Death's Cold Hand J.E. Mayhew (best romantic novels to read TXT) 📖

“He wasn’t happy with Paul’s intervention, then?”

“Paul tried to reason with him but the lad was drunk and gobby. He took a swing at Paul but ended up on his backside…”

“Did Paul hit him?”

“Not really. He kind of kicked the legs from under him and sat him on the floor. It was quite funny really. His little gang thought so, anyway. Then Paul just leaned down and said something in the lad’s ear. I dunno what, but the lad jumped up and ran away.”

“Did the lad look frightened?”

“Yeah or maybe a bit shocked. I asked Paul what he’d said to him, but Paul just laughed. Anyway, I thought nothing of it until now. Do you think it might have been the kids who did it?”

“It’s certainly something we’ll investigate, Rachel. Did you overhear any names when the kids were talking to each other?”

“Only the big lad. They called him Bobby. I think he’s local. I’ve seen him around the village a few times. He had a long face, a bit spotty and his hair was cut in a French crop.”

Blake looked blankly at her.

“Sorry, I’m a hairdresser. It was short at the back and sides, very short and long on the top, combed forward, yeah?”

“That’s great, Rachel,” Tasha said, seeing Blake was still trying to work out what a French crop was. “Really useful.”

“Yes,” Blake said. A picture of Rachel and Paul, holding a little girl that must have been Danielle hung on the wall. Blake felt a pang of sympathy for the child. To lose a parent was bad enough but in such a violent manner would be hard to bear as she grew up.

“Do you know, I used to pray for him every night he was away with the army. Pray that he’d be safe from harm. Looks like he was safer over in Afghanistan than back here.” She stopped crushing the tissues and looked up at Blake. “I should have kept praying, shouldn’t I?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Travis, trust me, I won’t rest until we find who killed your husband, Danielle’s father. We’ll get them, I promise.”

Chapter 6

George Owens lived in a modest semi-detached house on Clifden Close, just off Kylemore Road in Oxton. The close was a small cul-de-sac of new buildings nestled amongst the large, red brick villas that typified this area. Even so, Vikki Chinn reckoned the house would be worth a bob or two. She sat in the car for a moment, wondering why she always eyed up property, estimating its value. Maybe it was because of her parents who were always nagging her to buy something bigger than her lovely flat close to the Anglican Cathedral in Liverpool. She was quite happy where she was, but she always felt this need to impress her parents. They’d never really been happy with her joining the police, but Vikki had a mind of her own.

Owens had sounded horrified at the news of Paul’s death and had agreed to meet her without hesitation. She climbed out of the car and he appeared at the front door immediately. He was in his thirties, short and carrying a bit of weight. His hair was cropped, but he had let his brown beard grow long. His bulbous nose was red as were his eyes and Vikki guessed that he’d been crying.

“DS Vikki Chinn,” Vikki said, showing him her warrant card. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Owens.”

“Call me George,” he said. “And how could I not agree? My God, it’s awful what happened to Paul. He was my best friend.” He paused, swallowing down a sob. “Anyway, come in, come in,” he said brusquely to fight off the wave of grief. Vikki followed him into a cluttered front room, where two armchairs and a sofa covered in throws competed for floor space with a huge coffee table, a footrest and a drinks cabinet. Framed pictures covered the walls, photographs of various mountain views, some snowy, some green and verdant. There was one of George and a big man standing on the peak of a mountain. George noticed Vikki looking at them. “I fancy myself as a bit of a photographer,” he said. “That and a love of the outdoors means I end up taking photographs of everything, everywhere I go!”

Vikki smiled and nodded. “If I can go through the events of last night, George, it’s purely routine but there might be something that might shed some light on what has happened.”

“Okay,” Owens said, taking a deep breath. “We were in the Bridge Inn between eight and about half eleven, when they kicked us out. To be honest, Barry had started singing which is always a sure sign it’s time to go, anyway.” He gave a brief smile and then the weight returned to his face.

“And how would you describe Paul Travis’ demeanour?”

“He was fine. We had a laugh. Put the world to rights. We were all in the forces at one time or another. We have a lot in common.”

“Did you all drink a lot?”

“Depends on what you call a lot, doesn’t it? We had a few pints but the worst that ever happens is Barry starts singing. It’s quite comical really.” He stopped and shook his head. “I guess we won’t be boozing all together like that again, eh?”

Vikki gave George a moment to recover his composure. “And you left the Bridge Inn around half eleven?”

George twisted his fingers in his beard. “Yes. We said goodbye to Paul and we all piled into a taxi…”

“Do you know the name of the taxi service?”

“I can’t remember, Thunderbird? Eastham Taxis? Anyway, he took us home, we asked for Barry to be dropped off first as he seemed the worst for wear…”

“And who was next?”

George thought a little more. “Me, I guess. It was late and I’d had a few. Yeah, it was me. I went to bed and woke up to the horrible news this morning.”

“Any ideas who might want to hurt Paul?”

“Paul