Death's Cold Hand Page 3

  “No but he was sensible enough not to just go wading in and barking at them. He asked them politely if they knew what the memorial was for and asked them to respect it. One of the younger kids picked up the crushed can and the others started to go but one lad held back.”

  “He wasn’t happy with Paul’s intervention, then?”

  “Paul tried to reason with him but the lad was drunk and gobby. He took a swing at Paul but ended up on his backside…”

  “Did Paul hit him?”

  “Not really. He kind of kicked the legs from under him and sat him on the floor. It was quite funny really. His little gang thought so, anyway. Then Paul just leaned down and said something in the lad’s ear. I dunno what, but the lad jumped up and ran away.”

  “Did the lad look frightened?”

  “Yeah or maybe a bit shocked. I asked Paul what he’d said to him, but Paul just laughed. Anyway, I thought nothing of it until now. Do you think it might have been the kids who did it?”

  “It’s certainly something we’ll investigate, Rachel. Did you overhear any names when the kids were talking to each other?”

  “Only the big lad. They called him Bobby. I think he’s local. I’ve seen him around the village a few times. He had a long face, a bit spotty and his hair was cut in a French crop.”

  Blake looked blankly at her.

  “Sorry, I’m a hairdresser. It was short at the back and sides, very short and long on the top, combed forward, yeah?”

  “That’s great, Rachel,” Tasha said, seeing Blake was still trying to work out what a French crop was. “Really useful.”

  “Yes,” Blake said. A picture of Rachel and Paul, holding a little girl that must have been Danielle hung on the wall. Blake felt a pang of sympathy for the child. To lose a parent was bad enough but in such a violent manner would be hard to bear as she grew up.

  “Do you know, I used to pray for him every night he was away with the army. Pray that he’d be safe from harm. Looks like he was safer over in Afghanistan than back here.” She stopped crushing the tissues and looked up at Blake. “I should have kept praying, shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Travis, trust me, I won’t rest until we find who killed your husband, Danielle’s father. We’ll get them, I promise.”

  Chapter 6

  George Owens lived in a modest semi-detached house on Clifden Close, just off Kylemore Road in Oxton. The close was a small cul-de-sac of new buildings nestled amongst the large, red brick villas that typified this area. Even so, Vikki Chinn reckoned the house would be worth a bob or two. She sat in the car for a moment, wondering why she always eyed up property, estimating its value. Maybe it was because of her parents who were always nagging her to buy something bigger than her lovely flat close to the Anglican Cathedral in Liverpool. She was quite happy where she was, but she always felt this need to impress her parents. They’d never really been happy with her joining the police, but Vikki had a mind of her own.

  Owens had sounded horrified at the news of Paul’s death and had agreed to meet her without hesitation. She climbed out of the car and he appeared at the front door immediately. He was in his thirties, short and carrying a bit of weight. His hair was cropped, but he had let his brown beard grow long. His bulbous nose was red as were his eyes and Vikki guessed that he’d been crying.

  “DS Vikki Chinn,” Vikki said, showing him her warrant card. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Owens.”

  “Call me George,” he said. “And how could I not agree? My God, it’s awful what happened to Paul. He was my best friend.” He paused, swallowing down a sob. “Anyway, come in, come in,” he said brusquely to fight off the wave of grief. Vikki followed him into a cluttered front room, where two armchairs and a sofa covered in throws competed for floor space with a huge coffee table, a footrest and a drinks cabinet. Framed pictures covered the walls, photographs of various mountain views, some snowy, some green and verdant. There was one of George and a big man standing on the peak of a mountain. George noticed Vikki looking at them. “I fancy myself as a bit of a photographer,” he said. “That and a love of the outdoors means I end up taking photographs of everything, everywhere I go!”

  Vikki smiled and nodded. “If I can go through the events of last night, George, it’s purely routine but there might be something that might shed some light on what has happened.”

  “Okay,” Owens said, taking a deep breath. “We were in the Bridge Inn between eight and about half eleven, when they kicked us out. To be honest, Barry had started singing which is always a sure sign it’s time to go, anyway.” He gave a brief smile and then the weight returned to his face.

  “And how would you describe Paul Travis’ demeanour?”

  “He was fine. We had a laugh. Put the world to rights. We were all in the forces at one time or another. We have a lot in common.”

  “Did you all drink a lot?”

  “Depends on what you call a lot, doesn’t it? We had a few pints but the worst that ever happens is Barry starts singing. It’s quite comical really.” He stopped and shook his head. “I guess we won’t be boozing all together like that again, eh?”

  Vikki gave George a moment to recover his composure. “And you left the Bridge Inn around half eleven?”

  George twisted his fingers in his beard. “Yes. We said goodbye to Paul and we all piled into a taxi…”

  “Do you know the name of the taxi service?”

  “I can’t remember, Thunderbird? Eastham Taxis? Anyway, he took us home, we asked for Barry to be dropped off first as he seemed the worst for wear…”

  “And who was next?”

  George thought a little more. “Me, I guess. It was late and I’d had a few. Yeah, it was me. I went to bed and woke up to the horrible news this morning.”

  “Any ideas who might want to hurt Paul?”

  “Paul was loved by everyone. I can’t think of anyone who would even think badly of him. Honestly. His work with veterans, his giving nature, everything about him was…”

  “Saintly?” Vikki suggested, looking unconvinced. “Look George, I know you might be worried about speaking ill of your friend but, in my experience, even the nicest person falls out with friends and has arguments. None of us are perfect.”

  “I suppose he could be a bit of a big head sometimes, if you interpreted it that way.”

  “Go on…”

  “It’s nothing, really but he could brag a bit. About Pro-Vets, about Rachel and his physical fitness. We all took it in good part…”

  “But?”

  “It’s nothing,” George said, looking tortured. “Really. It’s all history and we’re all mates, now…”

  “George, you never know if something is pertinent to the case, believe me. If nothing else, it gives us a fuller picture of Paul’s personality.”

  “Okay. Dave used to go out with Rachel when they were teenagers, that’s all. He used to get a bit funny when Paul ribbed him about it. But it wasn’t like he stole her away from him or anything. Rachel and Dave had been finished for years before she met Paul.”

  “I see,” Vikki said scribbling in her notepad furiously.

  “And we all kind of resented always having to go to the Bridge every fortnight. It sounds stupid, really, when you say it, but we always had to get the taxi while Paul sauntered across the street home. But Paul was like that. He called the shots and if you didn’t like it, you could jog on.”

  “What about the charity?

  George frowned. “What about it?”

  “Didn’t that cause any tensions between you? I mean, it’s one thing to be old friends but workmates as well, that must bring its own stresses and tensions, surely.”

  “I suppose so,” George admitted. “Barry and Dave have their own roles within the charity, so they’re pretty much a law unto themselves. We have a weekly meet-up and air any problems but there’s no blame when things do go wrong. We’re army, we solve problems.”

  “You and Paul worked more closely togethe
r, though, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” George said, defensively. “Paul did a lot of the public work, ‘front of house’ we used to call it. You know, meeting potential donors, receiving big cheques and smiling for the camera…”

  “While you worked backstage, unseen? That must be hard to stomach sometimes. Paul attending those lunches and slapping backs while you did all the paperwork.”

  George shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I prefer doing the backroom jobs and Paul always gave everyone their due. It was an equal partnership.”

  “Except, you’ve already said that Paul called the shots, even when it came to choosing a venue for a quiet pint.”

  “I told you it wasn’t like that. I don’t know why you’re giving me the third degree. Look, can we do this some other time? I can’t get my thoughts straight, right now. Paul was a great bloke, a good dad, good husband but one of the lads, too.”

  “Right,” Vikki said, feeling that she had outstayed her welcome. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

  George licked his lips and looked at the card. “Thanks, I will.” He followed Vikki to the door and she could feel his eyes on her as she drove off down the close.

  *****

  The Dell was a sunken garden, shrouded by rhododendrons behind the Lyceum Club and bowling green. It was a place where office workers escaped from the bustle of the Unilever complex just a stone’s throw away. A footbridge went across the middle and, beneath it, Bobby Price leaned against the inner wall of the arch, glugging from a can of lager. He looked down at the two, younger lads who licked their lips at the prospect of a mouthful of ale.

  “Gizza swig, Bob, go ‘head,” Alfie Lewis said.

  Bobby pulled the can away from their questing fingers.

  “Have you heard about that fella getting his head caved in up by the war memorial?” Harley Vickers, his mate said.

  Alfie’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I seen the bizzies and the ambulances and everything. There was blood and brains all over the steps. I seen it.”

  “Get stuffed. You didn’t see nothing,” Harley said, giving Alfie a shove. “They cleaned everything up didn’t they? How would you have seen anything, you prick?”

  Alfie looked at his trainers. “Just did didn’t I?”

  “That’ll fuckin’ teach ‘im,” Bobby said, slurring slightly.

  “Teach who, Bob? What you on about?” Harley said. He wished they didn’t have to hang around with Bobby Price. He was older than them for a start and Harley’s big brother said he was a loser. I mean what right-minded seventeen-year-old hangs around with a bunch of kids still in school? But Alfie hero-worshipped Bobby and Alfie was Harley’s best friend, so he went along with it. Besides, Bobby looked older and could get served at the off-licence which was a plus and more often than not, it was Bobby who sought them out, not the other way around.

  Now Bobby Price looked grimly at them. “It was that fella from last week who had a go at us,” he said. “It was him. He won’t be pickin’ on us anymore.” He looked to his left at a baseball bat leaning against the wall.

  Alfie Lewis’s eyes widened. “Is that blood on it, Bobby? Where did you get that?”

  “Where d’you think?”

  “Oh my God, Bobby. What did you do?” Harley muttered.

  Bobby took another swig from his can and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m not saying nothing.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, he was a vet and everything. He fought in Afghanistan. You shouldna done that…” Harley said.

  Bobby threw the drained can on the ground and grabbed Harley by his jacket. “Don’t tell me what to do, you little shit. I didn’t say I’d done anything did I? Anyway, keep your gob shut unless you want the same. Don’t you breathe a fuckin’ word to anyone…”

  Chapter 7

  If it hadn’t been for Ian Youde, Blake was pretty sure he would have gone mad months ago. Or he would have had to have rehomed Charlie. In the past, Laura would have helped give Serafina her antibiotics, but Laura wasn’t here. Blake had come back to his house in Rock Park on the banks of the Mersey to look in on the cat and Charlie, the Jack Russell, before heading back to the office but he’d found Ian at his front door.

  “I was just going to check on that cat of yours,” Ian said. “Now you’re here, I’ll take you up on that offer of a brew…”

  Blake laughed. “You must be a mind reader, Ian, come on in. I’m parched, I’ve been on the go all day.”

  “Is your face all right?” Youde said. “The cat had a right go at you, didn’t she?”

  “Too right, mate,” Blake said, touching the scab on his face. “Thanks for taking her to the vets, Ian, you saved my bacon. Was she okay for you?” He opened the front door and went inside.

  “Good as gold,” Youde said, following him in.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Honest! Not a peep out of her. Purring at the vet most of the time.”

  Blake shook his head. “Jeez. It’s just me she’s got it in for, then…”

  Youde grinned and scratched Charlie behind the ear while Blake filled the kettle. “You involved in that Port Sunlight attack? I wanted to go to the garden centre to get some chicken wire, but it was bedlam. A murder, wasn’t it?”

  Blake nodded. “Nasty business. I haven’t seen such a mess in a long time.”

  “It’ll have people up in arms. Murder on the war memorial. It’s not right.”

  “No,” Blake said, getting two mugs from the cupboard. “It isn’t. Shows a distinct lack of respect. Mind you, I don’t suppose it mattered to the poor sod who was killed there.”

  Youde grimaced and nodded. “True. Was there any significance in it being the war memorial?”

  “I don’t know. Weird place to ambush him if that’s what happened. I mean, it’s not like there’s anywhere to conceal yourself up on the memorial…”

  “Maybe he was waiting to confront your man,” Ian said, sipping at the steaming mug Blake passed him.. “Have a word with him about something.”

  “The victim was a big lad, Ian, you’d want to get the drop on him if you were going to try and take him out. But yes, it’s all possible. That’s the trouble with this stage of an investigation; everything is possible. It drives me mad. Speaking of which…” Serafina slid into the kitchen, tangling herself around Blake’s ankles.

  Blake crushed the antibiotics into her food and put the plate on the floor. Serafina gave it a sniff and then looked up, meowing pitifully. “I think she’s rumbled you, Will,” Ian laughed.

  “I’ll leave it a bit and see if she has it later. It’s times like this when I miss Laura. She’d have some trick up her sleeve to get the pill down her throat.”

  Ian folded his arms. “The cat will eat when she’s hungry.”

  “Don’t count on it. I’m pretty sure Serafina’s capable of a full-scale hunger strike if she felt aggrieved enough,” Blake sighed. He downed the hot tea in a couple of gulps and dumped the mug in the sink. “Well, I’d better get back to it. You all right feeding this fella and taking him out for a walk?”

  “Yeah,” Ian said, ruffling the top of Charlie’s head. “You get on.”

  Driving back, Blake rolled the various facts of the case around in his head. He was trying to avoid making assumptions, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that Travis had been targeted. It didn’t feel like a random killing. Not the way he’d been struck and then had his throat cut. It clearly wasn’t robbery as the man’s wallet and phone remained untouched. He decided to get another door-to-door organised focusing on the teenagers that Travis had encountered on the memorial. It was possible they jumped him, but surely there’d be more signs of a scuffle. More footprints. From what Blake had seen, Travis was felled with one blow and then someone got busy with the blade. Professional, then?

  The lights in the roof of the tunnel flashed overhead as Blake drove almost on autopilot. His thoughts switched to Laura and he wondered where she was
at that moment. He’d intended to go and find her but had been distracted by his sister’s plight up in Scotland. She’d been accused of murder and he had to clear her name. Now, he was just waiting for the next opportunity to take time off to go and look for her. But she didn’t want to be found. And Blake felt ill at ease with himself, wondering if searching was the right thing to do.

  He sighed as the corner of the Liverpool World Museum came into view. “Focus on the case Blake. It’s all you can do for now,” he muttered at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Laura can look after herself, wherever she is.”

  *****

  Harley Vickers’ heart thumped against his ribs. He didn’t want any part of this. Bobby Price was a psycho, there was no doubt in his mind as he sprinted down Wood Street towards the railway station. The red brick facade of the old Lever Brothers factory ran along on his left, hemming him in. He wished he’d gone into school and hadn’t bunked off with Alfie. He should have known they’d end up with Bobby and that would end up in trouble.

  Bobby had thrown down another can under the bridge in the Dell when an old man walking his dog had said something.

  “Pick that up you messy bugger.”

  Bobby had scowled at him. “Fuck off.”

  The old man was fat and wore a hooded jacket that was a horrible snot-green colour. “Don’t talk to me like that, you cheeky little streak of piss. I said pick that can up. It’s bad enough having to put up with all your rowdiness in the evening without you leaving your cans lying all over the place…”

  “You pick it up if you’re so bothered,” Bobby had said, giving Alfie a sidelong wink. Harley had felt himself shrivelling up inside as he watched Alfie grinning back at his hero.

  “I’ll call the police if you carry on like that,” the man had said, rummaging in his coat pocket for his phone.

  “Piss off, you interfering old codger,” Bobby had snarled, snatching up the baseball bat. “Call them and I’ll fucking leather you. Got it?”

  “Bobby, don’t,” Harley said.

  “Oh, Bobby is it? I’ll remember that,” the old man crowed, finally brandishing his phone. “I’m going to take some pictures of this. My grandson showed me how…”