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

“I see,” Vikki said, glancing again at Nicola in despair. “How have you done that?”

White grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “A special kind of voodoo. Soon he’ll be finished and I won’t have to worry about him ever again. Nobody will.”

Vikki nodded. “Thank you again, Mr White. I’ll let you get back to your work. They must be missing you by now.”

Terry White nodded but the smile still clung to his face and he opened the door with trembling hands. “I hope I haven’t over-excited him or anything,” Vikki said, once he’d gone. “Did you see how animated he became?”

Nicola nodded. “Yes. His answers became less monosyllabic, too. I might check and see that his medication is all up to date and that he’s taking it. I haven’t seen him like that for some time.”

“What was all that voodoo stuff?”

“I told you that Terry had a lot of difficulties,” Nicola said with a sigh. “He’s quite paranoid and had a phase of burning little effigies of people he thought were out to get him. Look, I’m not sure I can go further into it without completely breaking confidentiality. I’ve compromised it enough.”

“Do you think we should take him seriously when he says that Richard Ince never took heroin before?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible that he was a first-time user. As I said when we spoke on the phone, it wasn’t something we were aware of initially. Maybe he’d chosen heroin as an easy means of ending it all. He did leave a suicide note.”

“Yes, he did,” Vikki muttered, looking at the door and making a mental note to check out the note carefully. Something wasn’t quite right here and frankly, Terry White gave her the creeps.

Chapter 23

The first ripples of the media storm arrived in the form of Deirdre Lanham, reporter from the Wirral Argus, a local paper. She was a short, middle-aged woman with a round face, framed by long, blonde hair. Blake had run into her on a number of occasions and knew her to be hard-nosed but fair. She sat waiting in HQ reception as he entered to start the day which he didn’t take as a great omen.

“DCI Blake,” she called as he passed her. “Is it true you’re investigating a possible terrorist link to the murder over in Port Sunlight?”

Blake winced. “No comment,” he said.

“I take it from the expression on your face that we weren’t meant to know,” she said, with a mischievous grin. “You should know, it’s all over Twitter.”

“What are you asking me for then?” Blake said. “Isn’t that what you journalists do these days? Look on social media and regurgitate unfounded comments and opinions?”

Deirdre bridled a little. “I came here, hoping to get some kind of helpful information, DCI Blake. There was a time when you didn’t object to the media helping you fight crime. You revelled in it in fact.” She hummed the opening bars of the Searchlight theme. “So, what are you looking at?”

Blake leaned on the reception counter and folded his arms. “I’m looking at you and wondering why you’re clogging up reception, to be honest.”

“Look, Blake,” Deirdre Lanham snapped. “This is going to be a shit show and you know it. You’ll need all the help you can get in a few days. I can go and mine social media for information and print that or you can give me a few morsels that I can use and print the truth. Or maybe you want Tommy Robinson holding a rally in Port Sunlight…”

“Jeez,” Blake muttered. He turned to Madge at the counter. “Is there an interview room available Madge? Just for ten minutes.”

*****

Superintendent Martin sat blinking at Blake as though he’d just pinched his cheek, ruffled his hair and called him ‘darling’. “You did what?”

“It was a snap decision, sir. What Deirdre Lanham said was true. There’s a huge scope for misinformation here…”

“Which is why we have a Media and Communications Manager whose job it is to handle… the media, funny that isn’t it, Will? Fancy that eh? Hannah Williams gets paid a wage for dealing with journalists. She’s a qualified professional.”

“All I said was that we had interviewed some teenagers in connection with the murder and we were sceptical about reports of it being a terrorist incident…”

“And that’s enough, is it? In your professional opinion? Oh no, wait I forgot, you used to be on the telly, didn’t you, Will, so you know better than Hannah.” Martin threw his hands up.

“Sir, why would terrorists kill someone wandering home from the pub in the middle of the night? Hardly a huge spectacle, is it?”

“You’re an expert on terrorism now, too. Christ on a bike! Why don’t we just sack half the force and use your incredible, wide-ranging talents, Will? Did it ever occur to you that Travis might have been targeted? Personally, I can’t think of anything more terrifying than hit squads selecting ex-squaddies to kill.”

“It’s not that, sir…”

“You better make sure it isn’t,” Martin said. “We are going to look complacent and incompetent at the least. What other leads are you looking at?”

“I think it’s connected to the charity in some way. I’ve got Ian Ollerthwaite looking into their accounts…”

Martin went as white as his shirt. Blake was genuinely worried that the man would pass out. “You’re poking around the accounts of a veterans’ charity? How about running over a few grannies while you’re at it? The optics of this are terrible!”

“Optics, sir?”

“Yes, Will, optics! You know, the way things look to the public.”

“With respect, sir, I’m not just ‘poking around.’ Paul Travis wasn’t randomly killed. He had his throat cut. It was premeditated…”

“Terrorists!”

“I don’t think so, sir. I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet but…”

“You better bloody had. The clock’s ticking, Blake,” Martin said, snatching up the phone. “I’m going to contact Hannah to arrange a press conference and see if we can’t sort this mess out before we have protestors of all