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

trimmed that very morning. His large dark eyes watched the police people carefully, never darting about. He wasn’t a nervous kind of man, never had been. It wasn’t an easy moment for either of them.

Karen made the formal introductions and checked the recording equipment was working. Walter glanced at the tiny camera in the topmost corner of the room, thought about how it would be portrayed on the monster downstairs. Sniffed and began again.

‘Wazir?’ said Walter, settling into his chair.

‘Walter,’ said Wazir, acknowledging the man.

‘How long have we known each other?’

Wazir sucked in a half smile, a cold smile that on another day would have been hugely warmer. He threw his head back and glanced at the false ceiling. ‘Hard to remember now. But it’s a long time.’

‘Have you ever lied to me, Wazir?’

‘Of course not.’

‘And you wouldn’t lie to me now?’

‘No,’ yet even as he said that word Wazir wondered at the truth of his answer. Every honest man promises himself that he will not tell lies, but there comes a time, possibly when one’s own family are involved, one’s own flesh and blood, when perhaps their entire future was at stake, well, in circumstances such as those, such as these, well, maybe, just maybe, an occasional lie might be uttered, might slip from the mouth, even from the cautious and careful lips of the irreproachable Wazir Khan.

Walter too pondered on whether Wazir could make it through the interview without lying.

‘Tell me about Maaz?’ said Walter.

‘He’s not a well boy.’

‘We had gathered that.’

‘You will have to make allowances for him,’ said Wazir. ‘He needs treatment, he needs professional attention.’

‘That’s as maybe, but we need to know, did he murder Sahira?’

‘I wasn’t there, I cannot say.’

‘What happened to the sword?’

‘You took it away.’

‘No!’ snapped Karen.

‘That was a copy,’ said Walter, ‘as I am sure you know. We are not stupid and we want to know what happened to the original.’

Wazir opened his mouth but did not speak. Thought hard. Didn’t come up with much. Said, ‘I can’t help you there, Walter.’

IN THE CELL DEEP DOWN below Maaz had taken to running from one end to the other. Seventeen feet. Longer than usual. He could get up quite a speed. He was working up a sweat. Paused for a moment. Removed all his clothes. Tossed them on the metal-framed bed. Slipped off his shoes too. Started running again, naked.

WALTER ORDERED SOME water and offered a glass to Wazir. The old man bobbed his head, thanked Walter, and accepted the drink.

‘I want to go over it again,’ said Walter, suitably refreshed. ‘From the beginning. Tell us again why and when it was decided that Sahira should leave for Pakistan. Take your time, Wazir, but think clearly, and please, don’t insult our intelligence with any lies.’

Wazir sipped and thought, and sipped and thought. He considered the Jamaican to be his friend. But at what point did he drop the “r” from the word friend?

Despite the iced water his mouth was dry. He possessed an MBE, the African didn’t. That must mean something.

‘I have already told you everything I know, Walter.’

‘Tell me again, Wazir, tell us again.’

THE TEMPERATURE IN the cell was eighty-eight Fahrenheit and with the exercise Maaz was soon covered in sweat. Wet footprints decorated the clammy floor. Out and back, out and back, fifty times, and pause, time for a quick break. Maaz went to the far wall. Banged his head on the grey painted plaster. Six times, ten, twenty times, gradually harder and harder. He enjoyed it. He usually did, though it was far more satisfying when he did so before an audience. He liked to see the looks in their eyes, and the puzzled masks on their faces. He obtained a real thrill through bemusing people.

He jerked himself off the wall and laughed aloud and ran down the cell, pushed off the far wall and ran back again, pushed harder still, picking up speed, dashed down the cell, and took off, arms outstretched wide like a jet aeroplane, feet together high into the air behind like a tail-plane, perfectly straight back, a strange smile set on his face, as he crashed into the far wall, face first, head first, happy in his work, with as much pent up energy as he possessed, like a jumbo jet crashing into a skyscraper, and no one would ever know the thoughts that swirled through his tortured brain at that final moment. Split his head open. Blood gushed. Crashed to the ground in a sweaty, bloody heap. Plane down. Plane dead. Pilot error. Crew killed. No survivors. No black box. No explanation. No nothing.

FOR THE FIRST TIME Walter had the impression that Wazir was lying. He couldn’t have told you why, just a sixth sense kicking in, as if he was playing for time. Maybe he was dragging it out until the family solicitor finally arrived. He was due in the building any moment. Not that that would make any difference.

‘Go over that again, Wazir, once more please.’

THE CUSTODY SERGEANT flipped open the metal hatch on the door to Maaz’s cell. Regular checkups had been ordered. Couldn’t believe what he saw. Maaz was naked and crumpled on the floor at the far end, his body scrunched in unnatural angles. Blood had oozed across the floor. The red river had reached almost back to the door.

‘Oh God!’ and all hell broke loose as he smacked the alarm.

It was Gibbons who knocked on the interview room door and entered without waiting to be invited. Walter glanced up, clearly irritated at being disturbed. Gibbons handed him a note. Just four words. Maaz Khan Committed Suicide. Gibbons left the room without a word.

‘Oh dear!’ said Walter, showing the note to Karen.

She said, ‘Ouch!’

‘Something the matter?’ asked Wazir.

‘Interview suspended at...’ said Karen, as she glanced at her watch and read out the time.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Wazir.

‘There’s been a development,’ said Walter, ‘we’ll keep you informed,’ and with that