Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕
- Author: Jane Heafield
Book online «Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕». Author Jane Heafield
Cold Blood
Jane Heafield
Copyright © 2021 Jane Heafield
The right of Jane Heafield to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913942-58-8
Contents
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Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part II
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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Also by Jane Heafield
Dead Cold
Don’t Believe Her
Part I
1
Elvis Presley’s ghost aside, the very last person Bennet expected a call from was the mother of his child.
‘Liam, hi, how are you? How are things? How’s work? Are you still a sergeant?’
A blizzard of questions that made his head spin. Ten years. It had been ten years since their last contact, not an ounce of animosity lost on his part, yet she talked as if they were old friends on an annual gossip catch-up. ‘Anyway, I know it’s been a long time, but I need to talk to you. I’ll call you tomorrow night about eight. Bye.’
And that was it. The event flashed into existence and winked out again so fast he almost wondered if he’d imagined it. The call had come just before midnight last night, but he’d been fast asleep and the landline answering machine had taken it. Bennet deleted the voicemail and planted his ear against the living-room door. No sound of feet thumping down the stairs: Joe hadn’t heard the message from the mother he couldn’t remember.
Still in his coat and shoes, ready for another working Friday, Bennet stood at the window, looking out at the dark garden, and tried to calm his nerves. Ten years. Ten years since Lorraine had walked out, abandoning her baby son and his father like a crappy motel room.
But Bennet hadn’t been able to so easily scrub Lorraine from his mind. Joe had been a baby and unable to compute what just happened, but that wouldn’t last. One day he’d understand what a mother was, and that his wasn’t around, and he’d want answers. One day, he’d have the urge and the muscles to go out and find her. Until that day, Bennet had to make sure she was alive and well and able to answer her grown boy’s knock at the door.
This had been a simple case of keeping secret tabs on her, made easier in a world with social media and the internet. True to prediction, as Joe had grown, he’d come to understand that the old lady neighbour who often looked after him wasn’t his mother. Then the questions had started. That had been a tricky first conversation, and it had lost no sting by repetition over the years. Bennet had had all the answers Joe could have wanted, and the kid could have watched her life progress almost real time. Joe could have learned what his mother looked like, her hobbies, everything. But there were some things Liam didn’t want him to discover just yet.
But Bennet hadn’t provided those answers. Instead, he’d claimed no knowledge except that she was alive, somewhere. His father-of-the-year award was probably in the post.
He’d always wondered if Lorraine had mirrored his interest, but now he knew she had paid scant attention to her son and his father. Still a detective sergeant? Minimal research would have informed her that Bennet was now a chief inspector working with Barnsley’s Major Investigation Team 2, one of four covering the four boroughs of South Yorkshire. Worse, that brief one-sided conversation hadn’t contained a single mention of her son.
But she’d called, and it had to be about Joe, didn’t it? No other theory made sense, leading him to assume that Lorraine had finally reached that point, be it the product of curiosity or guilt, where she desired to get to know the son she had abandoned when he was small enough to hold in one hand. He’d always suspected the day would come. And planned for it.
But, here it was, and he wasn’t sure how he felt, or what he should do. He hit 1471, the last-call return number, but Lorraine had withheld hers.
Now came the footsteps bounding down the stairs. Joe bounced into the room, full of energy. Full of oblivion.
‘Dad, yo. What’s new?’
The question was nothing but their form of hello, but Bennet felt spotlighted, under pressure to make a snap, possibly life-changing decision.
‘Nothing, son. Nothing at all.’
2
In the chilly incident room at Barnsley’s Churchfield police station, Bennet’s murder squad was working a stabbing at Buttery Park. At this morning’s briefing, one of his team was outlining the results of a phone call trace, but Bennet was having trouble concentrating. His mind was a loose kite, sailing away.
Fifteen days ago, on the second day of the new year, a group of
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