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

*****

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