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

an arrow. Besides, like I said, you better not come within a mile of me, Mr Blake, it wouldn’t be professional, what with your… association with my ex-wife, would it? It might seem like sour grapes or even a vendetta. Wouldn’t look good in a court of law, would it? I’ve already had to come here to ask you not to pester my ex-wife. Besides, imagine poor Laura standing in a court of law because you made some wild accusations. I reckon that’d break your heart Mr Blake. If it isn’t broken already.” Kyle Quinlan gave a little shrug and strolled out of the garden, gently closing the gate behind him.

*****

Darkness pressed in around Terry White as he crouched in a thicket of bushes and young saplings. There wasn’t really enough cover here for daylight but now it was late and Terry could relax a little. He had to think straight. Where should he go now? He pulled out the mobile phone from his pocket and dialled the usual number. It was answered but nobody said anything. “My mission failed. I need evac, quickly. They’ll find me by morning. I’ve got to get out of here.”

The phone trembled in his hands but there was no reply. “Please. I need help.”

“I’ll text you the address,” the voice said. “Stand by.” The phone buzzed again and Terry stared closely at the phone. “Come at midnight. Don’t let them follow you.”

“Okay,” Terry whispered. “Okay, okay, okay.”   He lowered himself back and stared into the sky through the canopy of leaves. Soon he’d be safe.

Chapter 28

The beeping of Blake’s mobile phone confused him. He was driving along a featureless highway in the dark and somewhere ahead, Laura was trying to get away from him. He wanted to reach out to her except he couldn’t move his left arm and his right cheek felt wet. The beeping of his phone became more insistent. He couldn’t answer it, though, not while he was driving. Louder, it drilled into his aching head, dragging him to wakefulness until he realised he was lying slumped on his sofa in the living room, Serafina perched on his back and Charlie curled up at his feet. The phone lay on the floor alongside several beer bottles and had stopped buzzing before he could pick it up.

He groaned and slowly eased himself upright, allowing Serafina to slide onto the sofa with an indignant growl. It was light and, outside, a few rowdy seagulls had flown in from the river to perch on Blake’s roof and squabble with each other. His head pulsed. Alcohol wasn’t really Blake’s chosen method of drowning sorrows. Usually, he dived headlong into work but the phone call with Laura had been a punch in the gut, one he didn’t quite understand. Part of him wanted to believe she was doing all this under duress. But maybe he was judging her by his own standards, he realised that now. Her upbringing had been totally different from his. He had a safe childhood; he’d been nurtured and encouraged. She had a tough time and now she believed she didn’t deserve any better. Maybe he should just move on; it wasn’t his job to fix everything in Laura’s life. He had no right to either. And yet the one truth Blake had learnt from Laura was that you can change and leave the past behind. It puzzled him why she couldn’t practise what she preached.

The phone bleeped again and Blake looked at the text message. A voicemail from Theresa Ollerthwaite. Blake sat up and, without listening to the voice message, phoned Theresa back. A tearful voice answered the phone. “Will, it’s Ian he’s…”

Blake groaned. “Theresa, I… I’m sorry… I don’t know what to say…”

“No! He’s awake. He’s fine,” she gave a sobbing laugh. “He wants to talk to you. Won’t settle until he has. He’s threatening to discharge himself if I don’t put you on the phone. Here…”

There was a rustling and some muttered conversation, then Ian’s voice rang out.

“Quentin Ufford, sir,” Ollerthwaite said.

“You okay Ian?”

“Sorry, yes sir, they’ve got me on some kind of opiate-based painkillers and they’re clouding my thought processes, somewhat. I had a strange dream that I saw the Flying Scot at Crewe Station only it was painted with dazzle camouflage rather like the Mersey Ferry boat. It was most disconcerting and I forgot to note down that I’d seen it…”

Blake smiled. He was glad the man was alive but even Ian’s psychedelic experiences were somewhat dull. “Ian, it’s so good to hear you’re okay. Theresa said you had something important on your mind…”

“Yes, it was Ufford. Quentin Ufford, sir, you know the man who does the accounts and maintains all the computers? I wonder why he was on the train. It was a model train too… tiny, tiny train…”

“Ian…”

“Sorry, sir. I need to concentrate. Con-cen-trate. Right, when I was looking at the accounts, Ufford was very evasive. Evading me all over the place he was. Evasive. It’s a funny word that, isn’t it, sir?” Ian’s speech slurred a little and Blake wondered how he was going to extricate himself from this conversation until Ollerthwaite was a little more coherent.

“Maybe I should call back later when your head has cleared.”

“That’s it you see. It is clear. Clear as a brass bell. Ding, ding! Ufford was withholding information from me. He seems to be claiming thousands of pounds for equipment and travel…” Ollerthwaite began humming ‘Come Fly with Me.’

“Ian…”

“Yes! An excessive amount in my estimation. There’s a lot of money sloshing around, too, sir. Donations from offshore companies, and local small businesses. Lots of cash is going out too. In and out. Shake it all…”

“Are you thinking the charity is being used to launder money or something?”

“Could be, sir. They spent lots on Lex Price’s security company. Even a payment to a pet psychologist, would you believe it? I mean who sends their dog to a shrink?” Ollerthwaite chuckled to himself for a moment. “Mad dog!”

Blake caught