Death's Cold Hand, J.E. Mayhew [book club recommendations .txt] 📗

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…”

He didn’t finish the sentence because Bobby Price swung the bat, hitting the old man on the side of the head. Harley could still hear the sickening crack as it struck the old man and the strange sigh he let out. The phone spun off into the bushes and the old man crumpled to the floor, groaning.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Harley had said, staring down at the old man.

“Nobody calls me a streak of piss,” Bobby said, raising the bat again. Harley leapt forward before he could think about it and grabbed Bobby’s arm.

“Don’t you fucking idiot. You’ll kill him.”

Stars had exploded before Harley’s eyes as Bobby backhanded him, sending him staggering back against the wall of the bridge. The old man groaned and started to pick himself up but this time, Bobby turned and ran, flinging the bat behind him, like he was running for first base. Harley and Alfie did likewise, Alfie following Bobby.

Harley had skidded to a halt and looked back at the old man and then took the opposite direction from the other two lads. That was it, he was going home. He’d had enough of Bobby and Alfie to last him a lifetime.  In that moment, Harley decided he could see where Bobby Price was heading and Alfie, too and it wasn’t a bright future. Harley decided he was going to stay away from them.

Now his feet pounded along the street alongside the factory wall. Up ahead, he could see the long roof and black and white timber cladding of the Gladstone Theatre. To its left, the ground became cobbled once more and ran into a dark alley running under the railway. He ran past the main front door of the factory, with its huge green clock and down into the darkness. That was it, he was free. He’d keep his head down and never have anything to do with either of those two losers again. He suddenly felt light and happy. Leaping over the metal railings that stopped cars using the passage under the bridge, he ran out into the road. A car blared its horn and Alfie threw himself back as the wing mirror whizzed a fraction of an inch from his head. He sat, panting on the pavement, watching the car vanish. It was then that reality hit him. He might choose to dump Bobby and Alfie, but they wouldn’t leave him alone. Not after what he’d just witnessed. He’d never be free of them.

Chapter 8

If he could do anything about it, Blake avoided post-mortems at all costs. It wasn’t that he was particularly squeamish, although watching a pathologist cut open a cadaver wasn’t his idea of a morning’s entertainment. Sometimes it was hard to attend because of the age or background of the victim. A child’s PM lived with Blake for years after and he felt heavy-hearted today because he knew that Paul Travis was a loved and missed father. But the overriding reason he disliked going to post-mortems was the pathologist himself. Jack Kenning fancied himself as a rather dapper man with a rare line in dark humour. In reality, it was almost universally accepted that he was a dull man no matter how loud his bowtie or how ‘edgy’ his jokes.

Sitting there with Vikki Chinn in the post-mortem theatre, watching Jack Kenning perform grated on Blake more than he could say. Kenning had them right where he wanted them and there was nothing they could do but take notes. Fortunately, there was a viewing screen between the pathologist and Blake so the burly policeman could grumble to Vikki without being heard.

Blake shuddered, looking at Paul Travis’ battered face as Kenning busied himself about the body. He muttered to his technician in what Blake decided was another language spoken only by pathologists as he only understood every fifth word. Vikki was hastily scribbling notes, leaving Blake wondering why he’d come along.

“Do you get half of what he’s saying, Vikki? It’s all gobbledegook to me.”

Vikki gave him a big smile. “Most of it, sir. I’m editing out the ‘humour’ though.”

“Ah, it’s not just me then. I think that comment about Paul having large feet followed by a reference to American redwoods was some kind of sasquatch reference or something…”

Vikki smiled and looked appalled. “Spare a thought for the technician, sir. She has to work with him all the time.”

Blake nodded. “It’s a wonder we’re not investigating his murder, Vikki. Imagine being subjected to that all day whilst being surrounded by so many sharp implements.”

“Hello, what’s this?” Kenning said over the intercom. He was prising Paul Travis’ fingers open to get the object out so it wasn’t really a source of surprise. He held it up so Blake could see but it was too far away. “It looks like a plastic figure, of a soldier. It’s a toy soldier. Interesting,” Kenning said. Blake gave Vikki another mutinous look as though he wanted to charge down there and ring Kenning’s neck. He hated playing Kenning’s little games.

He pressed the red button on the intercom that let him speak. “What’s interesting, Jack?”

“Come on down and I’ll tell you,” Kenning said, raising a hand to indicate that he’d finished. Blake jumped up. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

Kenning was washing his hands vigorously when they found him, just as you’d expect to see on a TV crime drama. The technician was watching him with a confused