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

persuasion descending on Port Sunlight.” He waved his hand at Blake. “Go on, get this sorted!”

*****

Numbers had fascinated DC Ian Ollerthwaite ever since he was a child at school. Maths had been his best subject and he had always been a compulsive collector of train and bus numbers. He like the order it brought to the world. His parents had been surprised when, in a rare spark of independent thought, he’d told them he wanted to be a police officer rather than go to university and study Pure Mathematics. But he was a big and solid young man with a good store of common sense and totally committed to anything he joined. He knew he wasn’t the most dynamic or flashy of people and he rarely took up invitations to the pub or on social nights out. Somehow, though, over the years, he had ploughed his own furrow at work, and he liked to think people respected him for it. They certainly respected his head for figures.

Ian leaned back in his chair and looked at his surroundings. He could easily have ended up being an accountant in an office like this one at Pro-Vets. He might do yet, if his plan to retire from the force at 55 and take up a new role came to fruition. There was a demand for a forensic mind like his in auditing and inspection. His general calm and unflappable nature would be an asset when having to ask awkward questions.

This had served him well yesterday when George Owens had kicked off. He made a mental note to let DCI Blake know about Owens’ reaction. It seemed more than irritated, Ollerthwaite detected a note of fear in the man’s look. Looking at the computer screen and the file open on his desk, he could see something was amiss.

A gentle knock brought Ian’s attention to the door. Quentin Ufford’s shaggy, round head poked round it. “Fancy a cuppa, Ian?” he said, smiling.

“No thank you, Mr Ufford,” Ian said. “I’ve brought my own flask and I’d prefer you to call me DC Ollerthwaite, if you don’t mind. It keeps things on a more professional footing I find.” He turned the screen slightly, inviting Ufford to look over his shoulder. “Can you explain where this amount comes from? I’m having trouble locating its source.”

Ufford reddened slightly. “Dunno. That’s odd. It must be a glitch…”

“What kind of glitch?”

“I’d have to look into it,” Ufford said, vaguely.

“Well could you do that for me as a matter of urgency, Mr Ufford?” Ollerthwaite said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d hate to think anyone was obstructing an investigation.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll schedule it into my workflow…”

Ollerthwaite fixed Ufford with his sternest gaze. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist that you make it a priority, Mr Ufford. This is part of a murder investigation. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to. It’s not efficient and will hamper proceedings.”

“Is there a problem, detective?” George Owens appeared from behind Ufford and Ollerthwaite suspected he’d been listening.

“It’s okay, George,” Ufford said, reddening. “DC Ollerthwaite is just querying some missing information. I’m going to sort it for him as soon as I can…”

“Right away,” Ollerthwaite said.

Owens scowled. “Look detective, we have a charity to run, here. Quentin has to make sure that everything runs smoothly. We’re one missed bid away from bankruptcy. If he gets distracted…”

“I have been looking at your accounts for the best part of eighteen hours, Mr Owens, so I do know the financial situation. It doesn’t seem that precarious to me, quite the opposite. There’s money in your accounts. I’m just not sure where all of it is coming from or going to. The sooner Mr Ufford provides me with the appropriate information and files, the sooner I can go back to HQ and let you get on with your work here. If there’s some kind of ‘glitch’ in the system, then I’m sure you’ll be as eager as I am to see it remedied.” Ollerthwaite allowed himself a brief smile.

George Owens smoothed his beard down and glanced at Ufford. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go and sort it, Quentin!”

Quentin Ufford glared back at Owens for a second and then pushed past him out of the room.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Owens said, backing out of the room.

“And I’m sure it’s not,” Ollerthwaite muttered to himself when the door had shut behind George Owens.

*****

It felt almost like a formality, given that Bobby Price had confessed to the assault on the old man and partially explained where he got the baseball bat from, but DI Kath Cryer had agreed to go and interview Alfie Lewis, the third of the boys in Price’s little trio. As she drove through the tunnel, she thought it odd that Lewis hadn’t been spoken to earlier. There had been some talk of awkward parents and difficulty finding an appropriate adult to accompany him to an interview room in Hamilton Square Station in Birkenhead.

Alfie Lewis lived in a flat above a derelict shop on the A41, the main road that ran alongside Port Sunlight and separated it from New Ferry. It was hard to tell what kind of shop it had been as the signs above the boarded-up windows had peeled away to the bare plywood. Stepping over a rather large dog turd, Kath went around the side of the shop and knocked on the flaking side door. She looked up at the blinded windows and the cracked guttering. Inside a small dog yapped and someone screamed at it to shut up. Then a baby started crying. Kath knocked again.

“Okay, okay, fucksake, I’m…” the woman who opened the door stopped dead and stared at Kath’s warrant card. She was a skinny woman with dyed blonde hair growing out at the roots. It was all tied up above her head in a messy bunch. She wore a vest and pyjama trousers and clutched a grumbling baby in her arms.

“Detective Inspector Kath Cryer, Merseyside