Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  One hour stretched into two, and then three (and countless cups of tea), yet she was still waiting for her first customer. The young waitress from the cafe opposite had popped in to ask how Mike was progressing but otherwise not a single person had entered the shop. Killing time – where were all those customers? - Joan reached for the telephone and dialled a number she knew from memory. Before it rang she put the handset back in its cradle and cancelled the call. If she had let it ring, what would the reaction have been? Would she have been shouted at? Would she have been insulted? Or would the phone have been slammed down on her, cutting her off in silence? It was a risk, but nevertheless, a chance she had to take. Picking up the handset she dialled again.

  ‘Hello Kevin. It’s Aunt Joan. How are you holding up?’ she enquired. ‘I’m so sorry about your dad. I know we’ve had our differences, but I just want you to know that I’m here for you.’

  There. It had been said. She’d done it. After months of argument and legal wrangling it had taken her brother’s death to push her to try to make contact and rebuild bridges. Pensively she waited for some sort of response. Would there be a response?

  ‘Oh, hello. Thank you Aunt Joan,’ came the reply. ‘I’m OK I suppose. It’s not really sunk in yet. I’ve been on site a couple of times but I can’t concentrate properly and when I get back home I can’t remember what I did when I was there. Yesterday I locked a guy in the workshop and didn’t even know it.’

  ‘Oh dear Kevin. You’ll have to pull yourself together you know. Have the police any idea who did this to your dad?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, not that they’re telling me anyway. They’ve assigned me a Family Liaison Officer but he’s more of a pain in the arse than anything. Gets in my way all the time. It’s like having a minder or being ten years old again. But they have at last released dad’s body so I’ll have to arrange the funeral I suppose.’

  ‘Can you do that Kevin? Do you want me to help you? He was my brother you know, and you are my favourite nephew.’

  ‘I didn’t know that you had any other nephews,’ he quipped, ‘but thanks, I’d appreciate that. I’ve never done this sort of thing before – I was too young when mum died – and if the only thing that comes out of this is that we get together again then dad won’t have died completely for nothing I suppose.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘How’s Uncle Mike by the way? I heard that he had been attacked again.’

  ‘OK then. That’s settled. Come over to our place about four and we’ll talk it through over an early dinner. Uncle Mike’s in a bad way I’m afraid. Visiting time is about six so I’ll have to dash off to the hospital after we’ve eaten. See you later Kevin.’

  Dropping the handset back into its cradle, Joan sank back into the chair. That hadn’t been too bad. At least the two sides of the family were talking again, even if the circumstances were difficult. Reaching out for the pile of mail, she arranged it across the desk in a number of piles. Most seemed to be commercial correspondence of some sort or other, clearly identified by printed envelopes or franked inscriptions. That could be a disadvantage surely? Shouting to everyone what was inside might just as well result in the envelope being dropped straight into a waste bin without being opened as generate the goodwill that the advertising was supposed to create.

  Those looking like junk mail, although directly addressed, she put in one pile furthest away from her. They would be opened last. Those that carried the logo or corporate PR of suppliers, possibly sales messages or bills, were put in another pile. That left her with two types of envelope: official looking long and thin DL envelopes with typed addresses and squarer ordinary letter shaped envelopes with hand written addresses. The official ones all went into a third pile. There was method in her madness. By opening the ordinary hand written ones first she would put off opening official letters until later. With no real knowledge of the business, most of the official ones would make no sense to her anyway so better to pigeon hole them for the time being.

  Most of the personal letters were quite touching. Addressed just to The Palette, or to Mrs Johnson c/o The Palette, their writers expressed horror at what had happened to Mike, expanded on what a great man he was and what he meant to each and every one of the people he came into contact with, expressing hopes for his quick recovery. Reading the first had been comforting. By the sixth she had been reduced to a wreck, tears rolling down her cheeks, makeup smudged and her eyes red. The man they were writing about was precious to her but reading the letters it was as if he had died and his admirers were giving some sort of eulogy instead of clinging him to life in his hospital bed.

  Sweeping the letters to one side she looked at the rest of the mail. Three piles were left, so which one next? Initially she had thought that the personal ones would have cheered her up but they had had the opposite effect. The junk mail seemed pointless so in one swoop it joined the rubbish and envelopes in the waste bin. That just left official looking mail. Working through the branded or franked envelopes, she soon had a stack of bills piled up. Some were invoices for goods or materials that Mike sold in the shop but there were others that seemed to be statements going back several months. She found them confusing. Some seemed to be long lists of amounts with huge totals outstanding. No doubt that wasn’t the case. She didn’t understand finances and official documents so no doubt these were simply statements of accounts and the payments Mike had made would be shown on other documents. All the same, a couple concerned her. The council were threatening action for unpaid business rates and the bank had sent a letter thanking Mike for depositing some money but pointing out that it wasn’t enough by far and only guaranteed two weeks. Two weeks for what? And what had he paid? What had he bought? As for the council, they must be wrong. Or were they?

  Dropping the noe empty envelopes into the bin to clear a space on the desk she pulled the last pile in front of her. These were the ones she dreaded most. She was useless with officialdom. Give her a pan, some ingredients and an oven and she would out perform almost anybody – except Mike that is, but then he had been a professional chef so he didn’t count did he? - but official correspondence had her beat. Slipping her finger under the flap she opened the first envelope and pulled out a short letter on the bank’s letterhead. Come in and see me because it is urgent. It was short and to the point. Rummaging through the previous stack she found the other letter from the bank. Dated a day before the new short one, it had come from the head office while the one she had just opened was direct from the manager of the local branch. What was going on?

  Putting the two bank letters aside, she opened three more envelopes, all containing letters she couldn’t understand. Legalese language and lists of figures that meant nothing to her confused her even more.

  Just one last envelope remained. What a chore the whole episode had been. Picking it up she sat staring at it, not really aware of why but knowing that inside would be trouble with a capital T. The phone rang. Putting down the envelope she picked up the handset.

  Listening incredulously, Joan tensed, the colour draining from her face as the voice droned on. Without saying a word, slowly she replaced the receiver, swallowed hard and slumped back in her chair.

  Five hours she had been in the shop. Five hours in which the only people she had talked to had been the waitress and one customer buying nothing more than a couple of brushes. Two hours of boredom and three hours reading mail that had numbed her senses to the point she couldn’t remember. Then a horrific telephone call followed by a mind numbing blank. Five hours condensed into a bleak nothingness. All that was left was to shut up shop and go home.

  Rising stiffly from her chair she stretched her shoulders and twisted her neck from side to side. Normally an active woman, she had been deflated by the day’s inactivity and stunned by the unexpected events. Putting on her jacket and picking up her handbag she made her way out of the office and through the shop. Reaching up to switch off the lights she remembered the last remaining envelope and returned to the tin
y office.

  Sixteen

  ‘OK everybody,’ said Chief Inspector Arthur Handley, as the hub of idle chatter died, ‘we’ve got two unusual cases so lets get down to business.’ Standing at the front of the room and flanked by Detective Inspector Frank Davies and Detective Inspector Don Radcliffe, he gave a sweep of his arm to indicate the two officers flanking him and added, ‘You all know DI Radcliffe and DI Davies of course.’

  Davies gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, but otherwise, both men showed blank expressions and little movement. Handley looked around the room at the assembled officers. He had their attention. A meeting like this was unusual and the assembled officers were intrigued. Bringing together a group such as this with high level officers in charge indicated something serious.

  ‘I’m sure that you are all aware that after being attacked for a second time, our local celebrity artist is now in a critical condition in Southport General Infirmary,’ continued Handley. ‘Separately, the body found in Lydiate Hall has now been identified, as has the unfortunate driver in the routine RTA out on the Maghull Road.’

  Peering over his glasses at the crowded room, he said, ‘On the face of it then, two unconnected deaths - one an old man who had a heart attack and the other the result of putting a small hatchback on its side into a drainage ditch. Frank has been following up on the Lydiate Hall death and Don both the Johnson attack and the RTA, which is convenient because being more of a double act than Ant and Dec they’ve been bouncing things back and forth and some interesting links seem to be emerging.’

  Turning to point to a white board on which a number of names and locations had been written, Handley tapped each name or location in turn to emphasise what he was saying. ‘The Lydiate Hall body has now been identified as Peter Archer who is, or was, related to our celebrity artist, Mike Johnson. Archer’s death was not a coronary.‘

  Pausing for effect, Handley again put on his professor look and squinted over his spectacles. ‘This is where it gets interesting. Not only is the Lydiate Hall body connected to Johnson, there is also a link to Don’s RTA. According to the pathologist, our car driver was dead before the car went into the ditch.’

  Another pause to let the information sink in. ‘And, ladies and gentlemen, the cause of death was exactly the same as for Lydiate Hall Man. One death like that would be unusual. Two so close together is too much of a coincidence.’

  There were murmurs around the room. Though years previously a Southport man had murdered his wife and chopped her up into pieces and a decade or so later a lodger had murdered his landlady, murder was unusual in the Victorian classic resort. Very unusual.

  ‘Have we got a serial killer Sir?’

  Directing his gaze to the back of the room, though he could not identify which officer had raised the question he had hoped would not be asked and to which everyone wanted the answer, Handley glanced at each of the inspectors flanking him before responding. ‘At this point I don’t think so. Certainly, I damned well hope not,’ he said. ‘What we do know is that although we are not aware of any connections between the two men, for both of them to have been murdered in exactly the same way and in such an unusual manner means that there must be a connection somewhere. We have to find that connection – and fast. Whether our artist is also involved could be significant or just a red herring.

  ‘Under normal circumstances, crimes like these would be handled by Liverpool but if at all possible I want to keep the enquires based here. We don’t get many murders but we do have the local knowledge, so with two murders and two serious attacks criss-crossing we’ve brought you lot together as a joint team to work on both cases. I’ll head it all up as OIC but for now I’ll let the investigating officers enlarge.’

  Don Radcliffe first outlined the Mike Johnson attacks. The artist had first been attacked on his own driveway in Crosshill Village. He had been subjected to a serious working over but it had not been life threatening. The second attack had been close to the artist’s shop in the centre of Southport. That attack seemed to have been shorter but more brutal. More professional. Johnson had been convinced that the first attacker had been his brother-in-law, Peter Archer, who owned the Green Fields Caravan Park. Archer had been seen elsewhere at the time and could not have carried out the second attack because by that time he was dead – Lydiate Hall Man – Frank would enlarge on that shortly. The second attack was much more serious and had left Johnson in a critical condition so as yet he had not been interviewed and whether he would be able to identify his assailant wouldn’t be apparent until his condition improved. If Johnson had been wrong about the first attack, then both could have been carried out by the same person but it could not be ruled out that different perpetrators had carried out the two beatings.

  Davies agreed. By the time of the second attack, the Lydiate Hall body had been identified as Peter Archer. Overall they had very few leads, but while there was no obvious link between the attacks on Johnson and the murder of Archer, it was all too much of a coincidence when you dialled in the family relationship, Johnson having originally accused Archer, the close proximity of the caravan park to Johnson’s house, and a known business fight between the two men over disputed land that separated the caravan park from the Johnson’s house and which both wanted to develop. Both he and Inspector Radcliffe believed that Archer’s death and the attacks on Johnson were in some way related but the unusual cause of death was a puzzle.

  Radcliffe took over again. ‘We were supposed to think that our second victim had simply driven off the road and into a drainage ditch. We’ve identified him as a Polish mechanic by the way. The CSI’s threw the RTA theory out straight away though. Apparently the cover up was very hammy. On the other hand, the way the guy met his death looks very professional, so how it looked and how it actually happened seem to be at odds. Frankly, we don’t have a clue as to why or how – or even where.’

  Wrapping the meeting up, Handley put on his sternest expression. ‘This is going to cause quite a stir,’ he said. ‘But it is crucial that we don’t have mass panic. You asked if there is a serial killer out there and, honestly, we don’t know. But I don’t want the press whipping this up into frenzy. Not only would that unsettle the whole community it would hamper our complete investigation and make our task impossible.’

  Still holding a sheaf of files, none of which he’d referred to at any point, he held them up and thrust them forward to emphasise each word, ‘Let me make this clear once and for all,’ he stormed. ‘I want nobody. Repeat, nobody, saying even one word about any aspect of this investigation to anybody. You all got that? Anybody. That doesn’t just mean the media, it means what the word says – anybody. You don’t discuss any aspect of this investigation with friends, family, strangers, or lovers. Do I make myself clear?’

  Lowering his voice and softening somewhat, he continued. ‘We have issued separate press releases about the two deaths. We are keeping them separate as long as we can. All we’ve released so far is that Archer apparently had a heart attack at the hall and the Pole drove off the road into the ditch. We put out the releases at different times so they remain two unconnected incidents. We’re using the word “apparent” so that we cannot be accused of issuing wrong information.’ A wry smile came to the corners of his mouth. ‘Just a little tardy with updates maybe.’ Looking at the assembled group he continued, ‘We’ll continue to put out individual releases while we can, but when we reach the point where we have to do more then I’ll set up a media conference. No talking out of hand, OK?’

  ‘But what about the families Sir. We can’t control who they talk to can we?’

  ‘No lad, we can’t. However, we can control how much they are told. The Pole doesn’t have any family here anyway so if any more than that gets into circulation it will be pretty obvious where it’s come from. Anyone talking out of turn to anybody – Christ, anybody talking to anybody at all - will get thrown back into uniform and lose all rank. That clear?’ Finishing on a high, Handley strode b
ack to his office.

  ‘That was a turn up for the book. I’ve not seen him like that before.’ Commented Davies to Radcliffe.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know, coming over all fierce; a complete info blackout so that if we screw up he can kick our arses.’

  With a chuckle, Radcliffe grinned and reassured Davies that if push came to shove, Handy Andy could be relied upon to back them to the hilt. What appeared to be control on the part of the senior officer was actually more of a freedom for the two inspectors to operate as they felt best within a tight operation. Rest assured, he knew every little thing that was going on or being done by his officers, but he wouldn’t meddle. If they actually needed his support, Handy Andy could be relied upon to give it – as long as they could justify their requests.

  Though having known each other for years and sharing an office for the last two, Radcliffe and Davies had never officially worked together. They had bounced cases off each other, passed over local information to help the other clear up a case, socialised at functions, and swapped yarns at the bar, but this was the first time they had actually shared a command.

  With Handley now returned to his office and, no doubt, the comforting aroma of his coffee machine, the two senior officers had become the target for numerous questions. Were they absolutely sure that Archer had not been responsible for the first attack on Johnson? Did Johnson really say that he would murder Archer? And if so, could Johnson have killed Archer before being attacked himself for a second time?

  There were so many questions and Don Radcliffe knew that the relationship between the leading officers would be observed by the others. Ostensibly of the same rank, Radcliffe didn’t relish the idea of being seen to be subservient to Davies and he guessed that the reverse would also be true, so the key to a successful working relationship would be the removal of friction between the two inspectors. He would have to move quickly if he was to establish a hierarchy in his favour. At this early stage, whichever officer took the initiative and answered questions positively would, by default, set a precedent.