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

“Probably not but I’ve had a bad week. I don’t like seeing people dead, and I don’t like chasing homicidal maniacs around the Wirral. So why would you not having the balls to stand up to Travis cause his murder? I’m at a loss, please explain it.”

“It was Ufford. I don’t know quite where Paul found him but it was him who filled his head with all these ideas, put him in touch with all these faceless companies that slosh money around the charity. ‘Nothing succeeds like success,’ Paul always said, and if you can show potential donors that you’re drowning in cash, then they’re drawn to it.”

“Really?” Blake looked dubious.

“Yes, think about it. Who are you going to invest in: some poor little one-man band working out of a wooden hut that’s likely to go under when you’re late with a donation, or a big, swish organisation with good connections and plenty of resources? Which one is likely to give you the best PR boost?”

“The big one, I suppose,” Blake said. “But it doesn’t make it any more or less deserving. It depends on what good you do, the help you give.” Owens got to his feet, swaying slightly and making Blake wince. For all his talk, the last thing he wanted to see was Owens disappearing over the side.

“Not according to Ufford. He reckoned that as long as companies can donate, set it against their tax, get a bit of good press, they’re happy. Paul would spout this crap all the time and you could tell where he got it from. Quentin Ufford.”

“So you’re saying that Ufford introduced Paul to some shady customers.”

“Damn right that’s what I’m saying and then Ufford started taking money out of the charity. Stealing from us. Paul wanted to sack him. I said that we couldn’t. Imagine the scandal and the embarrassment when you lot looked at the accounts. But Paul was adamant he was going to report Ufford to the police. So they cut his throat,” Owens said. “And when Ufford couldn’t cover his tracks, he got it too.”

“You said, ‘they’ killed Paul. Who do you mean, George?”

Owens waved his arms around, making Blake’s stomach lurch. “I don’t know. Whoever runs those shell companies that pour their money into the charity and then syphon it out through cleaners and security. Them. Pro-Vets is ruined. Everything we built up, gone. Donors will pull out the minute they hear about the scandal. All those people let down badly.”

“So where do you fit into it all, George?”

“Me? I knew, didn’t I? I never stood up to Paul and then when I did, it was to protect Ufford because I was scared of what would happen to the charity.” Owens waved his arms again and staggered a little.

“And what about Terry White?”

Owens looked genuinely puzzled. “What about him?”

“What’s his connection to all of this?”

“Dunno,” George opened his arms. “None as far as I know. Why are you talking about poor Terry?” He stumbled again and this time, Blake threw himself forward, dragging Owens down. His feet slid on the smooth metal and he landed with a loud thud. Blake’s stomach lurched as they began to slip towards the edge. He pressed his heels against the roof surface, producing a loud groaning sound. The lip of the roof came closer and Blake could see cars below and a crowd of people. They slowed and he pushed himself back, still gripping Owens tightly.

“If you so much as twitch, I swear I’ll make sure I land on top of you. I don’t intend to fall off this roof and I’m not going to let you go either. Got it?” Owens’ nodded and sirens sounded in the distance. “If you want to make things right, you’ll make a statement and help us sort this mess out. Now keep absolutely still until the fire brigade get us down.”

*****

It was late and, being Friday evening, quiet in the Major Incident Room. A few small groups huddled around computers or shared files. A feeling of expectant tension filled the air as officers prepared for what was likely to be a stressful day tomorrow. The rally was going ahead despite a news conference held by Martin and Hannah Williams announcing that there was no terrorist attack. Some protestors had come to Liverpool a day early and hit the pubs. Already news of scuffles and arrests were beginning to filter back. It seemed like the madness could only get worse as the weekend progressed.

George Owens had been taken to hospital for observation. Blake sat at his desk with DI Kath Cryer and DS Vikki Chinn. Vikki held a photograph and a file. “It seems that a blue Ford Transit van was spotted outside Terry White’s flat this morning. CCTV picked up a vehicle matching this description passing the Three Stags pub later on. It’s close enough to probably be the same van.”

“Anyone we know?” Blake said.

Vikki passed him the open file. “Noel Roscoe, 65, numerous petty offences, theft, shoplifting, drugs, burglary but not recently. I tried the address in his file but he hadn’t been there in a couple of years. A woman said she saw an old man limping out of the gateway to the flats and getting into a blue van. The description she gave matches Roscoe.”

Kath looked over Blake’s shoulder at the file. “Wasn’t it a blue Transit that was seen picking Terry White up in Raby, sir?”

“It was, Kath. So we can assume Roscoe picked up Terry White and then, what? Did he steal the keys? He’d have to have been given the address.”

Vikki nodded. “The officers at the scene said that medication was missing from the flat, didn’t they sir? Anti-psychotics, anti-epilepsy tablets, that kind of thing.”

“D’you think he went to get the medication for White, sir?” Kath said.

“Possibly. Or maybe he thought he could nick them and sell them on. There’s a market for that kind of stuff, after all.”

“But, like you said, White would