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

glass doors, stepped inside, wiped his feet on the copra mat. Breathed in, that unmistakeable aroma of the best food the subcontinent had to offer. There was a gentle hum of conversation, perhaps half the tables were already taken, it was only just gone eight, so there was plenty of time.

He stepped forward onto the deep pile maroon carpet, almost disappeared into it. The half moon bar was right ahead, eight chrome stools set before it, three or four taken, people studying menus, sipping drinks, peering hopefully into lover’s eyes, maybe treating a partner to a birthday surprise.

Wazir and Ahmed were there, expensive grey suits, white shirts, colourful silk ties, polished black shoes, talking to the Punjabi kid. Nothing too strident, perhaps gentle advice dispensed, as if issued by kind mentors to someone eager to learn. The kid was wearing some kind of colourful national dress. Anywhere else he’d look ridiculous, but in the State he looked incredible.

Wazir had heard the gentle clunk of the door. Knew that someone had come in. He set his best welcoming look on his handsome, if elderly face, and turned about. There was a big black guy standing there, wild grey hair, cheap looking summer jacket, standing alone; a face Wazir instantly recognised.

Walter stepped forward across the reception area. Wazir stepped forward too, only his walk betraying his eighty-eight years, as he held out his hand.

‘Walter!’ he said. ‘So nice to see you again. You’ve been away too long.’

‘It’s nice to be back.’

The men shook hands gently, for Wazir had no wish to aggravate the arthritis, and then he said, ‘Is it just you?’

‘Just me, Wazir.’

‘Would you like your usual table?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Come then,’ and he beckoned him toward the table that Walter always preferred. It was set against the wall; midway between the half moon bar and the doors, from where he could see everything.

The table was square, covered in maroon linen and gleaming glasses, laid for four, and Walter took the seat on the far side with his back to the wall.

‘Will you join me, Wazir?’

‘Probably not, I’ve had plenty of food today, and I don’t eat like I once did, maybe I’ll have a pancake later on.’

‘Join me for that, at least.’

‘I may, in the meantime would you like company?’

‘Who did you have in mind?’

‘Harry Barrett’s due in.’

‘Harry’s OK, why not, if he comes in, bring him over, but spare me from Austerity Hayes.’

The men shared a look. No further words were necessary.

‘I’ll send the boy over in five, we’ll look after you.’

‘I know that, Wazir.’

WALTER GRASPED THE vast menu. So far as he was concerned it was the best Indian food outside of London. He glanced through the dishes, though he already knew he would have lamb tikka, a particular favourite of his. Walter had been on at Wazir for years to add curried goat to the house fare, which would have been his preferred choice, but Wazir had yet to find a reliable supplier. Bought the lamb from some two hundred year old butcher’s shop in the high street in Llangollen, and both men would swear by the quality.

The boy came over and took his order and disappeared.

Walter noted that all four of the Khans were on parade, Wazir meeting and greeting, as he still insisted on doing. Mohammed working the bar, serving and chatting and flirting, and smiling confidently. Ahmed floating, as was his wont, ready to pounce on any problem in an instant, and hyperactive Maaz, who dashed around as if his very life depended on it.

One man in his eighties, sixties, forties and twenties, and Walter wasn’t alone in thinking that with each passing generation, the quality of the man had diminished. Strange that, pondered Walter, or maybe he was simply getting old. He had been patronising the State for more than ten years; probably had spent more cash in the place than anyone else.

In that time he’d seen half a dozen refits, including the recent one that must have cost a fortune, but one that Wazir had insisted they needed to make to avoid paying trillions in tax, his expression, and if the taxman was paying the bill, it would be rude not to. The heavy brass double doors had cost more than five thousand pounds alone, and that was before you even entered the place!

Some time ago Walter had tried the other curry houses in the city but he’d had a bad experience in the Bengal Tiger. He’d been served by a young man in national dress, similar to the Punjabi kid, and when the guy brought the order, as he placed it down he uttered soothing words in some language that Walter could not identify, a well meant phrase that Walter assumed was the subcontinent equivalent of bon appetite.

An Asian lady at the next table, quite a pretty, dumpy thing, turned round and began screaming at the youth in the same tongue, and the young man looked aghast and hurried away. Then she leant over and said over loudly, ‘I don’t suppose you understood what he said?’

‘You’re right, I didn’t.’

‘He said,’ and she lowered her voice, but only slightly, ‘I hope you choke on your meal and wake up with cancer, you fat, Christian cunt! Sorry about the language.’

It put Walter clean off his meal.

‘Don’t care for the “fat” much,’ he said, and the lady laughed and returned to her party.

Walter hadn’t set foot in the Bengal Tiger since.

Never felt the need.

The State of Kerala had everything he wanted, and Wazir Khan was one of life’s true gentlemen, a man that Walter was proud to call his friend.

WAZIR CAME BACK AND gently lowered himself into the opposite chair. Walter thought he looked tired, but at eighty-eight he was entitled to look tired.

‘Busy as usual?’ said Walter.

‘Yes, sixty-six percent full tonight, not bad for a Sunday,’ said Wazir cheerfully, ever the businessman, ever monitoring the figures. ‘Over sixty percent, and we make money, under sixty and I begin to