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

“I don’t know, Alex,” Blake replied. “We need to get some kind of handle on White. A profile of him. With the exception of Ian Ollerthwaite, all of his victims have been known to him. That means any of his workmates at Pro-Vets could be in danger.”

Vikki raised a hand. “What about Nicola Norton, the psychologist, sir? She could give us a good idea of White’s frame of mind.”

“Yes, good idea, Vikki, at the same time, let’s get a warrant to look at his medical and personal records, so we can see what kind of medication he’s on and how effective it is. It might be useful. It’s getting late. Let’s do what we can but don’t forget to get some rest, too.”

“That includes you, boss,” Kath said, with a smile.

“That includes me, Kath, yes,” Blake said, grinning back. “I’ll go and talk to Martin first and see if he’ll let us bring Norton on board.”

*****

It struck Blake as he regarded Superintendent Martin’s scowl that he probably should have been more conciliatory with Hannah Williams the Media Manager.

“Ah, I see. Now you’re all in favour of having the right person for the job when it suits you, Will,” Martin said. “Do you know how long it took me to calm Hannah down? She was that close to putting in a complaint about you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. I just wasn’t sure what our role was once she took over, that’s all.”

“Her role was to spot the traps that crusty old-timers like you and I can’t see and steer us around them. Which she did. You never win a debate with a journalist, Will, you know that. Even if you do, they go away and write something entirely different and make you look wrong. Hannah’s good at her job.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make a point of apologising to her next time I see her,” Blake mumbled. “Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that Bobby Price has retracted his statement about the two jihadis. He made it all up. It means we can focus on Terry White…”

“I thought you were dubious about White’s guilt, Will?”

“Possibly, sir,” Blake said, feeling his cheeks flush. “But I suspect there might be money laundering going on at Pro-Vets…”

“Well why aren’t you digging into that?”

“There’s a possible connection with the Quinlan case, so I’ve passed the information over to Matty Cavanagh, sir. I know my past connection to Laura Vexley might compromise things.”

Martin nodded his approval. “Good thinking, Will. That’s one less thing to worry about, anyway. Go ahead then, bring this Norton woman in for advice if you think it’ll help us pick up Terry White sooner rather than later.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blake said, turning to go.

“And Will,” Martin said as Blake reached the door. “Don’t forget to speak to Hannah.”

Blake winced. “I won’t forget, sir.”

*****

The smell of oil and petrol filled the air. Cold nipped at Terry White’s face and cheeks but a heavy blanket kept the rest of him warm. For a moment he lay, luxuriating in the cosiness. He couldn’t feel anything because he hadn’t moved and he didn’t want to. He wondered where he was. Thinking back, Terry remembered a dead body and lots of blood. It was Quentin. Quentin was dead. Then a big man came banging on the door. Terry had escaped. In a van. And now he was here.

Someone shifted and coughed to his left. Terry sat up, the blanket slipping down his body.

“Woah, big fella, you’re fine. You’re safe,” said a soothing voice. The scrawny old man who had offered Terry a lift yesterday. He still had his black donkey jacket and woolly hat on. He smiled at Terry, showing a crooked line of small, yellowed teeth. “I’m making a brew. You want one?”

“Yes please.” Terry put a hand to his forehead, which throbbed fiercely.

“You had a funny turn yesterday,” the old man said, stirring a spoon in a mug. “A seizure or something. I damn nearly called an ambulance but then you stopped and fell asleep. Does that happen a lot?”

“If I don’t take my tablets,” Terry said, frowning. “It’s cos of my injury.”

“I guessed that,” the old man said. “My name’s Noel, by the way.” He handed Terry the mug.

Terry took it in trembling hands and looked around. They were in a wooden garage of some kind. Cobwebbed ropes, hoses and chains dangled from low beams above him. Shelving filled with old cardboard boxes, cables and bits of angle iron covered one wall. A cold, grey light bled in through the grimy windows that comprised the top third of the doors. The table on the other side of the garage housed an electric hob, a kettle and some chipped plates and battered pans. “Do you live here?” Terry said.

“Sometimes,” Noel replied. “When I’m not travelling. The owner lets me stay. I do a few jobs for him now and again. You’re safe here.”

Terry looked into his mug. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not daft, mate. You were running away from something when I picked you up, weren’t you? I don’t wanna know who from or what for. You’re welcome to stay ‘til you feel better. No pressure. You look like you’ve been in the wars.”

“I have,” Terry said. “I need orders. I need to know what to do next.” Suddenly, hot tears began to scald his cheeks and he scrubbed at his face. “I don’t know what to do. I need orders.”

“Who from?”

Terry shook his head slowly. “I dunno.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. “They call me on this, but it’s stopped working.”

“Let me see,” Noel said, taking the phone. “Just needs charging, mate. I’ve got a charger somewhere.” He pulled open a drawer and rummaged through a tangle of wires and cables. “Here we go.” He plugged the phone in.

“Thank you.” Terry pulled his knees up to his chest and stared ahead. His stomach grumbled loudly.

“Sounds like you need some food, fella. Are you hungry?”

“I dunno,” Terry