Over My Dead Body by Evans Maz

Author:Evans, Maz [Evans, Maz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 099, amazon, cThriller
ISBN: 9781035402328
Google: 2bmTEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0BHKV9DVG
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2023-08-02T23:00:00+00:00

16

Within the hour, we are at Paul’s front door on one of the crummy estates that proliferate in the less salubrious outskirts of Westmouth. His cleaner, Brenda, lets us in. A cleaner in this place is like pinning the Koh-i-Noor on a TK Maxx tracksuit, an absurd extravagance given the setting. Paul used to employ pretty young things to clean his homes, but he developed an unfortunate habit of marrying them. This led to two inevitable outcomes: messy houses and even messier divorces. Brenda was his insurance policy against either eventuality and has followed him from home to diminishing home ever since. She acts like Miss Trunchbull’s less sensitive older sister. But his carpets have been immaculate.

‘Yeah?’ grunts Brenda by way of greeting.

‘I’m here to see Paul,’ Winnie smiles. ‘Is he in?’

‘Still asleep,’ she says, deigning to remove an earphone. She is chomping gum like a masticating cow. ‘You can wait if you want. He’ll have to get up in a minute. I need to change his sheets. And I ain’t coming back next week. You leave his sheets a week and they’re like a Hubba Bubba factory floor.’

‘Thank you.’ Winnie winces, stepping inside. ‘For both the invitation and the enduring mental imagery.’

Brenda slams the door behind us and Winnie and I stand in the hallway. This is the third flat Paul has lived in since I’ve known him. Paul has got through three wives – each one got smaller, as did the houses he could afford once they divorced him. Given he’s likely to be fired after the tribunal, I wonder how long he can keep this one.

‘Do you know when Dr Roberts will be joining us?’ Winnie asks Brenda.

‘I dunno.’ Debrett’s daughter shrugs. ‘I just clean. Which is no picnic, let me tell you. I’ve got to do the en suite today. It’s like the Turner Prize shortlist in there. Men are pigs. Wait in the front room, if you like.’

She signals Paul’s diminutive lounge.

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ Winnie hints.

‘So would George Clooney in a dimly lit Travelodge, love,’ shouts Brenda. ‘Looks like we’re both in for a disappointment.’

The headphones are replaced and our audience is over. I guide Winnie into Paul’s front room. It is one of those L-shaped rooms that make no sense at all unless you don’t want to talk to the person you live with. Which, if you knew his most recent ex-wife, makes perfect sense. The place has all the hallmarks of an ageing bachelor pad – shabby leather furniture, records everywhere, the lingering scent of last night’s Deliveroo and—

‘AARRGGHH!’

Sweet Jesus! Winnie is screaming like a pre-teen in Primark.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasps, clutching her chest. ‘I didn’t know you were in here!’

I peer round the corner to see what has inspired this near coronary. Sitting on the sofa with his back to me is Paul. He’s still in his pyjamas, the slovenly swine, and is gazing around the room like he’s never seen it before.

‘Hello,’ she says, offering her hand.

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