‘Knock once more,’ Taylor said to the team of officers outside number four on the second floor. The run down Victorian building in Burnage, converted into bedsits, was well known to the police. Any property in Manchester with a landlord who accepted cash and asked no questions attracted all sorts of itinerants and illegals.
Still no answer.
‘Right, force it,’ he ordered.
The door smashed open and the officers went inside.
Taylor knew that smell – death.
They found Tredwell in the lounge, hanging from a beam, wearing only underpants. Eyes bulging out of his disfigured face and tongue dangling from his mouth, Taylor thought he resembled a toad. An upturned stool lay on the floor.
Taylor touched Tredwell’s foot. ‘Stone bloody cold. I want to know how long he’s been like this and I want all forensic results by morning. Clear?’
‘You’ll be lucky, gov,’ muttered Waters.
Taylor knew only too well what a strain there was on resources at GMP. ‘All right then, prioritise any weapons. Blood and DNA. If he killed Ahmed, I want to know about it as soon as.’