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

to prise the fingers apart. “No good. Rigor mortis. Let’s hope so anyway or we might have to break the fingers.”

“Really?” Callum said.

Mallachy rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, what do they teach you in college these days? Cadaveric spasm mean anything to you?”

Callum looked a little lost and glanced over at Blake. “Don’t look at me,” Blake said.

“It’s not rigor mortis but often mistaken for it,” Mallachy explained. “If the victim died traumatically, there’s a chance the body goes into cadaveric spasm. The whole body stiffens instantly and often, it doesn’t loosen up. If he died clutching that, then the grip could be irreversible.”

“Let’s hope not,” Blake said. “I want to know what he’s holding as soon as possible.” He stepped out of the tent and headed to where DI Kath Cryer was talking to a member of the public. Pulling his mask off, he took a huge gulp of fresh air. It never got any easier, having to look at the corpses of people who had died violently. Blake always tried to maintain a sense of clinical detachment but when confronted with the actuality of a brutal death, it always shook him. Kath Cryer finished talking and hurried over to meet Blake.

“Neighbour, sir. Lives just on the corner, there. Thought she might have heard shouts sometime around midnight. She spent more time grumbling about the Bridge Inn and the rowdy folk club they have on a Wednesday than anything else. I’ll get a statement anyway.”

“Nice one, Kath. Get door-to-door going. Someone must have seen or heard something. It’s such an open space to have attacked anyone…”

“D’you think the setting is significant. Sir?”

“I don’t think anything yet, Kath. It’s pretty apparent he was killed on the steps, judging by the blood. Knocked unconscious and then his throat cut maybe.” Blake scanned the area. “It’s such a peculiar place to choose to ambush anyone. I mean, look around you, it’s effectively a massive roundabout surrounding the memorial. Very few hiding places.”

“Maybe the victim knew his assailant.”

“That’s a possibility. So what happened? Did they have an argument?”

Kath thought for a moment. “Whoever did that to Paul Travis was equipped for the job, sir. It doesn’t take a pathologist to work that out. Why was he carrying a blunt instrument and a knife unless he intended to use it?”

“It doesn’t pay to assume too much, Kath. It could have been an argument on the way back from work. The killer could have been carrying tools or a bowling ball if they’d been for a night out at Bromborough Bowl…”

“A bowling ball, sir?” Kath said, giving him a sceptical frown.

“I’m just saying, we don’t know for certain…”

“Yes, sir,” Kath said, staring up the treelined gardens to the Art Gallery. “It’s a pretty place, isn’t it? Must have been great for the workers here…”

“My grandad worked for Lever Brothers as they were before they became Unilever. He refused to live here.”

“Really, sir?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he thought that once you did that, the company had you, body and soul. They told you when to go on holiday, and where to go, too. D’you remember that case last year with the paranormal investigator? What was his name?”

“Trevor Long, sir?”

“Yeah. That caravan park over in Thurstaston where we thought we’d found a body, I think that used to be a Lever Brothers holiday camp.”

Kath raised her eyebrows and grinned. “As ever, it’s an education working with you, sir.”

Blake smiled back. He liked Kath, she could be a bit of a blabbermouth and she rubbed people up the wrong way. That was a distinct advantage sometimes. Kath was a diligent officer with a mind as sharp as her eye and a tongue to match both. “We need to find out if there’s family and get Tasha Cook involved. Come on. The game’s afoot, as Sherlock would probably say. To be honest, it doesn’t feel much like a game to me.”

Chapter 4

There was blood on his hands, blood on his boots. The face in the mirror opposite the bed he sat on was freckled in red. He’d even walked blood in through the house when he came in last night. He could see it everywhere. Whether he’d slept or what time it was, he had no idea. Birds sang outside and light streamed in through the thin curtains, so it must have been morning. Slowly the memories of last night crept into his mind. The staring eyes, his battered face and his open throat. The blood.

For a second, the room vanished and, once again, he was trapped in the Foxhound armoured car with the roar of the explosion, the heat of the flames and Corporal Graves’ pleading face in his. Graves’ hand gripped his ankle and then slid away as the car rolled and rolled. Pressing his fists to his temples he curled up, trying to squeeze the memories from his writhing brain. Blood pulsed round his temples and his heart hammered against his ribs.

And then just as quickly, he was back in the bedroom. He knew what he must do and prayed it wasn’t too late. Running into the kitchen, he saw that the chef’s blowtorch was on the worktop next to the pliers. Maybe he’d remembered and put them there last night. Rummaging in his pocket, he found the toy soldier. It was green and almost featureless, a man wearing a tin hat and carrying a rifle in one hand. With the other, it was throwing a grenade. He struck a match and smiled grimly at the satisfying roar of blue heat that sprang from the end of the blowtorch.

Gripping the toy soldier’s feet with the pliers, he levelled the flame at its head. Slowly, the arm bent as drips of green plastic fizzed angrily onto the work surface. He angled the soldier so that the molten drips slid down the body of the toy and pooled on the stand. The smell filled the kitchen, tickling his nose. It wasn’t unpleasant. It calmed him.

He spoke as