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

was busy running things, and the others were gone. He had been reflecting on his life. People often said he had lived an eventful life, and that was true, he had. There couldn’t be many families with double murders at either end of their adult lives. His parents incinerated by angry Hindus, his great grand-daughter, murdered by her own kind, and then that confused and angry young man, Luke Flowers, who had chosen to make his fortune by taking the lives of others, before perishing by the sword. What a senseless waste. What an incredible mess.

Despite everything, Britain had been good to him and his family. He recalled that inauspicious start, so many years before, those foul mouthed and angry dock workers, fuck off youse, that invaluable first job given to him by Jimmy Mac, and how Wazir had repaid him by stealing from the public purse, every day for several years. The thought of it made Wazir shiver, and he tried to erase the shame of it from his mind. He hoped there was still time to repair the damage done there, and one day he would set matters straight. He took out his diary to make a note, then heard the main doors open. A customer, and that was always good news. A ticking till still had the power to make him happy.

Walter had returned to the outside of the Kerala. Turned left, up the single stone step. Reached out and pushed open the brass and 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 half past eight, so there was still 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, perhaps treating a partner to a birthday surprise, but would Walter be made welcome? The display case on the wall was still empty, the spotlights switched off. The new sword was still in police custody and might never be returned, while the original was unaccounted for, soundly sleeping out of sight of the wicked world.

Wazir glanced up from his maroon State of Kerala restaurant diary. He had finished eating and was jotting down a few notes. He saw the policeman, standing alone, looking somewhat confused and forlorn. Wazir slowly stood and ambled across the restaurant.

‘Walter,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Wasn’t sure I’d be made welcome.’

‘Don’t be absurd, you’re an honourable man, you were only doing your duty, you will always be welcomed here.’

‘Thank you, Wazir,’ said Walter, shaking Wazir’s cold hand, gently, and for some time.

‘Come,’ said Wazir, ‘come and join me, I have just finished, but you can eat with me, if you so desire.’

‘I do desire, Wazir, I do.’

They sat down, the near sixty-year-old, and the near ninety-year-old, and it was debateable as to which possessed the most creaking bones.

They talked about everything and nothing. The Punjabi kid came and took the order, and then Walter said, ‘Off the record, did you know about the murders?’

Wazir paused and thought. He could be wired, the policeman, though he thought probably not.

‘No, Walter, I didn’t.’

‘Thought not, Wazir, thought not. I believe you.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘And the sword, the original. Where’s that?’

‘Please don’t ask me a question I cannot answer.’

‘I understand.’

‘And the phone? What happened to that?’

Wazir pondered the question; then answered.

‘I found the phone in a can of sugar. I went to turn it on, but knew that I did not wish to see pictures of our unfortunate young woman. Whatever had driven her to such a place, whatever evil might have been involved, I knew that if I were to see such pictures, those images would have remained with me forever. I didn’t want that, and she didn’t deserve that. I took the phone to the kitchens and set it in the gas oven, and watched it burn to nothing. Did I do wrong, Walter? Am I too now a criminal?’

Walter pulled a face.

‘Technically yes, destroying evidence is a very serious offence, but that will not affect the case now. It is all over and done with, and anyway, you could deny you ever said and did such a thing. It would only be your word against mine.’

‘Your word is surely weightier than mine, Walter, but I make no bones about it, that’s a relief. It has been preying on my mind, bringing me sleeplessness.’

‘Forget it,’ said Walter. ‘It’s finished.’

The old man deserved a little peace.

The main doors opened again and Austerity Hayes and Harry bustled inside.

‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘Darriteau’s back!’ and they hustled toward the table.

Walter and Wazir shared a look.

Wazir smiled and said, ‘I’ll leave you to your friends.’

Walter rolled his eyes, and by then Austerity was pulling out a chair.

‘Thought you’d deserted us, you old rogue,’ she said. ‘Glad you’re back anyhow, enjoy your company,’ and she patted him firmly on the back.

Walter and Harry exchanged glances and nods, as Austerity told them about her latest effort to spend her inheritance.

‘I’ve booked six weeks in egg-wiped,’ she said, laughing, under that ridiculous bonnet that appeared permanently welded to her head. ‘It was the British soldiers who first christened it that in the Great War, they couldn’t say eee-jipt,’ she explained, unnecessarily, ‘poor loves!’

Harry smiled at Walter, a begging smile that asked him to bear with the woman, and she was already talking again.

‘And you’ll never guess what?’

‘What?’ said Walter, right on cue, unusually keen to humour the woman.

‘They’ve booked us all a trek into the desert... aboard camels!’

Walter and Harry laughed, and Austerity said the thought that came to both of their heads.

‘It’ll have to be a big bugger! To carry me!’

Walter glanced at Harry whose head was twitching in second time.

‘Why don’t you come with me, Darriteau?’

Walter glugged his