Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  The phone trembled in his hands but there was no reply. “Please. I need help.”

  “I’ll text you the address,” the voice said. “Stand by.” The phone buzzed again and Terry stared closely at the phone. “Come at midnight. Don’t let them follow you.”

  “Okay,” Terry whispered. “Okay, okay, okay.” He lowered himself back and stared into the sky through the canopy of leaves. Soon he’d be safe.

  Chapter 28

  The beeping of Blake’s mobile phone confused him. He was driving along a featureless highway in the dark and somewhere ahead, Laura was trying to get away from him. He wanted to reach out to her except he couldn’t move his left arm and his right cheek felt wet. The beeping of his phone became more insistent. He couldn’t answer it, though, not while he was driving. Louder, it drilled into his aching head, dragging him to wakefulness until he realised he was lying slumped on his sofa in the living room, Serafina perched on his back and Charlie curled up at his feet. The phone lay on the floor alongside several beer bottles and had stopped buzzing before he could pick it up.

  He groaned and slowly eased himself upright, allowing Serafina to slide onto the sofa with an indignant growl. It was light and, outside, a few rowdy seagulls had flown in from the river to perch on Blake’s roof and squabble with each other. His head pulsed. Alcohol wasn’t really Blake’s chosen method of drowning sorrows. Usually, he dived headlong into work but the phone call with Laura had been a punch in the gut, one he didn’t quite understand. Part of him wanted to believe she was doing all this under duress. But maybe he was judging her by his own standards, he realised that now. Her upbringing had been totally different from his. He had a safe childhood; he’d been nurtured and encouraged. She had a tough time and now she believed she didn’t deserve any better. Maybe he should just move on; it wasn’t his job to fix everything in Laura’s life. He had no right to either. And yet the one truth Blake had learnt from Laura was that you can change and leave the past behind. It puzzled him why she couldn’t practise what she preached.

  The phone bleeped again and Blake looked at the text message. A voicemail from Theresa Ollerthwaite. Blake sat up and, without listening to the voice message, phoned Theresa back. A tearful voice answered the phone. “Will, it’s Ian he’s…”

  Blake groaned. “Theresa, I… I’m sorry… I don’t know what to say…”

  “No! He’s awake. He’s fine,” she gave a sobbing laugh. “He wants to talk to you. Won’t settle until he has. He’s threatening to discharge himself if I don’t put you on the phone. Here…”

  There was a rustling and some muttered conversation, then Ian’s voice rang out.

  “Quentin Ufford, sir,” Ollerthwaite said.

  “You okay Ian?”

  “Sorry, yes sir, they’ve got me on some kind of opiate-based painkillers and they’re clouding my thought processes, somewhat. I had a strange dream that I saw the Flying Scot at Crewe Station only it was painted with dazzle camouflage rather like the Mersey Ferry boat. It was most disconcerting and I forgot to note down that I’d seen it…”

  Blake smiled. He was glad the man was alive but even Ian’s psychedelic experiences were somewhat dull. “Ian, it’s so good to hear you’re okay. Theresa said you had something important on your mind…”

  “Yes, it was Ufford. Quentin Ufford, sir, you know the man who does the accounts and maintains all the computers? I wonder why he was on the train. It was a model train too… tiny, tiny train…”

  “Ian…”

  “Sorry, sir. I need to concentrate. Con-cen-trate. Right, when I was looking at the accounts, Ufford was very evasive. Evading me all over the place he was. Evasive. It’s a funny word that, isn’t it, sir?” Ian’s speech slurred a little and Blake wondered how he was going to extricate himself from this conversation until Ollerthwaite was a little more coherent.

  “Maybe I should call back later when your head has cleared.”

  “That’s it you see. It is clear. Clear as a brass bell. Ding, ding! Ufford was withholding information from me. He seems to be claiming thousands of pounds for equipment and travel…” Ollerthwaite began humming ‘Come Fly with Me.’

  “Ian…”

  “Yes! An excessive amount in my estimation. There’s a lot of money sloshing around, too, sir. Donations from offshore companies, and local small businesses. Lots of cash is going out too. In and out. Shake it all…”

  “Are you thinking the charity is being used to launder money or something?”

  “Could be, sir. They spent lots on Lex Price’s security company. Even a payment to a pet psychologist, would you believe it? I mean who sends their dog to a shrink?” Ollerthwaite chuckled to himself for a moment. “Mad dog!”

  Blake caught his breath. “Really? Can you remember the name of the psychologist?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Ollerthwaite said, obviously stifling a yawn. “It just stuck in my head. Don’t know why. I think I’ve overdone it, sir…I’m cream crackered as Kath Cryer would say. Cream crackered! I mean spending a small fortune on a human psychologist but putting your dog on the couch? Madness!”

  “Ian, you’ve been a godsend, get a good rest now.” When he’d said his goodbyes and spoken briefly to Theresa, Blake lowered the phone and stared across his living room. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but if Laura was involved in this, then, in all likelihood, Kyle Quinlan was too. He tapped the phone against his stubbly chin as he thought. If Quinlan was laundering money through the charity, maybe Paul Travis found out. He couldn’t imagine Ufford being able to take Travis down but it was possible if he took him by surprise. Or what if he’d just alerted Quinlan to the fact that Travis knew and let Quinlan do the rest? Maybe Lex Price was involved somehow. He was a big lad and could probably handle Travis. Either way, Quentin Ufford had a few questions to answer.

  Blake turned on his laptop and checked Ufford’s address. He smiled. The man only lived fifteen minutes’ drive away and it was still early. He could call in on Ufford and catch him before he went to work. He hurried upstairs, pausing only to let Charlie out for a toilet stop and then got washed and dressed. The pulsing pain behind his eye had subsided a little and Blake tried to wash it away with a couple of mugs of strong coffee, vowing to lay off drinking on a school night. Charlie and Serafina played the essential role of trip hazards until he fed them. Leaving a note for Ian, he locked the house and jumped into the car.

  Raby, where Ufford lived was a pleasant little village in South Wirral. Blake’s journey took him along the M53 and off at the Clatterbridge hospital exit. He knew this area quite well having cycled around it a lot as a boy. This side of the motorway was more rural, with narrow, hedge-lined lanes and cottages dotted along them. This part of the Wirral seemed more like rural Cheshire and many who lived there often expressed a wish to return to the county rather than be in Merseyside. Raby comprised of a couple of farms, a few houses and a rather nice pub known locally as The Thatch, renowned for its good food and real ales. There were apocryphal tales from older Wirral residents of being snowed-in at this pub and having to spend the night, but Blake struggled to remember a time when the snow could fall so heavily and suddenly to take punters by surprise.

  Quince Cottage was a tiny, thatched, one-storey bungalow on the edge of a field. Blake reckoned there could only be a couple of rooms inside, and maybe a tiny kitchen. It surprised Blake that a young man like Ufford would choose to live out here but then, he hadn’t really got the measure of the man when he first met him. The curtains were drawn and a black Mini sat in the small, gravelled car port at the front of the house. Blake knocked on the front door, hard. If Ufford was asleep, he wanted to startle him and put him off guard. The house lay still, so Blake hammered his fist on the door again.

  Cautiously, he eased open the garden gate and went around the back of the house. The garden at the back was tiny, a postage stamp lawn, a couple of borders and two planters. The back door was locked too. He could see a narrow kitchen area inside that lay in
shadow. A mug sat on the side by the sink. The house was still.

  There were any number of reasons why Ufford might not answer the door. Maybe he went out last night and was staying with friends. He could have dropped his car off first and taken a taxi, easily. Or he could have seen Blake arrive and have decided to lie low. But something gnawed at Blake’s gut. Something was wrong.

  Pressing his nose against the back door window and cupping his hands around his eyes to blot out the light, Blake peered in. On the floor, Blake could just see a hand poking from behind a leather sofa. And it held something green.

  Blake pulled out his phone but a sudden click made him look up. The back door had been unlocked and a huge shadow filled the door. Then it burst open, smacking Blake full in the face and sending him staggering backwards. The figure loomed over him, gripping his lapels and hurling him like a ragdoll across the small garden. Blake felt weightless and held his breath for the impact.

  Chapter 29

  Everything had gone wrong.

  Even as he crept across the Wirral, making his way to the rendezvous point, Terry had felt his mind clearing. The medication started to wear off and everything had clicked into place. His mind wasn’t as foggy. He was on a mission and he had a job to do. He wasn’t certain that the policeman at Pro-Vets had died but if nothing else, Terry had slowed Graves down. He’d have to find another host and Terry reckoned he knew who it would be. A cold fury burned in his gut. Ufford had been a friend but that’s what Graves did. He took your friends from you. It was deliberate and the sooner he was stopped, the better. Sadly, there was only one way to stop Graves.

  Terry hadn’t liked seeing Ufford lying dead in a pool of blood but that was Graves’ fault. Take it up with him. Soon, Graves’ spirit would be trapped in these little plastic soldiers, fragmented and incinerated. It would be over.

  Melting the plastic figure had been tricky but Terry hit upon the idea of using the electric stove. He stood the figure on the ring and switched it on. Watching the little man subside into a puddle of green, bubbling goo had made him laugh a little because it meant a little bit more of Corporal Graves was gone. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. Then Terry remembered who the dead man was, and he felt his heart burst.

  Tears scalded his cheeks and he had slumped into an armchair next to the body. His body shook with grief and once more he lay in that Foxhound armoured car. Thunder roared in his ears and hot metal burnt in his head. Corporal Graves snarled and gripped him as they tumbled over and over into blackness.

  The next thing he knew, it was light and someone was hammering on the door. The policeman was trying to get in. Terry panicked and charged at him, knocking him down but he knew he had to run, so vaulted the fence into the fields behind the cottage.

  Now Terry’s legs burnt with the effort of running on the rough ground. He’d taken a tumble once or twice when his foot went into a rabbit hole but fear spurred him on. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t know who he could trust. They were meant to evacuate him but there was nobody there to save him. Now he was in deep trouble. All he could do was get away from here, lie low and try and work things out.

  *****

  Gasping for breath, Blake staggered to his feet and looked around for the man who had attacked him. The garden was empty and, staring across the fields behind the house, Blake could just about see a distant figure running for the woodland on the other side. It was tempting to set off after him but he knew he needed to secure the scene of the crime first and check inside. Pulling on his gloves and mask, he inched his way into the house. He didn’t want to disturb the crime scene but he had to verify that whoever was lying in the room was: a) dead and b) Quentin Ufford.

  The smell of blood filled what would have otherwise been an unremarkable living room. There was another stink, too, smoky and plastic. Blake backed into the kitchen and looked down at the cooker. A melted pool of plastic covered the hob. Ufford lay on the blood-soaked carpet staring at Blake with empty eyes. He’d been dead for a while as far as Blake could tell. A ragged gash across his throat told Blake all he needed to know.

  He pulled out his phone and called DI Kath Cryer. She sounded as though she was just getting up. “Wow, you’re early, sir, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Kath, listen get a Crime Scene Investigation team down to Quentin Ufford’s house in Raby as soon as possible. He’s been murdered.”

  There was a pause as a thousand questions ran through Kath’s head before she realised that now wasn’t the time for questions. “Will do, sir. I’ll get some uniform over to you right away, too.”

  “Thanks, Kath and get a team to search the fields behind here up towards Thornton Hough. I was attacked by someone who might be the killer…”

  “Was it Terry White?”

  “I think so. We need to warn the public, too. He’s dangerous.” Blake hung up and went outside into the fresh air. His cheek and eye still ached from the impact of the door and his ribs throbbed. He rummaged around in his pockets for the painkillers he’d become accustomed to carrying but was rewarded with an empty blister pack.

  Was that it then? Had all the death and bloodshed been down to Terry White’s psychosis? Somehow Blake wasn’t convinced. All the victims were connected with Pro-Vets, even Richard Ince, who Blake felt convinced was murdered now. Ollerthwaite was actively investigating the charity’s accounts. Paul Travis, given he was the CEO, would have been ultimately responsible for the charity’s finances. It was the attack on Ollerthwaite that struck Blake as odd. It was easy to see how White could become fixated on people he encountered every day at work. Ollerthwaite was a new face, someone different. Why suddenly single him out? There was something not quite right here, as though Blake had two final pieces of the puzzle but they didn’t quite fit together.

  Sirens wailed in the distance and Blake went round to the front of the house to flag them down. One thing was certain, he had to pass the information Ollerthwaite had given him to Cavanagh, along with his suspicions. Quinlan had been right when they met, any involvement by Blake could compromise an investigation. But Blake wasn’t going to stop trying to bring the murderer to justice.

  *****

  DI Kath Cryer wanted to be at Ufford’s cottage helping Blake with the investigation there but she’d managed to get Lex Price to agree to an interview at his house.

  “If Ufford was killed by Terry White, why are we grilling Price again, Ma’am?” Andrew Kinnear said, a little wearily as they climbed out the car.

  Kath grinned. “Leave no stone unturned, Andrew,” she said in a pantomime impression of DCI Blake. She reverted to her own voice. “To be fair, mate, we don’t know for certain that White killed Ufford and I reckon Lex Price is about as shifty as they get. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he was mixed up in all of this.”

  “How did he take it when you said you wanted to talk to him and not Bobby?”

  “He sounded surprised but like the kind of surprised you are when you find your glasses aren’t where you left them or you’re half an hour early for an appointment. Price is spookily calm for a man of his background. He’s exercising a lot of self-control and the only reason he’d do that is because he’s covering something up.”

  “God, let’s just hope he doesn’t lose it while we’re interviewing him,” Kinnear said, his eyes wide and his face pale. There was another reason not to adopt. Imagine Chris breaking the news of Kinnear’s injury or even death to Niamh, their daughter. Imagine turning up at home with cuts and bruises and trying to explain them to the child. He shook himself.

  “Don’t worry, Andy, I reckon he’s on a tight leash. I just wonder who’s holding the other end,” Kath said, ringing the doorbell.

  If Lex Price had murdered Quentin Ufford last night, it wasn’t apparent to Kath. He stood at the door dressed in jeans and a sweater as though he was just heading off for an evening with mates at the pub.

  “Come on in,” he said, once Kath and Andrew had identified themselves. “I’
ve put the dogs out the back so they don’t make a big fuss of you. I can’t stop them jumping up to save my life.” He led them through a tastefully decorated hallway and into an immaculate lounge with leather furniture and a white carpet. Kath resisted the urge to check the soles of her feet before stepping on it. The words ‘forensically clean’ popped into her head unbidden. She glanced at Kinnear and saw her thoughts reflected in his eyes. This house screamed ‘control.’ Kath doubted Price tidied the house personally but she imagined an army of cleaners came in on a very regular basis.

  “You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Lex Price said, without a hint of humour.

  “I was just thinking how incredibly tidy your house is,” Kath replied, “compared to mine, anyway.”

  “Yeah, it looks… very tidy,” Kinnear added, glancing round.

  “Take a seat,” Lex said, lowering himself into a huge armchair. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

  Kath sat down next to Kinnear on the sofa. “There’s no easy way to say it, Mr Price, so I’ll come out with the question. Were you aware that your daughter, Layla, had been in a relationship with Paul Travis?”

  Lex’s jaw clenched and the bald skin on the side of his head rippled and he fought with his emotions. “Yeah,” he said, quietly, “I knew.”

  “You can see how that might colour our investigation into his death. Your son had possession of the murder weapon and knew Layla was seeing Travis…”

  “Bobby didn’t kill Paul Travis. He tried to use the information to blackmail his sister. When she told him to sling his hook, he came whining to me, didn’t he?”

  “And what was your reaction?”

  Price paused for a beat. “Well I wasn’t best pleased, was I?”

  “You were angry about Layla, then?”

  “No, don’t be daft. She’s a big girl. Travis was a bit of a big head but I knew he’d get tired of her. What really pissed me off was Bobby being such a weasel. I dunno where I went wrong with that lad, honestly. Imagine grassing up your own sister.”