Death's Cold Hand

by J. E. Mayhew

  “And yet Ince’s suicide note looks to have been forged,” Blake said. “Keep it quiet for now, Vikki but ask a few discreet questions around Pro-Vets. See if you can build up more of a picture of Terry White. Is his counsellor helpful?”

  “She’s disclosed quite a lot, sir but she’s rightly worried about confidentiality. I can try and push her on giving us more information, sir, if you want me to.”

  “See what you can do, Vikki,” Blake said, looking down at the file on Ince. “If push comes to shove, we’ll get a warrant. Meanwhile, I’ll go and have a word with Cavanagh.”

  *****

  How anyone could work in such a tip of an office, George Owens didn’t know but Quentin Ufford almost made the mess a point of pride. Owens seemed to recall a poster on the wall that read: ‘A Tidy Office is the Sign of a Diseased Mind,’ but it had long been hidden behind the piles of books and files that seemed to cover every inch of desk surface, seat or even floor. Some of them weren’t even anything to do with work. There was a whole filing cabinet top dedicated to fantasy paperbacks, so dogeared and yellowed that George wondered if anyone had read them in decades. At the centre of this maze of paper towers sat Ufford at his desk, the surface of which had disappeared long ago. There was room for the screen, keyboard and mouse, nothing more. Several cups perched on top of books and files, indicating the man’s total disregard for the importance of what he was doing.

  Ufford slouched in his seat, his rounded shoulders and large belly giving Owens the impression that he’d been poured into the seat rather than sat in it. “Well?” Owens snapped.

  “Well what?” Ufford snapped back. “Okay, so you were right. He’s more thorough than I expected him to be. Listen, I think it might be too late…”

  “What?”

  “It’s not like I can just delete accounts. That’ll be as obvious as a signed confession…”

  “Look, right now, our partners and supporters are sympathetic. Our CEO is a victim of some cruel, random act of violence. Murder is one thing but the moment they get wind of any financial irregularity, this charity is sunk. Right now, you’re that close to dismissal. And in case you’re thinking you could pick up another role easily, forget it; this shit sticks and the smell follows you around, Quentin. Get it sorted.”

  “It isn’t that easy, George. There’s a half-covered trail of money going in and out of Pro-Vets and Ollerthwaite is onto it. It might be too late.”

  “It’s never too late, Quentin. Do something. Make a call.”

  *****

  On reflection, Blake thought, he should have realised that someone as thin-skinned as Cavanagh would take any question about one of his past cases as a criticism. Going into his office holding the file and launching into a series of questions might have been a bit over the top. But Cavanagh was sitting there with his feet on the desk again and it wound Blake up no end.

  “I know what this is about, really. It’s your bit of stuff, isn’t it?” he said, his cheeks reddening.

  “If you’re talking about Laura, then, no, it isn’t about her. I’m trying to find out who killed Paul Travis…”

  “Then what the hell are you looking at one of my past cases for, if not to trip me up and make me look bad.”

  “Okay, Matty, two things: one, I’m investigating the death of Richard Ince because it has a number of connections with that of Paul Travis. Two, if you’re so touchy about this case, then you must know it was a ropey one from the start.”

  “There’s nothing ropey about it. Richard Ince took a heroin overdose deliberately. He left a note…”

  “Not written in his handwriting. He didn’t even have a history of drug abuse…”

  “First timers often get the amount wrong…”

  “Then how would he even know the right amount to kill himself with unless he had help from someone with experience or medical knowledge?”

  Cavanagh pursed his lips, stuck for words for a moment. “Anyway,” he said at last. “What’s it got to do with the Travis case?”

  “Travis was found with a plastic toy soldier in his hand.”

  “Shit,” Cavanagh hissed. “Look I didn’t know. It all looked nice and tidy to me. There were no objections raised at the time…”

  “Terry White had something to say.”

  “That head the ball? He’s a nutter. Can you imagine me going to the Super, ‘erm, sorry boss, we’ve just looked into an obvious suicide, but a brain injured friend of the deceased reckons he was done in by the ghost of his dead corporal?’ Do me a favour.”

  “There could be a nugget of truth in what he says…”

  Cavanagh gave a bitter snort. “The only nugget there would be the nugget who tried to launch an investigation based on the testimony of Terry White. He’s a fruit loop! If anything, his insane conspiracy theory convinced me there was nothing suspicious at all.”

  “And you didn’t think to assess whether or not White was dangerous?”

  “No. You’ve met him, I take it? He may be a big fella but he wouldn’t harm a fly,” Cavanagh snapped. He shook his head. “Nah. This is all about you, this is, Will. Your piss is boiling because I warned you off the Quinlan case and you’re trying to make some kind of point. Take it higher for all I care. Just do your job and let me do mine.”

  “I intend to, Matty. I intend to.”

  *****

  Nobody had mentioned a drill and so when the fire alarm began to scream at Pro-Vets, DC Ian Ollerthwaite stood up to investigate. It was at that same moment that the door exploded inwards, sending books and files flying from the shelves on the wall beside it. A giant of a man filled the room and stared blankly at Ian.

  “Graves,” he said, picking Ollerthwaite up before he could register what was happening. The room whirled around him and then he was weightless, flying through the air. A sudden stab of pain shot up his back as he crashed into the desk, sending his laptop spinning away. He tumbled over behind the desk and tried to scramble to his feet, but the man was on him again, punching and punching him in the face.

  Ian heard a crack, but it was inside his head and he felt warm, wet blood smear his cheek. Something had broken. In desperation, he swung his fist down on the side of the man’s head, sending him staggering back. But he launched forward with renewed ferocity, snatching up a landline phone and cracking Ian with it hard. Stars exploded in front of him, and he couldn’t see but once again he was being thrown through the air. He landed heavily on his side, the breath punched from his body by the hard ground and his arm burned with pain. He tried to stand but couldn’t. The man stood over him, he could see his boots, smeared with blood and Ian wondered if this was the last thing Paul Travis saw.

  He suddenly felt calm but a little sad. Was this how he ended his life? He thought of his wife, Theresa and his son Joey who loved watching the trains with him. If he had the strength, he’d get up. But DC Ian Ollerthwaite could do little other than let darkness take him.

  Chapter 25

  It was an adventure, Blake supposed, that was the reason Madge looked so excited at being asked to make the call. Or maybe it was the romance. The gossip about Blake and Laura seemed to have leached down to reception and he was left wondering just how far beyond the building it had gone.

  “Don’t forget, Madge, you mustn’t tell a soul about this,” Blake said, the words sounding pathetic the minute they left his lips. Of course, everyone would be hearing about this eventually. Madge wouldn’t let a good bit of ‘goss’ go to waste.

  “You know me, Will,” she said, winking.

  “Okay, so here’s the number. Can you remember what you’re going to say?”

  Madge looked hurt. “Will, I’m a professional. I do this for a living. What do you take me for?”

  Blake just smiled and watched as she dialled the number. He knew that Superintendent Martin would skin him alive if he found out that he was trying to contact Laura but, as Blake had pointed out, it would look downright odd if he didn’t make some kind of attempt. This seem
ed the best way without rousing any suspicions. But deep down, Blake just had to know what Laura was thinking. The idea she could just ditch him for Quinlan was torture. He needed to know why.

  “Hello? Is that… Laura?” Madge said. Blake had to admit, she was brilliant. “Yes, it’s my dog, he keeps barking incessantly and I’m at my wits’ end.” The conversation went on. Blake could just about hear Laura’s voice and he felt a weight in his chest. He just wanted to snatch the phone and speak to her but there was always the danger she’d hang up. He needed to see her in person and find out what the hell was going on. Madge continued talking. “I’m at work at the moment, would you be able to come around seven tonight? You would? Lovely…” She left Laura with the address Blake had given her and hung up.

  “Perfect,” Blake said. “I owe you a bottle of fizz, Madge, thank you.”

  Madge coloured a little. “Oh, give over. You just tell me how you get on.”

  “I will,” Blake said but he didn’t think he’d have any good news for Madge in the short term. His phone rang. “Kath? Where are you?”

  “I’m at Arrowe Park Hospital sir,” Kath Cryer said. “It’s Ian...”

  *****

  In the busy hospital with nurses and doctors hurrying back and forth, the side ward felt like another world, silent and shaded. Although DC Ian Ollerthwaite sat upright in bed, he was unconscious, his arm plastered and bandages wrapped around most of his head. Theresa, his wife, sat at his side, holding the tips of his fingers. She was a short woman with ringlets of mousey brown hair and sharp blue eyes. Blake would have said that she was a few years younger than Ian but then, Ian always seemed a hundred years older than everyone else. Although her face was lined with worry now, there was a softness and kindness about it. Blake could tell she was used to laughter and smiles. He felt a tug of guilt that he knew nothing about Ollerthwaite’s personal life and had never asked. And now he was meeting Theresa for the first time over the drips and monitors attached to her husband. Ian’s face was purple with bruises.

  “Theresa, I’m DCI Will Blake. Ian’s on my team. I’m so sorry this has happened. Believe me, we’ll get whoever did this. How is he?”

  Theresa Ollerthwaite gave a brief smile. Her voice was subdued. “Broken arm and ribs. He punctured a lung, too. And then…” she waved her hand around the bruised face. “There’s quite a lot of trauma around his head. Hopefully there’s no permanent damage.” Her face creased briefly and she scrubbed a tear from her cheek.

  “If there’s anything we can do, anything at all,” Blake said, feeling powerless. What could he do? Heal her husband?

  “Is this to do with the case he was working on?” Theresa said. “Was it the murder in Port Sunlight?”

  “It was. I’d asked Ian to go through the books at the Pro-Vets charity. Given that he was attacked by a member of the Pro-Vets staff, I’d say it’s a strong possibility that there’s a link. Did he say anything to you about it?”

  She shook her head. “Ian never tells me anything confidential about his work but I piece things together from what he does say. All I gathered was that the staff weren’t being very cooperative.”

  “That’s useful in itself. We can look into that, too.” Blake paused, uncertain whether to reveal any more detail. “The man who we think attacked Ian wasn’t very well. He had mental health issues and an acquired brain injury. I’m not certain it was malicious, Theresa…”

  “Malicious or not, he needs catching, doesn’t he?”

  “We’ll do that, I promise.”

  *****

  Cars blared their horns as Terry White staggered across the road. There was blood again, everywhere. It seemed like he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. The sky above was red with it, spinning round as though he was on a merry-go-round. Seagulls screamed at him and swooped. When he threw his hands up to defend himself, he bumped into people who yelled or screeched wordless abuse. His heart thumped in his chest and sweat soaked the back of his shirt under his overalls.

  Graves had agents who could pick him up at any moment. He needed to get away from the town and under cover of trees or bushes but where? Terry ran his fingers through his hair and tried to gather his thoughts. Bidston Hill, that would do for a start. If he could get there, he could hide out for a while and decide what to do. He’d disabled Graves for the moment but he didn’t think he’d finished him. It would mean living rough for a while, keeping his head down but he could do that. Survival. That’s what he did best.

  *****

  Although the fire alarms had stopped and people had been allowed to go back inside, all work had stopped at the Pro-Vets offices and workshops. George Owens’ office where Ollerthwaite had been working was taped off and crime scene investigators were photographing and picking through the mess. DC Alex Manikas sat in the office next door with Quentin Ufford who looked visibly shaken.

  “I spoke to Terry just before the alarm went off. He seemed agitated,” Ufford said. “He was pacing back and forth and muttering about George. He said something else I couldn’t quite understand. Something to do with graves.”

  “Would you normally talk to Terry White?”

  “No but like I said, he seemed wound up about something. I don’t know what it was, though.”

  “What did he say about George Owens?”

  Ufford looked as though he was trying to make sense of a complex puzzle. “He said something like Owens knows what to do or Owens knows what he wants me to do. I’m not sure what he meant but he walked away before I could reason with him. I went to talk to George because I was concerned but then the alarm went off.”

  Alex looked up from his notes. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt as though Ufford wanted to say more but was holding back. “Had White had any interaction with DC Ollerthwaite before the attack to your knowledge?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I spend most of my time with computers, not people. I hardly knew Terry, really.”

  “And yet you stopped to talk to him…”

  “I was worried. He didn’t look right. Anyone would, yes,” Ufford said and glanced out through the office window for a second and then leaned forward. “Look, I’m no psychiatrist but, I couldn’t help noticing his strange behaviour, especially recently.”

  “How recently, Mr Ufford?”

  “I’ve said too much, already. The poor guy is probably…”

  “That ‘poor guy’ just put one of my friends in hospital, sir. What did you mean, behaving strangely and when did you first notice it?”

  “Just the muttering and stuff. He’d point at people but a weird kind of pointing with two middle fingers or his two index fingers pressed together. He’d say things under his breath as though he was… I dunno… casting a spell or something. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

  “No, it might be useful, Mr Ufford. Thank you. How long had you noticed this happening?”

  “A good few weeks ago, but it escalated and then…”

  “Go on.”

  Ufford rubbed his face. “He used to do the pointing thing at Paul Travis a lot, that’s all. And then he was off the day after Paul, you know… was killed, it all just seemed a bit odd to me…”

  “Are you suggesting that Terry White might have killed Paul Travis?”

  “God, I feel terrible when you say it out loud like that. I dunno, do I? I’m just saying what I observed, that’s all.”

  “How come you didn’t mention this before now?”

  “Because you don’t do you? You never think someone you work with might be a killer. Or point at someone with a brain injury and say, I bet it was him. You just don’t. I’m sorry.” Ufford put his head down and steadied his breathing.

  “That’s all right, Mr Ufford. It’s not easy for any of us.”

  Ufford looked up. “It was George he listened to the most. Not that head shrinker, what’s her name? Nicola. George was the one who could persuade him to do anything. If George had been there, he would have stopped it, believe me. Your mate w
ouldn’t be hurt so badly, now.”

  Chapter 26

  Given that they were so close, Blake had gathered his team in a meeting room at Birkenhead police station just behind the Town Hall and Magistrates Court on Hamilton Square. DI Kath Cryer sat next to DC Andrew Kinnear as usual and DC Alex Manikas sat with DS Vikki Chinn. A number of uniformed officers joined them too. It was a long, echoey room with a large window covered by old strip blinds that didn’t keep the Spring sunshine out very well. Blake felt like he was back in a school classroom.

  “I know you’ll be as worried as me about Ian Ollerthwaite. I ’ve been to see him and his wife at Arrowe Park and he’s stable at the moment. He took quite a beating. What’s the update on Terry White, Kath?”

  “We’ve got officers searching for him, sir. Last sightings had him heading out of town towards Bidston. We suspect he might be trying to hide out around the hill.”

  “We followed up the leads that Counter terrorism gave us, sir. There was no way Paul Travis’s murder was a terrorist attack.”

  Alex raised a hand. “I had an interesting conversation with Quentin Ufford. He said White had been acting suspiciously for some time now and a lot of his strange behaviour was targeted at Paul Travis.”

  Blake looked over to Vikki. “You have your concerns about White, don’t you Vikki?”

  DS Chinn nodded. “Yes, sir. White has an acquired brain injury but, whether because of that or the trauma, he also suffers from Fregoli Delusion. It’s a condition that leaves the sufferer thinking that a particular person can take on many identities. White’s particular take on this is that an old corporal who used to bully him, a guy called Graves, has returned from the dead and is possessing people he knows, trying to ruin his life…”

  “Did you say Graves?” Alex asked, flicking through his notebook. “Ufford said something about White going on about… ah, here we are: ‘Something to do with graves’ were his exact words.”