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

‘And where are you going to hide it, old man?’

Wazir grinned. ‘I shall bury it.’

‘Don’t be so freakin’ stupid! Who do you think you are? Long John bloody Silver?’

‘Why not? It has been buried before. It can be buried again.’

It was true; it had been buried before, all the family knew of the extraordinary story of the family artefact, safely sleeping under the ground to avoid looting Hindu mobs.

‘Where can you get a copy made?’ asked Ahmed.

‘I know a craftsman from Madras; he lives in Stafford. He will do a good job. No one will be able to tell the difference once it’s locked away in the case.’

‘It’s Chennai now, old man,’ said Maaz. ‘Madras doesn’t exist anymore! Get with the programme. Geez, give me strength.’

They ignored Maaz’s nonsense and Mohammed said, ‘It’ll cost a lot of money.’

‘Money is not an issue, not where family safety is concerned,’ said Ahmed.

‘How long will it take?’ asked Mohammed.

‘Not sure, maybe a week.’

‘Sooner the better,’ said Ahmed. ‘And make sure he makes it sharp. We don’t want some feeble, impotent copy.’

Wazir nodded. ‘It’ll be sharp, just like the original.’

‘Then get it done,’ said Ahmed, before turning his attention to Maaz. ‘And you, young man, when are you going to London?’

‘Dunno, granddad, don’t think there’s any hurry. We did a good job, didn’t we father? Don’t think they’ll be identifying the sinner’s remains any time soon.’

Wazir thought different, though he didn’t say.

‘What about the women?’ asked Ahmed.

‘What about them? They are not to know!’ said Mohammed. ‘Not a thing.’

‘Of course they are not to know, but they will wonder about these meetings. What do we tell them?’

‘Tell them fuck all!’ said Maaz, the silly grin back in position. ‘Give them a good slap, if need be!’

It was all right for him, he didn’t have a curious wife asking questions half the night.

‘Tell them we are thinking of taking over a string of restaurants in Birmingham, that should do it, they’ll believe that,’ said Wazir, and the men all agreed with that.

‘What about Mohammed,’ asked Ahmed. ‘What is he going to do?’

Everyone looked at Mohammed.

He scratched his chin and said, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll think of something.’

‘It’ll have to be good,’ said Ahmed. ‘And it will have to be quick!’

‘Don’t worry about me!’

There was a short pause before Wazir said, ‘What is done is done, however much I may abhor it. The important thing is that we act normally, and run the business as per usual. We must not betray our worries to our customers, our family, and our friends. That could bring big trouble to our door.’

Maaz grinned and said, ‘That’s the ticket old man; we just go on as we always have, as if nothing has happened, because nothing fucking well has!’

‘Your language is getting worse,’ said Ahmed.

‘I don’t know what to do with him,’ said his father.

I know what I’d like to do with him, thought Wazir.

‘After my parent’s death, this has been the worst day of my life,’ said Wazir. ‘And no one outside of this room must ever hear a word of what has been said here today. Is that clear?’

Everyone agreed, even Maaz.

‘Come on,’ said Mohammed. ‘We’d better show our faces downstairs.’

JIMMY MITCHELL WAS also in a meeting, one that would reshape the remainder of his life. His client had called him to their private home, and that was most unusual. They demanded to know why the target, Jermaine Keating, had not been taken down. It was just the latest in a series of cock-ups Jimmy Mitchell had presided over, and the weasel of a man had come so highly recommended too.

But as it turned out in the days that followed, the clients were not as bitter as they might have been, not once Keating’s cocaine habit finally caught up with him. The latest intelligence suggested that Keating would never play serious football again. Liverpool City FC would cut their losses, terminate his contract, and cash in their insurance policies. No one else would ever touch him, and the man had outgoings, big outgoings that he would soon struggle to meet.

He also had a gambling habit, wagering huge sums on the betting exchanges most afternoons, often when he was worse for wear. He’d earn a week’s wages of £100,000, and would often lose twice that amount over a single session.

No, the remainder of Jermaine Keating’s life would be spent running from his creditors, angry people who would not take no for an answer, the girls would surely vanish, and the hangers on would fall away like amber leaves in October.

Before a year was out the man would be nothing, destined to spend whatever time he had remaining wondering how it had all gone so utterly wrong. The clients got a kick out of that, of envisioning the misery that was about to come Keating’s way, and for that reason they didn’t persist with the contract. They would have their money back, and bide their time.

Fact was, that sometimes a long and lingering and miserable existence was far greater punishment than a quick and clean death. For a person like Keating it surely would be, a man who had so recently enjoyed the high life, but who now was plummeting unstoppably toward the gutter.

It didn’t stop the clients berating Jimmy Mitchell.

It didn’t stop the clients pointing out that Jimmy Mitchell owed them, big time.

It didn’t stop the clients smiling to themselves after Jimmy Mitchell had finally been dismissed from their custody.

Jimmy Mitchell was now all too aware that sooner or later he would be called upon to make matters good, and whatever favour was eventually called in, he knew it would be big, and difficult and expensive. He wiped the sweat from his brow and drove away, cursing the day that he had ever met Luke Edward Flowers.

Forty-Six

Sunday night. Feeding time. Walter approached the State of Kerala. Reached out and pushed open the brass and