Free Cursed Inheritance by Kate Ellis

facade and felt mildly depressed. These were hardly ideal surroundings for a creative soul, for any soul, come to that. But maybe it hadn’t bothered Patrick Evans.
    ‘The rent’s cheap,’ said Kirsty Evans by way of explanation, as if she had read his mind.
    She pushed the door open and walked up the litter-strewn concrete stairs. There was a lift but it bore an ‘out of order’ notice scrawled in black felt tip pen and the area around it smelled strongly of urine. To Wesley’s surprise most of the battered sapele doors bore the names of grand-sounding companies: Jetalife International Leisure PLC, Merchantalia Bond Promotions Ltd, P. J. Worthrope Holidays Ltd. The names sounded respectable enough but the signs were made of paper and stuck on the doors with Blu-tack. The signs were temporary. And Wesley suspected that, once they’d extracted money-from unsuspecting clients, the companies were too. This was a fly-by-nigllt sort of place, with few facilities and a short shelf-life. But it had obviously suited Patrick Evans.
    Evans’s office was on the second floor, a hard climb up the cold stairs. The only indication that they were in the right place was a small piece of paper bearing the words ‘Patrick Evans - if it’s not important, piss off,’ sellotaped to the centre of the door.
    Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the whiteness of the paper first, then he noticed that the wood around the lock was splintered. Either Patrick Evans hadˇ forgotten his key recently or somebody had broken in. He caught Kirsiy’s eye. ‘Did Patrick do this or … ?’;;;’;’;:; ..
    ‘It’s been like that since he startedreridi’tg it. He said he was going to get it fixed but … ‘
     
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    Wesley unlocked the door with Kirsty’s key and stepped inside. It was a shabby little room with dirty magnolia walls and grey carpet tiles dotted with dark stains and cigarette burns. Mildew covered the bottom of the vertical blinds that hung limply at the dusty window and there was a nasty patch of mould where the wall met the ceiling just above the window frame. A battered metal filing cabinet stood in the corner. There were papers and files strewn all over the cheap teak-effect desk. Patrick Evans hadn’t been a tidy man.
    Wesley turned to Kirsty and noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He knew he had to get her out of there. He should take her back to her flat, away from the memories. He ushered her out and shut the door carefully behind him. They walked back to the flat in silence as Wesley could think of nothing to say. He would have to leave her on her own: he had no choice. Back in Devon there was usually a neighbour, a friend or a relative who could be called upon in times of crisis but Kirsty said there was nobody. She didn’t know the neighbours; her friends were at work; and her family came from Worcestershire. She was quite alone. But she assured Wesley that she could cope. And she didn’t mind if he took anything from the office that he thought might be of use. He promised he would return in an hour or so to make arrangements for her journey to Devon the next day. But there was something he had to see to first.
    He wasn’t . looking forward to dealing with the local station again, especially the spiky DC who, frankly, scared the life out of him. So he was relieved when he found Pete Jarrod had returned from investigating his latest shooting. As Pete’ s teenage gunman had just been caught in a raid on a nearby council flat and was now safely locked up in the cells, he’ was in a remarkably good mood and provided the tea that Wesleyhad been craving for the past couple of hours. Aftert~,ˇ….utes exchanging news, Wesley felt he
    ” …. \1\-,. could.get dowlr’~business. He requested help to pack Pattick Ľvans’spapers into boxes so that he could take
     
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    them back to Devon to go through at his leisure.
    A young constable was sent to help with the packing and after half an hour two cardboard boxes