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

and so far as Sahira was concerned, anywhere was better than boarding that midnight flight to Islamabad, and the Stone Age that lay beyond, a place she imagined that still existed up on what used to be called the North-West Frontier. It had always been a bloody place where people were being raped and murdered, and it still was, despite the billions being poured into the area by the Americans.

Some time later she said, as sweetly, and as young girly as she could muster, ‘Where are we going, father?’

‘Shut up!’ said Maaz, spitefully, spitting as he spoke, depositing splashes of spittle on the glove compartment before him.

But the girly question had worked on her father, to a degree, triggered some kind of long ago parental protection thing in his racing mind, and on the spur of the moment he would answer the girl’s question; he couldn’t do anything else.

‘Bradford,’ he said. ‘We are going to Bradford.’

SHE SAT BACK IN HER seat and began thinking of Bradford. Why on earth were they going there? Her mother Akleema had originated from Bradford, so they must still have relatives in that cosmopolitan city, though Sahira didn’t know of any. They certainly hadn’t kept in touch.

Perhaps they had made a UK arranged marriage for her after all, and anything was better than some old goatish man far away in the mountains, perhaps her new fiancé would be young and handsome, and for a few moments she allowed herself to daydream of the wonderful man who lay ahead, a man who was destined to become her husband. The daydreaming didn’t last long.

She knew she wasn’t about to be rewarded for her behaviour. That was out of the question, so if she wasn’t being rewarded, why were they heading up into the Pennine hills, toward Bradford?

They had switched onto the M62 and being late Sunday night the traffic was light, it wasn’t at any other time, as they whizzed along at 90mph. Sahira watched for the big blue signs, ticked off the exits in her mind, past gate 20, past 21, and suddenly she was aware of a clicking in the car, the regular click-click, click-click of an indicator.

She glanced behind her.

No traffic, so he wasn’t pulling out to overtake. He was indicating to turn left, to leave the motorway, and they were nowhere near Bradford, and then he took the car off the motorway at gate 22.

‘Where are we going, father?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Shut your fucking mouth, bitch, or by God I’ll cut your throat!’ screamed Maaz, as if he was nearing the end of his tether. He had turned round and was still glaring at her, and she saw the hatred and violence in his black eyes.

She wasn’t altogether surprised.

He had always been a slightly weird brother.

There had been that strange incident five years earlier when he had attacked someone in the restaurant, a middle-aged man who had taken one glass of red wine too many. The guy had had the temerity to glance longingly at Maaz’s mother, leaving his eyes there far longer than he should have, and after the confrontation that followed, a fracas that involved smashed crockery and a bleeding and damaged ear, Maaz went away for two years.

The family explained he was poorly and was receiving the best attention available, convalescing, they said, but one day she found a letter from some Outreach Centre that, according to the strap line beneath the name, advised: Specialising in the Treatment of Young Men with Mild Mental Disorders.

She had begun to read the letter. It said that he was much better than before, that the medication was working well, and that he would soon be able to return home, though he would remain on medication for the foreseeable future, and then her frantic reading was interrupted by her father coming up the stairs, and she had hurriedly returned the letter to its envelope, and back into the dressing table drawer, in the nick of time.

There had been another incident too when on the landing upstairs, he had lobbed a full bottle of spring water at their mother, after she had insisted he tidy his room, not a plastic bottle, but one of those teardrop shaped heavy, green glass bottles. It had only missed her by a whisker because she had had the foresight to duck. Sahira had always been very wary of Maaz after that, and with good reason.

It was still just light, though darkness was coming down fast. It had been a dry day, a little breezy for the time of year, but pleasant enough. The car was following a minor road, twisting and turning, rising more often than falling, headlights now on full beam. They had crossed the border, and were now in the white rose county, Yorkshire, as they entered the small town of Hebden Bridge.

She had never been that way before and didn’t want to go that way again, for everything looked dark and doom-laden, though maybe that was just her state of mind. She again pondered on why they were there at all, and for a moment she imagined that her father was lost, that he was just driving aimlessly through the hills, maybe to frighten her, maybe to bring her to her senses. It wouldn’t work. She was Taurus, and Taurus’s were renowned for their stubbornness.

The town was behind them and they were heading due north; then cutting left toward the last dismal light of the setting sun far away to the west. They passed another sign: The RESERVOIRS, and a minute later they were skipping by the first of the many vast reservoirs that sleep silently in those hills, lakes that quench the ever growing thirst of the vast conurbation known as Greater Manchester.

Two more signs came and went, The PENNINE WAY, a long path and track for walkers that straddles the Pennine Hills, running south to north for a hundred miles, and then: WALSHAW DEAN RESEVOIR, a vast lake of fresh water set