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

replaced with modern units that hid behind the façade of the factory wall. The factory produced more than it ever did now but employed a fraction of the workforce.

Port Sunlight itself was what they called a ‘model village,’ made by a philanthropist entrepreneur to keep the factory workforce healthy, happy and productive. Port Sunlight certainly outshone the surrounding areas with its wide, tree-lined drives, numerous flower beds and mock Tudor houses. But a huge swathe of it around the war memorial was cordoned off now and the cars that normally lined the edge of the road by the garden centre were replaced with police vehicles and ambulances. Crime Scene Investigators in white coveralls moved in and out of the tent and uniformed police officers were dotted around the cordon, keeping a few curious members of the public back.

Detective Inspector Kath Cryer hurried over to Blake as he climbed out of the car then stopped and did a double take. “What happened, sir?” she said, looking at the scratches on Blake’s cheek.

Blake frowned, but remembered his wrestling match with Serafina this morning and touched the scratches on his own face. “Oh, just cat trouble, Kath,” he said. “What have we got?”

Kath shook herself and looked down at her notes. “Male in his thirties, tall, six three. Looks like his head had been caved in with a blunt instrument.”

“Who found him?”

“A young couple coming back from a night out in Liverpool. They saw him from out of their taxi. They couldn’t miss him, though.”

“Makes a change from a dog walker, I suppose. Are they still about?”

“No, guv, but we’ve got their addresses. You sure you’re okay, sir?”

Blake grunted, trying to ignore the ache in his chest and the scratches acquired from Serafina. “I swear to God, that cat is going to be the death of me, Kath.” Blake signed into the crime scene and dragged on a set of coveralls. The material felt plastic and constricted him. He put the face mask on and pulled the hood up before ducking into the tent.

The metallic smell of blood hit Blake first, even through the face mask. He trod gingerly onto the stepping plates that prevented anyone from stepping in the blood that pooled around the steps of the war memorial.

Malachy O’Hare, the Crime Scene Manager squatted over the body, masking the top half. Blake could only see the crime scene manager’s back and his head was shrouded by the hood of the coveralls but he recognised the bony frame straight away.

“It’s a bloody disgrace,” O’Hare said, without turning round.

“What?” Blake said.

“Killing a man here. On this spot of all places. A bloody war memorial,” O’Hare spat. “I mean, bad enough anywhere but this just takes the biscuit.”

Blake nodded. “Are we certain he was killed, Mallachy?”

O’Hare turned, his white eyebrows did the talking for the rest of his face. He wasn’t happy. “I’m telling you. Whoever did this wants stringing up.”

Blake frowned. O’Hare was normally the source of dark banter at a scene like this. He was the one who kept a sense of humour when others were swallowing down their breakfasts again. “What makes you so sure it’s murder?”

O’Hare stepped back to reveal a male body lying on its back on the steps as though catching a few minutes rest. One leg was bent, and the arms lay loosely at the side of the body. The head was bruised and battered and a jagged, red wound gaped at the victim’s neck.

“Jeez, Mallachy. I take your point,” he gasped. “Any ID?”

Mallachy held up a wallet stuffed with cash and a local gym pass with the name Paul Travis printed on it. Blake looked at the photograph. “Whoever did this was a head-the-ball, Will,” Mallachy said. “A monster.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I lost a nephew in Iraq a few years ago. How anyone could kill a man in a place like this just…” Mallachy shrugged. “I’ve no words.”

“We need to get them, then,” Blake said. Looking at the dead man’s feet rather than anywhere else. “Any prints?

“We have a bloody boot print on a lower step. Whoever did this would have been splattered with blood, too. The victim’s mobile phone was on him. Otherwise, nothing. I’m no pathologist but I’d say he went down with the first blow and then what followed was just savagery.”

“A big man like that could have defended himself if he had the chance,” Blake agreed. “Let’s see what the pathologist says.”

“Knowing Jack Kenning, he’ll probably crack a shite joke and twiddle whichever godawful bowtie he’s decided to inflict on us,” O’Hare said, the appraisal of Kenning being a sure sign of recovery from his initial shock. “Oh, there’s this, too. I haven’t removed it yet because I want to get a picture.”

Blake squatted next to Mallachy, trying not to look at the pulp to his left. Fortunately, the investigator’s attention was focused on the victim’s hand. “What is it?”

“It’s a hand, Will,” Mallachy said. Blake gave him a wry look. Having vented his wrath, the old Mallachy was back with them.

“Hilarious. What’s that in it?” Blake peered at the closed, white fingers. Something green and shiny was clutched in them. “It looks like it’s round at the top. Hard to tell what it is.”

“Callum!” Mallachy yelled, almost deafening Blake. “Callum, will you get that camera in here? Blake wants a selfie with me.”

Blake glanced at O’Hare. “A selfie?”

“It was the best I could do on the spur of the moment, Blake, don’t hate me.”

Callum, whom Blake always thought of as new but was probably pretty well-established by now, appeared at the entrance, panting for breath, camera in hand. He nodded at Blake.

“You don’t really want a picture with Mr O’Hare do you?” Callum said, glancing from Blake to Mallachy and back.

“I didn’t think Malachy showed up on photographs,” Blake said.

Callum looked confused. “Why not?”

“Ignore him, Callum,” Mallachy said. “He’s trying to be funny. Take a picture of that hand there.”

Callum took some photographs and then Mallachy tried