Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [readnow TXT] 📗

on speaker as Dehan sat down. “I have some results for you. The bowie knife. The blood caked in the hilt, as expected, was a match with Simon Martin’s. This was the knife used to kill him. Prints. There are none on the knife, but there are several on the bag. Many of them match the samples taken from Humberto, but there are others that do not.”

I frowned. “Could somebody be stupid enough to wipe their prints from the weapon, put the weapon in a bag and leave their prints on the bag?”

I almost heard him shrug down the phone. “That’s your department, John, but I suppose if they didn’t expect the bag to be kept, it’s possible.”

“Did you run them through IAFIS?”

“Naturally. No hits.”

“Hell.”

“Indeed, it must be. Now you’ll have to do some detecting instead of relying on me to do your work for you. The kitchen knife. Again, as expected, the blood was Jacob’s. There are prints on it, Humberto’s, but here is the odd thing. They are only fingerprints.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, on the handle of a knife that has been used to stab somebody, you expect to find palm prints as well as fingerprints. But on this kitchen knife, all I can find are fingerprints, as though it had been handled with great care, and never actually gripped.”

“Huh. Okay, thank you, Frank.”

“Welcome. You have a good one.”

Dehan was smiling. “Like I said, he was given the knives, for his treasure collection.”

“He sure was.”

Twenty

It was five o’clock and there was a damp wind blowing in off the Atlantic, whipping Dehan’s hair across her face. She squinted through it as she reached behind her head to tie up her hair. Beyond her, I could see the railway lines.

“You going to tell me why we’re here?”

I pulled my jacket out of the back of the car and put it on, then reached in my pocket and pulled out a blank envelope I’d picked up at the precinct.

“Just humor me,” I said. She followed me across the road and I rang on Ahmed’s bell. There was no boisterous shouting this time. The door opened and Ahmed, dressed in jeans and a hoodie this time, tried to hide his frown behind a smile.

“Detective Stone, I am honoured to see you again…” He looked past me at Dehan. His eyes glazed for a moment. “And this is your partner.”

I returned his smile. “This is Detective Dehan, can we come in? It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“I was just going out. But I always have time to help the police. Come in.”

He showed us into the small living room where I had spoken to him before and he gestured me to a chair. I went to take off my jacket but fumbled with the envelope, like it was obstructing the sleeve. I held it out to Ahmed. “Do you mind?” He took it and I removed the jacket. “This weather, you never know if you’re going to be warm or cold. Right?”

I held out my hand. He gave me back the envelope and I folded it and put it in my pocket. I sat. Dehan sat on the sofa and he sat opposite me, by the window.

“Detective, how can I help you?”

I made a small gesture of helplessness. “I am trying to understand the circumstances that led to Simon Martin’s death.”

He made a face of sadness and nodded. “Allah is merciful.”

“So here is the thing. It is clear to us that his death, and Jacob’s death sixteen years later, are in some way connected. So I was wondering two things, Ahmed, first, did you know Jacob at all? And second, how long did you continue working at the Martin’s house after Simon was killed?”

“Very tragic deaths. I stop working at the church and at Sylvie’s house when Simon was killed.”

“Oh? Why was that?”

“Because, Allah is merciful, Mullah Al-Abas, from our mosque, advise me I should not work in Christian church. This is not correct in our religion. Sorry.”

“And that happened the next day?”

He smiled and put his head on one side, placing his hands together as though in prayer. “I give her a couple of days for her grief, and meanwhile I talk to Mullah Al-Abas about what has happen. And he say to me, don’t go back there no more. It is not right for a Muslim to work in a Christian church. So is coincidence, but not coincidence.”

“Okay. So how about Jacob? Did you know him?”

“We see in the street, an’ I say ‘Hello’ and she say, ‘Oh, his name is Jacob!’ ‘Oh, is Jewish name!’” He glanced at Dehan. “She say, ‘No, no, is Bible name.’ So, is many years, and often we see in the street, ‘Hello!’ ‘Hello!’ Stopping, chatting, talk to Jacob. I see him grow into young man. Good boy. Strong. Like his father.”

“Would you say that over time you and Jacob became friends, Ahmed?”

He beamed. “Yes. We become good friends. He come and visit me lots. I am like brother for him. We are good friends.”

“Did his mother know that you were friends and that he was visiting you?”

He did that thing Mediterraneans do, where he pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged and spread his hands all at the same time. “I don’t know. I never visit them. I don’t see Sylvie. She is at home, in church, always. But Jacob come and visit me.”

I nodded and thought for a moment. “Ahmed, did you convert Jacob to Islam?”

“Yeah. He convert to the true faith. There is but one God, and Mohamed is his prophet. Allah is merciful. I take him to see Mullah Al-Abas many times, and we are talking and Jacob is learning the true way. He is