Death's Cold Hand J.E. Mayhew (best romantic novels to read TXT) 📖

A banner said: ‘Paws for Thought’ and a subtitle declared that Laura Vexley was an ‘Animal Behaviour Saviour.’

“This is new,” Blake said. “It can only have gone up since she came back. There’s a number. All I need is an address she doesn’t know and a bogus pet with a behavioural problem and she’ll come round.”

“It’s creepy, Will,” Ian said. “She won’t be happy.”

“I can’t help that can I? Now all I need is for Jeff to let me use his house. Laura has never been there, so won’t recognise the address.”

“She’ll recognise your voice, surely,” Ian said.

“I have a secret weapon,” Blake said. “Madge at work.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Will,” Ian said. “This could all go tits up in an instant and then where will you be?”

Chapter 22

Asking DC Alex Manikas for life advice was probably a bad idea, Kinnear thought almost the moment he opened his mouth. Not that Manikas wasn’t experienced in some matters, just not the ones Kinnear was interested in. Alex would be the ideal mentor to someone who wanted to go out, get drunk and play the field but Kinnear was settled. So now, he felt foolish as he listened to Alex gush over all his excellent qualities.

“You’ll make a great dad, mate,” Alex said as they sat in the car before making their next call. “You’re patient, sensible…”

“Sensible? Boring you mean…”

“Parents are meant to be boring, aren’t they?”

“You aren’t helping, Alex. I just don’t know if I’m ready to take on such a responsibility yet. Chris and I are both so busy…”

“I thought you said he was going part time.”

“Well, yeah but I’m not. I won’t be there for her…”

Alex thought for a moment. “My dad built up a sign-writing and billboard business when I was growing up. He was mad busy and often came in after we’d gone to bed and was out before we woke up, but he was a good dad and he did his best for us. For what it’s worth, I reckon that’s all you can do, mate.”

Kinnear smiled, surprised by Manikas’ frankness. “Thanks. I need to think about it all.”

“Right now, we need to focus on the job. Although why we’re being sent to harass these poor people because some little racist scumbag points the finger to please his dad?” He looked at the stern front of the dilapidated house. It had once been a huge Victorian villa but had long been split into bedsits. “I can’t imagine this is how these poor buggers thought they’d be living when they ran for their lives from wherever they were.”

“There’s one guy of marginal interest to Counter Terrorism who lives there,” Kinnear said, glad to get back to talking about work. “We go wading in and we could push him over the edge. We could be recruiting sergeants for some nutjob terror group.”

“And what if he turns out not to have an alibi?” Manikas said. “We’ve got to check. We’ll just be polite, ask a few questions and then move on. If anything rouses our suspicions, we’ll get back-up.”

The front door of the house was open and they stepped into a hallway littered with flyers and unwanted post. As with many of these rented buildings owned by absentee landlords, it was unclear who was responsible for keeping communal areas clear. Similarly, the paintwork was battered by hundreds of people passing to and fro through the hall. “God, I’d hate to live in a place like this,” Kinnear muttered.

The stairs creaked as they made their way to the second floor and a red door with a number twelve on it. “I bet you someone’s raking money in off the council for housing these poor bastards,” Manikas said and knocked on the door.

There was a pause and some shuffling behind the door, then it opened. A young man with dark hair and a long beard looked nervously through the crack he’d opened. “Y-yes?”

Kinnear flashed his warrant card. “DC Kinnear, DC Manikas, Merseyside Police. Are we speaking to Jamal Al Hadid?”

The young man’s eyes hardened. “Yes. What do you want?

“No need to be alarmed, we just wanted to ask you a few questions. It’ll only take a couple of minutes. Really, it’s nothing.”

Jamal looked them up and down. “Very well, take your shoes off.”

Alex flashed Andrew a look of concern, but Kinnear slipped his shoes off without missing a beat. “Okay, Mr Al Hadid,” he said. “Can we come in?”

Jamal backed away from the door. “You will have to forgive us. We have very little space and trying to keep everywhere tidy and clean with the damp in this house is almost impossible.”

The room would have been a large bedroom at one time. Now it housed three beds, a sink had been plumbed in and next to that stood a small cooker. The smell of last night’s cooking filled the air but there was that musty undertone of a room that hasn’t been properly dry for many years. Clothes hung on a laundry rack, but Kinnear wondered if they ever dried. A few toys lay scattered on the floor. Kinnear and Manikas sat on a small sofa that filled one wall while Jamal perched on the end of his bed.

Manikas cleared his throat. “Can we ask Mr Al Hadid, where were you on the night of the 14th? Five days ago.”

Jamal Al Hadid stroked his beard and looked troubled. “I was here with my wife and daughter.”

“Can anyone else corroborate this?”

“I spoke to a number of residents here through the course of that evening. I also had to change a lightbulb for Mrs Kalil downstairs. That was around eleven fifteen. Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Kinnear said. “That’s why we were asking. Does the name Paul Travis mean anything to you?”

Jamal’s face fell. “Really? A man dies in Port Sunlight and you come to me?”

“So you’re aware of the investigation, sir?” Manikas said.

“I listen to the news and read the papers online. Why