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

“Sorry, sir,” Ollerthwaite said, obviously stifling a yawn. “It just stuck in my head. Don’t know why. I think I’ve overdone it, sir…I’m cream crackered as Kath Cryer would say. Cream crackered! I mean spending a small fortune on a human psychologist but putting your dog on the couch? Madness!”

“Ian, you’ve been a godsend, get a good rest now.” When he’d said his goodbyes and spoken briefly to Theresa, Blake lowered the phone and stared across his living room. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but if Laura was involved in this, then, in all likelihood, Kyle Quinlan was too. He tapped the phone against his stubbly chin as he thought. If Quinlan was laundering money through the charity, maybe Paul Travis found out. He couldn’t imagine Ufford being able to take Travis down but it was possible if he took him by surprise. Or what if he’d just alerted Quinlan to the fact that Travis knew and let Quinlan do the rest? Maybe Lex Price was involved somehow. He was a big lad and could probably handle Travis. Either way, Quentin Ufford had a few questions to answer.

Blake turned on his laptop and checked Ufford’s address. He smiled. The man only lived fifteen minutes’ drive away and it was still early. He could call in on Ufford and catch him before he went to work. He hurried upstairs, pausing only to let Charlie out for a toilet stop and then got washed and dressed. The pulsing pain behind his eye had subsided a little and Blake tried to wash it away with a couple of mugs of strong coffee, vowing to lay off drinking on a school night. Charlie and Serafina played the essential role of trip hazards until he fed them. Leaving a note for Ian, he locked the house and jumped into the car.

Raby, where Ufford lived was a pleasant little village in South Wirral. Blake’s journey took him along the M53 and off at the Clatterbridge hospital exit. He knew this area quite well having cycled around it a lot as a boy. This side of the motorway was more rural, with narrow, hedge-lined lanes and cottages dotted along them. This part of the Wirral seemed more like rural Cheshire and many who lived there often expressed a wish to return to the county rather than be in Merseyside. Raby comprised of a couple of farms, a few houses and a rather nice pub known locally as The Thatch, renowned for its good food and real ales. There were apocryphal tales from older Wirral residents of being snowed-in at this pub and having to spend the night, but Blake struggled to remember a time when the snow could fall so heavily and suddenly to take punters by surprise.

Quince Cottage was a tiny, thatched, one-storey bungalow on the edge of a field. Blake reckoned there could only be a couple of rooms inside, and maybe a tiny kitchen. It surprised Blake that a young man like Ufford would choose to live out here but then, he hadn’t really got the measure of the man when he first met him. The curtains were drawn and a black Mini sat in the small, gravelled car port at the front of the house. Blake knocked on the front door, hard. If Ufford was asleep, he wanted to startle him and put him off guard. The house lay still, so Blake hammered his fist on the door again.

Cautiously, he eased open the garden gate and went around the back of the house. The garden at the back was tiny, a postage stamp lawn, a couple of borders and two planters. The back door was locked too. He could see a narrow kitchen area inside that lay in shadow. A mug sat on the side by the sink. The house was still.

There were any number of reasons why Ufford might not answer the door. Maybe he went out last night and was staying with friends. He could have dropped his car off first and taken a taxi, easily. Or he could have seen Blake arrive and have decided to lie low. But something gnawed at Blake’s gut. Something was wrong.

Pressing his nose against the back door window and cupping his hands around his eyes to blot out the light, Blake peered in. On the floor, Blake could just see a hand poking from behind a leather sofa. And it held something green.

Blake pulled out his phone but a sudden click made him look up. The back door had been unlocked and a huge shadow filled the door. Then it burst open, smacking Blake full in the face and sending him staggering backwards. The figure loomed over him, gripping his lapels and hurling him like a ragdoll across the small garden. Blake felt weightless and held his breath for the impact.

Chapter 29

Everything had gone wrong.

Even as he crept across the Wirral, making his way to the rendezvous point, Terry had felt his mind clearing. The medication started to wear off and everything had clicked into place. His mind wasn’t as foggy. He was on a mission and he had a job to do. He wasn’t certain that the policeman at Pro-Vets had died but if nothing else, Terry had slowed Graves down. He’d have to find another host and Terry reckoned he knew who it would be. A cold fury burned in his gut. Ufford had been a friend but that’s what Graves did. He took your friends from you. It was deliberate and the sooner he was stopped, the better. Sadly, there was only one way to stop Graves.

Terry hadn’t liked seeing Ufford lying dead in a pool of blood but that was Graves’ fault. Take it up with him. Soon, Graves’ spirit would be trapped in these little plastic soldiers, fragmented and incinerated. It would be over.

Melting the plastic figure had been tricky but Terry hit upon the idea