Witness the Dead Read Online Free PDF

Something burned in her stomach, praying that her info on the nickname, slim as it was, was the one that would hit the target first. She wanted this. So much of the rest of her life seemed out of control or simply so messed up that work had become even more important. She was losing more of her dad to Alzheimer’s with every passing day and the pain and the guilt and the practicalities of that had led her to turn Tony away. She’d tried to deal with one hurt and just caused another. Worse still, she knew she was keeping him dangling, unfairly offering him hope of a distant maybe. Her job mattered because it was the one thing she had control over.
    The squad car arrived, pulling up so it was nose to nose with Narey’s Megane, immediately drawing curious, guilt-ridden glances from those on the street. It would take seconds rather than minutes before everyone within the shadow of the tower block would know the cop car was there and so it was time to move.
    Narey slipped out of the driver’s door, leaving Toshney to follow in her wake and knowing that the uniforms would be right behind them. She pushed her way through the red-framed glass door and into the bowels of the Ruby Street multi, seeking out the lifts. She pressed eight and said a silent prayer of thanks when the elevator lurched noisily into life.
    Toshney stood against the opposite wall, occasionally glancing up as if he were ready to say something but thinking better of it. The constables, Boyle and Murray, were looking at each other as if playing out some silent conversation of their own that involved sly smiles and secret nods. Narey vowed that, if Toshney wasn’t the target of their joke, she’d rip their balls off. She glared at them and they, too, suddenly became interested in the shine on their shoes.
    The lift groaned to a halt on the eighth floor and Narey put a finger to her lips before leading the three men out onto the landing. She and Toshney advanced to Wylde’s door and she positioned Boyle and Murray at either end of the corridor, mindful of the warning from London Road to be careful.
    Narey rapped on the door twice, warrant card in hand, listening intently for signs of movement inside. She heard the sound of feet padding around and knocked again, louder. ‘Robert Wylde. Police. Open up.’
    A shadow passed across the door’s peephole and the door was slowly edged back. The short, fair-haired man in his early twenties who opened it looked half asleep, pulling on a T-shirt above tracksuit trousers and still barefoot. Wylde took a half-step back to allow Narey and Toshney into the flat, then rocked forward again, bursting between the two of them and into the corridor, a pair of trainers swinging from his left hand. Narey managed to get an arm up in time to make a grab at his shoulder but he slipped from her grasp. Toshney hadn’t even moved.
    Wylde looked at both ends of the corridor, seeing the constables closing on him and desperately sizing up his options. Murray, slightly the smaller of the two cops, was at the same end of the landing as Narey and Toshney, so Wylde spun and hared towards the bulkier figure of Boyle. The PC spread himself, arms wide, blocking Wylde’s path as the other cops closed in on him from behind.
    Wylde made a hopeless lunge towards his right, trying to squeeze himself through the tiny gap left by Boyle. The officer moved over to close what little space there was and, as he did so, Wylde spun on his left foot and pirouetted in the opposite direction, leaving Boyle floundering as he flew past him and towards the top of the stairs. As Wylde’s fair hair disappeared from view, Narey screamed at the men who were standing and looking at each other.
    ‘What are you waiting for? Toshney, get down the stairs after him. You two get in the lift. And remember he’s dangerous. Christ Almighty! You’re bloody useless.’
    Toshney bolted for the stairs, knowing full well that his chances of catching Wylde were minimal unless the