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

‘Whatever, and this is the direct debit for your ongoing subscription. £99.95 a month.’

Funny how that had never been mentioned before, thought Karen, but what the heck, she was either in or she wasn’t, and then she asked, ‘How much of that do you get back in commission?’

It was a slightly uncomfortable question and after a pause he said ‘A third,’ without any hint of guilt.

‘And how many members does Future Growth now have?’

‘It’s become a worldwide organisation.’

‘How many members, Greg?’

‘That’s a confidential number. No one knows for sure.’

‘How many members, Greg?’

‘Well, if you must know, that’s a stat that only level five members are privy to.’

‘How many members, Greg?’ she asked, pointedly holding on to the cheque.

‘78,000, give or take, and you didn’t hear that from me. The big target is to bust a hundred thou. Think we might do it for Christmas. That’s the goal.’

Karen’s brain ticked over fast. 78,000 each paying in say a hundred quid in round figures every month, that was £7,800,000, or seven point eight million in easy round numbers, every single month, and that was before the up front investment of three grand a pop. That could easily total a hundred and fifty million quid a year, gee whiz, and growing fast. No wonder Kit Napoleon looked so smug.

Karen felt the adrenaline careering about her slim body. Wondered how much of that the charismatic Kit was creaming off for himself. Wondered what kind of a con she had stumbled into. Wondered too about how much she could slice off for herself, she had a big mortgage to pay, before thinking again about Future Growth’s numbers. Released Greg the cheque. Signed the contracts. Jumped up and went to the kitchen for another can of cider.

Shouted through, ‘Want another drink?’

‘No, better not, driving.’

She came back into the sitting room with two frosty cans. Stood in front of him. Handed him down a can. Said, ‘Don’t drive.’

Twenty

Walter let himself back into his house. Went into the sitting room. Tried not to look at Cliffe’s body. Failed. Thought of the children who now didn’t possess a father. Tried hard not to. Failed again. Took out his phone and rang DCS Wortley. The guy must have been standing by because he answered immediately.

‘Two men,’ said Walter.

‘Go on.’

‘Aged around thirty, white, unkempt, blue and black jeans, grubby white tennis shirts, took the Protected out, put her in a people carrier, Japanese vehicle, possibly a Toyota, dark green, drove off smartly, but not too quick, and the registration plate is thought to start with HUF.’

‘I’ve got that. Anything else?’

‘One gunshot heard, possibly from the missing Glock. The SIG Sauer I have, as you know. That has not been fired.’

‘Give it to the D7 people later.’

‘Got it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘What did you tell the neighbours?’

‘Told them it was top secret and people could get hurt if they mentioned it to anyone.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think they’ll keep quiet.’

‘Good.’

‘Did you locate the source of your security breach?’ asked Walter.

‘Oh yeah, didn’t I tell you?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Some stupid young sergeant. Took the big payday. Forty grand. He won’t do it again, he’ll be charged with accessory to murder.’

‘Too late for Stevie Cliffe.’

‘Correct.’

‘What about the Protected?’

‘What about her?’

‘What’ll happen to her?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Suppose it depends on how much the Barton brothers like her. No doubt they’ll have her holed up somewhere, pending the trial.’

‘I quite liked her.’

‘I thought you might. Between you and me I don’t think we’ll ever see her again.’

‘Do you want me to look into her abduction from this end?’

‘No! Certainly not. So far as you are concerned, once the D7 boys have been and done their stuff, the case is closed.’

‘Bit of a mess, really.’

‘Sometimes it goes that way, Darriteau, as you well know. The Twelfth Apostle is now officially redundant.’

‘Call me if you need anything else.’

‘Oh I will, and you call me if anything new turns up.’

‘Okay.’

‘Speak to you in another thirty years, Darriteau,’ and with that Wortley rang off.

Walter went through to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten but wasn’t really hungry. Kept thinking about Jessica Stone, and wondered where she was right then. Wortley had instructed him not to look into her disappearance any further, but that didn’t sit right. And he wasn’t especially busy either. He’d have to do it quietly, but he wasn’t about to let it go. Not a chance.

He cut some bread and made some toast. Opened the cholesterol busting margarine and whacked it on top. It wasn’t bad, better than he expected, especially after he’d trumped it with a layer of solid honey.

THE BLACK UNMARKED van cruised to a stop outside his house at ten to midnight. Walter was sitting in the dark, sharing the room with a dead body, a small gap in the curtains so he could monitor arrivals. He got up and closed the curtains, turned the lights on and went to the front door. Two guys there, late thirties, Londoners, neat haircuts; world-weary attitude that said they had seen everything there was to see. Walter beckoned them into the hall and asked for their ID. Studied them carefully as one said, ‘Can I use your bog?’

‘Top of the stairs on the left.’

The other one said, ‘Show us what you’ve got?’

‘He’s in here,’ and the guy followed Walter into the sitting room.

The guy took one look, said, ‘Nasty!’ and a couple of minutes later the second guy was there too.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll get the gear,’ and he went outside to the van.  He thought he saw curtains twitching across the road at number 58, though he might have been mistaken. He came back into the house with a very large black trunk that had a shiny external metal frame. It was new and boasted decent wheels that made it easy to move, bit like the things you see rock bands shifting their gear round in. He opened the trunk, revealing camera and lighting equipment. They set