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

you feel that way. There are some who don’t. Usually, people who don’t volunteer themselves. I’m not sure how they expect things to get done. I’ll take you back up to the offices. We have some counselling suites up there that get quite a lot of use…”

“It’s a proper wrap-around service then?” Blake said as they headed across the warehouse and back upstairs.

“We do socials too, outdoor pursuits weekends, family respite breaks, all kinds of things. I sometimes think we’re too thinly spread but Paul, well, he wanted to do everything.”

“Did that cause tension between you?” Blake said as they entered an office with two desks that, again, felt cramped. A huge rump covered in rather stretched brown fabric stuck out from under one of the desks.

“Quentin, what are you doing?” George said, stepping over the man’s legs to get to his own desk.

Quentin reversed himself, bumping into Blake’s legs as he tried to manoeuvre into a standing position. He was a large man with a mop of unruly brown hair, a straggly chin beard and horn-rimmed glasses. His face was red, and he looked sweaty and flustered.

“Sorry… sorry… I was just fixing a cable on Paul’s computer. H-he complained about it last week and I was going to get it fixed but… so I…” Quentin’s voice faded to silence. “Don’t suppose I need to now,” he said, bluntly.

“Probably not, Quentin,” George said. “Inspector Will Blake, this is Quentin Ufford, our Accountant and IT technician. He keeps the books straight and fixes all the glitches in our hardware and software …”

“Will Blake,” Quentin said, grinning. “Tyger, tyger burning bright…”

Blake gave a brief, pained smile. “That’s right. Carry on.” If he had a quid for every time someone had quoted poetry at him, he’d never have to work again.

Ufford’s face fell. “I don’t really know any more. I was just making a joke… Your name… you know… it’s…”

“Also the name of a famous poet,” Blake said. “I know that, Mr Ufford. My English teachers used to love reminding me. I felt obliged to smile then.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll just…” Ufford bustled out of the room, shutting the door noisily behind him.

“Sorry about that,” George Owens said, wincing. “He’s a good lad. Paul hired him as an accountant a few months ago. But he proved to be a whizz on computers too. He really does keep this place running. It’s all computers these days.”

“Paul sat here,” Blake said, looking at a photograph of Rachel and Danielle on the desk Quentin had been rummaging underneath.

Owens nodded and gave a tight smile. “He did. I haven’t touched anything yet. Plenty of time for that.” The stocky man sat down at his desk and indicated that Blake should take the seat that leaned against the wall. It looked small and rickety, but he lowered himself onto it. “In answer to your question, Inspector, Paul and I did have our differences about the direction of the service, but we always resolved them amicably.”

“I see,” Blake said. “You said before that the only waged people on the team were the supervisors. Who are they?”

“Myself, Paul, obviously. Then Dave Jones, he supervises the foodbank and Barry supervises the deliveries and collections. Nicola Norton is a part time psychologist who does our counselling, and we pay her by the session. Sasha Hughes is our receptionist. Quentin gets a wage. Everyone else is a volunteer.”

“So the majority of people who are paid by Pro-Vets were out at the Bridge Inn the night Paul was killed.”

“They were,” Owens said, nodding sadly. “If only we’d persuaded Paul to take a taxi with us. Things would have turned out differently.”

“It’s funny you should say that, Mr Owens,” Blake said. “Because I wanted to explore something in a little more detail. My team interviewed Mr Davies and Mr Jones and they both said that you didn’t take the taxi but that you walked to get the train, and apparently this is a common occurrence. Would you mind explaining?”

*****

Detective Sergeant Vikki Chinn had commandeered one of the meeting rooms so that she could spread the files regarding the death of Richard Ince across the tables. Although she could understand why Blake had wanted to keep an open mind, she shared Manikas’ feeling that it was more than just odd. Kenning was a pain in the arse but that didn’t mean that he was wrong every time.

She frowned at the photograph of Richard Ince. He was a big man with a flat boxer’s nose and a gentle smile. She the thought she could see a sadness in his eyes. Vikki thought he looked familiar somehow, but she couldn’t think why.

Alex Manikas appeared at the door. “Mind if I come in, Sarge?”

“Of course, aren’t you phoning schools asking if they have a pupil called Bobby?” Vikki said, grinning. She liked Manikas, not just because he was easy on the eye with his dark, brooding Mediterranean looks but he was quiet and thoughtful. He was a good copper too.

Alex rolled his eyes. “Kath and Andrew are out on that gig at the moment. I’m coordinating door-to-door. Just thought I’d look in before I went. Have you found anything?”

“Just started, really. Nothing remarkable yet. Richard Ince aged thirty-five, worked in a local Asda, happy-go-lucky guy on the face of it. Found dead in the bath. He’d been drinking heavily that night, but it was an overdose of heroin that killed him. He left a suicide note. The only link I’ve found with Travis apart from the toy soldier in his hand is that he went to Pro-Vets for counselling.”

“So he must have been having mental health problems, then, Sarge” Alex conceded. “Who was the counsellor?”

Vikki flicked through the file. “Nicola Norton. She made a statement to say that Ince was depressed and having flashbacks from his time in Afghanistan. He had been to the doctor for antidepressants but hadn’t talked about harming himself. She adds that it saddened her to hear the news but didn’t surprise her.”

“Any sightings before he