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

want now? Her papers were in order, she had a visa, she had a work permit. She hadn’t done anything wrong, that she knew of, yet she still felt strangely uneasy. The big black man worried her, and he was now standing right in front of her, obstructing her way into work where she was already one minute late.

In the car, Karen and Mary watched the conversation from thirty metres away. It began with stern faces and concern, but already they had turned to smiles and nods and thank you’s, and ended with Walter giving her a card and actually touching her arm.

Back in the car, Karen said, ‘What was that all about?’

‘Need a new cleaner, Iskra’s starting on Sunday. Lovely girl.’

‘Iskra, is it?’ teased Karen. ‘She’s far too young for you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ and he started the car and pointed it back toward HQ.

THE FOLLOWING DAY WOULD be the hottest day of the year. At Police HQ all the windows were wide open. The air conditioning wasn’t working again, and even the monster was seemingly working slow.

Karen clasped the top of her blouse and gave it a good shake.

‘So?’ she said. ‘Is that it, everything squared up.’

‘Pretty much,’ said Walter. ‘Gardenia soon realised that her only hope was to come clean and help us as much as she could. She’s named the armourer cum fixer as one Jimmy Mitchell.’

‘And he’s known to us?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Do you want us to pick him up?’

‘We’ll do that later.’

‘Here’s his address. Get the paperwork ready, search warrants, the full McCoy.’

‘Sure, Guv.’

‘But better than that, she’s implicating the sister, Veronica Camberwell in various misdemeanours. She knew Mitchell too, and I think that will lead us eventually to Keating.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?’

‘I didn’t know anything, not really, just lots of pieces that didn’t fit together. Truth is, I took a bit of a punt.’

‘A bit of a punt! You were damned lucky, then.’

‘Mmm, maybe, but once I discovered she wasn’t a reporter of any kind all the bits fell into place.’

‘Not sure I would have come to the same conclusions, if you weren’t here, that is.’

‘Well, I am here, Karen, and I’m not going anywhere just yet. Leastways, I hope not.’

‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked.

‘Love one.’

THE SOUND OF SIRENS waved across the old city and flowed in through the open glass. Walter stood up and limped toward the window. She’d meant to ask him about that, the limp, and made a mental note not to forget. He stood in front of the glass and gazed across at the inner ring road.

‘Even money it’s the fire department,’ said Karen, ‘in this weather. Probably some bedding set alight by the sun shining in through the window.’

‘You’ve just lost your bet. It’s our guys, two cars, heading south toward Wrexham as if their lives depend on it.’

‘Wonder what’s going on there. Want me to find out?’

‘Too right. And why don’t we know about it anyway?’

‘Probably some burglar alarm gone off in a big house in Rossett.’

‘I wanna know,’ he said.

But then he always wanted to know. He fed on cases like a silkworm on mulberry leaves, and despite his age and build he showed no sign of slowing down. He glanced back at her. She’d given up on the coffee and was on the phone, trying to ascertain what was going on. Walter sighed loudly. Hoped it would be an interesting case. Please God, not some snotty-nosed sixteen-year-old burglar with only half a brain. Give us something more testing than that.

Fifty-Six

Mohammed Khan pleaded guilty to the double murders of his daughter and Luke Flowers. The judge sympathised with the man who had acted with great dignity and honesty throughout the trial, took into account his previous impecable record, but in the end she handed down the only sentence she could. Life imprisonment. With good behaviour it was possible that Mohammed Khan could be released after twelve years.

Gardenia Floem suffered a similar fate. She’d fulfilled her side of the bargain, so far as she saw it, and told Walter everything she knew, and that information proved invaluable. Walter attended every day of her trial and testified on her behalf, reiterating how helpful she had been. Before the same judge, facing charges of murder and attempted murder, she received the same sentence. Her information had indeed been incredibly helpful, but the law’s the law, and murder is murder.

‘Thank you,’ she mouthed across the packed courtroom to Walter, words accompanied by a warm smile.

Walter nodded back at her, and whether he knew he had actually smiled, only he could tell you. Afterwards he visited her in prison. He still goes, once every month. The two have become quite close, in a platonic kind of way.

ON SUNDAY NIGHT, JUST over a week after her trial, Walter remembered that he hadn’t done a shop. The house was pristinely clean, thanks to Iskra Kolarov, but there was nothing in for his dinner. He hobbled upstairs, took a wash, shaved, and slipped on a clean shirt. Came back down, slipped on his lightweight jacket and let himself out. The bus stop was at the end of the road and his luck was in. The bus came within a minute. He hauled himself onboard and rode the handful of stops into the city.

He got off at the railway station and headed down Brook Street toward the State of Kerala. The lights were on, business as usual. Sundays were always a good night at the State for, oddly, many other restaurants closed early, or didn’t open at all. Walter hurried by, glanced in the windows, it was pretty busy, maybe half full. He walked to the end of the road, then turned and limped back, passed by, couldn’t bring himself to go inside. His stomach rumbled loudly. He was getting hungrier. Limped back.

Inside, Wazir was sitting in his favourite seat. He’d just finished his evening meal. He’d eaten alone, he often did, for Ahmed