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

his iron. They all looked like unwanted betting slips, crumpled into a ball and dumped. Hissing with frustration, Blake grabbed the nearest and tried to smooth it out. Charlie bounced up and down around Blake barking excitedly at this new running-around-the-house game. Serafina wound herself around Blake’s ankles just as he set off, sending him tumbling out into the hall with a yell.

“Right, Blake. Stop. Slow down,” he muttered to himself. “Feed the cat and dog. Antibiotics. Phone ahead and tell them you’re going to be late…”

As it turned out, Blake was only a few minutes late. Even with the rush hour traffic, it was ten minutes’ drive from Blake’s house. Pro-Vets headquarters was an industrial unit down by the Birkenhead docklands. It looked like a large hangar in grey and blue with a few windows and a door in the front. He pulled up outside the main office, but at the side, he could see a larger opening with people carrying food parcels from a van and taking them inside. There was the sound of hammering and construction, too. The whole place was a hive of industry.

Blake pushed the office door open and stepped into the main reception where a smartly dressed young woman sat behind a counter. It was a small space, bordering on cramped. A few chairs stood in a line to the left of the door he had just entered by and a staircase ran up beside the counter to a second floor. A door at the bottom of the stairs led into the warehouse area, Blake presumed.  The woman smiled at him, but Blake could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Clearly the news about Paul Travis had filtered through the workforce and he was missed. “Welcome to Pro-Vets. How can I help you?”

Blake produced his warrant card. “DCI Will Blake, Merseyside Police. I have an appointment with…”

“DCI Blake,” George Owens said from the stairs beside the counter. He was a stocky man with cropped brown hair and a straggly beard. He’d clearly relaxed his exercise regime since leaving the forces. “It’s okay, Chloe, I’m expecting him. Would you like a quick tour, Inspector? It’ll give you an idea of what we do and the legacy that Paul leaves behind. We made a decision not to halt business but to keep it going in his memory. It’s what he would have wanted.”

Blake nodded. “That would be great, thank you.” He wanted to get an idea of what it was that Paul did, anyway and a tour would give him useful background.

“This way,” Jones said, leading Blake through the door into the warehouse area. “So, upstairs, we have offices, we can have a chat there in a minute but through here are the food bank and workshops.”

They stood in a large warehouse with a high ceiling. Tables laden with different kinds of food, packets, tins, dessert, savoury products, and a table for fresh produce. A small army of people hurried around, filling bags and boxes. “You’ve caught us at a busy time, we’re getting ready for the rush.”

“This can’t all be for people who were in the forces, surely.”

“No. Our aim is to provide useful roles and positions for ex-servicemen and women who might have fallen on hard times or are in need. The food bank is for anyone who needs it. There’s Dave Jones supervising the sorting. I think Barry is out on a delivery.”

They walked over to Jones who stood giving directions to a big man with a blank face. “Put these with the other cans, Terry, okay?”

Terry looked blankly for a moment then nodded. “Yes.” He picked up the box and marched over to the table. Blake noticed a pale scar across the back of his head, barely covered by the baseball cap he wore. Dave shook his head.

“Dave, this is DCI Blake. I don’t need to tell you why he’s here. Problem, Dave?” George Owens said, looking concerned.

Jones laughed. “Nah. Just Whitey, there, God love him. He seems to be getting worse at following directions.” Jones’ smile faded. “Looked at me blankly when I asked him if he’d had a good weekend. I do think he needs more help.”

“We’ll have a chat with him and Nicola. Maybe we need to find something else for him to do,” George muttered. He turned to Blake. “Not breaking any confidences, Inspector but some of our vets have very specific difficulties. The TV programmes might show you the guys who have lost a limb charging around a basketball court in a wheelchair, but you don’t always see the Terries of this world. Acquired Brain Injury from an improvised explosive device. Changed his personality. Difficult man but we wouldn’t turn our back on him.”

Blake nodded. “That’s admirable. This must cost a fortune to run all this support…”

“It’s a constant headache,” Owens agreed, walking across the cavernous space. “We have all kinds of charitable events and I spend most of my time searching for grants or preparing bids for them.” He opened another door and Blake found himself in a busy workshop where circular saws whined, and the sound of hammering battered at his ears. Work benches filled this room and people leaned over them, making and cutting. “Here we make garden furniture, birdboxes, anything we can sell, really and our clients learn business skills as well as a practical trade.”

“It seems like quite a set-up,” Blake said. “And all this was Paul’s vision?”

“And mine,” Owens said, a little defensively. “We left the army six years ago and set up with a grant. We built it from there. Paul’s mother died, leaving some money which he ploughed into Pro-Vets. Everything we earn goes back into the business.”

“And you take a wage, I presume,” Blake said.

“A modest one and the supervisors do too. We have to live, Inspector…”

Blake held his hands up. “It wasn’t a criticism. You provide a valuable service. I can see that and as you say, without a wage, you couldn’t do it.”

Owens smiled. “I’m glad