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

“You don’t need to do anything,” Cavanagh said, “apart from keep the fuck away from Caldy and that house. I’m warning you, mate, if I have to go to the Super about this, I won’t hesitate. This could be big.”

“You thinking about your career again, Matty?”

“I’m thinking about the tidal wave of drug-related crime and misery that we might stop if we catch Quinlan before he gets going. If you don’t like that, then go and have a word with Martin yourself. He’ll give you a flea in your ear, too. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got more thinking to do.”

Blake stalked out of Cavanagh’s office. If he couldn’t get any information here, then he knew somewhere he could.

*****

Despite being told to go home, PC Mark Robertson had insisted on accompanying DC Alex Manikas to Harley Vickers’ home address. The boy had information that might explain why PC Robertson had ended the day with a black eye and a headache. Harley was running for a reason.

Harley lived across the A41 from Port Sunlight. These houses were clearly once Lever’s property too but hadn’t been protected in the same way as those in the main village. These houses had been pebble-dashed, double-glazed and extended over the years. Some had small front gardens and others had carports. The Vickers’ house was a small semidetached on a curiously-named road called The Anzacs.

“Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,” Mark Robertson said to Manikas who was frowning at the road sign. “First World War. Must have been named in their honour.”

“Were they the guys who fought at Gallipoli?” Manikas said. “I think I saw the film. God, what a mess, eh?”

“Indeed,” Robertson said. “We don’t know we’re born, do we? You know, part of me hopes these kids weren’t involved in Travis’ murder. I still like to have some faith in future generations.”

A large privet hedge screened the Vickers’ house from the road. Alex and Mark climbed the steps into a small garden with an immaculate lawn and a little Wendy house on one side of the path. It was a semi-detached property with a modern extension to the side that would never have been permitted had the house been built a few hundred yards across the road. It looked well-maintained and tidy. Alex rang the doorbell and glanced at Mark as Greensleeves echoed inside the hall.

“Classy,” Mark said.

A petite woman in her thirties with dark hair opened the door. “DC Alex Manikas, Ma’am,” he said, flashing his warrant card. “This is PC Mark Robertson. Would we be able to talk to Harley Vickers by any chance?”

She looked harassed before they had asked her about Harley but the mention of his name seemed to make the blood drain from her face. “What’s he been up to now?”

“Sorry, Ma’am, your name is?”

“I’m Jane Vickers, his mum,” she said, scowling. “Some days, I wish I wasn’t. What’s he done, then?”

“He ran out of school today and we think he may be able to help us with our investigation,” Alex said. “As far as we know, he isn’t in any trouble. He may have witnessed something, that’s all.”

The woman turned and bellowed up the stairs. “Harley! Get down here now!”

A slight, blond-haired boy appeared at the top of the stairs. When he saw Mark’s uniform, his eyes widened and he vanished out of sight. “Harley! Back here, now!”

“With your permission, Mrs Vickers, could we come in and talk to him?” PC Robertson said. “It might be more fruitful.”

“Fruitful?” Mrs Vickers said, looking confused.

“I mean, better than us standing here while you shout up the stairs,” Mark said, as he glanced up and down the road for effect. “It’ll stop the curtains twitching, too.”

“Come on in,” Mrs Vickers sighed.

Alex and Mark nodded, wiping their feet and squeezing into the tiny hallway. Mark climbed the stairs. Harley’s room was obvious by the huge ‘Keep Out’ sign on the door and the fact that his name was emblazoned all over it. He tapped gently. “Harley, my name’s PC Mark Robertson. I wonder if we could speak with you for a minute. You aren’t in any trouble. We just want a quick word about Bobby Price.” Silence. Mark gave the bedroom door a gentle push and it swung open.

A cool breeze greeted him, wafting a pungent combination of body odour, spray to cover the body odour, and cigarette smoke in Mark’s direction. The room lay empty and the window open. Mark hurried across a floor littered with dirty clothes and poked his head out of the window. Harley was down in the street limping away as fast as he could, his mum screeching at him from the front door.

*****

The Seraph was an old street corner pub in the North End area of Birkenhead trapped between the park and the docks. The area was a strange mixture of Sixties infill buildings, old Edwardian terraces and more modern remodelling. It was an area that had experienced great hardship through the Eighties but was quiet nowadays. These were the old houses of dock workers and the shipbuilders, ravaged in the Blitz and rebuilt. It was a tightknit, friendly community that looked after its own. Many of the corner pubs had gone to the wall in recent years as people took to drinking at home or preloading before going over to Liverpool on a night out.

Shunned even by locals, The Seraph managed to keep going because it had an underworld clientele of its very own. Reviews for it online made it clear it wasn’t the kind of pub you dropped in on unexpectedly and outsiders weren’t to expect a warm welcome. Coppers were even less welcome. And yet, the pub was always quiet. It was a place where criminals came to talk and no crime was tolerated on the premises.

Blake took a breath and pushed on the brass doorhandle, inhaling the heady alcohol-infused atmosphere. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dingy interior of the pub and in