Death's Cold Hand by J.E. Mayhew (good romance books to read txt) 📕

Layla looked at the ceiling. “God, when was it? About two weeks ago. He told his wife he was working late and we went out for a meal. Posh restaurant over in town. It was a nice meal but he finished with me that night. I really must…”

“Finished with you?”

“Yeah. Not very original reasons, really. He felt guilty cheating on his wife, he had a little kid, it was all getting too much. It had been fun but we didn’t have much in common apart from the sex…”

“You don’t seem very cut up about any of this, Layla, the fact that he broke up with you, the fact that he’s dead.”

Layla price shrugged. “We had a laugh. I liked him but I wasn’t in love with him. Yeah, I’m sorry he got killed, it’s horrible but I’ve shed my tears, thanks and I don’t have to cry for your benefit, do I? Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the counter.”

Chapter 27

Terry White’s flat was small, with one bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and a living room. It felt claustrophobic even with just two other crime scene investigators. Mallachy O’Hare leaned over, frowning at a small green, mound that lay on the draining board in the kitchen.

“What is it?” Blake said.

“Looks like melted plastic, Will. It’s a wonder it didn’t set the smoke alarms off.”

“What melted it?”

Malachy kept his steady gaze focused on the mound. “Something hot, Will. Yep, definitely something hot…” He looked up and grinned.

“Hilarious,” Blake said. “You competing with Kenning for the crime scene comedy awards or something?”

“I’d win hands down, mate,” Malachy said, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Green plastic. Could it be a toy soldier?”

“I’d say so. Can you see there, at the base?”

“They look like boots. Yes, and there’s a leg…”

“The lab will be able to compare the composition of the plastic with that of the soldier found on Travis and at the scene of the assault earlier today. How is Ian?”

“Stable, last I heard. Have you found anything else?”

“You might say that. Nothing else that would put White anywhere near Paul Travis on the night of the murder, no. There are no bloodstained clothes or anything like that, more’s the pity. Have a look in the bedroom, though.”

Blake walked into the tiny bedroom. The curtains were still drawn, giving the place a subterranean feel. His legs grazed the double bed that dominated the room. A small chest of drawers and a wardrobe took care of the rest of the floor space meaning Blake had to sidle in to get to the end of the bed.

The wall was covered with pictures. There were cuttings from recent news coverage of the Travis murder and two large photographs sat in the middle of it all. The first was of Paul Travis himself. It looked like a corporate shot, Travis half turning as if greeting a friend. A blurry picture of an older, bald man with a hawk like nose and a mouthful of tombstone teeth set in a mirthless grin sat next to the one of Travis. The picture had been blown up so there was little background but Blake could see the collar of a sandy brown uniform. He wondered if this was Corporal Graves. One thing was certain, they had to find Terry White as soon as possible.

Blake went back to Malachy in the kitchen. “Anything else?”

Malachy raised his bushy, white eyebrows. “What d’you want, a signed confession? If those pictures and these little melted fellas aren’t enough for you, I dunno what is.”

“I suppose so. Thanks, Malachy. Let me know if anything more turns up, okay?” He hurried out of the door, leaving his car in the flats carpark and heading out into the road. He looked at his watch. It was six forty-five. He needed to be at Jeff’s five minutes ago but, thankfully, his brother only lived just down the road. His heart thumped and his stomach squirmed. If Laura stayed long enough for him to talk to her, he could be a little while but he had a terrible feeling that she would take one look at him and leave.

Jeff had been house-sitting the semi-detached for almost a year now and banking the rent from his swish London flat. The house was in stark contrast to Jeff’s metropolitan writerly image; it was homely, with flowery curtains and a neatly trimmed front garden. Blake assumed whoever owned the house paid for a gardener because he couldn’t imagine Jeff getting his hands dirty. It still rankled with Blake that Jeff managed to land on his feet so many times despite being hopeless with money. So many things rankled with Blake about his younger brother, though. Maybe that was why he found Jeff’s discomfort at this plan so satisfying.

His little brother answered the door looking like he was sucking a wasp. People said that he and Jeff looked alike. They were both tall and square-jawed. Jeff was slim without the bulk of muscle that Will carried.

“I’m not happy about this, Will.” Jeff said as he let Will in.

“You could have said no.”

Jeff gave Will a mutinous look. “And how would you have reacted to that?”

“Fair enough,” Will said, with a sigh. “Look Jeff, I just need to talk to her. I can’t phone her; she’ll just hang up on me. At least this way, I can try and talk to her.”

“It’s borderline creepy, Will. And what if she has one of Kyle Quinlan’s heavies with her? Or Quinlan himself? If this place gets damaged in any way, you’re paying for it.”

“Relax. It’ll be fine,” Will said. “When she calls, just pretend you can’t open the front door and ask her to go round the back to the garden…”

“What?”

“If she sees you, she’ll know it’s all a plan for me to talk to her. You could disguise your voice, perhaps…”

Jeff looked horrified. “Seriously? Who do you want me to sound like? Kenneth Williams perhaps? Or maybe Sylvester Stallone.”

Will opened his mouth to answer but