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

stupid selfish woman who had shamed him and his family, and had brought humiliation, disgrace, and dishonour down on them all.

The car surged forward, thrusting Sahira back in her seat.

She closed her eyes and thought of Manchester airport, and how and where and when she could make a break for it from there. That’s what she would do; that was the new plan. She would somehow distract them, perhaps go to the Ladies and climb out of the window and dash away. Claudia Williams, her best friend from school, who still innocently sent her a Christmas card every year, a card her father usually found and burned in the naan bread oven, she would surely offer Sahira sanctuary.

Claudia possessed her own car; and her own mobile too, how lucky some girls were, and if Sahira could reach a phone she could ring her and plead for assistance. Sahira had no money, the over zealous Maaz had seen to that. ‘You won’t need money where you’re going,’ he had said spitefully, grinning, ‘You’re supposed to be fasting,’ but Sahira didn’t need money because Claudia’s phone accepted incoming calls without payment.

Her concerned father had set up the tariff especially, so that Claudia could ring home whenever she liked, and they could call their daughter at any time of day or night without ever having to worry about credit or coins. That’s what Sahira would do. Claudia Williams would surely help.

WITH EACH PASSING HOUR Jimmy Mitchell was becoming more irritable. There had still been no word from Luke Flowers. He could not be contacted at any of his usual haunts. No one had seen the beggar.

More worryingly, when he had sent a messenger to Luke’s flat the guy quickly reported back that the place was swarming with the law. Luke apparently, was a wanted man. Somehow the police had twigged that it was he who had shot the Player boy, and Neil Swaythling.

Perhaps Luke had gone to ground, perhaps the police already had him in custody; that would explain why no one could find him, but just in case he was still out there, Jimmy employed a small army of street rats to look for the little weasel.

He even re-employed Bunny Almond, something he swore he would never do, but needs must, and for once Bunny did not seem to be living in a parallel universe, and enthusiastically went about his work in tracking down the aforementioned Mister Flowers. Bunny could still remember the nice payday he’d enjoyed when he was the one who had found Neil Swaythling, and he was still basking in that success in the lowlifes’ bars he frequented.

He’d even taken a big bet that he would be the one to find Luke Flowers, a silly bet that he most certainly could not pay out, if he happened to lose.

Jimmy Mitchell remained a worried man. It was all a bit of a mystery. He imagined a scenario where Flowers was already in custody, under pressure from their best interrogator, and that probably meant that fat, black bastard with the stupid name, and the worry was, that Luke might be persuaded to point the finger at Jimmy.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Jimmy had already fielded three heavy phone calls from his client enquiring as to why the England centre forward was still living and breathing, and bragging and drinking and feeding and snorting his way through Wirral’s most expensive watering holes, whorehouses, and nightclubs.

‘I gave you the contract, Jimmy, not to some loser that you might have employed. It’s your responsibility. I expect you to complete the deal, and within seven days. Is that clear?’

Those ominous words were still rattling around Jimmy’s head. There would be no sleep until matters had been resolved, and the most annoying part was, he was nowhere near resolution.

THE BMW WAS APPROACHING Junction 5 on the M56, the Manchester Airport turnoff.

Sahira sat fractionally forward in the back seat and saw the lit-up overhead blue gantries. Get in lane. Get in Lane. Manchester Airport. But her father didn’t move into the correct lane.

She thought he was leaving it until the very last moment.

Then he would cut across.

He imagined himself to be a wonderful driver, they all knew that, egotistical, quick and cute, thought of himself as a regular Lewis Hamilton, even bought the monthly F1 magazine, and annoyingly sat for ages in the bathroom reading it when other people were waiting to pay a visit.

If he didn’t switch lanes in a second he’d miss the turn-off altogether. Both men sat in silence in the front seats. Sahira had expected Maaz to shout, ‘Get in the right lane, Dad,’ but he didn’t. Neither man spoke a word.

They travelled on in silence.

Time was up.

They had missed the turnoff.

They were not heading for Manchester Airport.

Thirty-Eight

Sahira wondered if there was another exit a little further down the motorway, a new turnoff perhaps, an expressway in. They were always fiddling about with the myriad of motorways and exits and entries around Greater Manchester, and she wouldn’t have been surprised. But on reflection she still thought not, and couldn’t remain silent any longer.

‘Didn’t you miss the turn off?’

‘Shut up!’ said Mohammed.

Maaz turned around and grinned manically at her. Said nothing.

Psychological warfare, the men thought they were masters at that. But the truth was, that the Khan women could play that game too, only differently. They had to be far more subtle, so much so that the men all too often weren’t even aware the women were playing with them. Truth was, taking into account the serious handicaps the women suffered, when it came to mind games, they usually won hands down.

She would bide her time and wait for the right moment. She would listen and observe. She would use every scrap of intelligence she possessed to outwit them. She now saw them for what they were, filthy pigs, no more, no less. If they weren’t going to Manchester Airport, clearly they must be going somewhere else,