by Vic Marelle
‘I’m not so sure Dad. David Preston is their new solicitor and from what the lads say he’s quite a whiz with the legal stuff – he did Sylvia’s divorce and really took her ex for a ride. You might not get as much as you think from Uncle Mike.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s a real problem. Mike’s hurting bad now and I’m thinking that I might get more than we expected. There’s more at stake here than either my pride or a legacy of a few grand. I just thank my lucky stars that old Joseph was Granddad’s solicitor and knows how it was all done. Now that he’s my solicitor I can have a go at getting it back. We all have to meet to agree the figures and then I can put it all behind me. That was supposed to happen next week but I got Joseph to delay it a bit because I have a few other irons in the fire. I’ve a meeting with a bloke over in Skem and I’m also going to see Arthur Jarvis.’
‘And who’s he then?’
‘Before your time son. Or when you were small anyway. He’s the bloke my dad bought the farm from. First he moved to a house in the village, then about three years ago went down south to be near his family. It took me a while but I tracked him down to a place just outside London. I’m going to see him next week, and while I am down there I am dropping in on a couple of caravan parks to see if I can pick up some tips. If my hunch is right and it all comes together, we should soon have the funds we need to make this place sing and I’ll also be able to take my bloody sister and her perverted husband to the cleaners, get my inheritance back and secure all our futures. It’s worth a week in the smoke for that.’
Five
Friday. The best day of the week. Unless something major happened to screw up the weekend, only a few hours remained before two full days with no paperwork to complete, no drunken yobbos to haul in and no ‘yes sir no sir three bags full sir’ to the inspector either.
‘How did you get on then?’
Oh well, just a few more yes sirs to go. ‘Nothing much to report really sir. Mike Johnson seems to be quite the star. I couldn’t find a single shopkeeper with a bad word against him. The blokes either said he was an OK guy or that they didn’t know much about him other than what gets printed in the local rag – which is all about his artwork anyway – but he certainly seems to be a hit with the ladies. Most of the women seemed to have a crush on him and one of them in the café across from The Palette has definitely got the hots for him. I casually said that there was a resemblance to her in one of the pictures in the art shop and she blushed bright red then admitted that she did go for art lessons occasionally.’
‘So what’s there to be embarrassed about in taking the odd art lesson?’
‘Well Guv, I don’t know about having art lessons but if that was her in the sketch then she wasn’t painting, she was modelling. And she certainly wasn’t ashamed of anything or reluctant to show it all off either – that sketch is a cracking nude picture.’
‘Sounds like she might be the best person to give us some insight into what goes on at Johnson’s art classes then Kyle, help us dismiss the suggestions that our local artist got worked over by a jealous partner, though with Peter Archer in the clear, a love based attack might actually be the most logical trail to follow.’
……….
Peering into the shops like a couple of window gazing sightseers, the two detectives sauntered down the street as inconspicuously as they could, giving them the opportunity to pause at The Palette before moving on.
Intrigued, Radcliffe looked eagerly for the picture, but without success until the sergeant pointed to a small framed sketch tucked away at the back.
‘Well, if that picture is anything to go by, our friendly artist certainly knows how to pick his models,’ he said. ‘Come on Kyle, let’s see what she looks like with her clothes on.’
A recreation of a tea shop in years gone by, the Windsor Tea Rooms encapsulated life in a more genteel age, enticing day trippers with its promise of fleeing the pace of 21st century living, even if only for half an hour over relaxing refreshments. Waitresses in Victorian style white aprons over black dresses brought cakes and sandwiches to its tables on three tier cake stands, with leaf tea in china pots and twee little china tea cups in which to drink it. Outside, more tables under umbrellas were arranged in the roadway of the pedestrianised street, taking the concept a little towards a French pavement café and confusing the issue somewhat. Modern essentials like WiFi Internet access and rubbery burgers on tasteless buns had not been invented in the days that the Windsor attempted to emulate, though the softly playing piano emanated from a decidedly up to date audio system rather than a real grand piano.
A jangling bell announced the entry of the two detectives, drawing a smile from the assistant manageress and a welcoming ‘a table for two is it?’
‘Yes please, though we would like you to join us please,’ responded the senior officer, introducing them and reminding her of his sergeant’s earlier visit.
‘Oh dear,’ she replied, ‘I hope that I didn’t say something that I shouldn’t have. I would hate to get anybody into trouble.’
‘No, not at all. Actually, you were very helpful and we just thought that perhaps you could help us a little more.’ Keep it all friendly thought the inspector. If she had been embarrassed at having modelled for the picture there would be no point in putting the poor girl on the defensive right from the start.
Clearly not at ease, she spoke in short bursts, as if she was searching for some gem of a statement that would placate the policemen and send them on their way but couldn’t think of one. ‘If I can. Of course. But in what way? It’s pretty ordinary around here. Nothing much happens. People come in for tea and a cake. That’s all. What else do you want to know?’
‘Now now love, don’t get upset. We are just trying to piece together some loose ends and since we don’t know much about this street and those working here we thought that perhaps you could help us. Local knowledge and all that.’
After instructing a young waitress to take over her duties she sat with them at their table. What could all this mean? The police didn’t just turn up asking questions if you hadn’t done anything did they? Well the nice young sergeant had done yesterday, but that was different because he was checking out the burglary at the electronics shop further up the street. Now there were two of them – and one of them an inspector no less. It couldn’t be the parking ticket she had got when she overstayed her time in Tulketh Street, that wouldn’t warrant an inspector would it?
‘Don’t worry Miss, you won’t get anyone into trouble. And if you do tell us something that helps us we won’t be telling anyone where we got the information either.’
He was a nice one that sergeant. A little old for her of course, but nice all the same. More like a father figure, but not old enough for that either. Only the second time they had met but he understood her. That was more than Jack did. What in heaven’s name should she do about Jack?
‘Right Miss.’ The sergeant brought her out of her reverie. ‘How well do you know the people at the electronics shop?’
She didn’t know them all that well actually. Nor did she know the owners of the travel agent, the cake shop, the butcher, the instant print shop or the Christian book shop.
‘Ah, but you know the art shop man pretty well don’t you.’
‘No, not really. Just to say hello to now and again’ She said.
‘But I heard that you knew him well enough to take your clothes off for him.’
In an instant she had blushed redder than a lobster. And she was fidgeting with a napkin on her knees. Embarrassment was an understatement. ‘No I don’t know him well. I just modelled for the life painting class. And I only did it the once. Lifting her head to look at Radcliffe she fixed her eyes rigidly on his and emphasised her point. ‘Just the once inspector,’ pausing before continuing. ‘Actually I was supposed to be in the painting class but the model didn’t turn up. I wouldn’t have done it normally but because it was only for the painting class they said that nobody else would see me
. I couldn’t just strip off anywhere for anybody inspector.’ What a cheek! Fancy making such a suggestion. He didn’t have the tact or the charm of his sergeant that was for sure.
‘Well the sergeant recognised you from the picture, so no doubt others have as well.’
‘Yes, that sketch has been a problem.’
‘Doesn’t look like a problem to me miss, in fact, it’s a lovely picture. I would go in and buy it myself but I don’t think that my wife would approve when I got it home,’ he said with a grin.
‘No inspector, I don’t suppose she would. I asked Mike to take it out of the window because we had blokes peering into the tea shop and making rude gestures at me. That wasn’t the worst though. My boyfriend went wild when he saw it.’
‘I would have thought that he would have been pleased that others approved of his choice sufficiently to draw and paint her.’
‘No sergeant, he wasn’t. He saw the sketch when he came to meet me after work and when he realised that it was me he almost dragged me out of the shop.’
‘So what happened then? Did he shout at you? Did he go and remonstrate in the art shop? Did he hurt you?’
The blush returned. Did that indicate something or just more embarrassment?
‘Well, actually inspector, he did.’
‘Did what?’
‘What you said. I was serving a customer outside and he shouted at me out there in the road. Showed me up something shocking he did. Called me a little slut and said that he had heard all about Mike Johnson’s after work exploits and that he would make him regret propositioning his girlfriend.’ But I wasn’t propositioned and nothing went on – well, not that sort of thing anyway. It was awful. Everyone was looking at us and he dragged me up the street. He said I was not to come back and that he would make sure that I didn’t strip off for Mike again. He called him a bloody pervert. But he isn’t. He isn’t inspector – it’s just art.’
‘I suppose that he was surprised and his anger got the better of him love. Has he got over it now?’
‘My name is Helen inspector, not Love. And I don’t know whether Jack has got over it. I don’t care either.’
‘Meaning, Helen?’
……….
‘This isn’t up to the tea they serve at the Windsor, Kyle,’ said the inspector, ‘this tastes like you got the tea bags from the pound shop.’
‘I did actually. You complained so often about being asked for your contribution that we looked for a cheaper brand.’
‘And the WPC isn’t up to the standards of Helen Weston either, although since we’ve not seen her without her clothes on, perhaps I am making an unfair comparison,’ adding with a wink, ‘or do you know something that I don’t Kyle?’
Joking apart, the session in the tea shop had thrown up more than Radcliffe had expected. Hoping to find out just a little about the evening art classes at The Palette, they had in actual fact come away with a possible suspect for Johnson’s attack who had both motive and opportunity. The boyfriend lived near Johnson, knew him by sight and bore a grudge. When they had tracked him down he had reacted instantly to the name of Mike Johnson, calling him a pervert and claiming that he had drawn vulnerable women into his web, luring them with art classes then leading them through modelling for the classes to modelling just for him – and then on to sexual exploits. Wasn’t that what the artist had tried with Helen until he had been stopped in his tracks?
Challenged as to whether he had spoken to Johnson or argued with him, the lad had become tongue-tied. He had said that he had dragged Helen away and told her not to go to any more art classes at The Palette. And no, he didn’t know if she had actually gone again because yes, she had finished with him. And yes, he did blame Johnson for that. But no, he had not seen Johnson or gone to his house – although if the dirty bastard hadn’t been worked over then perhaps he might have gone into the shop and told him what he thought of him.
Well, motive in bucket loads then. And there was no corroboration for the evening of the attack either. Watching TV wasn’t the strongest of alibis but he had to give it to the lad, watching a recording that he had made before was a smart way of covering the fact that he did not know what was actually on the TV that night.
‘We are going to need more than a hunch and a lack of an alibi to pin the bugger down,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘Run a check on him and see if his temper has got him into trouble before. It’s a long shot but worth trying. Then get back to the girlfriend and see if she has a photo of him and take it up to see if any of the Johnson’s neighbours recognise him. Perhaps he’s been hanging around spying his chance. I have a feeling about this guy and it takes Archer out of the frame.’
……….
Kevin stopped to admire the silver sports car. It was a Porsche of some description of course, they were unmistakable, but he was unsure of which model. With its drooping bonnet, short fastback rear and general style, it had similarities to a 911, but the nose of the car had an air intake which the rear engined air-cooled 911 did not. Moving closer he noticed a badge on the bonnet that definitely wasn’t a Porsche shield, and he didn’t recognise the Olympic legend either, making him even more curious.
Charlton had become quite used to the mistaken identity. The lad wasn’t the first because everyone did it. Some of the older enthusiasts recognised the Rochdale but it was before the time of the younger ones like this lad who could only be in his twenties. The company that had made the car, though innovative at the time, had been reduced to making plastic drainage products by the time the boy had been born. Even so, although the Olympic sometimes attracted attention when he would have preferred to have remained inconspicuous, this time it was opening a few doors.
‘Mr Archer said I could use this workshop to do a few jobs on my car. Under the skin it’s a bit of a Heinz 57 so I can’t take it to a main dealer for servicing – they don’t know where to start.’ There, that should do it. Throw in a few snippets and it always drew people in, made them curious, opened up conversation.
‘I’m Mr Archer. Actually I am Kevin Archer so you must mean my dad. I guess that you are Mr Charlton. He told me about you. Haven’t you put a tourer on plot 30? Dad’s away at the moment but if you need any help you can call on me. I like cars and this looks ever so good. I’m holding the fort while dad’s away but there’s not a lot to do around here so I can always give you a hand.’
Bingo! Here was someone at the heart of the organisation, opening up quicker than a sardine tin being attacked by a tin opener. He had seen young Kevin in and out of the various areas of the site but not realised that he was the owner’s son. His dishevelled appearance with jeans that were too long and trailing under his trainers, which themselves looked grubby and liable to trip him up at any moment, the laces being unfastened was compounded by stubble that once was described as seven o clock shadow – but on Kevin was more like round-the-clock. Was all that an indication of the boy’s slovenliness or just that he conformed to the modern dress code? In Charlton’s day you had to be ‘with it’ but now the young generation felt the need to be ‘cool’. If looking that scruffy was cool, Charlton was glad not to conform.
Simon Charlton’s mind was working overtime. Why had Peter Archer gone away? And where to? What was he cooking up? Perhaps the lad would know. And there again, if he was so keen on cars, perhaps he would know whether his dad was actually in the workshop or not when Mike Johnson was being attacked. To get that information however would mean that any questions would have to be asked without making him inquisitive.
‘Actually, I’m surprised that you’ve got this workshop here. I didn’t expect it at a caravan site.’
‘That’s my dad for you. When I was a kid he used to race karts at the Three Sisters track, and rally a Mini. This place was always buzzing. There were always kart drivers or rally blokes here talking to dad or using the workshop. He had a Jag then and a van for the business. He towed the rally car on a transporter trailer behind a big Yankee Chevy Blazer four by four
and for the kart he converted a single deck coach into a combined motorhome and workshop. These days we’ve only the old Morris van left and a beat up Toyota pickup. Dad still does most of the maintenance himself though so he’s kept the workshop.
‘One of my mates works at the Jaguar Land Rover factory out near the airport and he comes in to do odd bits for us when Dad hasn’t got the right tools or summat, but other than that dad does it all. He says it is because he still enjoys tinkering but really it’s to keep costs down. Money is tight.’
If they couldn’t run newer vehicles then how could the claimed expansion be financed without the Johnson’s money? Archer Senior’s optimism didn’t gel with Junior’s financial overview.
Looking for a way to gain the lad’s confidence and draw him out, Charlton honed in on his interest in the car. ‘I’m nearly finished here. Just two bolts to torque up and I’ll take it for a check run. Do you fancy a ride?’
‘Do I? You bet! That would be brilliant.’ Pulling a book from a shelf he added, ‘Will you be coming back after you’ve done your test run or have you finished completely? Only my mate is supposed to be doing a job for me on the pickup.’ Turning the pages he added, ‘It’s a bit short notice but looking at this he was supposed to be here now. My dad must have cancelled it to fit you in, so tonight might be OK for him, I’ll give him a quick call.’
With the needle settled on the speed limit and his passenger clearly mesmerised by the smooth power delivery of the little car, Charlton chose his words carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. The lad’s dad had promised new facilities like a pool and restaurant in the not too distant future, so as a new tenant it would be natural to be concerned about any delay in development of the site so he had used that as an opener.
