by Vic Marelle
‘So where’s the relevance to the attack then?’
‘Well sir . . . . . . . . . . ,’
‘Sean, while we are working together as a team we’ll use our first names in private. Keep rank for when others are about or when we are in public. OK, go on son.’
Yes sir. I mean Don. Apparently an application for a restaurant extension at the White Rose was refused. The tenant saw the restaurant as his only way of saving the business so he blamed Johnson not just for the unsuccessful application but also that the pub has just closed down and he’s lost his livelihood.’
‘It takes more than one objection to scupper a planning application and pubs are closing down right left and centre anyway. Have you talked to the guy?’
‘No. It seemed a bit off-beam to me. Just an excuse for the bloke to hide behind if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m with you there Sean. But check it out anyway. Kyle, you and Sean go and see the ex publican. We can’t rule him out until we know a bit more. Find out where he was at the time of the attack at least. Right, you lot all know what you’re doing. I’ve already asked Lancashire and Manchester whether they have any leads for us but I bet it is weeks before we get anything back, so Louise, while you are checking for mechanics, I’ll see if I can find any workshops where our stolen cars wouldn’t be out of place. Right then. Let’s get to it. We’ll meet back here at the end of the shift for a debrief.’
Thirteen
He had returned the original summons for speeding by return of post. There must have been some mistake. How could he have been caught by a speed camera up north when at that time he had been 250 miles away here in Cornwall? Anyone could make an error, but the sheaf of papers that had arrived a couple of days ago really took the biscuit. Andrew Woodhouse stared at a photocopy of the speed camera image. Although it wasn’t particularly clear, some of the details were unmistakable. It was his car. But it just couldn’t be. He had been in Truro on the day the image had been snapped.
‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to the dangling sign in the back window of the big off-roader. ‘That’s not on the car in the picture is it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ replied the policeman. ‘But you could have stuck that in there at any time. It’s your registration isn’t it?’
‘Of course it’s my registration. You can see that for yourself. But that’s not my car in the picture. See, look at this too. My car has a little dent just near the rear light but the car in the photo doesn’t.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the policeman, squinting at the poor quality image. It’s a bit hard to make out on the photo but I guess you could be right. Actually, you are right, there isn’t a dent on the car in the photo. So when did your bump happen then?’
‘Oh, it’s a while now,’ he said. Several weeks anyway. I can’t actually remember the exact date. Just a minute, yes I can, it was a Thursday. It was my wife’s birthday on the Saturday and I took her out a few days before so that she could choose something for her present. I onlly work half day on Wednesdays but I changed it that week so it would be the Thursday. When we got back to the car park someone had left a note under my windscreen wiper. Actually I hadn’t noticed the damage it was so small.’
‘You lost me there sir with Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. And you were very lucky that the bloke left a note – they usually just drive off. But what I asked was the date.’
‘My wife’s birthday is the sixth so it must have been the fourth. The note was from someone that saw it happen and watched the car just drive off so they left their contact details. When I rang up they gave me the culprit’s registration number but I didn’t do anything because it wasn’t worth it. It was only a small parking ding after all. Hey, the date on this speed camera picture is the fourth too. There you are then, that proves it doesn’t it? I couldn’t have been speeding 250 miles away and getting bumped in a car park here at the same time could I?’
The policeman agreed that the one car couldn’t have been in two places at the same time, but then a picture can’t lie can it? Did he still have the note? And would the witness to the incident corroborate the date? At the moment it was just Woodhouse’s word against a photograph which, obviously, was a no contest situation.
‘If you can produce the note then we can follow up on it.’ Said the policeman.’
……….
Alone in the office, Mike Johnson slowly rubbed the palms of his hands together, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. Closing the fingers of one hand over those of the other, he dropped his head forward until his chin rested on his hands. His mind in a daze, his eyes were open but he could see nothing. Sapped of all energy, all he wanted to do was curl up in the corner and go to sleep. Actually, that wasn’t true. What he really wanted to do was put the clock back to when The Palette had been a thriving concern and they had had no money worries. No, that wasn’t right either. What would be better would be to fast forward to some point in the future when the debts had been cleared, The Palette had become profitable again, and the development on their fields completed so that everything in the garden was rosy. Some fairy story that would be! Where would it all lead, and when would it end?
Sitting back in his chair and staring across the tiny room, a new perception was beginning to dawn. With no more visits from the police since they had delivered the news of Peter’s death, perhaps he wasn’t the main suspect. What if the police had only been following procedure to rule him out? Didn’t they call it eliminating somebody from an enquiry? After all, he had threatened to kill the scumbag so they would have to follow up on that wouldn’t they?
But with Peter now dead, presumably the court case would also die. How apt! Three days ago he had been in deep shit. His plan to reap a fat profit from his land was stalled thanks to Peter bloody Archer’s legal action, The Palette was losing money by the bucketful, all his loans were overdue, the bank had called in his overdraft and he was being pressured for the shop rent. And adding further misery, a day later he had become a suspect in his brother-in-law’s murder. But now, just two days to go before the financial deadline on his business and the picture was far more rosy. He was no longer a suspect, the threat of a court case had gone, and he could use the land to raise much needed finance. Saved in the nick of time seemed a reasonable phrase.
Johnson booted up his computer. With more enthusiasm than previously, he opened the plans for his retirement village. They looked magnificent. Who wouldn’t love to live in such an idyllic environment? The site had been carefully planned so that from their house, most of the residential units would be hidden in the valley the only downside being that because of their size and height, the communal buildings could not be hidden in the same way. It had been a compromise offset only by the financial return. However, every cloud has a silver lining and this particular one was that as owners, his family would be able to use all the facilities – including the swimming pool.
Clicking out of the plans and into a web browser he brought up satellite imagery of the area, zooming the image out to show not just the site of the proposed development but also some of the surrounding area. With his enthusiasm for the development rekindled now that a big financial cloud had been lifted he began to look for alternatives. Could the communal buildings be relocated? Could the views from their home be protected yet the benefits and financial return retained?
Capturing a screenshot of the satellite imagery he overlaid it with the site plan and considered all the options, searching for a way to move the communal building complex including community centre, restaurant and swimming pool out of sight. If he could do that then the magnificent views from their house would not be compromised.
Running through a rapidly lengthening list of what-ifs, Johnson mentally moved buildings around, but when all possibilities had been exhausted he had to accept that there was no viable solution. Although feasible on screen, in reality all options were totally impossible because the only way to retain the views from their home
was to move the communal complex, main entrance buildings, visitor car park and access road to the opposite side of a line of trees. And that line of trees marked the boundary of their land with the Green Fields caravan Park.
Leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, Mike looked pensively up at the ceiling. What if? What bloody if? If Peter bloody Archer could try to steal their land and house, what was stopping them turning the tables and taking the caravan park instead? Come to think of it, that might not be as far fetched as it seemed. With Peter now dead, presumably young Kevin would take over the running of the park. And he had neither the money nor the belief in the place to carry on. What if the Johnson’s bought the park? That would enable the development to go ahead and also give the young lad some money to start a new life. At last Mike’s dream could become a reality – a profitable reality without destroying their views.
But even without buying Green Fields, raising finance for the planned development would see them stretched, and immediate action was essential if the debts of The Palette were not to bring everything crashing down. A glimmer of a smile crossed his face. Nodding to himself he moved his fingers back over the keyboard and typed in a few commands. Dragging the boxes that represented the restaurant, swimming pool and other communal facilities he created a new area on the Green Fields side of the trees, a new car parking area and an expansive site entrance. If the original plan had been good, it was now fantastic.
A plan was forming in his mind. Kevin was a young guy wet behind the ears and it would be simple to make him squirm, so all he needed to do was to put pressure on the lad like his dad had done on them. There was no need to buy the park at all because it was going down the pan anyway. In just a few weeks, several more of the tenants would probably move their caravans to better sites and Kevin would then be on his knees. A loss making business would be worthless so they could then offer to bale the lad out with a reduced offer just for the useless land. Kevin would think that Uncle Mike was offering him a way out when in reality the Johnson’s would be getting their own back for all the hurt that had been caused and the hell they had been through thanks to the lad’s father.
To make it work he would have to bury the hatchet with Kevin and get his trust, offer his condolences and befriend the bereaved young man. Thinking of how he could exert pressure to make his plans appear more attractive, he realised that the easiest option, one that would not require any contact with Kevin at all, which was an added benefit, would be to make sure that more of the caravans were moved off sooner rather than later. With that accomplished he could then approach Kevin as the saviour of the day.
Plans hatched, Johnson closed down the computer and put away his drawings. Tomorrow he would arrange a meeting with the bank and get them off his back. Then he would call on the architect to get the amendments drawn up. First he would make a coffee and work out the details. Then he would call Kevin and make his peace. Yes, things had certainly taken a turn for the better.
Turning the key in the lock, Johnson stood on the pavement feeling relieved and quietly confident for the first time in months. The lights might be out but thanks in no small way to his brother-in-law’s demise The Palette would open again tomorrow – and every day after that too. For the first time in months the business was no longer under threat, or at least, it wouldn’t be once he could sit down with the bank manager. Walking across the street he turned to look back at his shop. Some changes would have to be made and perhaps the ground floor could become a sales office for the retirement village. But he had enjoyed many happy hours up in the first floor studio so that, of course, must remain. Putting the keys in his pocket he sauntered up the street, turned at the end and walked past the old supermarket and up the staircase to the first level of the car park.
Due to close in just thirty minutes, at which time any remaining vehicles would be locked in for the night, only two cars remained, a dark coloured van and his own Jaguar. With a newly developed spring in his step he walked towards the car, pressing the button on the remote key fob from several metres away. There was a short bleep and the indicators flashed. Reaching the car he opened the driver’s door, reached in and put the key in the ignition, then pressed the boot release button and went to the rear of the car to stash away his briefcase. Taking a step back he paused, removed his overcoat, and put it on top of the briefcase. After closing the boot lid he went back to the driver’s door. Holding the door with one hand he stretched his leg into the car as something heavy hit him on the head and he crashed in a crumpled heap onto the floor.
‘Nice one,’ said the voice. ‘Out for the count. Ya got ‘im in one. Shall I put t’ boot in now?’
‘No, not yet, I need to make sure that everything is OK first.’
The boot release was pressed and the lid opened. Moving the overcoat aside he opened the briefcase and quickly checked its contents. His search completed he snapped the briefcase shut, closed down the boot lid and walked away from the Jaguar.
‘Do it,’ he said.
……….
With monotonous regularity, nurses and doctors entered the room, checked dials and displays on a multitude of machines, changed settings and either patted their patient on the arm or made some minor adjustment to his bedcovers before leaving again. They said little and their patient remained silent. At the foot of the bed, DI Don Radcliffe took in the myriad of machines monitoring breathing, blood pressure and most other requirements of life, their constant pings, bleeps, and wheezing combining in a mesmeric backing track both intrusive and reassuring at the same time.
Comatose, Mike Johnson knew nothing of what was happening around him. Oblivious to the comings and goings, to the essential life supporting machinery and to his visitors, Johnson lay perfectly still – the centre of all attention yet totally unable to respond in any way.
Silently, Radcliffe pursed his lips, knowing that that the situation would need careful handling. The woman was close to tears and her daughter already sobbing.
‘I need to ask your mother a few questions,’ he said to the young girl. ‘Why don’t you go up to the café with the officer and get a drink? We’ll join you in a few minutes.’
Waiting until the distraught young girl was out of earshot, he ushered Joan into a little side room where they at least had a little privacy.
‘Mrs Johnson,’ he started. ‘I know that this must be difficult for you but the quicker we get to the bottom of things then the quicker we can get after whoever is responsible.’
‘And a fat lot of good that’ll do,’ she replied. If your lot had done your job before, this wouldn’t have happened would it? Just look at him in there. Nobody can stand up to the beatings he has been subjected to. This wouldn’t have happened if you lot had put the culprit behind bars. Police on the telly always get their man but you lot are fucking useless.’
The expletive was a shock yet no more than he had expected. They were no further towards knowing who had attacked Johnson the first time and now here he was in a far worse state, unconscious and almost literally away with the fairies. God forbid that this should turn into a murder hunt.
‘Mrs Johnson,’ responded the inspector. ‘I do understand how you feel, but while your husband continued claiming that he had been attacked by your brother it was hindering rather than helping enquiries I am afraid. Clearly, under the circumstances Peter didn’t attack your husband this time.’
He watched her for any reaction but there wasn’t any. Slowly she raised her head and looked Radcliffe straight in the eye. Her expression was blank and her eyes cold.
‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘All I want is my husband back. You lot are always passing the buck. You didn’t get anywhere last time so I don’t suppose that you’ll do any better now. But please, do your best. Mike’s in there fighting for his life. If he comes out of this it will be a miracle. Please find who did this to him. You are our only hope.’ Tears welled in her eyes. Though holding up well she was clearly on the ragged limit.
‘Of c
ourse Mrs Johnson. But there are a few questions I need to ask. Some of them may not be easy but the quicker we have some answers then the quicker we can do something. Like I said, some of the questions might be, shall we say, delicate. That’s why I sent your daughter off with my constable for a while.’
The room was bare. Plain painted walls and vinyl covered seats. Hardly either comforting or relaxing. They both sat. Joan Johnson looking extremely ill at ease and self-conscious, Davies looking for a way to phrase what would necessarily be delicate questions. He chose to start with something easy to establish some sort of rapport.
‘Joan. May I call you Joan?’
She nodded.
‘Well Joan, it is early days and we don’t know whether the two attacks are connected. But obviously, your brother wasn’t responsible for this one. and for what it’s worth, despite what Mike said, we don’t think that he was for the first one either. Now, can you think of anyone, anyone at all that had a grudge against him?’
Dabbing at her eyes with the tissue he had given her she looked at him with disbelief.
‘Really inspector,’ she blurted out. ‘Mike is a celebrity in the area. He gets called to the radio station to comment on anything and everything connected with art. He gives talks to the women’s groups, art clubs and all sorts of gatherings. He’s loved by everyone. And I mean everyone inspector. To answer your question, no, I there isn’t anyone with a grudge against him.’
‘Unfortunately Joan, that isn’t the case. He has been attacked twice in just a few weeks and just at the moment he’s in a pretty bad way, so I should say that somebody somewhere doesn’t agree with you.’
He knew that the next bit could be crucial. It could alienate her towards him or it could actually give him a lead. There was no option but to be direct.
‘Joan. I can’t wrap this up gently I am afraid. There have been a few rumours going around and I have to ask you something that isn’t easy for either of us, but I assure you that it is necessary.’
