By Jim Kelly
Three a long time later, small-town newspaper reporter Philip Dryden is experiencing a chilly, sour Christmas at the Fens. Dryden's spouse, Laura, is rising from years in a coma, uncertain if she desires to move on dwelling. in the meantime, individuals are freezing to dying, between them Declan McIlroy, a 39 12 months outdated loner came upon useless in his flat with the home windows thrown open. The police rule the demise a suicide, yet Dryden has his doubts - specially while he unearths the physique of Declan's ally Joe frozen inside a shell of ice at the doorstep of his secluded farmhouse.
At a similar time, Dryden is investigating allegations of abuse laid opposed to a Catholic orphanage - a sensitive topic, because of his personal Catholic upbringing. The incidents appear unrelated till Dryden discovers that Declan used to be one of many sufferers. may possibly his loss of life were a part of a cover-up?
Soon, Dryden is deciding upon his means alongside a hectic path of cruelty and betrayal to a brilliantly carried out crime, and to a chilling, half-remembered secret from his personal formative years.
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Extra info for The Coldest Blood
He held out a hand like the bucket on a mechanical digger. ’ Dryden noted the grey stubble on his chin and guessed he was a decade older than his wife. Sley took a swig of beer, and Dryden glimpsed wrecked teeth. ‘There’s an association – of allotment holders. This is the clubhouse, if you like. We do tea as well…’ Garry beamed. ’ Two more glasses were found and filled. The beer came flat, but tasted malty and Dryden sensed the alcoholic kick. ’ ‘Six point five per cent,’ said Sley, and Garry whistled happily.
She went to bed instead – that was ten days ago. Ten days without hot food, or heat. The cottage was damp. ’ Dryden took the head and shoulders picture. ’ Vee smiled, knowing that Dryden’s career as a journalist had been severely hampered by a conscience. She checked her notes. ‘Declan McIlroy. ’ Dryden slurped his tea. ‘I guess…’ He held Vee’s good eye for just a moment too long. She caressed the Tony Benn mug. ’ ‘Didn’t say that, Vee. Just think the police are a bit quick to tie up the paperwork on deaths like this… I mean, if I was a murderer I’d grab my chance.
Entertainment consisted of a telephone box and a bus stop, both of which had been vandalized. Just beyond stood St Vincent’s, another stunning example of the modern Catholic Church’s inability to build an inspiring place for worship. It looked like the living quarters from Noah’s Ark, a brick shed, the only decoration a life-size copper figure of Christ on the cross over the door which now bled green blood down the façade and over the doors. Next door was the presbytery: a Victorian house, not unlike a seaside B&B, with bay windows and some stone decoration at the pinnacle where another simple cross was hung.