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

to the words, as did every off duty policeman the length and breadth of Britain, because that is what policemen do everywhere, and policewomen too, because you just might learn something from pictures from afar, and anyway, bodies were often dumped by murderers miles away from the scenes of their crimes, and sometimes hundreds of miles away. You only had to recall the number of Scottish murderers who were arrested on the south coast of England, and vice versa, to see that that was true.

THE TELEVISION IN THE State of Kerala private apartment was also on, a forty-eight inch high definition 3D beast, latest top of the range model that Mohammed had insisted they acquire. What was the point in working all hours that God sent if there wasn’t an occasional perk, like a magnificent new television that had cost the equivalent of six month’s wages for a waiter?

Wazir had been dead against it from the beginning, the frittering away of hard earned money on frippery, he had said, and Ahmed too, but Maaz was all for it, as young people always are when it comes to acquiring modern technology.

Maaz was there too, watching the screen, as was his father Mohammed. Wazir was enjoying a lie-in for he was getting more tired with each passing month. They were eating a late breakfast. Akleema was there as well, reading a woman’s magazine, and Nadirah, sewing, though heaven knows what and why she still felt the need to sew.

Maaz glanced across at Mohammed and back at the screen. Father saw a hint of excitement in his son’s eyes, and shook his head and looked away. Maaz didn’t, he was glued to the pictures.

‘What’s that all about?’ asked Akleema, looking up from her celeb gossip pages.

‘Some human remains found on the moors,’ said Mohammed. ‘Change channel, Maaz.’

‘No!’ he said. ‘I want to watch this,’ and the men shared another hard look, and the newscast stayed on.

THE BROADCAST HAD SWITCHED to the red brick Manchester Police Headquarters not far from Old Trafford. Walter knew the building well, he’d been there several times, knew some of the officers there too, though there was no guarantee they would still be working there.

A police press conference was in full swing. Two guys in their forties, one in uniform, one not, and a short-haired woman in her thirties, full uniform boasting several medal ribbons. He didn’t know any of the people, doubted if they were even from Manchester, judging by their accents. The woman was speaking. She had a strident voice, a little like their own Mrs Joan West. Maybe a strident voice was a prerequisite for successful women in the force. It was an interesting theory.

‘We should have more information when the body has been identified. That is proving difficult. Our main hope is a full set of very good teeth, and we will be following that up in the coming hours and days.’

‘Can you confirm that it is a woman?’ asked one of the reporters.

‘Yes I can.’

‘Can you say what age?’

‘Not for certain, but we believe between fifteen and thirty.’

There was a brief break as if for once the hacks couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and then an older guy at the back announced himself from a Manchester local radio station, and he asked, ‘Can you comment on speculation that the death is some kind of honour killing?’

The woman officer looked shocked, thrown, as if the hack had hit a raw nerve. She went to speak but stopped and turned to her right and said, ‘I think Chief Superintendent Gitts might have something to say about that.’

The grey haired man began speaking, he was lean and had a hard face, and was the senior officer the force had put up to face the press.

‘There is no such thing as an honour killing,’ he said tersely. ‘The whole idea of any kind of honour being attached to cold-blooded murder is a travesty. Whoever is responsible for this death will be remorselessly hunted down,’ and he nodded a little nod to the press officer, a nod that Walter knew all too well, and one that he had used many times before himself, the “I’ve had enough of this nonsense, the conference is over nod”, and sure enough the press conference was brought to a sudden end, and the TV feed reverted back to the studio.

IN THE STATE, MAAZ smiled to himself.

Akleema asked, ‘What exactly is an honour killing?’

‘They don’t know what they are talking about,’ said Maaz. ‘They haven’t a bloody clue,’ and Mohammed wanted to scream at his son and tell him to shut up, but couldn’t, and then Ahmed came in and said, ‘Am I the only one working here today? Have you all forgotten we have a Chester Rugby Club lunch at twelve, fifty-two persons in all, and time is getting on.’

The phone rang and Akleema picked it up.

‘The State of Kerala bespoke Indian Restaurant,’ she said in her best curry house gooey voice.

Maaz squirmed in his chair and thought what a load of bollocks.

‘It’s for you, Ahmed,’ Akleema called through the open door. ‘Imam Sabir at the mosque.’

GALINA HAD FINISHED the dishes and was busy emptying and cleaning the stainless steel sink. She glanced back at the TV.

‘What that all about?’ she said.

Walter pulled a face, ‘Dunno, some unfortunate young woman has been murdered by the look of things. The body burnt. Dreadful.’

‘More bad men?’

‘Looks that way. Don’t you have bad men in Ukraine?’

She gave him a smirk and said, ‘Course, but everyone know who they are, and ignore. Just ignore.’

If only it was that easy, thought Walter, and then she said, ‘They should send for you, Mister Darto. You find bad men pronto,’ and she giggled and began filling the yellow plastic bowl with boiling water, God knows what for, Walter thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t like to interfere in such matters, and would always leave an energetic cleaning woman to get