Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  “This way,” Jones said, leading Blake through the door into the warehouse area. “So, upstairs, we have offices, we can have a chat there in a minute but through here are the food bank and workshops.”

  They stood in a large warehouse with a high ceiling. Tables laden with different kinds of food, packets, tins, dessert, savoury products, and a table for fresh produce. A small army of people hurried around, filling bags and boxes. “You’ve caught us at a busy time, we’re getting ready for the rush.”

  “This can’t all be for people who were in the forces, surely.”

  “No. Our aim is to provide useful roles and positions for ex-servicemen and women who might have fallen on hard times or are in need. The food bank is for anyone who needs it. There’s Dave Jones supervising the sorting. I think Barry is out on a delivery.”

  They walked over to Jones who stood giving directions to a big man with a blank face. “Put these with the other cans, Terry, okay?”

  Terry looked blankly for a moment then nodded. “Yes.” He picked up the box and marched over to the table. Blake noticed a pale scar across the back of his head, barely covered by the baseball cap he wore. Dave shook his head.

  “Dave, this is DCI Blake. I don’t need to tell you why he’s here. Problem, Dave?” George Owens said, looking concerned.

  Jones laughed. “Nah. Just Whitey, there, God love him. He seems to be getting worse at following directions.” Jones’ smile faded. “Looked at me blankly when I asked him if he’d had a good weekend. I do think he needs more help.”

  “We’ll have a chat with him and Nicola. Maybe we need to find something else for him to do,” George muttered. He turned to Blake. “Not breaking any confidences, Inspector but some of our vets have very specific difficulties. The TV programmes might show you the guys who have lost a limb charging around a basketball court in a wheelchair, but you don’t always see the Terries of this world. Acquired Brain Injury from an improvised explosive device. Changed his personality. Difficult man but we wouldn’t turn our back on him.”

  Blake nodded. “That’s admirable. This must cost a fortune to run all this support…”

  “It’s a constant headache,” Owens agreed, walking across the cavernous space. “We have all kinds of charitable events and I spend most of my time searching for grants or preparing bids for them.” He opened another door and Blake found himself in a busy workshop where circular saws whined, and the sound of hammering battered at his ears. Work benches filled this room and people leaned over them, making and cutting. “Here we make garden furniture, birdboxes, anything we can sell, really and our clients learn business skills as well as a practical trade.”

  “It seems like quite a set-up,” Blake said. “And all this was Paul’s vision?”

  “And mine,” Owens said, a little defensively. “We left the army six years ago and set up with a grant. We built it from there. Paul’s mother died, leaving some money which he ploughed into Pro-Vets. Everything we earn goes back into the business.”

  “And you take a wage, I presume,” Blake said.

  “A modest one and the supervisors do too. We have to live, Inspector…”

  Blake held his hands up. “It wasn’t a criticism. You provide a valuable service. I can see that and as you say, without a wage, you couldn’t do it.”

  Owens smiled. “I’m glad you feel that way. There are some who don’t. Usually, people who don’t volunteer themselves. I’m not sure how they expect things to get done. I’ll take you back up to the offices. We have some counselling suites up there that get quite a lot of use…”

  “It’s a proper wrap-around service then?” Blake said as they headed across the warehouse and back upstairs.

  “We do socials too, outdoor pursuits weekends, family respite breaks, all kinds of things. I sometimes think we’re too thinly spread but Paul, well, he wanted to do everything.”

  “Did that cause tension between you?” Blake said as they entered an office with two desks that, again, felt cramped. A huge rump covered in rather stretched brown fabric stuck out from under one of the desks.

  “Quentin, what are you doing?” George said, stepping over the man’s legs to get to his own desk.

  Quentin reversed himself, bumping into Blake’s legs as he tried to manoeuvre into a standing position. He was a large man with a mop of unruly brown hair, a straggly chin beard and horn-rimmed glasses. His face was red, and he looked sweaty and flustered.

  “Sorry… sorry… I was just fixing a cable on Paul’s computer. H-he complained about it last week and I was going to get it fixed but… so I…” Quentin’s voice faded to silence. “Don’t suppose I need to now,” he said, bluntly.

  “Probably not, Quentin,” George said. “Inspector Will Blake, this is Quentin Ufford, our Accountant and IT technician. He keeps the books straight and fixes all the glitches in our hardware and software …”

  “Will Blake,” Quentin said, grinning. “Tyger, tyger burning bright…”

  Blake gave a brief, pained smile. “That’s right. Carry on.” If he had a quid for every time someone had quoted poetry at him, he’d never have to work again.

  Ufford’s face fell. “I don’t really know any more. I was just making a joke… Your name… you know… it’s…”

  “Also the name of a famous poet,” Blake said. “I know that, Mr Ufford. My English teachers used to love reminding me. I felt obliged to smile then.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’ll just…” Ufford bustled out of the room, shutting the door noisily behind him.

  “Sorry about that,” George Owens said, wincing. “He’s a good lad. Paul hired him as an accountant a few months ago. But he proved to be a whizz on computers too. He really does keep this place running. It’s all computers these days.”

  “Paul sat here,” Blake said, looking at a photograph of Rachel and Danielle on the desk Quentin had been rummaging underneath.

  Owens nodded and gave a tight smile. “He did. I haven’t touched anything yet. Plenty of time for that.” The stocky man sat down at his desk and indicated that Blake should take the seat that leaned against the wall. It looked small and rickety, but he lowered himself onto it. “In answer to your question, Inspector, Paul and I did have our differences about the direction of the service, but we always resolved them amicably.”

  “I see,” Blake said. “You said before that the only waged people on the team were the supervisors. Who are they?”

  “Myself, Paul, obviously. Then Dave Jones, he supervises the foodbank and Barry supervises the deliveries and collections. Nicola Norton is a part time psychologist who does our counselling, and we pay her by the session. Sasha Hughes is our receptionist. Quentin gets a wage. Everyone else is a volunteer.”

  “So the majority of people who are paid by Pro-Vets were out at the Bridge Inn the night Paul was killed.”

  “They were,” Owens said, nodding sadly. “If only we’d persuaded Paul to take a taxi with us. Things would have turned out differently.”

  “It’s funny you should say that, Mr Owens,” Blake said. “Because I wanted to explore something in a little more detail. My team interviewed Mr Davies and Mr Jones and they both said that you didn’t take the taxi but that you walked to get the train, and apparently this is a common occurrence. Would you mind explaining?”

  *****

  Detective Sergeant Vikki Chinn had commandeered one of the meeting rooms so that she could spread the files regarding the death of Richard Ince across the tables. Although she could understand why Blake had wanted to keep an open mind, she shared Manikas’ feeling that it was more than just odd. Kenning was a pain in the arse but that didn’t mean that he was wrong every time.

  She frowned at the photograph of Richard Ince. He was a big man with a flat boxer’s nose and a gentle smile. She the thought she could see a sadness in his eyes. Vikki thought he looked familiar somehow, but she couldn’t think why.

  Alex Manikas appeared at the door. “Mind if I come in, Sarge?”

&n
bsp; “Of course, aren’t you phoning schools asking if they have a pupil called Bobby?” Vikki said, grinning. She liked Manikas, not just because he was easy on the eye with his dark, brooding Mediterranean looks but he was quiet and thoughtful. He was a good copper too.

  Alex rolled his eyes. “Kath and Andrew are out on that gig at the moment. I’m coordinating door-to-door. Just thought I’d look in before I went. Have you found anything?”

  “Just started, really. Nothing remarkable yet. Richard Ince aged thirty-five, worked in a local Asda, happy-go-lucky guy on the face of it. Found dead in the bath. He’d been drinking heavily that night, but it was an overdose of heroin that killed him. He left a suicide note. The only link I’ve found with Travis apart from the toy soldier in his hand is that he went to Pro-Vets for counselling.”

  “So he must have been having mental health problems, then, Sarge” Alex conceded. “Who was the counsellor?”

  Vikki flicked through the file. “Nicola Norton. She made a statement to say that Ince was depressed and having flashbacks from his time in Afghanistan. He had been to the doctor for antidepressants but hadn’t talked about harming himself. She adds that it saddened her to hear the news but didn’t surprise her.”

  “Any sightings before he killed himself?”

  “He was drinking heavily with someone in the local pub. According to the notes, regulars thought he was an old army pal, but they’d never seen him before. There’s no description but I get the impression that it was seen as an open and shut case. No evidence of a struggle, history of mental health problems and excessive drinking. A hint from a professional that he might have been heading that way.” Vikki shrugged.

  “Worth talking to this Nicola Norton, though, eh, Sarge?”

  Vikki thought for a second. “Yeah. It is.”

  Chapter 12

  George Owens didn’t look particularly surprised. He just sat back in his chair and sighed a little as though irritated at being caught out so quickly. “I didn’t get in the taxi that night, but I didn’t kill Paul. I wouldn’t. He was my friend…”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that a lot of murders are committed by friends, Mr Owens?” Blake said. “It looks very suspicious, to be perfectly honest. You were one of the last people to see Paul Travis alive and you’ve lied about where you were on the night in question.”

  Owens held up a hand. “Yes, yes I know but it’s not what you think…”

  “Tell me what it is exactly, then,” Blake said. “It better be good; perverting the course of justice is a serious offence.”

  “I can’t. Look, I went up Bolton Road and got the train. I never meant to hinder the investigation. It makes no difference.”

  “It makes a huge difference, Mr Owens, why do that when there’s a taxi already waiting to take you home?”

  “I don’t know,” Owens said, reddening and looking at the desk. “Maybe I just didn’t like the idea of sharing a taxi with Barry. He was going to be sick. I was sure of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Owens, but why lie about it?”

  “Because I knew if I said that, it would get back to the others and I didn’t want to upset Barry.” Owens looked up at Blake.

  “Really? Your best friend is brutally murdered and the first thing you think about is not hurting Barry Davies’ feelings?”

  “Please,” Owens said pressing his hands on the desktop and leaning forward. “Yes. Well, no. I just didn’t want there to be any ill will between us at this difficult time…”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Owens, but that sounds like a feeble excuse. Firstly, they told me that you were in the habit of walking up to get the train. Surely they would have questioned why you did that.”

  A hopeful look spread across Owens’ face. “If you know that I never get a taxi with the others, then you know that I was walking up to get a train.” Blake wondered if Owens ever played poker. He hoped not. The man would have given his hand away in seconds.

  “If you had told me where you went in the first place, then I might have been less suspicious. But if you walked up Bolton Road, you could easily have diverted and met Paul at the memorial. The fact that you lied to me doesn’t make any of this look good for you.”

  “I just caught a train.”

  “We can talk about that later, along with asking staff for that night if they saw you, looking at CCTV at the station and appealing to the public for any witnesses to the fact you were where you say you were. Right now, I need you to accompany me to the station and provide a DNA sample, so we can check the murder weapon and the body for any traces.”

  “You’ve found the murder weapon?” Owens said, going pale.

  “We think so, yes. We’re following a number of lines of enquiry,” Blake leaned forward. “Now, come with me and if you tell me you’re busy, I’ll arrest you for obstruction and perverting the course of justice, right?”

  *****

  Although History was probably the only lesson Harley Vickers was allowed to attend, he couldn’t concentrate today. There was too much going on. Whispers in the corridor about Bobby Price and Alfie. People laughing or scowling at him.

  Normally, he’d be hanging on Mr Lowry’s every word. The History teacher had a way of bringing the past to life that Harley loved, and he didn’t patronise or try to threaten Harley like other teachers did. Most lessons went badly for Harley, he’d say something or someone would say something to him, then the teacher would get involved and it was Harley who got sent to the Remove Room. Then, because he’d missed the last lesson, he’d be confused about where he was up to and get into trouble for not knowing things that he’d never been taught. It was a vicious circle, and the Remove Room had a revolving door.

  Mr Lowry was different. Maybe it was because he was older. Some of the younger teachers seemed to have decided that Harley was a troublemaker as soon as they met him; before if they’d been told what a nuisance he was by other teachers. They saw him as a threat to good order that had to be neutralised immediately. Harley suspected that some of the younger teachers were a bit frightened of him, too. He could see it in their eyes. To them, he was like an unexploded bomb just waiting to go off, so they may as well just cut the red wire and be done with it. There was none of that with Mr Lowry. The first thing Mr Lowry had done was ask after Harley’s dad. Apparently, Mr Lowry had taught him way back. He told Harley that his dad was a gifted student and he made a bet with Harley that he would be too. That wasn’t to say that Harley had never had trouble in Mr Lowry’s class, but he was always fair and even-handed and Harley respected that. Today was different, though. Today there was a distraction outside.

  They had all piled into the classroom and Mr Lowry had given one of his weary, disappointed looks that meant that they all had to go back out and come in sensibly. Barely a word was said but they knew the drill. They’d all lined up outside the classroom and come in quietly. There was some argument between Pavel and Dominick about who sat where but Mr Lowry’s brow furrowed slightly, and the two boys settled their differences quickly enough.

  Harley had really enjoyed the first part of the lesson, Mr Lowry had told them the story of Arch-Duke Franz Ferdinand getting blown up and made a joke about a pop group who had the same name but nobody had heard of them so it didn’t work. He’d made this kind of chain puzzle that linked the events to the start of the First World War.

  “It’s a bit like gangs, isn’t it, sir?” Harley said.

  Mr Lowry folded his arms and leaned on the desk, looking quizzically at him. “How do you mean, Harley?”

  “Well, like, if my lads said they’d watch out for Dominick’s chair and then Pavel took it, so we waded in…”

  “I’d give you a fat lip, you skinny whelp!” Pavel always came up with these weird insults.

  “He’s just using you as an example, Pavel…”

  “I’ll make an example of him, sir.”

  “And if you do, I’ll have to refer you to the Remove Room, won’t I?”

  “That’s es
calation, sir,” Harley said, breaking the tension.

  “Brilliant, Harley. It is. One comment led to a threat which led to an intervention. Not quite how the First World war got started but a good demonstration of how things get out of hand. It could have got nasty but you’re both civilised gentlemen, right?”

  Harley grinned and Pavel pulled a face that made everyone laugh. For the first time since Harley had seen the old man knocked down, he felt okay. Until Dominic spoke up. “Is that one of your lads out there, Harley?”

  Mr Lowry’s room looked out onto the front of the school and there was Price, hanging around the perimeter fence.

  “Is that Bobby Price?” Mr Lowry said, squinting through the dirty window.

  “Yes, sir,” someone said. “He’s waiting for Harley.”

  “No he isn’t. Shut up,” Harley snapped, slumping down in his chair.

  “Someone told me he’s after Harley,” a girl at the back said in a quiet voice.

  Harley turned round in his chair. “He’s after your ma, you stupid cow.”

  “Okay, Harley, steady now,” Mr Lowry said. “Let’s not spoil things. I’ll ring the office and see if a member of staff is free to go and have a word with Bobby. A lad his age shouldn’t be hanging around the school gates.”

  Mr Lowry disappeared through the door that led into the faculty office and the phone. Dominic leaned back in his chair and whispered to the girl who had shouted out before. “Bobby killed that guy; you know, the soldier on the war memorial on Port Sunlight. He’s a psycho…”

  “Who told you that?” Harley said, scowling at Dominic.

  “Everyone knows. Is it true?”

  Harley groaned. Bloody Alfie Lewis had been blabbering about it. “No. It isn’t. Bobby’s probably heard that you’ve been spreading rumours about him and has come to do you in.”

  “Do you in more like,” Pavel said. “I heard you grassed him up.”

  “Cheeky bastard!” Harley yelled and launched himself across the classroom, grabbing Pavel by the throat.