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

one. Not such a surprise, a queue being there at that time, for these places worked twenty-four hours a day because downtime was loss-time, and the powers that be were terrified of anything with a red figure attached.

The guy on the gate, a different bloke to last time, inspected the papers, nodded knowingly, slipped the two fifty pound notes into his back pocket as if it were an irrelevance, opened the gate and said, ‘Nice to do business,’ and they were in.

Left swerve, straight, left turn, and there she was, back in blighty again, the State of Heavenly Peace, a little late this time, running slower to save fuel, exporting goods from China, bringing all kinds of tat to the UK, boot polish, nappies, cheap mobile phones, Christmas crackers, pencils, pens, calculators, throwaway cameras, throwaway lighters, throwaway yellow dusters, throwaway young women, and all the other vital things that people seemingly cannot live without in the twenty-first century. Cheap and nasty things that for some crazy reason couldn’t be made in the empty factories on industrial estates two minutes drive away.

Man One pulled the carrier to a gentle stop as close to the vast ship as he could.

Man Two mumbled, ‘Be as quick as I can,’ and he stepped outside and opened the sliding side door.

Glanced around. People about, but not up close, no one who looked like they were on observation duties, no one who appeared to have an undue interest in their Japanese people carrier, idling on the dockside, close to the crew’s gangplank, probably there to return some crew, or take some of them down to Liverpool’s own Chinatown round Nelson Street way, and the protestant cathedral, for a good night out on the town, and maybe a cheap chick to finish, and no police vehicles in sight either, no Dock Police, just people working hard, earning an honest living while the rest of the world slept noisily on, dreaming of lottery winnings, and supermodels, and the girl next door, and winning the bloody Champion’s League.

There was movement at the top of the gangplank. Man Two glanced up. A short, skinny guy, prancing down the stairway, walking almost like a wild animal in the bush, tiptoe, nervous, anxious of predators, and behind him, he was tugging a rope, and that brought another three slim figures into view. All girls by the look of it, though it wasn’t always easy to tell. It wouldn’t be the first time a ladyboy had somehow infiltrated their weird business. They were down on the quayside; same procedure as before, ‘You sign,’ said the mean looking guy, thrusting a paper at Man Two. What was the point? Scribbled D Duck, and the guy threw him the rope, turned about and skated up the gangplank as if an alligator was trying to bite his backside.

Man Two glanced at the fresh flesh importation.

Yeah, three girls, or young women, it was hard to tell, but female for sure, he’d bet his bulging bank balance on that. First glance: better than last time, but that wasn’t difficult, carefully graded too, by the look of it, tall, medium, and short, in line astern, as he yanked the rope towards the people carrier and pointed inside and said, ‘Get in!’

The girls stepped in and sat down and glanced at one another. Truth was, they were glad to be out of that ten foot tin tomb, and glad to be away from the silent man with the triad tattoos, and off that ship and away from all it meant, and anyway, though they were frightened and anxious, they were also excited at the prospect of what lay ahead, and besides, these guys didn’t seem so bad, youngish and decent looking, and they hadn’t struck anyone, or even been vaguely abusive, and the van was warm and the seats were comfortable, and they all knew they could easily fall asleep right there, but they weren’t tired one bit, for sleeping was the thing they did the most of in that sea-borne metallic box, and right there was an opportunity to see something of the world that none of them had ever imagined they might see.

The Liverpool Freeport, and they were at the gates, and watched as papers changed hands, and they thought they glimpsed money changing hands too, and that was pretty normal, for in their line of business money was always being slipped into casual grasping fingers, as the recipient would often glance away, as if checking they weren’t being watched, or fearful of some deep inner feeling that might be telling them that what they were doing was sinful, or demeaning.

Ten minutes later, and the van began descending into the Mersey tunnel, and a few minutes after that, Fenfang Dong, Lily Sang, aka Jun Woo, Acting Detective Inspector, and Shu Lang, were about to be introduced to the delights of the Wirral peninsula. Jun remembered everything she saw. The men’s faces, identifying marks, what had been said, the money changing hands, even the van’s number plate, all safely stashed away in her own personal filing cabinet that no one else would ever access.

Fifty-Two

Kit Napoleon had been up late too. The latest day on his northern tour, and it was all going wonderfully well. Record book sales, record course sales, more highly paid speaker engagements booked than he could hope to handle in ten years, record numbers signing up, and the wheels within wheels of the Future Growth and Prosperity Program were spinning like a demented Katherine wheel.

He sat at the dressing table and stared into his own eyes. Five star accommodation; that was only to be expected, and all tax deductible too, on business trips, weren’t they always? Jennifer was talking about the next day’s engagements, and she swept past him in a chiffon wrap, paused to kiss him on the top of his gelled grey head, and disappeared into the bathroom. She’d be in there ages, that was a gimme.

Kit yawned like a hippo, and