Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  Death’s Cold Hand

  A DCI Will Blake Thriller

  Obolus Books

  1

  Copyright © 2021 by Jon Mayhew

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Jon Mayhew to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and

  Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be

  reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written

  permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by JE Mayhew:

  Waiting for the next DCI Blake? Why not try DCI Boyd?

  For my Dad,

  Charlie Mayhew

  Although the story is set on the Wirral, the names of some establishments and roads have been fictionalised to protect the unloved and godless...

  but you can have fun guessing...

  Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare

  Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth;

  Prepare your arms for glorious victory;

  Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!

  Prepare, prepare!

  A War Song To Englishmen - William Blake

  Chapter 1

  Paul Travis never contemplated his own death. Even in the heat of Helmand Province, he never for one minute entertained the idea that there was a bullet or an IED out there with his name on it. The graven images and names carved into Port Sunlight war memorial didn’t make him pause for thought in his lust for life. While he recognised and honoured the sacrifice of the people remembered there, he wouldn’t be following them. This self-assurance had served him well and allowed him to get on in life. He’d trodden on a few toes along the way, and a few faces, come to think of it but he didn’t really care. Of course, that self-assurance only got him so far and everybody dies some time.

  Paul Travis included.

  The sky was clear and the night felt cold, even for early May. Paul’s mind turned to Summer and the villa in Portugal. He couldn’t wait. Just him, Rachel and little Danielle. He gave a soppy grin, the beers he’d knocked back at the Bridge Inn making him sentimental. They’d be asleep when he got in. Danielle all snuggled up with her teddy bear. Maybe if Rachel wasn’t too dead to the world, there might be the chance of something more. No chance. Who was he kidding? He rolled his eyes at the thought of the earbashing that would ensue if he tried it on.

  Things weren’t good in that department. Not good at all.

  Stumbling over an uneven paving slab, he swore. How much had he had? He’d lost track but he knew it was time to leave when Barry began singing, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ Dave and George had promised to get the big man home safely. Paul chuckled again, remembering the fun they’d had wrangling him into a taxi. The taxi driver had issued the usual warning about paying for any mess and Paul wondered how far they’d get before they had to stop to let Barry out.

  The lads grumbled about travelling down the Wirral once every couple of weeks for a pint but so what? Paul liked the walk across the village, especially on a night like this. And what Paul liked, Paul got. One way or another. In a few minutes, he’d be at home, tucked up and snoring. They’d still be driving. Anyway, they bitched about everything. Tomorrow, once he’d slept off his hangover, he’d have a word with George. Tell the bastard properly that he knew what his game was and it wasn’t on.

  The War Memorial loomed over him, its white granite washed blue by the moonlight. He’d always loved it, even when he was a kid. It dominated this part of the village. A huge cross enthroned on an octagonal plinth accessed by four flights of steps. Everything about it was symmetrical and perfect. Some people didn’t like the bronze figures of soldiers and seafarers protecting children. They said they were too realistic with their fixed bayonets and grim, resolute faces. Paul thought it was fitting. He’d lost friends in Afghanistan. It did people good to see that real people fell and died to keep them safe. A bit of grim resolution wouldn’t harm anyone.

  “Paul,” a voice whispered from the shadows.

  “Hello?” Paul said, his speech slurring. “Who’s there.”

  Lurching a little, he staggered up the steps to the foot of the cross. If those bloody teenagers were messing around again, he’d give them a good hiding. He frowned into the darkness that clung to the base of the memorial. It looked like there was an extra statue. Another figure, silhouetted, stood stock still amongst the crouching bronze soldiers.

  Paul grimaced and he heard a foot scrape behind him as one of the statues came to life, dragging itself from the shadows. By the time he realised the dark figure was swinging a baseball bat, it was too late.

  Chapter 2

  DCI Will Blake had cornered many criminals who were desperate to escape the long arm of the law, but this was probably his biggest challenge. Generally, he could reason with the individual and make them see the pointlessness of trying to flee. Usually, his superior height and size would emphasise that argument. And usually, at the end of the day, there were other ways to take down a villain.

  This character wouldn’t listen to reason, though and a taser, however tempting, was out of the question. She had her own agenda, and it didn’t involve being grabbed by Blake. To some, she might seem like just a large fluffy Persian cat but Serafina was capable of inflicting painful wounds along with abject humiliation. And Blake had been chasing her around the house for the best part of an hour.

  To add another level of complication to the whole proceedings, Charlie, Blake’s Jack Russell, found the whole exercise too exciting for words and bounced around the living room yapping joyfully. This was the best entertainment he’d had in his life.

  “Come on, Serafina,” Blake said, trying to sound soothing. “C’mon, girl.”

  Serafina put her ears back and hissed, lashing out with her claws. Despite wearing gloves, Blake whipped his hands back instinctively. She hated being picked up and only came to any human on her terms. Plus, she had seen the crate that Blake had tried to hide under a towel when he sat it on the sofa. The crate meant the vet and Serafina was having none of that.

  Blake had come back from work a few days before to find that Ser
afina was off her food. Her appetite hadn’t improved since.

  “You’re gonna have to get the vet to look at her,” Ian Youde, his neighbour had said. “I reckon she’s got a gammy tooth.” He usually fed her, walked Charlie and kept an eye on them while Blake was working. He was a sour-faced old man with a letterbox mouth and narrow, suspicious eyes but Blake liked him. Despite Youde’s self-proclaimed hatred of cats, he obviously knew animals and wouldn’t have said anything unless he thought there was a problem.

  Blake had dutifully made an appointment with the vets and now here he was, crawling around his own living room trying to catch Serafina, Charlie tugging at his jumper with his teeth. It was early morning and the appointment with the vet was hurtling towards him, making the need to capture Serafina all the more urgent. The cat crouched in a corner, hemmed in by an armchair and the wall as Blake inched forward. “It’s okay, girl,” he said, softly and reached out again. That was when Serafina took her chance and sprang up. Blake’s eyes widened as the huge ball of blue-grey fur filled his vision.

  Suddenly, the cat wrapped itself around his head, effectively blindfolding him with her body and sinking her claws into his scalp. Blake roared with pain and Charlie barked with glee as Serafina pummelled his cheek with her back paws, claws exposed. He shot to his feet, the cat still clinging to his head and stumbled backwards across the living room. This would have been painful enough but Blake was still recovering from bruised ribs and the other injuries he’d received during his trip to Scotland a couple of months ago. Although he was nearly better, pain still seared through his body.

  Then, just as quickly, the lights were back on and the cat had sprung from his shoulder. But Blake knew why. She was leaping to safety. The room lurched on its side as he tumbled over a footrest and, with a roar of indignation, he fell heavily onto an old armchair. For a second, Blake lay still, face down in the seat, recovering. “Jeez, Serafina, we’ve got to get that tooth sorted.”

  Wincing, he eased himself up and scanned the room for the cat, touching his cheek with his fingertips. She’d drawn blood. Charlie leapt up at his legs yapping happily at the excitement. Blake wondered whether the trauma of all his adventures in Scotland had pushed the little dog over the edge. “That’d be all I need,” Blake muttered looking down at Charlie, “two psychotic animals in the house.”

  Charlie barked again and Blake realised that the Jack Russell was staring intently at the crate. Blake blinked in amazement at the two glowing eyes that glared out at him from the darkness of the crate. Serafina had taken refuge in the very box she was trying to avoid. “It’s some kind of trick, isn’t it boy?” he said to Charlie as he edged towards the crate. “She’s taunting me. Trying to lull me into a false sense of security…” He lunged forward and flipped the mesh door on the crate, heaving a sigh of relief. If Laura had been there, he wouldn’t have had that problem. She would have thought of some clever way to entice Serafina into the crate without the unnecessary bloodshed. Blake dabbed his cheek again. It was still bleeding. He stared into the crate. “Maybe you miss her too, eh, puss?” Serafina growled and glared at him.

  Laura had left him before Christmas, forced to flee after her ex-husband Kyle Quinlan, a violent and powerful criminal had returned from the US. Blake had begged her to stay, telling her they could face Quinlan together but it wasn’t enough. He sighed, picked up the crate and looked around the room. Laura had been a fixture in his life for months now and she’d woken him up from what, looking back, had been a miserable existence. He’d even made plans to sell the house and move in somewhere else with her. Now, once again, he was trapped in his dead mother’s house with all its ancient furniture. The place still looked as though she’d just popped out to the shops. But he’d changed. Laura had changed him, and that new part of him wasn’t prepared to give up on her.

  Blake’s phone rang.

  “Kath, is this urgent? I’m kind of busy right now…”

  “Sir, It’s not good. You better get over to Port Sunlight,” Detective Inspector Kath Cryer said. “It’s a messy one.”

  Blake pursed his lips and glared at the crate. He’d have to rely on Ian Youde once again. “I’m on my way, Kath.”

  Chapter 3

  There was nothing like a crime scene tent and some blue and white tape to lower the tone of an area, Blake thought. Some places welcomed and revelled in the new accessories. Others wore a look of shock, like Port Sunlight. Blake was familiar with the village that nestled in front of the Unilever factory and Lever House, a huge building with a grand front entrance overlooked by a large clock. The old factory buildings and workshops had been torn down and replaced with modern units that hid behind the façade of the factory wall. The factory produced more than it ever did now but employed a fraction of the workforce.

  Port Sunlight itself was what they called a ‘model village,’ made by a philanthropist entrepreneur to keep the factory workforce healthy, happy and productive. Port Sunlight certainly outshone the surrounding areas with its wide, tree-lined drives, numerous flower beds and mock Tudor houses. But a huge swathe of it around the war memorial was cordoned off now and the cars that normally lined the edge of the road by the garden centre were replaced with police vehicles and ambulances. Crime Scene Investigators in white coveralls moved in and out of the tent and uniformed police officers were dotted around the cordon, keeping a few curious members of the public back.

  Detective Inspector Kath Cryer hurried over to Blake as he climbed out of the car then stopped and did a double take. “What happened, sir?” she said, looking at the scratches on Blake’s cheek.

  Blake frowned, but remembered his wrestling match with Serafina this morning and touched the scratches on his own face. “Oh, just cat trouble, Kath,” he said. “What have we got?”

  Kath shook herself and looked down at her notes. “Male in his thirties, tall, six three. Looks like his head had been caved in with a blunt instrument.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A young couple coming back from a night out in Liverpool. They saw him from out of their taxi. They couldn’t miss him, though.”

  “Makes a change from a dog walker, I suppose. Are they still about?”

  “No, guv, but we’ve got their addresses. You sure you’re okay, sir?”

  Blake grunted, trying to ignore the ache in his chest and the scratches acquired from Serafina. “I swear to God, that cat is going to be the death of me, Kath.” Blake signed into the crime scene and dragged on a set of coveralls. The material felt plastic and constricted him. He put the face mask on and pulled the hood up before ducking into the tent.

  The metallic smell of blood hit Blake first, even through the face mask. He trod gingerly onto the stepping plates that prevented anyone from stepping in the blood that pooled around the steps of the war memorial.

  Malachy O’Hare, the Crime Scene Manager squatted over the body, masking the top half. Blake could only see the crime scene manager’s back and his head was shrouded by the hood of the coveralls but he recognised the bony frame straight away.

  “It’s a bloody disgrace,” O’Hare said, without turning round.

  “What?” Blake said.

  “Killing a man here. On this spot of all places. A bloody war memorial,” O’Hare spat. “I mean, bad enough anywhere but this just takes the biscuit.”

  Blake nodded. “Are we certain he was killed, Mallachy?”

  O’Hare turned, his white eyebrows did the talking for the rest of his face. He wasn’t happy. “I’m telling you. Whoever did this wants stringing up.”

  Blake frowned. O’Hare was normally the source of dark banter at a scene like this. He was the one who kept a sense of humour when others were swallowing down their breakfasts again. “What makes you so sure it’s murder?”

  O’Hare stepped back to reveal a male body lying on its back on the steps as though catching a few minutes rest. One leg was bent, and the arms lay loosely at the side of the body. The head was bruised and battered and a jagg
ed, red wound gaped at the victim’s neck.

  “Jeez, Mallachy. I take your point,” he gasped. “Any ID?”

  Mallachy held up a wallet stuffed with cash and a local gym pass with the name Paul Travis printed on it. Blake looked at the photograph. “Whoever did this was a head-the-ball, Will,” Mallachy said. “A monster.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I lost a nephew in Iraq a few years ago. How anyone could kill a man in a place like this just…” Mallachy shrugged. “I’ve no words.”

  “We need to get them, then,” Blake said. Looking at the dead man’s feet rather than anywhere else. “Any prints?

  “We have a bloody boot print on a lower step. Whoever did this would have been splattered with blood, too. The victim’s mobile phone was on him. Otherwise, nothing. I’m no pathologist but I’d say he went down with the first blow and then what followed was just savagery.”

  “A big man like that could have defended himself if he had the chance,” Blake agreed. “Let’s see what the pathologist says.”

  “Knowing Jack Kenning, he’ll probably crack a shite joke and twiddle whichever godawful bowtie he’s decided to inflict on us,” O’Hare said, the appraisal of Kenning being a sure sign of recovery from his initial shock. “Oh, there’s this, too. I haven’t removed it yet because I want to get a picture.”

  Blake squatted next to Mallachy, trying not to look at the pulp to his left. Fortunately, the investigator’s attention was focused on the victim’s hand. “What is it?”

  “It’s a hand, Will,” Mallachy said. Blake gave him a wry look. Having vented his wrath, the old Mallachy was back with them.

  “Hilarious. What’s that in it?” Blake peered at the closed, white fingers. Something green and shiny was clutched in them. “It looks like it’s round at the top. Hard to tell what it is.”

  “Callum!” Mallachy yelled, almost deafening Blake. “Callum, will you get that camera in here? Blake wants a selfie with me.”

  Blake glanced at O’Hare. “A selfie?”