Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  He didn’t finish the sentence because Bobby Price swung the bat, hitting the old man on the side of the head. Harley could still hear the sickening crack as it struck the old man and the strange sigh he let out. The phone spun off into the bushes and the old man crumpled to the floor, groaning.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” Harley had said, staring down at the old man.

  “Nobody calls me a streak of piss,” Bobby said, raising the bat again. Harley leapt forward before he could think about it and grabbed Bobby’s arm.

  “Don’t you fucking idiot. You’ll kill him.”

  Stars had exploded before Harley’s eyes as Bobby backhanded him, sending him staggering back against the wall of the bridge. The old man groaned and started to pick himself up but this time, Bobby turned and ran, flinging the bat behind him, like he was running for first base. Harley and Alfie did likewise, Alfie following Bobby.

  Harley had skidded to a halt and looked back at the old man and then took the opposite direction from the other two lads. That was it, he was going home. He’d had enough of Bobby and Alfie to last him a lifetime. In that moment, Harley decided he could see where Bobby Price was heading and Alfie, too and it wasn’t a bright future. Harley decided he was going to stay away from them.

  Now his feet pounded along the street alongside the factory wall. Up ahead, he could see the long roof and black and white timber cladding of the Gladstone Theatre. To its left, the ground became cobbled once more and ran into a dark alley running under the railway. He ran past the main front door of the factory, with its huge green clock and down into the darkness. That was it, he was free. He’d keep his head down and never have anything to do with either of those two losers again. He suddenly felt light and happy. Leaping over the metal railings that stopped cars using the passage under the bridge, he ran out into the road. A car blared its horn and Alfie threw himself back as the wing mirror whizzed a fraction of an inch from his head. He sat, panting on the pavement, watching the car vanish. It was then that reality hit him. He might choose to dump Bobby and Alfie, but they wouldn’t leave him alone. Not after what he’d just witnessed. He’d never be free of them.

  Chapter 8

  If he could do anything about it, Blake avoided post-mortems at all costs. It wasn’t that he was particularly squeamish, although watching a pathologist cut open a cadaver wasn’t his idea of a morning’s entertainment. Sometimes it was hard to attend because of the age or background of the victim. A child’s PM lived with Blake for years after and he felt heavy-hearted today because he knew that Paul Travis was a loved and missed father. But the overriding reason he disliked going to post-mortems was the pathologist himself. Jack Kenning fancied himself as a rather dapper man with a rare line in dark humour. In reality, it was almost universally accepted that he was a dull man no matter how loud his bowtie or how ‘edgy’ his jokes.

  Sitting there with Vikki Chinn in the post-mortem theatre, watching Jack Kenning perform grated on Blake more than he could say. Kenning had them right where he wanted them and there was nothing they could do but take notes. Fortunately, there was a viewing screen between the pathologist and Blake so the burly policeman could grumble to Vikki without being heard.

  Blake shuddered, looking at Paul Travis’ battered face as Kenning busied himself about the body. He muttered to his technician in what Blake decided was another language spoken only by pathologists as he only understood every fifth word. Vikki was hastily scribbling notes, leaving Blake wondering why he’d come along.

  “Do you get half of what he’s saying, Vikki? It’s all gobbledegook to me.”

  Vikki gave him a big smile. “Most of it, sir. I’m editing out the ‘humour’ though.”

  “Ah, it’s not just me then. I think that comment about Paul having large feet followed by a reference to American redwoods was some kind of sasquatch reference or something…”

  Vikki smiled and looked appalled. “Spare a thought for the technician, sir. She has to work with him all the time.”

  Blake nodded. “It’s a wonder we’re not investigating his murder, Vikki. Imagine being subjected to that all day whilst being surrounded by so many sharp implements.”

  “Hello, what’s this?” Kenning said over the intercom. He was prising Paul Travis’ fingers open to get the object out so it wasn’t really a source of surprise. He held it up so Blake could see but it was too far away. “It looks like a plastic figure, of a soldier. It’s a toy soldier. Interesting,” Kenning said. Blake gave Vikki another mutinous look as though he wanted to charge down there and ring Kenning’s neck. He hated playing Kenning’s little games.

  He pressed the red button on the intercom that let him speak. “What’s interesting, Jack?”

  “Come on down and I’ll tell you,” Kenning said, raising a hand to indicate that he’d finished. Blake jumped up. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

  Kenning was washing his hands vigorously when they found him, just as you’d expect to see on a TV crime drama. The technician was watching him with a confused expression on his face. Blake rolled his eyes at Vikki. He imagined Kenning had been scrubbing his hands until Blake turned up. He also imagined that Kenning’s next words would be…

  “Ah, Blake. Bit of a rum do, eh?” Kenning shook the excess water off his chapped hands and looked around for a towel. The technician pointed at the paper towel dispenser as if to say, ‘I’m not getting them for you.’

  “So what did you conclude? Just the headlines if that’s okay.”

  “Well, he was definitely dead,” Kenning said, grinning.

  “Right,” Blake said, flatly. “Cause of death was…”

  “Stiletto wound to the heart. Could hardly see the puncture wound…”

  “Really?”

  Kenning’s face fell. “No, Blake. It was a joke…”

  “Right. Could you give us some kind of warning if you’re going to attempt humour, Jack, maybe an air horn or a klaxon or something?”

  “Or just a sign, sir?” Vikki suggested.

  Blake nodded in agreement. “Yes. Practical, Vikki. It could just say ‘joke’ on it.”

  Kenning pursed his lips. “And I suppose you’re being funny now,” he muttered, pulling on his tweed jacket. “Well, you can whistle. I’ll send you the report and you can read it when it lands on your desk.”

  Blake held his hands up. “Sorry, Jack. My apologies. Just give us the headlines, then.”

  “As you’ve probably already surmised, he was knocked unconscious by a couple of hard blows to the head, then somebody slit his throat. It’s a neat cut. Surgical almost.”

  “They knew what they were doing?”

  “I’d say so. The average member of the public would make rather a hash of cutting someone’s throat. Travis bled to death. Wouldn’t have felt a thing, thank goodness for small mercies. Samples taken from the body at the scene suggest the blunt instrument used to bludgeon him was wooden and varnished. I’d say a cricket or baseball bat. It’s more your area of expertise but I’d guess that whoever did this knew what they were doing. It wasn’t a heat of the moment job.”

  “Any sign of a toxicology report yet?”

  “Give them a chance, Blake,” Kenning said, looking at his reflection as he adjusted his purple and pink bowtie. “Headlines from that are that he was drunk, but we haven’t had any other information back yet.”

  “So nothing particularly new, then,” Blake muttered. He hated to do it but Kenning was waiting for him to ask. “So what about the plastic soldier. Why did you say interesting?”

  “You don’t think it odd that a grown man should be holding a toy soldier as he walked back from a night out in the pub with his friends?”

  “It is unusual but he could have been given it as a joke by one of his mates. He might have found it in the street and picked it up out of curiosity. It could be a lucky charm for him or something. There are any number of explanations.”

  “True but I’ve seen this before,” Kenning said.


  “What do you mean?”

  “A heroin overdose about six months ago. Ince was his name. Found dead in his flat with a toy soldier in his hand. Seemed like a deliberate act. He left a note.” Kenning put a hand to his chin. “He was an ex-serviceman too. Seems like quite a coincidence, Blake.”

  Blake nodded. “It does, Jack, I agree.”

  “These toys are commonplace, sir,” Vikki said. “Kids pick them up in packets from pound shops and as prizes in arcade games.”

  “Two soldiers found dead with toy soldiers in their hands, Vikki,” Blake said, dubiously. “It’s worth looking into, just to see if there’s any kind of significance given to these toys, it could easily be just some sort of in-joke, we aren’t party to.”

  “hardly a joke, Blake,” Kenning added, “but I’d imagine that ‘toy soldier’ is something of an insult for any ex-serviceman.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Blake said. “But we have to keep an open mind. Was there any doubt as to whether the previous death was a suicide?”

  Two spots of red bloomed on Kenning’s gaunt face. “I can’t remember the detail. Which would suggest it wasn’t suspicious in any way or I’d recall it. It’s worth having another look, though, don’t you think?”

  Blake was about to put Kenning straight on areas of responsibility in an investigation when his phone interrupted him. It was Kath Cryer. “Boss, just had notification that an old fella was attacked in Port Sunlight yesterday. He was a stone’s throw from the war memorial and the attacker fled leaving a baseball bat behind. A very bloody one.”

  Chapter 9

  Having driven from the Royal Liverpool straight to Arrowe Park Hospital, Blake began to feel that strange sense of weariness that comes with these places. Even though it was some time ago, his body still ached from the punishment he’d taken in Scotland. His ribs were healing slowly but there was something about hospital environments that sucked his energy. Whether it was the constant waiting for things to happen in these places that exhausted him, Blake didn’t know but he stifled a yawn as he made his way to the assessment ward.

  He always got lost in Arrowe Park and wondered who designed hospitals to be so confusing and badly signposted. Or maybe it was just him. A uniformed officer stood outside the ward and Blake felt some relief as he recognised PC Mark Robertson. He was a mature officer with a greying beard and he was a safe pair of hands. Robertson even saluted when Blake approached him.

  “Sir,” Robertson said. “Eric Smith, pensioner. Admitted last night with a serious head injury. Apparently, his dog came trotting out of the Dell in Port Sunlight, trailing its lead and arousing suspicion amongst passers-by. Some youngsters were seen running away from the Dell a few minutes earlier. I haven’t spoken to him yet but the doctor has just said he’s conscious and able to take some questions.”

  “Great, Mark, well done. What was the score on the baseball bat?”

  “Bagged and tagged, sir. It was lying by the victim and had traces of dried blood on it. Just an old copper’s instinct but thought it might have something to do with the memorial killing.”

  “Great work. Hopefully, forensics will tell us if it’s the weapon used on Paul Travis or not. Shall we?” Blake said, gesturing towards Eric Smith’s bed.

  Eric Smith filled the bed, his big round, red face was wrapped in bandages. The right side of his face was a swollen mess of blue and purple. One eye was shut in a painful wink. He looked miserable.

  “Mr Smith, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Blake and this is PC Mark Robertson. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you feel up to it.”

  “What about Toffee?” Eric said.

  “Sorry?” Blake replied.

  “Toffee is fine. She’s with your daughter, Mr Smith, being well-looked after,” PC Robertson said, he glanced at Blake. “Toffee is Mr Smith’s dog.”

  “Ah, right,” Blake said. “So, could you tell us what happened, Mr Smith?”

  Eric Smith blinked and swallowed hard, wincing as he did. “Bloody kids these days,” he said. “Boozing and making a racket. Back when I was a nipper, you lot would have been out on the beat. You’d have clocked this lot and given them a clip round the ear but no… you all swan around in your patrol cars, too scared to get out in case you upset some scally and take away his ‘rights.’ Makes me sick.”

  “It was a gang of teenagers who set about you, then?”

  “Of course it was. They were boozing under the bridge in the Dell. Three of them there were, two little kids and a big ugly bugger. He was throwing cans all over the place.”

  “What time was this, Mr Smith,” Blake said.

  “About five o’clock. I always walk Toffee at that time. Anyway, this big lad threw a beer can on the ground and I told him to pick it up. He gave me a mouthful and I said I was going to take a photograph of him. My grandson showed me how to do it.” His face softened and his good eye glistened. “He’s a good lad. Works hard at school, plays footie with his mates at the weekend. He did a charity bag-pack at Sainsbury’s the other day with the Air Cadets. You don’t see him getting pissed in public and attacking helpless old men.”

  Blake shifted in his seat. “Your grandson sounds like a credit to you, sir. Some kids don’t have a role model like yourself to set them an example. You threatened to take a picture of the lads. How did they react?”

  “How do you think? That was when the big one picked up the baseball bat and hit me with it. One of the other kids panicked then and tried to stop him. He called the big one Bobby…”

  “Bobby,” Blake repeated. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “The name has cropped up before, that’s all. Do you remember anything else about them?”

  “One of the little lads was a carrot-top, the other was a blondie and Bobby was dark-haired, his was cut short round the sides and longer on the top…”

  “A French crop,” Blake said.

  “What?”

  “Apparently that’s what it’s called,” Blake said, blushing. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well I wouldn’t know. He was an ugly bastard, that’s all I know, spotty with a face like a slapped arse.”

  Blake gave Mark a knowing look. “PC Robertson will take a fuller description later but you may have to be a bit more specific than that, Mr Smith. What happened next?”

  “What do you think? The little get smacked me with the bat and I went down. Next thing I know I’m being loaded into an ambulance with a thumping headache. If I ever get hold of the…”

  “We’ll get him, Mr Smith, believe me. It’s a miracle you weren’t more seriously hurt. I promise you, we’ll pick this lad up.”

  “Aye and then what? Tea and biscuits with a social worker? I’d have him flogged in public. Say what you like about these Arab countries but I reckon they’ve got the right idea when it comes to toerags like Bobby whoever he is.”

  Blake stood up. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Robertson. We’ll need to build up a fuller picture of this Bobby if you’re happy to give a detailed description.”

  “I suppose so,” Smith grumbled.

  Blake left, anger boiling in his gut. Generally, he could ride the predictable rants from the older generation about not being tough enough on crime but to hear it from a victim sitting in a hospital bed was particularly dispiriting. He wasn’t angry with Smith, to some extent he could see Smith’s point of view. Often their hands were tied when it came to arresting youngsters and Blake was left wondering what hope these kids had of ever breaking out of a cycle of criminality. Beating them in public wasn’t the answer but then, putting them on an endless merry-go- round of offending and reoffending didn’t seem to help, either. This boy had been mentioned in the context of two very serious crimes. One way or another, Bobby had to be picked up.

  *****

  The Major Incident Room hummed with activity but it had a softer edge to it today. Kath Cryer, Alex Manikas and Vikki Chinn all crowded round a gri
nning DC Andrew Kinnear who held his phone for them all to see. “She’s called Niamh. She’s just under one but has had a difficult start in life. There’s a possibility of some developmental issues but we can’t be certain yet.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” Vikki cooed. “When do you get to meet her?”

  “We’ve got more adoption training sessions but, hopefully, we’ll meet her in the next couple of weeks. Chris is over the moon.”

  “It’s just great that you can give her a loving family,” Kath said. “Think how many kids we meet who have terrible home lives.”

  “What about beer, mate?” Alex Manikas said.

  “I think she’s a bit young for that. Probably warm milk and the odd biscuit…”

  Manikas gave Kinnear a pained smile. “I mean what about us going out for a beer. It’s all well and good giving her a lovely home but not if it completely destroys my social life!”

  “You can make the coffee at the parent and toddler groups, Alex,” Kinnear said, smirking. “You’ll be a smash with all those yummy mummies.”

  Manikas crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at Kinnear who dodged so it flew onward and landed at Blake’s feet. They all turned to look at him and Blake suddenly felt like the schoolteacher who had rumbled a smoking circle behind the bike sheds.

  “Congratulations, Andrew,” Blake said, suddenly feeling awkward. There was so much going on in his head; the case, memories of his own daughter, how fleeting her life had been, his younger self with dreams of what she might do, they all crowded around his head, strangling off what he really wanted to say. And worse still was the ‘understanding’ nods from the team. They all knew about Ellie, his daughter; it was part of the ‘Tragic Story of Will Blake.’ He could see it written on their faces, sympathy, a sense of guilt that they’d brought it all up again in his presence. But the truth was, he wanted to celebrate with them. “A great thing you’re doing there,” he managed to say.