Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  ‘Did you actually see your attacker Mr Johnson?’ he asked, adding, ‘how can you be so sure that it was your brother-in-law that attacked you?’

  ‘Really Inspector. I have been through this time and time again. I am sure that if you go through the records you will find it all in there and if check with your colleagues they will tell you that it was definitely him because I recognised his voice. How many times do I have to say the same thing? Don’t you guys talk to each other?’

  ‘We have come into this a little late sir,’ responded the inspector, ‘and while we do have some of the reports, we are actually working on another case so there are quite a few gaps in what we know. It would help us if you could fill in those gaps.’

  Rapidly losing patience, Johnson replied ‘Yes, of course,’ although he still couldn’t see why yet more officers were involved, or why officers working on another case should be involved either.

  ‘But from what I understand sir, you only heard the one word. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes inspector. After they had finished working me over he said “shit” and then ran off.’

  ‘So how can you be sure that it was Archer? One word isn’t much to go on is it?’

  ‘One bloody word was enough. I would know that voice anywhere. He was my brother-in-law for God’s sake. Wouldn’t you recognise your own brother-in-law’s voice inspector?’

  ‘Well I dare say that I might in some circumstances. But if I had just been given a good old pasting and I couldn’t see and I was in a heap on the floor then I might not be able to discern much at all – although if I had a good reason to expect that a certain person was gunning for me, then I dare say that I might convince myself that whoever I had heard was actually the person I expected it to be. Is that what happened Mr Johnson?’

  Bloody hell! Not these two as well. He’d seen six policemen before these two and none of them seemed to be able to understand that he was quite capable of recognising his own brother-in-law’s voice when he heard it – no matter how many or how few words had been spoken.

  ‘No it damned well wasn’t,’ he exploded. ‘I recognised his voice. That’s all. I recognised it. It was Peter bloody Archer.’

  ‘We understand your annoyance,’ cut in the sergeant, ‘but it does seem a little improbable doesn’t it? After all, he is your brother-in-law. Why should a family member attack you?’

  ‘Like I said, I recognised him. Just because he was my wife’s brother doesn’t mean to say that I liked him, or he me for that matter does it? Do you like all your relations?’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that,’ replied Lescott, no I don’t. But then I wouldn’t go around beating them up either.’

  Davies had noted the artist’s use of the past tense, not once, but twice, and specifically when the sergeant had cleverly drawn him out. Did that indicate anything?

  ‘Mr Johnson. There’s something I cannot understand. There are arguments in every family from time to time but they don’t usually end up with one party beaten up so bad that he almost loses his life.’ The inspector was leading Johnson, trying to prise the chink just opened by his sergeant. ‘Now why on earth would your brother-in-law launch such an attack? You are well known in the area and so is he. Surely he has as much as you to lose. What argument is so bad that it could provoke him to attack you? I mean, it wasn’t just a little brawl was it?’

  Johnson seemed to lose about a foot off his height. Slumped in his chair he looked forlorn. His strength and annoyance seemed had ebbed away.

  ‘Inspector,’ he responded, almost in a whimper. ‘Peter Archer was a desperate man. His caravan park was only just breaking even and he couldn’t afford either maintenance or development. He had no way to compete with the new marina park and was about to go under. It was sink or swim for him I suppose.’

  ‘But what has his business got to do with you? You have a thriving art shop here. There’s no connection is there? Why would attacking you help his financial problems?’

  ‘It’s not all that long ago since my wife’s father died inspector. Peter expected that he would share any money but his father cut him out of the will. Actually, there wasn’t any money left. Pop gifted some to my wife years ago to avoid death duties. It was all quite legal but Pete accused us of stealing his money – money that would have saved him from ruin. The reality is that we ploughed everything into this shop and it all disappeared long ago.’

  ‘Where were you on Saturday morning?’ asked the inspector, looking Johnson directly in the eye, adding nothing to his question and letting the silence create tension.

  Visibly shaken, Johnson was obviously struggling to see the connection between his having been attacked more than a month previously and his movements only days ago. He opened his mouth to answer, took a breath, thought for a second and then remained silent. Davies continued to look directly at the artist, who shuffled in his chair, then finally steeled his reserve and answered with what was actually a question.

  ‘What the hell has that to do with Pete attacking me? And why are you asking me all these questions if you are supposed to be working on another case?’

  ‘Just bear with us if you please,’ responded Davies. ‘Believe me, it is relevant. Now then, where were you on Saturday morning Mr Johnson?’

  Johnson’s mind was jumping from question to question, topic to topic. What if this was not about the attack but tied in with the debt collectors? What if these two were not real policemen? Clearly they didn’t have all the information from the previous interviews so what was the real score? Why was the guy just looking at him? Why didn’t he say something?

  Davies said nothing but watched Johnson closely, looking for tell tale signs. There weren’t any.

  ‘Inspector,’ Johnson eventually said, ‘I fail to see what my movements on Saturday have to do with whoever attacked me. For heavens sake, it was more than a month ago and I’ve already been through everything time and again with the other policemen. Why the sudden preoccupation with where I was on Saturday - and why haven’t the other policemen come?’

  ‘I can understand your confusion sir,’ replied Davies. ‘The policemen who questioned you before have been trying to find your attacker.’

  ‘I told them who attacked me. It was Peter Archer.’

  ‘Bear with me Mr Johnson please. During our enquiries into a completely separate incident some relevance to your case has emerged. We are just following up on that. Now, can you please tell us where you were on Saturday morning?’

  ‘I was out sketching.’

  ‘So was the shop closed then?’

  ‘No, of course not. Saturday is a busy day.’ Johnson stopped suddenly before correcting himself. ‘Well, perhaps not that busy, but Saturday is an important day all the same. I am quite well known around here and if I was in the shop at weekend when the public are not working I would get held up with people coming in to the shop just to chat and nothing would get done so I have regular cover for Saturdays. Actually I have part time staff to cover whenever I am out or have classes to teach and I never work Saturdays.’

  Davies scanned the wall of fame. The tiny office shouted “I am famous, just look at me” which just didn’t fit with the type of person that would hide away from his fans. The photographs depicting the artist at functions with virtually every local dignitary and celebrity, flanked by the wall of Mike Johnson artworks, veritably shouted his importance and a craving not just to be seen, but to feed his ego.

  Davies had picked up on some of Johnson’s comments. The man’s use of past tense when referring to his brother-in-law and also an inference that business wasn’t good. There had been the hesitation and correction about Saturdays being busy and that all his wife’s money had disappeared into the business. Could The Palette actually be in as much trouble as Johnson claimed Green Fields Caravan Park to be? Davies looked around the office. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat and few clues other than a self important ego to feed. No doubt the filing cabinet and computer would ho
ld many a secret.

  ‘So where did you go sketching? You have some nice pictures of the coast on your wall, did you go out to Formby Point or Freshfield perhaps?’

  Actually, no, I didn’t. I went out to Lydiate.’

  Now there was something interesting! The man was actually proffering incriminating information. Taking care not to give too much away or lead Johnson, Davies continued:

  ‘Lydiate?’

  ‘Yes. I’m working on a picture of St Catherine’s Church. I went back to do some detail sketches.’

  ‘Is that the ruined church you can see from the road?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Replied Johnson. ‘Along with the Scotch Piper it’s something of a local landmark and there’s lots of superstition.’

  Bringing the questioning back to the points he needed to clarify, Davies asked, ‘Were you alone Mr Johnson?’

  Johnson confirmed that yes, he had been alone. He had arrived quite early and there was a ground mist that gave the ruined priory quite an atmosphere. It was perfect for the mystery he was trying to capture in his picture. He had been there around two hours but by then the sun was too high and the mist had gone so he packed up and left. Had he gone back to the shop? Well, actually, no. After two hours around the priory he had been a little thirsty and since they were having a dinner party that night back at home he had in fact gone just a couple of hundred metres down the road to the farm shop to get some vegetables and then popped into their little café for a coffee before driving home.

  Bingo! The artist had not only put himself in the area, he had actually put himself right at the scene.

  ‘Did you see Peter Archer at the farm then?’ Davies kept his eyes locked on Johnson.

  Mike Johnson looked at the inspector, then at the sergeant, their expressions giving nothing away. Why would he meet Pete anywhere? And why would they ask?

  ‘Of course I didn’t meet Pete. He’s in London as far as I know.’ Johnson was clearly agitated. ‘But I’ll tell you for nothing that if I had met him I would have done worse to him than he did to me. I’d have bloody killed him.’

  ‘Which farm shop did you go to Mr Johnson? There’s one at Lydiate Hall Farm and another on the other side of the road.’

  ‘Lydiate Hall Farm is a favourite of mine. I get quite a bit of our veg from there and they have a nice cafe. It’s also the closest to the priory. Actually there’s an old legend that there’s an underground tunnel from St Catherine’s to the hall but it’s probably just a load of old tosh.’ Johnson’s eyes darted between the two detectives. Quickly he analysed the questions he had been asked and the information he had proffered in return. Had he been led? Had he said too much? He searched for the direction their questions were taking but could see none.

  ‘What relevance has all this on my attack?’ he asked. ‘What does it matter which farm shop I went to? And why ask me if I met Pete when you know damned well that we don’t speak to each other and that I wouldn’t even consider being in his company unless I could knock his bloody block off?’

  ‘Well Mr Johnson,’ replied Davies, ‘It’s interesting you should say that, because Peter Archer was found huddled in the ruins of Lydiate Hall on Saturday morning. And what’s even more interesting is that you have been going round telling everyone you meet that if you came across Mr Archer you would kill him. That’s interesting Mr Johnson because he had been murdered – or did you already know that?’

  Johnson stared at the two policemen. He squinted slightly and his brow furrowed. Perspiration began to build. The two detectives watched Johnson closely but neither spoke. The silence seemed endless. Johnson fidgeted in his chair. Unable to hold the stares of the two policemen he bowed his head.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, again looking the inspector. ‘You don’t think? Oh, no! Surely you can’t believe that. Oh, bloody hell.’

  Johnson leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands.

  ‘I know that I said I would do him in but that was just because I was angry. I can be a bit hot blooded at times.’ Lifting his face to look straight at Davies he continued: ‘I wouldn’t hurt anybody Inspector. I couldn’t. I’m not capable of anything like that. How did he die anyway? You said he was murdered – how did you find him – was he in a, you know, a mess?’

  Davies let the artist’s words hang. Would he say any more? Incriminate himself further perhaps?

  ‘Inspector.’ Johnson’s tone was hushed and almost pleading. ‘I have not seen Peter for weeks. He took out a legal action against us so we have had to speak through our solicitors. There is a meeting set for next week actually and that will be the first time we have meet face to face for a long time.’

  ‘Well that won’t happen now will it?’ cut in the sergeant. ‘Have you any idea what will happen to his legal challenge now that he is dead?’

  ‘How would I know?’ threw back Johnson. ‘I’ve not taken this in yet. Peter dead – it’s unbelievable. But I don’t know anything about it. Seriously I don’t. Yes, I was at Lydiate on Saturday morning, and yes I did go to the farm shop and the café. But I didn’t see Peter at all.’

  ‘These are early days Mr Johnson,’ responded Davies. ‘But we have to look at all aspects and check everything out. I suggest that you cast your mind back and see if you can remember anyone that might have seen you when you were sketching at the priory. You might find that it could be important to you.’

  ‘Oh, surely not.’

  ‘Mr Johnson. We are not making any accusations at this point but I advise you to take this extremely seriously. Your brother-in-law has been murdered, you have nobody to corroborate your whereabouts but by your own admission you were in the vicinity, and you have threatened to kill Mr Archer on a number of occasions. Now I ask you, how does that look to you?’

  Using his most serious tone, Davies continued:

  ‘If I were you Mr Johnson I would be careful what I said, whether in anger or not. And don’t leave the area for now please. We will need to talk to you again.’

  Twelve

  Talking in hushed tones, the women were huddled together. Their normal fare was general gossip – who was doing what with whom – but this wasn’t their normal gossip session, this was serious business. Very serious. So serious that one woman was white faced and speechless, one was crying and the older one was quizzing them, asking where, when, how, and why.

  ‘But are they sure?’ she intoned. ‘I mean, I asked young Kevin last week where his dad was and he said that he had gone to London so it can’t be so can it?’

  Tears rolled down the flushed cheeks of the younger woman. Sobbing wildly she attempted to respond but between gulping for air, ramming one fist into her mouth and frantically using her other hand to wipe her streaming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, what actually came out was an undecipherable noise more akin to that of a seal. Coming to her aid, the one that was neither old nor young and had until then been just standing in their midst looking shocked, searched in her handbag for a packet of tissues and offered them to the younger woman.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll all turn out right Caroline, you’ll see,’ she said. ‘There must have been some mistake. Like Phyllis said, he went down to London so it must have been someone else. You know how these nasty rumours fly around.’

  ‘It’s been quiet around here since I spoke to Kevin last week,’ added Phyllis. ‘Perhaps they’ve found some interest away from work to keep them occupied. You know, I’ve never seen Kevin with a young lady which is a little odd at his age isn’t it? And Peter doesn’t seem to have hitched up with anyone either since his wife died. It’s not natural to be on your own is it? Come to think of it, I’ve not seen Kevin at all for a couple of days. It’s been so quiet without either of them around that the park’s been like a morgue.’

  At which Caroline once again burst into floods of tears. Throwing a stern look at the older woman, Jackie charged in to defend the distraught young woman. Real
ly! What a distinct lack of tact the old woman had.

  ‘Phyllis! Can’t you think before you speak for once?’ she said, adding, ‘your choice of words was dreadful. I know that you like to nosey into what everyone is doing on the park, but sometimes you do go a bit too far you know. It has been quiet recently but if Peter needed to go to London and Kevin had other things to do then it’s none of our business where they have been or what they have been doing. And as for us, I don’t see why we should get so hot under the collar or upset. It’s sad whatever’s happened but they are not exactly family for any of us are they?’

  Which turned on the tears yet again.

  ‘Caroline. For heavens sake girl. If he’s had an accident I’m as sorry as the next person. But get a grip love. He owned the caravan park and we pay him rent. If he has been killed in an accident then no doubt Kevin will take over – he’s the son after all – and the rent demands will continue to come. We must pay our condolences at the appropriate time of course, but there’s no point in working ourselves up is there? I mean, he wasn’t anything to any of us was he? And Phyllis, I’d think twice before I spread rumours if I were you. We don’t know anything yet and at your age you should have more sense. There might not have been an accident at all and it might turn out that Peter is as fit and in command of his faculties as we are. Then you’ll look a fool,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘he might be more in command of his faculties than some around here I expect.’