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

side of his own head and revolved his finger round and round and round, and nodded back up at Wazir, as he stared and grinned across at Mohammed and Ahmed.

‘How did you kill her?’ asked Ahmed.

Mohammed grimaced. Glanced at Maaz.

Maaz smirked. ‘Hammer innit, thwack! One little blow to the sinner’s head, sinner down, sinner dead. Amazing how easy it is, to slay a sinner.’

Wazir shared a look with Ahmed. Shared a thought too. Maaz needed help. The boy was dangerous. Something would have to be done about him.

‘You killed a girl in cold blood, your own sister,’ pleaded Wazir. ‘Didn’t you have any qualms about what you were doing?’

Maaz turned around and smiled up at the old man. Jerked his flattened hand across the room in front of his face. ‘Nah man! Easy peasy. When it’s God’s will, it’s always so easy. I don’t imagine you could ever understand.’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Ahmed. ‘We’ll come back to that in a moment. There are more pressing questions here.’

‘Like what?’ snapped Maaz.

‘Like, can the police identify the body? And if they do, and I think they will, they will come here, and if they do, what do we say? What’s the story?’

‘I’m not ashamed of what I have done,’ grinned Maaz.

‘You should be,’ muttered Wazir.

‘You might not be ashamed, Maaz, but do you want to be locked up for the rest of your life?’ asked Ahmed.

Wazir wasn’t the only one to think that that wouldn’t be the worst outcome in the world.

‘And Mohammed too, he’d get life if the police could prove he was there,’ continued Ahmed.

‘Father’s all right,’ said a cocky Maaz. ‘Innocent he is. Didn’t do a freaking thing. Didn’t have the bottle. I’d tell the cops that. They’ll believe me. They’re stupid, the cops. Father’ll get off.’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Wazir. ‘He was there, he’s involved. He’d be charged with murder, just as you would.’

Maaz turned around again and sneered up at Wazir.

‘Well just tell them that he wasn’t there! What the fuck do I care? I’ll tell them I did it all by myself, I’m happy with that. It’s fuck all to do with you, old man, leave it to the younger generation who understand these things.’

‘There’s something else we need to talk about,’ said Ahmed.

‘Like what?’ snapped Maaz.

‘The warlord hasn’t taken delivery of the wife he was promised, the woman he paid the mosque for.’

‘That’s camel shit!’ said Maaz. ‘Tell the old perv to fuck off!’

‘We must refund the money immediately,’ said Wazir.

‘Good thinking,’ said Ahmed. ‘I’ll repay it tonight.’

‘I suppose we could say she was kidnapped in Pakistan,’ said Mohammed. ‘Gone missing, don’t know where she is. She wouldn’t be the first. Pretend we are distraught. Pretend we are looking for her.’

The idea of pretending anything did not appeal to Wazir, but before he could say anything Ahmed was talking again.

‘That might appease the warlord. He can buy another wife anywhere, but it won’t appease or convince the British police when they come snooping round, because the paperwork will show that she did not board the flight.’

‘We’ll have to come up with a better story than that,’ said Mohammed.

‘But there is a bigger problem than that,’ said Wazir, rubbing his recently shaven cheek.

‘Like what, old man?’ asked Maaz.

‘Like for example, how did Mohammed get hold of the phone, and what happened to the owner?’

‘Burn it!’ yelled Maaz. ‘Chuck the phone in the oven. Obliterate it!’

‘I don’t think we should destroy the evidence,’ said Ahmed. ‘Sahira was killed because of what was on that phone. Obliterate the phone and we have no reason to kill her.’

‘Mad as it sounds, I agree with that,’ said Mohammed.

‘Whose phone were the pictures on?’ asked Wazir, trying to get a clear picture in his mind.

‘Wake up, old man. The kaffir’s, of course!’ said Maaz.

‘And how did you get the phone?’

‘We went to see him,’ confirmed Mohammed.

‘What happened?’ asked Wazir.

Mohammed glanced at Maaz, as did Ahmed and Wazir.

Maaz shook his head from side to side, and began laughing.

Forty-Four

Ahmed picked up the phone on the coffee table and dialled downstairs. ‘Send up coffee and biscuits for four.’ ‘Certainly, Mister Khan.’ ‘And the women are not to come upstairs under any circumstances, is that clear?’ ‘Of course, Mister Khan.’

The coffee arrived a couple of minutes later, brought by a young Punjabi lad who hadn’t been in England long, perfectly legal of course, his mother and father were both doctors, and both were working at the Countess of Chester hospital. The State of Kerala never employed illegals, it was far too risky, more than one competitor had been put out of business by the heavy fines. No paperwork, no job, a policy that had kept the State out of trouble with the police and immigration officers.

The youth worked most weekends and some evenings during the week. He was a good boy, worked hard, a conscientious type that Wazir, Ahmed and Mohammed had all taken a liking to from the beginning.

Maaz hated him for the very liking his elders bestowed.

The boy set the coffee on the low table and retreated toward the door without ever showing his back.

‘Close the door and go downstairs,’ said Ahmed.

‘Yes, Mister Khan,’ said the young man, bowing and disappearing from view.

‘Faggot!’ muttered Maaz.

‘Shut up!’ said Mohammed.

If only Maaz could be more like that, thought Wazir, but there was never any point in wishing one human being could be like another because it never happened that way.

‘So?’ said Ahmed, ‘what became of Sahira’s young man?’

‘It had to be done!’ said Maaz.

He actually appeared to be enjoying himself, thought Wazir, being the centre of attention, revelling in the notoriety of what he had done.

‘And who decided that?’ asked Ahmed.

‘I was just so angry!’ said Mohammed.

‘And this was before you saw the pictures?’ clarified Wazir.

Mohammed nodded and said, ‘It was the shame of it, and the Imams at the mosque knowing about it. The kaffir brought it on himself. By the grace of God he deserved to die for what he