Death's Cold Hand by J.E. Mayhew (kiss me liar novel english txt) 📗

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