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

“Great work. Hopefully, forensics will tell us if it’s the weapon used on Paul Travis or not. Shall we?” Blake said, gesturing towards Eric Smith’s bed.

Eric Smith filled the bed, his big round, red face was wrapped in bandages. The right side of his face was a swollen mess of blue and purple. One eye was shut in a painful wink. He looked miserable.

“Mr Smith, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Blake and this is PC Mark Robertson. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you feel up to it.”

“What about Toffee?” Eric said.

“Sorry?” Blake replied.

“Toffee is fine. She’s with your daughter, Mr Smith, being well-looked after,” PC Robertson said, he glanced at Blake. “Toffee is Mr Smith’s dog.”

“Ah, right,” Blake said. “So, could you tell us what happened, Mr Smith?”

Eric Smith blinked and swallowed hard, wincing as he did. “Bloody kids these days,” he said. “Boozing and making a racket. Back when I was a nipper, you lot would have been out on the beat. You’d have clocked this lot and given them a clip round the ear but no… you all swan around in your patrol cars, too scared to get out in case you upset some scally and take away his ‘rights.’ Makes me sick.”

“It was a gang of teenagers who set about you, then?”

“Of course it was. They were boozing under the bridge in the Dell. Three of them there were, two little kids and a big ugly bugger. He was throwing cans all over the place.”

“What time was this, Mr Smith,” Blake said.

“About five o’clock. I always walk Toffee at that time. Anyway, this big lad threw a beer can on the ground and I told him to pick it up. He gave me a mouthful and I said I was going to take a photograph of him. My grandson showed me how to do it.” His face softened and his good eye glistened. “He’s a good lad. Works hard at school, plays footie with his mates at the weekend. He did a charity bag-pack at Sainsbury’s the other day with the Air Cadets. You don’t see him getting pissed in public and attacking helpless old men.”

Blake shifted in his seat. “Your grandson sounds like a credit to you, sir. Some kids don’t have a role model like yourself to set them an example.  You threatened to take a picture of the lads. How did they react?”

“How do you think? That was when the big one picked up the baseball bat and hit me with it. One of the other kids panicked then and tried to stop him. He called the big one Bobby…”

“Bobby,” Blake repeated. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The name has cropped up before, that’s all. Do you remember anything else about them?”

“One of the little lads was a carrot-top, the other was a blondie and Bobby was dark-haired, his was cut short round the sides and longer on the top…”

“A French crop,” Blake said.

“What?”

“Apparently that’s what it’s called,” Blake said, blushing. “So I’ve been told.”

“Well I wouldn’t know. He was an ugly bastard, that’s all I know, spotty with a face like a slapped arse.”

Blake gave Mark a knowing look. “PC Robertson will take a fuller description later but you may have to be a bit more specific than that, Mr Smith. What happened next?”

“What do you think? The little get smacked me with the bat and I went down. Next thing I know I’m being loaded into an ambulance with a thumping headache. If I ever get hold of the…”

“We’ll get him, Mr Smith, believe me. It’s a miracle you weren’t more seriously hurt. I promise you, we’ll pick this lad up.”

“Aye and then what? Tea and biscuits with a social worker? I’d have him flogged in public. Say what you like about these Arab countries but I reckon they’ve got the right idea when it comes to toerags like Bobby whoever he is.”

Blake stood up. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Robertson. We’ll need to build up a fuller picture of this Bobby if you’re happy to give a detailed description.”

“I suppose so,” Smith grumbled.

Blake left, anger boiling in his gut. Generally, he could ride the predictable rants from the older generation about not being tough enough on crime but to hear it from a victim sitting in a hospital bed was particularly dispiriting. He wasn’t angry with Smith, to some extent he could see Smith’s point of view. Often their hands were tied when it came to arresting youngsters and Blake was left wondering what hope these kids had of ever breaking out of a cycle of criminality. Beating them in public wasn’t the answer but then, putting them on an endless merry-go- round of offending and reoffending didn’t seem to help, either. This boy had been mentioned in the context of two very serious crimes. One way or another, Bobby had to be picked up.

*****

The Major Incident Room hummed with activity but it had a softer edge to it today. Kath Cryer, Alex Manikas and Vikki Chinn all crowded round a grinning DC Andrew Kinnear who held his phone for them all to see. “She’s called Niamh. She’s just under one but has had a difficult start in life. There’s a possibility of some developmental issues but we can’t be certain yet.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Vikki cooed. “When do you get to meet her?”

“We’ve got more adoption training sessions but, hopefully, we’ll meet her in the next couple of weeks. Chris is over the moon.”

“It’s just great that you can give her a loving family,” Kath said. “Think how many kids we meet who have terrible home lives.”

“What about beer, mate?” Alex Manikas said.

“I think she’s a bit young for that. Probably warm milk and the odd biscuit…”

Manikas gave Kinnear a pained smile. “I mean what about us going out for a beer. It’s all well and good giving her a lovely home but not if