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

wall as if it were a naughty boy, and switched off. Good job Mrs West wasn’t there to witness it.

They weren’t making any progress in finding Luke’s killers, and neither had they solved the mystery as to why Luke had been going round taking pot-shots at various young men.

Karen came in. It was her day off, but this was a serous investigation and she had already taken on the “I must never miss a thing” theory that Walter revelled in. She was wearing casual clothes, Walter noticed that. A long white tee shirt, or was it a short skirt, he couldn’t tell, over the top of black cord jeans. Seemed a funny kind of garb to him, but what did he know? His interest in fashion had stopped at the end of the seventies when his kipper ties, naturally permed hair, flared trousers flapping in time to disco music, and monster collars were the in thing. Still occasionally worn when there was nothing else clean to hand, and that usually provoked a laugh or two. He didn’t care about that. Clothes were to keep you warm, and cover up your modesty, and not much else. To Walter they served no other purpose.

She sat opposite and said, ‘Can’t stay long, got a girly lunch booked, five of us, going to Pierre’s.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Anything happening?’

‘Nothing concrete. See the news this morning?’

‘Yeah, terrible, death toll now up to 108, so they say.’

‘Didn’t mean that?’

‘What then? The Jermaine Keating thing? Looks like our info might have been right. If there was a contract out to kill Keating maybe Luke Flowers had something to do with that, and maybe that was why Luke was killed.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’

‘Keating’s out of the country.’

‘Yes he is, but he wasn’t at the time of Luke’s death.’

‘You don’t think it was him, do you?’ she said, linking her hands together and leaning forward across the desk toward him, her eyes confirming the excitement in her voice.

‘I don’t think it’s anyone in particular, but I’d like a general chat with Mister Keating, if only to find out why his name keeps cropping up. Find out if he’s got an alibi.’

‘He has, Guv. Playing football in front of 55,000 observant souls. Cast iron, I’d say,’ and she grinned across at him.

‘Yes, well, even if he has, a bloke like that with more money than sense, he must know people, some crazy people who’d be only too pleased to serve their hero, and it would only cost the main man half a week’s wages, if that, so he could afford it well enough.’

‘Do you know what? I think you could be on to something.’

‘Maybe, ring the club. Find out where he is, and when he’s coming back. Fix an official appointment, and when we get that we’ll turn up hours earlier and take them all by surprise. Counter attack, isn’t that what they are famous for?’

Karen shrugged, ‘Don’t ask me, Guv.’

‘Give it a whirl.’

‘I’ll ring the club in a tick.’

‘But strangely enough, Karen, it wasn’t that news story that interested me either.’

‘What else was there?’

‘The one about the human remains on the moors.’

‘Didn’t see that. What was that all about?’

AHMED KHAN PICKED UP the phone and said, ‘Imam Sabir, so nice to hear your voice again. What can I do for you?’

‘Is that you, Ahmed?’

‘Yes, Imam.’

‘Are you alone?’

Ahmed paused and glanced across at Maaz.

Maaz was interested in the call. He had been expecting it. Tried to listen. The women had gone out, and so had Mohammed. Wazir was getting washed and shaved, and only Maaz remained.

‘Not quite, Imam.’

‘Can you be so?’

‘That can surely be arranged.’

Ahmed held his hand over the phone and said, ‘Maaz, go downstairs and help your father, and close the door behind you.’

For a moment Maaz pretended he hadn’t heard his grandfather.

‘Go downstairs!’ said Ahmed, pointing to the door.

Maaz pulled an insolent face and sighed and left the room, closing the door on the way out.

‘Is there a problem, Imam?’

‘It would appear that way.’

‘Can you enlighten me?’

‘The warlord’s wife has not arrived.’

WALTER SCRATCHED HIS chin and nodded at Karen and said, ‘A body of a young woman was found burnt beyond recognition on the moors above Manchester.’

‘Didn’t hear about that.’

‘Unrecognisable, except for a perfect set of teeth.’

‘That might be enough.’

‘It could well be.’

‘So what about it?’

‘It was something that some hack asked.’

‘Like what?’

‘He asked the officers if they would make a comment on the gossip going round Manchester that it was an honour killing.’

‘Honour killing? Awful phrase.’

‘Precisely. Terrible term that was duly slapped down by the senior officer.’

‘Comes from India, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, there or thereabouts. It’s the old, old story. Been going on since history began. Each of our tribes prefers our children to marry our own kind, and then all too often the kids ignore their parent’s thinking and advice, and as if to be particularly awkward, they fall in love with someone from a completely different tribe, and a totally different gene pool.’

Karen was quiet for a few moments as if thinking, and then she said, ‘What did your parents say on the subject?’

Walter laughed a short, sharp laugh. A cold laugh, and then he said, ‘I have no idea, I haven’t spoken to either of my parents for almost fifty years.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, forgetting for a moment they were both long dead, both died when he was a boy, indeed his mother when giving birth, Karen imagining that she had touched a still raw nerve.

‘Don’t be.’

‘So what did your aunty whatsername say?’

‘Mimosa. Aunt Mimosa,’ and Walter smiled at her memory, and at her wisdom. ‘She said I should find a nice brown girl... with bumps.’

‘Bumps?’ smirked Karen.

‘Yes, bumps, and all in the right places.’

Karen grinned. ‘You mean curvaceous?’

‘Yes, if you like.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She wouldn’t have me. The brown girl with bumps.’

‘Ah, then you have a problem.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘So what’s your idea on this honour killing business?’

‘I got round to thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘Luke Flowers.’

‘And?’

‘Could that be some kind of honour killing?’

Karen giggled. ‘Don’t think