Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  Kinnear smiled and hugged Chris tight. “I face angry bruisers and criminals all the time, but this scares me witless.”

  “If you really don’t think you can go ahead, then that’s fine. It’ll break my heart but I love you. But we aren’t doing this alone and you don’t have to be frightened.

  Chapter 38

  It struck Blake that George Owens’ current predicament summed up the man’s life so far. Dutch courage to help him do something he probably wasn’t going to, a knife he wouldn’t use and a drop that might kill him but, in reality, he didn’t want it to. Owens had been told what to do all his life. He was a half-measures kind of man. Blake didn’t think he’d actually kill himself but people were full of surprises, so he had to be careful.

  “What do you mean, this is all your fault?” Blake said, sitting down a few feet away from Owens. “All what?”

  “The deaths, the state of Pro-Vets. I should have stood up to Paul. I should have said, ‘no,’ a few more times when he went on about expanding the charity all the time.”

  “I’m sorry, George, you’ve lost me. How are those things connected?”

  “Shut up! I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to confuse me.”

  Blake could smell the alcohol even from this distance. “I’m just trying to work out who killed Paul and Quentin, that’s all and you said it was your fault. So, before you throw yourself off the roof, would you mind explaining what the hell is going on?”

  “You’re not meant to talk to me like that,” Owens slurred.

  “Probably not but I’ve had a bad week. I don’t like seeing people dead, and I don’t like chasing homicidal maniacs around the Wirral. So why would you not having the balls to stand up to Travis cause his murder? I’m at a loss, please explain it.”

  “It was Ufford. I don’t know quite where Paul found him but it was him who filled his head with all these ideas, put him in touch with all these faceless companies that slosh money around the charity. ‘Nothing succeeds like success,’ Paul always said, and if you can show potential donors that you’re drowning in cash, then they’re drawn to it.”

  “Really?” Blake looked dubious.

  “Yes, think about it. Who are you going to invest in: some poor little one-man band working out of a wooden hut that’s likely to go under when you’re late with a donation, or a big, swish organisation with good connections and plenty of resources? Which one is likely to give you the best PR boost?”

  “The big one, I suppose,” Blake said. “But it doesn’t make it any more or less deserving. It depends on what good you do, the help you give.” Owens got to his feet, swaying slightly and making Blake wince. For all his talk, the last thing he wanted to see was Owens disappearing over the side.

  “Not according to Ufford. He reckoned that as long as companies can donate, set it against their tax, get a bit of good press, they’re happy. Paul would spout this crap all the time and you could tell where he got it from. Quentin Ufford.”

  “So you’re saying that Ufford introduced Paul to some shady customers.”

  “Damn right that’s what I’m saying and then Ufford started taking money out of the charity. Stealing from us. Paul wanted to sack him. I said that we couldn’t. Imagine the scandal and the embarrassment when you lot looked at the accounts. But Paul was adamant he was going to report Ufford to the police. So they cut his throat,” Owens said. “And when Ufford couldn’t cover his tracks, he got it too.”

  “You said, ‘they’ killed Paul. Who do you mean, George?”

  Owens waved his arms around, making Blake’s stomach lurch. “I don’t know. Whoever runs those shell companies that pour their money into the charity and then syphon it out through cleaners and security. Them. Pro-Vets is ruined. Everything we built up, gone. Donors will pull out the minute they hear about the scandal. All those people let down badly.”

  “So where do you fit into it all, George?”

  “Me? I knew, didn’t I? I never stood up to Paul and then when I did, it was to protect Ufford because I was scared of what would happen to the charity.” Owens waved his arms again and staggered a little.

  “And what about Terry White?”

  Owens looked genuinely puzzled. “What about him?”

  “What’s his connection to all of this?”

  “Dunno,” George opened his arms. “None as far as I know. Why are you talking about poor Terry?” He stumbled again and this time, Blake threw himself forward, dragging Owens down. His feet slid on the smooth metal and he landed with a loud thud. Blake’s stomach lurched as they began to slip towards the edge. He pressed his heels against the roof surface, producing a loud groaning sound. The lip of the roof came closer and Blake could see cars below and a crowd of people. They slowed and he pushed himself back, still gripping Owens tightly.

  “If you so much as twitch, I swear I’ll make sure I land on top of you. I don’t intend to fall off this roof and I’m not going to let you go either. Got it?” Owens’ nodded and sirens sounded in the distance. “If you want to make things right, you’ll make a statement and help us sort this mess out. Now keep absolutely still until the fire brigade get us down.”

  *****

  It was late and, being Friday evening, quiet in the Major Incident Room. A few small groups huddled around computers or shared files. A feeling of expectant tension filled the air as officers prepared for what was likely to be a stressful day tomorrow. The rally was going ahead despite a news conference held by Martin and Hannah Williams announcing that there was no terrorist attack. Some protestors had come to Liverpool a day early and hit the pubs. Already news of scuffles and arrests were beginning to filter back. It seemed like the madness could only get worse as the weekend progressed.

  George Owens had been taken to hospital for observation. Blake sat at his desk with DI Kath Cryer and DS Vikki Chinn. Vikki held a photograph and a file. “It seems that a blue Ford Transit van was spotted outside Terry White’s flat this morning. CCTV picked up a vehicle matching this description passing the Three Stags pub later on. It’s close enough to probably be the same van.”

  “Anyone we know?” Blake said.

  Vikki passed him the open file. “Noel Roscoe, 65, numerous petty offences, theft, shoplifting, drugs, burglary but not recently. I tried the address in his file but he hadn’t been there in a couple of years. A woman said she saw an old man limping out of the gateway to the flats and getting into a blue van. The description she gave matches Roscoe.”

  Kath looked over Blake’s shoulder at the file. “Wasn’t it a blue Transit that was seen picking Terry White up in Raby, sir?”

  “It was, Kath. So we can assume Roscoe picked up Terry White and then, what? Did he steal the keys? He’d have to have been given the address.”

  Vikki nodded. “The officers at the scene said that medication was missing from the flat, didn’t they sir? Anti-psychotics, anti-epilepsy tablets, that kind of thing.”

  “D’you think he went to get the medication for White, sir?” Kath said.

  “Possibly. Or maybe he thought he could nick them and sell them on. There’s a market for that kind of stuff, after all.”

  “But, like you said, White would have to give Roscoe his address,” Vikki added.

  “Could Roscoe be manipulating him, sir?”

  “It’s possible. But I can’t see any obvious link between Roscoe and Ufford or Pro-Vets. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there. One thing is certain, if we can pin down Roscoe, we might be able to catch up with White. Check with ANPR and see if we get any hits on Roscoe’s van.”

  *****

  The events of Wednesday afternoon had left Jeff Blake jittery to say the least. He’d been used to talking to Josh Gambles in prison and that unnerved him enough. But to have Kyle Quinlan roaming free around his back garden, that was like opening the door on the shark cage as a Great White swims past. He knew Gambles was vicious and dangerous but he was confined, with help close at hand. Jeff knew that Quinlan could be just a
s vicious, Gambles had described some of his escapades with Quinlan. Even worse, because of Will’s rather selfish use of Jeff’s garden as a rendezvous, Quinlan knew where he lived now. People used that phrase in a jokey kind of way, ‘I know where you live.’ Everyone laughs because it means nothing. But the idea of Quinlan actually knowing where he lived was another thing altogether.

  On the other hand, part of him, the impulsive, ‘seize an opportunity’ part, realised that this was a chance to get a unique perspective on Gambles. Quinlan and Gambles had been in prison together since they were young, on and off. According to Gambles, they’d been like brothers but that could well be typical Gambles hyperbole, Jeff was sure of it. He could see the life slipping out of the story as he tried to work with Gambles’ self-aggrandising tales. Getting this unique perspective would bring more energy to the book, Jeff was sure of it.

  He’d contacted Laura on the night Will and Quinlan had their confrontation. Partly because he was pumped up by the idea of capturing Quinlan’s voice in the book and partly out of spite. Will had no right to include him in his ridiculous schemes. Laura hadn’t sounded very happy to hear Jeff.”

  “Just hear me out. It’s not about Will at all. It’s about me.”

  “You? And what on earth can I do for you Jeffrey?”

  “Kyle Quinlan said that if I wanted the low-down on Josh Gambles, then I should have a chat with him some time. I’d really like to do that…”

  Laura had laughed, then. “Bloody hell, Jeffrey, do you enjoy winding Will up? He’s going to love that.”

  “Will isn’t writing the book, Laura,” Jeff had said, through clenched teeth. He hated the way his brother crept into any conversation about the book. “Look all you have to do is give him my number. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “All right then.”

  Jeff had paused, leaving the unasked question floating between them.

  “What else do you want, Jeffrey?” Laura said. “You want to know why I split with Will? Why I’m here now? I think you know.”

  “He can be a thoughtless bastard, Laura, I know that. So wrapped up in his work and quick to judge people. So I don’t blame you…”

  “But?” It was almost as if she was testing him.

  “He’s not as bad as Kyle Quinlan, is he?”

  “You’d never understand, Jeffrey. You haven’t come from where I came from. You haven’t lived the kind of life I did. I’d never fit into Will’s world. Never.” There was a moment’s pause and Jeff could sense the regret in her voice.

  “You don’t have to be in either of them, Laura,” he said, before he could stop himself.

  “Look, I’ll pass your number onto Kyle. Maybe he’ll enjoy regaling you with tales of prison life and violence. And I’m sure you’ll lap it up. Goodbye, Jeffrey.”

  Quinlan had phoned him and suggested the Seraph on Friday night and so now he stood outside the pub, steeling himself to enter. He’d been here once before and ended up being bundled into the back of a car with a bag over his head. It was only the fact that Will was his brother that had saved him on that occasion. He hoped Quinlan would just buy him a pint and give him some dirt for the book on Josh Gambles. But you could never tell. The last character who had kidnapped Jeff was Harry Thorpe, a local criminal who had a grudge against Quinlan. Jeff knew the potential for this to get messy.

  Boredom McClague’s face worked through a range of muted emotions when Jeff entered the tiny pub. Jeff recognised a moment of shock, then a little resentment followed by pity which was rather disturbing. The murmur of conversation stopped and the huddled groups and couples all looked at the unlikely figure standing before them in red chinos and a corduroy jacket.

  “He’s in the back room,” Boredom said. “Do you not learn?”

  “Seems not, Mr McClague,” Jeff said with a smile.

  As he passed the bar towards the back door, McClague grabbed his arm over the counter. “Not a word about this pub, do you understand? If any mention of this premises or my name crops up in your book, then you won’t live to enjoy the royalties. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr McClague?”

  “Too right I am. I don’t care if you are Will Blake’s brother. He won’t see you again if you even hint at the existence of this establishment. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Jeff said, trying to keep his voice steady and failing. “I understand, Mr McClague. You and the Seraph will not be singled out. I can keep it vague.”

  “Very vague, please. Mr Quinlan’s waiting for you. Take this pint in for him. You can pay for it later.”

  Chapter 39

  Serafina lay purring in her basket with Charlie curled up almost on top of her. Blake wondered if he’d given her too much sedative because she seemed remarkably calm after her rampage at the surgery. Still, he was relieved to see she had recovered. It had been a frustrating day and the weekend looked to be no more promising, with the pointless protest and still no prospect of finding Terry White.

  The knock on the door took Blake by surprise. It was late and he wasn’t expecting anyone. There was something about the knock itself, too. It was tentative and cautious. Charlie’s ears pricked up but instead of barking, he wagged his tail. Serafina gave a sleepy meow and curled up again.

  Picking up a poker from beside the hearth, Blake edged into the hall. He could see a figure silhouetted against the frosted glass. “Who’s there?”

  “Just open the door, Will, it’s cold out here,” Laura said from the other side of the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Will said, as he pulled the door open.

  “Nice to see you too,” she replied, sweeping past him into the hall. “Where’s Serafina? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. How do you know about…?”

  “Hello, Charlie boy!” Laura said, squatting down and scratching the little dog behind his ear as he tried to leap all over her. “How are you? Has he been looking after you?” She stood up, cradling Charlie in her arms as she did. “One of my clients mentioned a ruckus at the emergency vets involving a big Persian cat. It didn’t take a huge leap of the imagination?”

  “You came to see the cat?” Blake said, unable to disguise the hurt in his voice. “Does Quinlan know you’re here?”

  “He does but he’s not my keeper, Will and he’s learning not to be jealous.”

  “I can’t believe the change in you, Laura…”

  “You preferred me terrified? Was it better when I was running scared, frightened of my own shadow?”

  “No, of course not, but I thought you had some kind of moral compass…”

  “Me? Tell me Will, what would you have said if I’d turned up on your doorstep? Would you have welcomed me with open arms?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’d have ignored the fact that I’d been involved in stealing money and was living off the proceeds?”

  “Well, no,” Blake said, crestfallen. “I thought you’d face up to that. Do your time and then…”

  “Then come back to you penitent and chastened, right? I thought so. Hopefully, that answers your question about why I went back to my own people. You want a humbled, rescued version of me, Will. Can you imagine how I’d be received by your colleagues? This is Laura, she was a criminal once but now she’s seen the error of her ways. I’d never have fitted into your world or at least, I would but it would have been as a dirty little secret, kept at home and never talked about. Would you want to live like that?”

  “But you changed my life. You saved me. Not the other way round,” Blake said. He threw his hands up. “Anyway. You’ve made your choice and I’ve no right to try and stop you. I’m guessing you didn’t come here to start a row. Serafina’s in the living room in her basket.”

  She carried Charlie through and settled him down alongside the cat. “I knew these two would get on. I bet Serafina soon got him in line.” She stroked the cat and Serafina’s purring grew louder.

  “I gave her some s
edative, so she’s a bit soppy at the moment.”

  Laura looked up at him. “Looks like she’s been up to some of her old tricks again. You spending enough time with her?”

  “Ian Youde comes in to walk Charlie and they all keep each other company. I’m working, Laura. On this murder in Port Sunlight, actually,” Blake said, sitting in his armchair. “While I’ve got you, mind telling me what your involvement with Pro-Vets is?”

  Laura gave Blake a mischievous smile. “Purely professional. A lot of their clients benefit from having pets and they have the same training needs as other pet owners. I was also doing some work around sourcing some therapy dogs for them…”

  “Taking a hefty wage, by the sounds of it,” Blake said.

  Laura’s cheeks coloured. “I value my services and I’m trying to build an actual business, Will, rather than a part time hobby job. So, yes, I charge a fee.”

  “Some would call it disproportionate…”

  “I’m worth it. There isn’t a penny of that money that can’t be accounted for, Will.”

  “Which is more than can be said for some of the payments and transactions that have gone through Pro-Vets accounts, I believe.”

  Laura looked down at Serafina. “I imagine all those companies will be vanishing as we speak if they haven’t already disappeared. Whoever was laundering their ill-gotten gains through Pro-Vets will have taken fright, I imagine, what with all the bad publicity it’s been getting. I wouldn’t waste your time chasing ghosts, Will. I’d look much closer to home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, as they say but someone had their fingers in the till.”

  “Quentin Ufford?”

  Laura nodded. “And a friend, I suspect.”

  “Is that why you came here really? Did you want to send me off on a wild goose chase and distract the investigation away from Quinlan’s dirty money flowing through the charity?”