Death Can’t Take a Joke Read Online Free PDF

through some papers.
    ‘Of course, this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a police interview room,’ he went on, fixing his suspect with a deadpan stare. ‘You were questioned in the course of another murder investigation a couple years back: one that involved drugs, shooting, and three dead bodies if memory serves.’
    ‘I’m a private investigator – it’s an occupation that sometimes requires me to deal with unsavoury characters,’ said Kiszka, staring right back.
    ‘I’ll bet it does,’ said Streaky, his voice heavy with irony. ‘But you never really explained how someone who claims to make his living chasing bad debts and missing persons ends up in a Polish gangster’s drug factory.’
    ‘Does your file mention that if I hadn’t been there the body count would have been even higher?’ he growled.
    Streaky dropped his gaze.
Advantage Kiszka,
thought Kershaw.
    ‘Remind me how it was that you and James Fulford became friendly?’
    ‘Like I told the other cop, we met on a building site back in the eighties.’
    ‘And in all that time since then, you say you’ve just been drinking buddies, good mates, right?’
    ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, pulling a tin out from his pocket.
    Kershaw wrinkled her nose, remembering the little stinky cigars he smoked.
    ‘No smoking in here I’m afraid, Mr Kiss-aka,’ said Streaky, pointing at a sign. ‘So, you’ve never had any involvement in this gym he runs in Walthamstow?’
    Kiszka shook his head.
    ‘No business dealings of any kind with each other? No property deals, for instance?’
    ‘No, nothing like that.’
    Kershaw noticed he’d started tap-tapping his index finger on the cigar tin. A sign of impatience? Or a guilty conscience?
    Streaky inserted the tip of his little finger into his ear. After rooting around for a few seconds, he examined the results of his excavation with a thoughtful expression.
    ‘How old are you, Mr Kiss-aka? Fifty-something?’
    ‘I’m forty-five,’ he growled.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Streaky, feigning surprise. ‘Still, lots of people find the old memory banks start to let them down in their forties, don’t they?’
    ‘My memory is perfectly serviceable,’ he drawled – but Kershaw could tell from the set of his jaw that he was struggling to control his temper. For all his apparent cool and his old-school way of talking, Kiszka could still make the air around him buzz with the possibility of violence.
    Streaky took a document from the file in front of him and pushed it across the table.
    ‘For the benefit of the tape, I have passed the interviewee a copy of the deeds held by the UK Land Registry for Jim’s Gym, Walthamstow, dated the 11th of November 1992.’
    Kiszka picked up the document.
    ‘Would you care to confirm that that is your name on the first page, Mr Kiss-aka?’
    As he examined it, the furrows on Kiszka’s face deepened.
    ‘We all have forgetful moments,’ said Streaky. ‘But I’m finding it hard to believe it slipped your mind that you’re the
owner
of Jim’s Gym.’
    Kershaw gasped.
Game to Streaky!
    She held her breath as Kiszka opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He pushed the document back across the table.
    ‘I want to call my solicitor.’

Six
    ‘Just give me fifteen minutes with him, Sarge,’ said Kershaw. ‘We spent a lot of time together on that job so I know all his little tics and tells. I might get
something
useful out of him, even if it’s not admissible.’
    Kershaw was perched on the edge of Streaky’s desk as she made her pitch for a chat with Kiszka, now installed in one of the holding cells downstairs. As the new girl on the squad, she was well aware she should be keeping her head down, restricting herself to ‘getting to know you’ chitchat with the other DCs, gathering crucial first day intelligence like where the biros and the digestives were kept – but that might mean her missing the chance to get herself drafted onto the Fulford case.
    As