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

‘Our family have committed two murders and you want to sit there and drink coffee?’ said Wazir.

‘Might as well,’ said Mohammed. ‘We can’t go back on what has been done. Do you want one?’

Wazir shook his head in disgust and then managed a nod. ‘Please, black.’

Maaz sniffed and laughed and bobbed his head and grabbed a sweet biscuit. Threw it in his mouth and crunched it like a rabid dog.

ACROSS TOWN, WALTER was studying the idontogram, not that there was a great deal to see. The victim had possessed an amazingly beautiful set of teeth, unlike Walter’s, just the one hint of dental treatment. Small filling, bottom left molar, second from the back. Other than that, a perfect set of gnashers, teeth that would never bite or laugh or speak or eat anything ever again. Such a waste. Such a shame.

The young woman who had perished on the Pennines had still not been identified. The smiling teeth presented far and away the best opportunity of doing that. It was simply a case of comparing the post mortem report on the teeth with the ante mortem reports, seeking a match, but before they could do that, they had to locate an ante mortem report, and only the deceased victim’s dentist would possess such a thing. It wasn’t like fingerprints or DNA. It wasn’t a foolproof system.  Two individuals could have an almost identical set of teeth.

Fact was, the less dental treatment present, the harder it would be to positively ID the teeth, and eventually the body, what little of it remained, but it had to be followed through. It had to be tried; because there was little else the police and forensic scientists could use to reach a positive identification.

In Walter’s experience, it was far more likely that a family member, or friend, perhaps a boyfriend, would come forward and report the woman missing. No doubt that was what the Manchester police were hoping for too, but it hadn’t happened yet, and there was no guarantee it ever would.

He turned the idontogram over in his hand and in his mind tried to match the teeth with a face. Beautiful, she was, of that he was certain, though he had no evidence to back up such thinking. He wondered how old she had been, and he wondered exactly how she had met her end.

In the meantime, Karen and her team would get on with things first thing Monday morning, paying a visit to every dentist in the area, backing the outside bet that somehow the dead woman had received her filling locally, on Walter’s patch, in Walter’s town, and for him, Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough.

Forty-Five

The coffee jug was empty and only crumbs remained on the biscuit plate. Ahmed called the meeting to order and everyone paid attention. ‘If the police fail to identify the remains on the moor they will never come calling, and however distasteful and upsetting the whole business might be, that problem is solved.’ Mohammed went to speak. Ahmed waved him away and continued.

‘But if they do identify the body, as I think eventually they will, they will come calling, and we will have some explaining to do. Therefore, our plan must be based on the assumption that they will come here; and sooner than we think. So what is the plan, where do we go from here?’

‘Mohammed and Maaz could go to India, go to Kerala,’ suggested Wazir. ‘We still have relatives there. They’d be safe; they could go up into the hills. No one would ever find them there.’

‘I’m not going to some third world country, old man. You may have crawled out of some stinking hellhole out east, but I’m British Asian born and bred, and proud of it. I’m staying here.’

‘Don’t be so ungrateful, Maaz,’ said Ahmed. ‘India is not like it used to be, it’s a wonderful country, you’d enjoy it.’

‘Bollocks! I’m not going. That’s final. Move on granddaddy, next on the agenda.’

‘So what’s your plan?’ asked Wazir. ‘Stay here until the police come knocking on the door, drag you away in cuffs, and lock you up and throw away the key?’

‘The old men are right,’ said Mohammed. ‘The police are clever. Sooner or later they will ID the body.’

‘I’ll go to London,’ said Maaz. ‘Or Landon as they like to say, I can do cockney, innit, man, I’d be right at home, and there are plenty of bro’s in the east end, innit, Brick Lane, that’s where I’ll go, they’ll never find me down there. Buy a fresh ID and papers too; you can get anything you want with ready cash.’

It was a dreadful plan but so far the only one on the table, and it was true, it just might work, and it would get the increasingly unpredictable Maaz out of their house, and out of their hair.

‘What about you, Mohammed?’ asked Wazir.

‘Don’t know, granddad, but I don’t want to go to London.’

‘Do what I said before,’ suggested Maaz. ‘Get your head round the fact that I did the business myself. Blame me, I don’t care. Father wasn’t there; he might as well have not been there. I am the justice dispenser in this firm,’ and he laughed at his own description.

The others shared a look and glanced back at Maaz who was still grinning, though his eyes were still, as if he were miles away, visiting crazy future adventures that only he could imagine.

‘The sword,’ said Ahmed.

‘What about it?’ asked Mohammed.

‘It will tie us to the killing of the boy,’ said Wazir. ‘Forensic tests, it’ll connect us.’

‘Then get rid of it,’ said Mohammed.

‘We can’t do that!’ said Ahmed.

‘We certainly cannot, and anyway, I have a better idea,’ said Wazir.

They all looked across at the old man.

‘Well?’ said Maaz, staring at the old fool. ‘Are you going to share it or keep it to yourself? Perhaps donate it to the Liverpool City Council?’ and he laughed at his train of thought.

‘We’ll get a copy made, put