Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  ‘How’s the Bentley James?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ replied a visibly sinking Ashcroft. ‘It was nicked right off our drive the day before yesterday.’

  ‘You don’t say. Were you in the house? Didn’t you hear it go?’

  ‘No George, I bloody didn’t. If I had I would have been right out there.’

  ‘And what good would that have done dear?’ cut in his wife. ‘Let’s face it, you’re not exactly a long distance runner anymore are you? And what would you have done anyway, one old man chasing young villains in a new Bentley. You’re hardly a match for them are you?’

  As his wife’s response brought laughter from the assembled friends, Ashcroft’s face clouded even further. This was his beloved Bentley they were talking about. How could he hold his head up arriving anywhere in a Ford? And how long would that last anyway? Insurance was supposed to replace like for like wasn’t it? Yet the company had said that sufficient time would have to elapse for the police to find the car and return it before they would consider either paying him out or replacing the car.

  ‘Bloody crafty these car thieves.’ He said. ‘They must have come into the house bold as you like while we were watching TV, taken my keys from the hall table and just driven off in the car. We heard nothing at all but when we came to turn in for the night my keys were gone. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find them so I wondered if I had left them in the car. It’s not something I’ve done before but it was the only thing I could think of. So I went out to the car – and it had gone.’

  ‘What have the police said James? Have they any idea what’s happened to it?’

  ‘Well I phoned Arthur Handley, he’s a Detective Chief Inspector you know and a friend of mine, but it’s not looking all that promising. According to Arthur there’s been a spate of stolen cars, all high value cars like ours, and they’ve no idea who’s nicking them or where they have gone. You don’t realise how it feels until it’s yours that’s been nicked.’

  ‘Oh come on James,’ responded his wife. ‘It’s only a car for God’s sake. Anyone would think that it was Gwen that had been stolen. Come on, get a life. It will turn up somewhere,’ adding as a cheeky afterthought, ‘and if it doesn’t, you’ll just have to buy another.’

  ‘Gwen’s already been stolen. The only time we see her now is on evenings like these when we are invited to join her and her cronies. Otherwise she’s off somewhere on the razzle. And at her age too. Christ, she’s still at school,’ he responded.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse him I am afraid,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Gwen used to be the apple of her father’s eye but since she met Patrick he’s out in the cold. Young love and all that. James forgets that we were her age when we met – he’s found it hard to accept that his daughter is no longer his little girl. Then when the car went it was the last straw. He’s lost two babies in such a short time.’

  Turning to her husband she asked him how old they had been when they met. Wasn’t Gwen just as old as she had been. She pointed out that not only was Patrick working, the only reason that their daughter was still at school was that the school leaving age had been raised. In her opinion he seemed a nice lad and, reminding him that when they had met he had just been known as Jimmy Ashie, only becoming James to further his position in the community because it sounded posh, she guessed that Patrick was probably known by a nickname or abbreviation by his friends too. There really wasn’t much between them save a generation, so why all the fuss. He should leave the youngsters alone.

  ……….

  Four girls, four boyfriends, eight parents. Stilted conversation at first then a good meal to open everybody up. With barriers broken down had come a generation clash. Loud rock in one room and soft background music in another had clearly defined their cultural differences, with, predictably, youngsters and their elders at opposite ends of the house.

  ‘When we were their age and we got the chance to disappear behind a closed door we bloody well enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we girl?’

  George’s wife’s cheeks flushed red – and the other parent couples exchanged knowing glances with barely hidden smirks.

  ‘George!’ came the embarrassed response.

  ‘Don’t say that you’re envious?’

  ‘No, I’m not envious. We had our fun alright in those days and we still do for that matter, don’t we girl?’ Her blush deepened. ‘It’s just that we thought that we were so grown up at the time but when I looked at our girls tonight I realised that back then we were really a bit wet behind the ears. I just wonder how we didn’t go astray that’s all. I mean, I wouldn’t like to think that our girls were getting up to the sort of things we did. I try to keep ours in check but I’m told that I’m out of line and being too strict. I’m buggered if I know the answer.’

  Mike Johnson looked around at his guests. James had been crotchety when they first arrived and now George was getting a bit maudlin too. But didn’t they have a right to think that way? Didn’t they have a right to be concerned? Variously a property developer, a dentist, a lawyer, and Mike himself an artist, they were all from the same mould – successful businessmen from rather ordinary backgrounds – and in their youth they had all been rather spirited. Each and every one of them could see mirror images of their wives and themselves in their daughters, now ensconced with their boyfriends in the big room with rock music blasting out and God knows what hanky panky going on.

  ‘We’ve all a right to be concerned, that’s for sure,’ said Johnson. ‘We were all tearaways in our time. I remember you George had a bit of a reputation, and James was the school bully when we were at Meols Cop. Look at you both now, meek and mild and butter wouldn’t melt in your mouths.’

  ‘What do you mean, my George had a bit of a reputation?’ said his wife. ‘It’s news to me. What don’t I know after all these years’

  ‘Mike’s going back a long time but I know what he means.’ Cut in the dentist, trying to defuse the situation he had unwittingly created. ‘I suppose it’s just the exuberance of youth and all that and we’ve to let them grow up just like we had to do. But it’s not easy keeping quiet when you want to help them steer clear of the mistakes we made.’

  ‘Really George. A mistake now am I?’

  ‘Well,’ came another retort, ‘James is still a bit of a bully, you just don’t see his moods like I do, but from what I hear he throws his weight around at the council meetings just as much as he did at home.’

  ‘Ladies, ladies.’ Mike tried stop the revelations getting out of hand. ‘Don’t take my comments too literally. We were all a bit spirited I guess back then but that’s no more than you expect of healthy youngsters growing up is it? I only realised the angst that my parents went through with me when we started going through the same process with ours. But looking back I wouldn’t have changed it because we had a ball and it made me at least value what we have now. I don’t think that any of us have cause to recriminate ourselves. At least that group down the hall belting seven bells out of my new sound system aren’t out beating seven bells out of old ladies.’

  ‘Talking of which Mike, is there any news on the bloke that beat seven bells out of you the other week?’

  After light heartedly protesting at being put in the same context as an old lady, Johnson explained that there had been very little progress. The police kept turning up and asking questions but that was about it. Perhaps if he had been caught speeding there would have been more enthusiasm shown. That seemed to touch a nerve and had been met with murmurs of ascension from his guests. Misplaced priorities were suggested. Another guest thought the inactivity might be more like taking the easy option, speeding motorists being easier to catch than unknown thugs. But Mike had responded that his attacker wasn’t unknown. The delay in catching the culprit was only because the police didn’t seem capable of taking on-board that he had been attacked by his wife’s brother so were looking in other directions. Pretty obviously they were drawing a blank. Peter Archer had definit
ely been the attacker and sometime, whether sooner or later, Mike would get his own back. But less of that, lets change the subject.

  She was tired. Getting back into the groove of entertaining had been stressful but catering for so few people had been a breeze. Now, with everything over and the door just closed on the last guests, all that remained was to load the dishwasher and climb into bed.

  Ten

  The detective leaned back in his chair, pressed a pencil against his lips and twirled it between his fingers. Deep in thought, he put the pencil down, reached up and put his hands behind his head, and balancing his chair on its two back legs, rocked silently to and fro. His mind elsewhere, anybody could have walked past him and he wouldn’t have known. There was a thud on the roof and he ducked his head instinctively. He dropped the chair back onto all four legs and reached out for his cup. It was empty. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the noise, or if they had then they weren’t bothering. Not having reached a conclusion about anything and not having been inspired with an instant solution to the day’s problems either, he felt that the job was not going anywhere and wasn’t likely to change direction any time soon either.

  Or in other words, a normal day, plain and simple.

  But murder wasn’t normal. A dead body found in a fireplace in a ruined building with no clues and no clear identity wasn’t normal. The find was more like an Agatha Christie novel, though with its roaming peacocks, pond and ruin, the location was more like something out of an Enid Blyton Famous Five story. No way was it normal and somewhere there just had to be a lead.

  Jerking his head up he came out of his reverie as the door opened and in strode his sergeant. Debbie Lescott was clutching a sheaf of papers under her arm. Looking around the room until she spotted her boss, the sergeant pulled the papers from under her arm and dropped them next to the empty cup in front of the Inspector.

  ‘Not a bloody thing Frank,’ she said as she sat down. ‘I’ve gone over every one of those statements and there’s nothing out of the ordinary as far as I can see.’

  Davies’ mood wasn’t improving. Something had to turn up somewhere. Debbie Lescott had spent time with each of the staff in the farm shop, the Hay Loft Tea Shop and the photo studio, certain that their statements would throw at least a small glimmer of light on the dead man’s last few hours. Surely somebody must have seen something? But they hadn’t – or so they said. The man had been seen before – he had bought veg from the farm shop the previous week – but nobody knew his identity or where he had come from, and nobody had seen him on that fateful Saturday.

  ‘The CSI’s not found anything.’

  ‘What, nothing at all?’

  The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, just well trodden leaves and general dry earth, an old fag packet and a chocolate wrapper.’

  The dead end was getting even deader. The CSI had found nothing and none of the farm staff had seen anything. The dead man just seemed to have parachuted in from nowhere.

  A waitress brought them more coffee.

  ‘Thanks love,’ said Davies. Then as she turned to go back to the serving counter he shouted after her.

  ‘Excuse me love, are you new here?’

  She stopped and turned. ‘No. Actually I’ve worked here for three years. Why? Is something wrong?’ Putting her fingers quickly to her lips as she realised that her words didn’t sound right given the circumstances. When a dead body had been found there was definitely something wrong wasn’t there? ‘I mean, is there something wrong with your coffees?’

  Davies settled her concern. No, there was nothing wrong with their drinks. In fact, they were excellent – and thanks for that. But they had talked to all of the employees at the Hay Loft and he didn’t remember seeing her statement. She had then explained that she worked part time. She worked a couple of days in the week over the lunchtimes because that fitted in fine with children’s school, and she sometimes did extra at weekends if the café was busy. And yes, she had been working on Saturday morning.

  Settling down in a chair at the table with them she had told them that she hadn’t seen anything unusual on that Saturday at all, just the regulars coming in for breakfasts or a mid morning tea or coffee. Well, not regulars really she had said. But once a month there was a car boot sale on the field alongside the scout hut just a few hundred metres up the road. They always had a few extra customers in the Hay Loft for breakfast, or a mid morning drink or snack when it was the car boot day.

  Then it had got interesting. When she had been shown the photograph of the dead man she had at first hesitated, then said that yes, she had seen him. He had been in the Hay Loft with another man some time ago, perhaps a week or ten days previously, she couldn’t be sure. Davies thought that that tied in with him having bought veg from the farm shop – probably the same visit. They had had a coffee or tea, she couldn’t remember which exactly but they definitely didn’t have anything to eat. Then on Saturday she had seen him talking into a mobile phone near the pond in the farmyard when she had arrived for work. No, he hadn’t come into the café and no, she didn’t see him again. It had been quite early before they had opened the café. Nor had she seen the other man since the earlier visit when the two men had shared a drink. And she couldn’t describe him either, other than a similar build, similar height, and even similar features to Davies.

  Clearly her memory was not the best, but least they were getting somewhere. The sergeant took her statement while everything was fresh in her mind, telling her that to save her having to go into Southport Police Station she would get it typed up and bring it back for her to sign. Before she could thank her for her help there was another sudden bang on the roof.

  ‘What the bloody hell was that?’ exclaimed Davies, ducking involuntarily.

  The waitress laughed. Apparently the peacocks strutting around the farmyard had a tendency to fly up in the air and then land heavily on the roofs of the outbuildings. All the workers were used to it and paid no attention – but it sure as hell scared the living daylights out of new visitors. Actually, it was quite funny sometimes.

  Davies was desperately looking for a lead. Anything. And what she had told them might even turn out to be very important. Whether it did or it didn’t, it was the first positive bit of information and, at least, confirmed that Mr Dead Man had actually arrived at the farmyard alive, and also that at that point he seemed to have been on his own. Whether he had remained there or gone off somewhere else in the intervening time remained unclear, but several hours remained unaccounted for. The place was a throwback to yesteryear. His children would love it with all the birds strutting around and the old world charm. Trying to solve anything had just moved up from impossible to almost impossible. Thanking her for her help they made their way to the door.

  ‘Hell Debbie, this place is a nightmare, said Davies. ‘There isn’t any security at all. Nobody knows who anybody is or what they are doing. You can just wander in from the road, potter around the farm buildings, disappear into the woods, or do whatever you want and nobody gives a toss’

  ‘I know,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Apparently the old hall is a listed building to which the public are allowed access by the Leverhulme Estate who own it. The farm here is actually in the hall grounds and the farmer is a tenant so he can’t stop people coming up the drive, parking up or going through his farmyard. With people coming to buy from the farm shop, some going to the photo studio and others to the café as well as visiting the ruined hall it’s impossible to keep track of who should and should not be here. Nobody seems to know which vehicle belongs to whom and sometimes a car is here for more than a day.’

  Listed building indeed! Listed few walls more like. Very little remained and ruin was an apt description. Rising from the table and making his way to the door, Davies mused over the conflicting views of the doctor, the pathologist and the CSI. John wasn’t usually far away from reality with his first impressions but the doctor’s view that the death had been a clear heart attack case had been turned up
side down by the pathologist. Davies hoped to find some measure of evidence to back up the doctor’s original diagnosis and get things back on track. Then the scene of crimes specialist, also never usually wrong, confused things by saying that although it was unlikely that the dead man had been killed at the scene, there were no indications that he had been brought there after death either.

  From the café doorway, Davies looked around the farmyard. There were no people around, the only movement being hens, a rooster or two, ducks and the peacocks. Parked up in front of the tea shop were six or seven cars. Across to the left was the pond behind which he could see the entrance lane and more cars parked in front of a stone building now being used as the farm shop. Across the yard from the Hay Loft was the entrance to the woods that led to the ruined building, and to the right a more modern metal barn and an older open barn in which hens and a couple of roosters sheltered near old rusty farm machinery. It was a picture of rural charm and nothing seemed amiss.

  ‘Where is everybody Debbie?’ he asked his sergeant as they left the tea shop and headed into the yard. ‘There are cars everywhere but no people.’

  ‘Well the Hay Loft is doing good breakfast business and the photo studio next door has a special offer running, so that could account for the cars here,’ she replied as they walked along the edge of the pond. ‘There could be customers in the farm shop too. Certainly, nobody will be in the woods because we’ve got it cordoned off.’

  A peacock displayed right in front of them, fanning its feathers and seemingly unconcerned at their intrusion into its world. Just past the pond, Davies stopped at the entrance from the lane into the farmyard and looked around. Anyone entering the yard or turning in front of the farm shop could see the whole of the yard at a glance – from the gift shop and tea shop on the right, to the open barn straight ahead and the farm shop to the left. The entrance to the woods however was hidden from view behind the farm shop, as was the metal barn. Three cars were parked outside the farm shop. As they reached the end of the building they could see the entrance to the woods identified by an old weather beaten sign and guarded by blue police crime scene tape just past an old van parked against the gable.