Death Can’t Take a Joke Read Online Free PDF Page A

she’d finally caved in. A couple of weekends ago they’d found the perfect place, a cosy flat in Leytonstone with its own pocket-sized garden.
    ‘Nat?’
    ‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Should give me plenty of time to box stuff up.’ She hoped her voice didn’t betray the sudden tightening she felt in her chest.
Wasn’t this what she wanted?
Kershaw told herself.
To settle down, share her life with Ben?
    ‘You sure you’re cool with this?’ he asked. ‘Moving in together, I mean. If it’s too soon for you …’
    The note of uncertainty in his voice prompted a rush of guilt. She tried to nail what it was, exactly, that was giving her the heebie jeebies. The prospect of giving up her independence after living on her own for the last two years? Partly, yes, but that wasn’t the whole story. Was it because Ben was sometimes a bit, well,
too nice
? The thought had barely entered her head before she dismissed it, angry with herself.
    ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she reassured him. ‘I was just … surprised that we were getting in so quickly.’
    After hanging up, she gave herself a stern chat.
Too nice?! If you don’t want to end up lying dead and undiscovered in some grimy flat being eaten by your own cats, Natalie Kershaw, you’d better waken your ideas up.
    She was pushing open the office door when there came a familiar voice in the corridor behind her.
    ‘Ah! DC Kershaw!’ It was her old boss Detective Sergeant Bacon. ‘I see you’ve acquired a new hairstyle.’
    ‘Yes …’ Suddenly self-conscious, her hand flew to her blonde hair, newly styled in an asymmetric cut, one side three inches shorter than the other.
    Hitching up the trousers of his ancient suit, he squinted down at her hair.
    ‘If I was you, I’d go back and ask for a refund,’ he confided. ‘Whoever cut it must’ve been three sheets to the wind.’
    ‘Yeah, I’ll do that, Sarge,’ she grinned. He’d gained even more weight, and lost a bit more gingery hair from the top of his head, but he was still the same old Streaky.
    ‘Anyway. Your arrival couldn’t be more timely – we’ve got an old chum of yours in interview room 2.’ Opening a door labelled
Remote Monitoring Room,
he winked at her. ‘You can watch it all on the telly.’
    After Streaky shut the door behind her, and Kershaw took in the hulking figure slouched in a chair on the video feed, she was properly gobsmacked.
    What the fuck?
The last time she’d laid eyes on Janusz Kiszka had been in Bart’s hospital, after he’d got himself on the wrong end of a vendetta with a Polish drug gang. Since Kershaw’s conduct in that case had earned her a disciplinary hearing, the sight of the big Pole’s craggy mug, today of all days, was about as welcome as a cockroach in the cornflakes.
    Hearing Streaky finish reading him the official caution, she forced herself to concentrate.
    ‘According to the statement you gave my colleague yesterday,’ said Streaky. ‘You’re aware that your friend James Fulford was stabbed to death on his doorstep at around 5.30 p.m. on Monday?’
    Fuck!
Kiszka was being questioned about a
murder
?
    ‘Could you just refresh my memory as to your whereabouts at that time, Mr Kissa-ka?’
    Kershaw grinned. Streaky knew perfectly well how to pronounce Kiszka’s surname: he was mangling it deliberately to wind him up.
    ‘The William Morris Gallery,’ said Kiszka.
    ‘Go to a lot of galleries, do you?’
    He shrugged. ‘I showed the other cop the text Jim sent me. He said he was going to be late for our meeting, so I had time to kill.’
    Streaky paused, letting the word dangle in the air.
    ‘The trouble is, Mr Kiss-aka, I had one of my most experienced officers take your photo down to this …
furniture museum
– and there wasn’t a single member of staff who remembers you.’
    ‘It’s the only photo I had to hand,’ he hefted one shoulder. ‘It isn’t a very good likeness.’
    Streaky opened the file in front of him and leafed