it, Sahira, believe me, you will. Maaz, escort her back to her room. Make sure she doesn’t leave it.’

Maaz jumped up. Went to grasp her arm. She pulled away and ran outside and hurried back to her room and slammed the door.

Maaz shouted through the timber, ‘Make sure you say your prayers, slut!’ and he grinned, and after that he slipped out of the building for ten minutes, for there was something he urgently needed to buy.

AT HALF PAST TWELVE Mohammed and Maaz left the State of Kerala. Jumped in the BMW and pointed it toward the motel.

AT FIVE TO ONE LUKE strode into the motel.

The same dusky girl was there in her immaculate green uniform. She barely said a word. Wouldn’t look him in the eye, true deference, Luke imagined; as he picked up the room key that she had silently set on the check-in desk. Discreet or what? It was one of the reasons he liked the Red Rose so much. He smirked and thanked her and turned around and headed for the internal door.

IN THE FLAT ABOVE THE State of Kerala Wazir straightened his tie and went downstairs, and wandered through the restaurant. This dreadful affair had served to take the men’s eyes off the main business, the breadwinning business that he, Wazir Khan had thought of, and pushed through, and made happen, despite all the doubts and opposition of his own family. It was the restaurant that, with the grace of God, had put food into their mouths all these years.

He set that gentle smile on his face and for a moment forgot about his worries and creaking bones and greeted two newcomers at the front door, nervous first-timers who had never eaten there before. There was a gentle hum of conversation through the place. He walked slowly around, speaking with one or two regulars who had been coming in for years, and then he carefully sat down and ordered his own lunch, as he always did, in full view of the diners, the same food, the same size portions, the same length of wait, the same dining experience, to prove to the world that only what was good enough for Wazir Khan was good enough for his valued clientele.

He had great troubles on his aging mind, though as always in the restaurant, he struggled not to show it. He wasn’t feeling quite himself, but then again he had good cause, he was in his late eighties. After his main meal he ordered a plain ice cream, for ice cream can often wash away a bad taste in the mouth.

LUKE DIDN’T RETURN to the flat. Hector Browne and Jenny Thompson had remained there just in case. They would still be waiting at 5pm when Walter relieved the pair of them, and sent down another team who secured the front door, and waited in a car across the road.

Walter went home for a change of clothing and a quick bite to eat. On the way he’d call in at the local parade of shops he preferred to patronise, for he rarely used supermarkets.

In the end shop, Abdul sliced him four slices of boiled ham, moist and delicious, Abdul assured him, and it usually was, though Abdul would never touch a morsel himself. Next door in the old bakery, Queenie Richards had saved him a crusty loaf. She had waited on a little later in case he came in, granary, brown, and she couldn’t resist the same old joke that it was a fitting colour for a man like Walter, as he forced a grin, and headed next door to the off licence owned and run by Paul Leishman.

Paul was openly gay and didn’t mind who knew it, as he minced up and down behind the counter, quite at home in his own private domain, two hands clasped together to the left of his heart, as he tried to sell bottles of perfumed Chianti that he just knew Walter would love. Paul had bought too much of the blessed stuff and it was slow moving, but Walter wasn’t really a Chianti man, and grunted and shook his head.

‘I’ll have four cans of stout and four cans of real ale,’ he said.

Paul, or Pauli, as he preferred to be called, set the beers on the counter.

‘Anything else you’d like, Walter?’ minced Pauli; pursing lips horribly enough that Walter glanced away at something else.

Truth was that Paul Leishman had the hots for Walter, and Walter being a detective of some expertise, hadn’t missed that tiny fact. Couldn’t really imagine how Pauli had fallen under his spell, but it takes all sorts. Why couldn’t he attract women in that way, he pondered?

‘No, Paul, I’m fine thanks,’ he muttered, and slipped a twenty-pound note across the counter.

Paul made a big issue of slapping the change into Walter’s oh-so-manly bear-like paw, and Walter bade him a goodnight, and went out into the still sunny evening, clutching his provisions, laughing to himself as he went.

LUKE STILL HADN’T RETURNED by 10pm and Walter, who was back at his desk by then, agreed with the consensus that Luke had probably shacked up with his girlfriend. Might be staying there now, wherever that was, and they were sure they wouldn’t see him again that day. At least they now had his DNA, courtesy of the hairs extracted from his hairbrush, and any number of perfect fingerprints too. It was