Read Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) for Free Online Page B

Patterson’s abode was almost black from a century's deposit of city grime. Gentrification had yet to arrive. As the car stopped Wilson glanced around looking for the property vultures. They could always be found in areas like this. He saw no one. Perhaps the rain was keeping them away.
                  "The place is in four bedsits," Whitehouse said as the policemen approached the front door. "The house is in the name of Arthur Patel," he screwed his face up at the name. "He owns a couple of properties around the city. Rents the dumps out to students, young female office workers or single males like Patterson. I called the number of the rental agency first thing this morning. Mr. Patel prefers to live in London where he won't be bothered by asshole Paddies. His office has no idea who Patterson was or where he came from. Mr. Patel doesn't take what you might call a fatherly interest in his tenants. They give him money and he gives them a dump to live in. Blood suckin' bastard."
                  "Careful, George," Wilson stood before the front door which bore the scars of many a battle with somebody's hobnailed boots. "Your racism is likely to overcome your bigotry."
    Four bells had been crudely stuffed into a hole gauged in a brick beside the door. Each bell had a name written in faded ink beneath it.
                  Whitehouse removed a plastic bag from his pocket and tipped a plastic key ring holding three keys into the palm of his hand. He slipped a Yale key into the lock and turned. The key moved smoothly in the lock and the door swung open.
                  The hallway was dark and the steel grey walls hadn't seen a lick of paint in the past twenty years. Wilson pushed the light switch behind the door but the hallway remained unlit. Both men looked simultaneously at the ceiling where an empty light socket hung suspended from a mesh of bare wires.
                  "Mr. Patel must be very energy conscious," Wilson said as he moved into the hallway. "This should be fun."
                  There were two doors on the ground floor. Whitehouse moved to the nearest one and tried the other two keys from Patterson's key ring. Neither key made any impression on the stout lock. He went through the same procedure with the second door and the lock turned when the first key was inserted.
                  "Bingo," Whitehouse said as he pushed in the door and entered Patterson's bedsit.  Both men fished in their pockets and removed surgical gloves which they slipped onto their hands before entering the room.
    As Whitehouse passed through the door he flicked the light switch and a faint yellow glow illuminated the dark room.
                  Patterson's home consisted of one room approximately 15 feet by 12 feet. Within that 180 square foot space he had lived, ate and slept. The lower half of a set of steel bunk beds was pushed against the side of the room opposite the door its four redundant posts jutting the air at each corner. A sink unit had been set into one of the side walls and a two ring gas burner sat on a roughly constructed shelf. A gas bottle poked its head out from underneath the sink. A relatively new microwave sat beside the two-ring burner. The floor was covered in cheap linoleum whose original colours might be guessed at but would never again be revealed. A coin operated electricity meter stood on the floor just inside the door. A series of shelves holding books and videos had been set above the bed. The only other piece of furniture was a battered wooden chest of drawers on which stood an equally battered 19 inch television/video combination. A plastic bowl with the coagulated remains of a cornflake breakfast sat  on top of the television set.
                  "Somehow or other I don't think Patterson was expecting a visit from 'Home and Garden'," Wilson said moving around the room. Somebody might have done the poor