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

SHOOK himself; took the proffered keys and jogged back to the car. Opened the boot, took out the can of petrol, and the matches, and ran back to his father. He was kneeling down, talking to the bloody remains of his only daughter, perhaps offering one final prayer. Who knows? Who cares? Maaz thought him soft. He couldn’t hear what his father was saying. Didn’t want to hear either.

Mohammed stood up.

‘Over the body,’ he said. ‘Empty it.’

Maaz happily splashed the stinking, oily petrol, grinning in his work, emptying the can.

‘Stand back,’ said Mohammed, and they moved well away.

He struck a match and tossed it forward.

It caught in an instant.

WHOOSH!

Lighting up the area, spreading warmth, destroying everything that was there, the fine cotton cloth of her best white hijab, her flat shoes, her undergarments, her hair, her flesh, everything.

‘You’d better get her case,’ said Mohammed.

‘Yes, father,’ said Maaz, and he ran back to the car.

Aromas of roasting meat floated across the moor.

Burning meat. Overdone.

The bones in her hands flexed and bent horribly, as if they were still alive, as if they were in pain, contorting like a witch, as the heat burnt away the flesh, taking longer over the bones.

Maaz was back; bag in hand.

‘Open it,’ said Mohammed.

Maaz did so, and in the next second they were dripping her belongings onto the fire. Maaz giggled. When it was empty, Mohammed took the open bag and ripped part of it away, nicking his wrist in the process. Set it on the fire. Twisted off the plastic handle, threw it in the flames. Black polluting smoke swirled around in the wind, the men wafting it away, and finally, the remains of the holdall, on the fire, and burning away to nothing.

Mohammed moved closer and kicked in some remnants of cloth that had somehow escaped the flickering flames.

He glanced across at his son.

The flames were dancing in his still eyes.

There was nothing else there, no emotion at all, just coldness, and total indifference. Mohammed wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. There was nothing more to be done in those inhospitable hills.

‘Your trouble is, you are far too soft,’ said Maaz.

Mohammed shook his head and said, ‘Take the hammer, wipe it clean of prints, and using your handkerchief, throw it into the centre of the lake.’

Maaz bobbed his head.

It seemed a good plan to him.

Jogged across to the reservoir, and in the moonlight his father watched him wheeling around twice, like a hammer thrower at the Olympic games. Maaz hurled the ball hammer high into the sky and listened as it splashed down into the deep and black water.

If anyone ever had the inkling of searching there, they would find prohibitively deep water, total blackness at the bottom, and a short handled hammer sleeping in the mud. Mohammed imagined it would never be discovered at that depth, and even if it was, it couldn’t be traced to their door.

The fire was burning still, though there wasn’t a lot left, as Mohammed handed the empty petrol can back to Maaz, and ordered him to take it to the car and stay there.

Sitting in the vehicle, Maaz watched his father crouch down and stare into the dying embers. It was true; he was too soft. Far too soft. Then his father was back on his feet, walking toward the dark outline of the BMW, the torch beam pointing the way. He never once looked back.

Sitting together in the darkness Maaz said, ‘I did the right thing, father. I did the right thing.’

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and one issued without a shred of doubt.

‘Yes, son. I know.’

‘It had to be done. Now we should forget all about it. About her. Get on with living our lives. Get back to normal.’

‘We must never tell the others.’

‘Course not! So far as anyone else is concerned we dropped the sinning bitch at the airport, the last we saw of her, she was going through the gate.’

There was a short pause and then Mohammed said, ‘You didn’t have any qualms?’

‘About killing her, you mean?’

Mohammed nodded.

‘No! None whatsoever! Not after you showed me the pictures.’

THE BLAZE HADN’T GONE entirely unnoticed. Two miles to the north they were spotted by Sandy and Gerald. They were two of the hardy walkers crazy enough to attempt the great Lands End to John O’Groats walk. They were doing the trek for charity in aid of Aids awareness, and were on track to raise more than £30K. Gerald was HIV positive. They had camped there for the night.

Sandy stood up and peered southwards.

‘Looks like someone is having a great party.’

Gerald stood beside him and gazed south too. Imagined a spectacular barbecue. Roasting pork sausages with lots of mustard and tomato ketchup, and cans of cider. They’d had to make do with a tin of beans and a cold and gristly Cornish pasty.

‘Why don’t we scoot back and join them,’ suggested Sandy.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Gerald, sitting down again, feeling his blisters. ‘If it were north of us I might go, but the idea of retreating even a hundred yards is foreign to me, sorry.’

Sandy had blisters too, but would still liked to have gone, but not alone, not without Gerald, and as the flames in the distance died away, they forgot all about barbecues and fires on the horizon and fresh company, and they smiled at one another in the moonlight, hugged affectionately, and hunkered down together in their small two-man tent.

Thirty-Nine

Monday morning, and the Luke Flowers decapitation murder was all over the newspapers, Internet, and TV. Someone had talked, but something else very important was happening that morning. It was the day of the coming of the monster. Or, to give it its full name, the Hytec Corp’s of San Diego, California, Constructor System.

The monster, as it had been christened the moment the team first saw it, had been trialled in the Incident Room over the previous three weeks. That day, it would go