Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  Eighteen

  Turning the papers in front of him with a sigh, Radcliffe popped a painkiller into his mouth, reached out for his cup and took a long hard gulp of the tepid liquid. The third murder hadn’t lessened his workload and his head banged from continual checking of statements, reports, forensics and his own notes. Coffee wasn’t stimulating him and the painkillers weren’t killing the pain. The only good point, if you could call it that, was that Frank Davies was out somewhere trying to find Lydiate Man’s murderer, so Radcliffe could ache, doze and whatever else he wanted to do in relative peace and solitude.

  Until summoned by Handy Andy that is. Twice this morning he had had to drag himself along the corridor to the boss’s office. First it had been to explain what progress his team had made in solving the car thefts crimes, the predictable answer of course being precisely nothing. That response had not even warranted one of Handy’s cups of ground coffee. Then, later, another trip up the corridor, that time to outline how the Pole fitted in with Lydiate Man and RTA. And again, nothing to go on, no supposed theory and no prospect of swift action. And again, no coffee. Although Radcliffe’s head was thumping, it had been his backside that had, metaphorically of course, been given the kicking. Best men on the job. Expected more (and quicker). Should be put to bed by now. There’s a real danger that Liverpool will take this off us. They were all arguments levelled at Radcliffe.

  Well so bloody what? If he was the best man for the job, why was he being given a hard time? And if Liverpool wanted the case (or cases as they had become), why not let them have them? If Liverpool took the cases then he wouldn’t be nursing a blinding headache or be both mentally and physically wrung out.

  He had asked where Frank was. And he’d known that he had stepped over the line before he had even finished asking the question. Frank was working ‘his’ case and would, no doubt, deliver the culprit on a plate quite quickly. Frank got results. Frank was destined for big things and if Radcliffe wanted to go in the same direction then he would be best advised to get his cases cracked quickly too.

  Of course, none of that had been said. But the implications were hardly veiled. The headmaster’s favourite could do no wrong and all others must toe the line. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. It hadn’t been Handy Andy’s normal attitude, but had become a more recognisable trait since Frank Davies had been promoted to the same rank as Radcliffe.

  Swigging another mouthful of half cold, bitter tasting instant coffee, he couldn’t help feeling that Handy was at least half right. Though the current cases were complex, somewhere there must be clues. Clues that he had either overlooked or not recognised. Which was why he had just spent hours pouring over everything that had been done or reported so far. And why his head was spinning.

  Switching his computer off and moving the files to one side, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started jotting a few notes in readiness for a press briefing reluctantly set up by Handley for the following morning, for the third murder had blown any possibility of claiming that the cases were unconnected right out of the water. With notes complete, Radcliffe pushed them into his brief case, returned his pen to its slot in the desk drawer and pushed his chair back as there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you Don,’ said Sergeant Fraser pushing the door open, ‘there’s been a bit of a development you might be interested in. Actually, Debbie’s turned this one up but Frank’s not here so she’s been bouncing it off me.’

  ‘That’s the story of my day so far Kyle,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘Every time I’ve been at a dead end, Handy Andy has had me traipsing up the corridor for a kicking. The pain killers and coffee aren’t working and when I pack up to go home, in you come looking and sounding as though you have just won the lottery – or from what you say, Frank’s won the lottery.’ Pushing himself back to his desk Radcliffe continued, ‘OK Kyle, bring her in and let’s have it. But make it quick mind, I’m pushing off home to grab what free time I can.’

  Radcliffe waited until the two sergeants had settled themselves. And then waited some more, as neither seemed likely to say anything. Finally he broke the silence. ‘Come on then love. Don’t be bashful. Spit it out. What’s the marvellous breakthrough that is going to solve one of our murders? If you were going to tell Frank then I am guessing that you’ve stumbled on something about Peter Archer, the Lydiate Man. Come on Debbie, I won’t bite you know.’

  The sergeant shuffled in her chair. Clearly embarrassed, she looked Radcliffe in the eye then quickly glanced across at Fraser.

  ‘It’s a bit delicate Don,’ cut in Fraser. ‘Debbie only felt that she should talk to Frank because she works with him, she’s part of his team. What she’s found out is not related to the murders though. It’s the cars. And there are several implications too. Actually she came to Louise and then Lou came to me.’

  ‘And you brought it to me,’ quipped Radcliffe. ‘So to whom do I pass it?’

  ‘OK Sir,’ replied Lescott at last. ‘I’ve got some information that puts a complete new face on the car crimes your team is working on. But how I came by that information and how I had to work it to get something tangible could get me into hot water.’

  Radcliffe frowned and raised his eyebrows towards the young woman, then to Fraser who just held his stare.

  ‘All right Debbie,’ said Radcliffe in his most fatherly manner. ‘Let’s start at the beginning shall we? First off, while we are in this room with no public around, it is Don, or boss if you must, but not sir. Secondly, kicks up the arse are par for the course so you’ll have to get used to them, but if your information is as important as you both seem to think, I expect that we should be able to sweeten the pill with those upstairs and keep you clean. Now then, let’s get down to business.’

  His friendly Uncle act had done the trick. After some trepidation she had opened up. Slowly at first, then more relaxed as she got deeper into her story. Whether that was because she had decided to trust him or simply an ‘in for a penny in for a pound’ mentality he was unsure. He hoped the former.

  ‘A friend of mine asked me to check some vehicle registrations with Swansea.’

  ‘Which friend Debbie?’

  ‘Just a friend sir. I mean, Don.’

  ‘Male or female? It makes a difference.’

  ‘Male.’

  ‘OK. So he softens you up with a kiss, a cuddle and a session in bed and then you break the rules for him?’

  ‘No! No!’ Then a softer, ‘no Don, I’ve never slept with him. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘A friend worth getting into trouble for?’

  She looked down and bit her lip. She said nothing.

  ‘A friend worth losing your job for maybe?’

  Looking him directly in the eye she replied, ‘I don’t know. I’ve not thought about it. But yes, if it came to it I suppose so.’

  ‘Right Debbie,’ said Radcliffe, so at least we know where we stand. He’s more than just a friend. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Now then, why couldn’t he just go on-line and do an HPI or RAC check?’

  She had explained that that would only have got him the basic vehicle details whereas her friend was actually looking for address details of the owners.

  ‘I hope that you said “no” Debbie,’ cut in Radcliffe, though he knew instinctively that she hadn’t. She had gone ahead, checked the registrations and passed over address details to her friend.

  Radcliffe gave his disapproving look again – an unspoken “why” - but said nothing.

  Fraser broke the silence. ‘Just hear her out boss. Please.’

  Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, Radcliffe looked straight at the young sergeant. ‘OK Debbie,’ he said, ‘this had better be good.’ Her eyes were already moist and he could see that she was close to the edge. He needed to give support yet at the same time rules must be observed. Lescott had risen to sergeant quickly and could go far but a serious breach of procedure could stop her in her tracks. ‘If your myste
rious friend had just passed the registrations over to you it would have been a tip off. If you had then followed up on them it would have been using your initiative. But for heaven’s sake Debbie, giving your bloke the addresses – that’s close to career suicide love.’

  ‘Hold on,’ cut in Fraser. Debbie’s on to something here, but she wouldn’t have been if her fella hadn’t followed up so that she could take it further.’

  ‘What do you mean, followed up?’ Then, turning to face the almost distraught sergeant, ‘What does this bloke of yours do Debbie?’

  ‘He’s a private detective Don.’

  ‘Christ! What in hell’s name were you thinking of Debbie? Please tell me I’m dreaming all this.’ Then, with yet another sigh, ‘Spell it out for me Debbie. Let’s know the worst so we can either put your info to good use or try and put some damage limitation into place for you.’

  Lescott had explained that because he had been concerned that there might be a cloning scam going on, her bloke had asked her to get the owner’s addresses for a few registration numbers. When the sergeant had pulled up the information she had noticed that the brands neatly matched the high value cars currently being investigated on the stolen list. Intrigued, she had done more digging and found that most of the registrations were for cars in other parts of the country, with only two registered keepers actually in the area.

  ‘Cloning isn’t a new phenomenon,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘But it is usually the way that owners of ordinary cars avoid speed camera tickets, so to be honest I doubt it being a factor here. And for sure, it’s not connected to any of our three murders.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure Don,’ replied Fraser. As well as the first batch of numbers, Debbie’s guy also threw up some interesting links.’

  ‘God love us,’ cut in Radcliffe. ‘Give me strength. Not more?’

  Passing over a number of A4 sheets, Fraser continued, ‘Debbie’s put all the regs together. If you check out the registered keepers there’s a main group miles away from here and a small group left over with keepers on our patch. Those on our patch are quite interesting.’

  Radcliffe scanned the lists. The local group was more than interesting. Looking up, he looked inquizatively at the two sergeants. Lescott’s face was virtually expressionless. Fraser’s was a little more smug. ‘is this for real?’ he asked. ‘I can see why you didn’t want to take this to Frank Debbie. The names you have here are, shall we just say, interesting. Frank would have had a field day.’

  ‘I thought that that would interest you Don. But look at the main group too. Debbie has done some sterling work and it’s fascinating. Not only are there links to all and sundry – including at least one murder - she’s also worked out a possible way they could be lifting the cars.’

  Brightening, Lescott straightened and continued where Fraser had left off. ‘There’s one registration per brand sir. I mean Don. Or in some cases, per model within a brand. Just imagine now that you lift a car – say a Ferrari – and whiz it somewhere close to disable the tracker. If the plates are swapped at the same time, then if the car is spotted by one of our patrols when it is being moved on, it’s not only a different car, it is fully legal so will not be challenged.’

  ‘It’s a fair theory I suppose,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘But there’s still no link to any of our stolen cars.’

  ‘Yes there is guv,’ burst in Fraser. ‘But at the moment it is a little circumstantial. Debbie checked out two of the registrations then came to us when she had confirmed her suspicions. One registration on the list is for a Mercedes owned by a guy up in Edinburgh. That car was clocked speeding down here on the M57 on the same day that a Merc was stolen in Ainsdale. Yet in reality, the car was actually in Scotland. The guy had to pay up because the speed camera picture showed his car – complete with his registration - and he couldn’t prove otherwise.’

  ‘The other was similar,’ cut in Lescott. ‘A range Rover was booked in Burscough when it was actually in Cornwall. That owner dug his heels in and provided proof of his whereabouts so it’s still not resolved – but a Rangie was nicked the same day in Rufford, just down the road from where this one was booked and that’s too much of a coincidence.’

  By now they were both talking twenty to the dozen, keen to show how everything could be part of the big picture. ‘And if you look at the local group, three tickets on the one car in a six month period, each coinciding with a car of the same make and model being stolen,’ added Fraser.

  ‘OK,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘I take the point. What’s the status of these tickets then?’

  ‘All cancelled. Could be a sob story upstairs or an apologetic letter to the Chief Constable I expect.’

  ‘Yes Kyle,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘It happens a lot. It’s why councillors and celebrities rarely pay their fines but those who can hardly afford them have to.’ Looking at Lescott he summarised, ‘OK, so thiefy has a stock of registrations and each time he steals a car he slaps on the bogus plates while he moves it to a safe garage. Some of the registrations are owners well out of our patch but others are connected to local individuals. But then the trail goes cold because while we know where some of the cars were picked up on speed cameras, we don’t know where they were kept or where they are going. Is that about it?’

  ‘Almost,’ admitted Fraser. ‘But Debbie’s bloke has some leads there as well.’

  ‘I should have known it,’ groaned the Inspector. ‘Now we are using police facilities so that a bloke in civvies can do our work for us.’

  ……….

  ‘You can’t run a cavalcade without putting in safety barriers. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

  Huddled around a large table in a banquet room of the Park Hotel, club members were putting the final touches to Ormskirk’s annual MotorFest; a free to visit extravaganza for all the family where market stalls in the town centre would be replaced by all manner of automotive exhibits, the day culminating in a two hour cavalcade around the little town’s ring road.

  ‘We did last year and there were no incidents,’ said a tall authoritive guy in a club windcheater. ‘In any case, with more marshals this year we should have more control so I don’t see a problem.’

  He looked around the table. Though no more than an interested member, where others seemed blind to anything that threatened their beloved cars he harboured serious safety concerns. ‘I agree, there were no incidents last year,’ he said, ‘but Ian saw a few near misses.’

  ‘That’s right,’ responded the photographer. ‘I highlighted the potential for catastrophe last year as well.’

  ‘But this has all been discussed in detail and as long as cavalcade speeds are kept down, the local authorities are happy with arrangements,’ cut in another.

  ‘Well I suppose that’s it then,’ he said. It’s not my responsibility of course, but for what it’s worth, if this was happening in Southport I guess that permission would be refused.’

  ‘Are you bringing your Scoobie?’

  He did not miss the change of subject ploy. He owned a highly tuned ex-works Subaru Imprezza rally car and clearly, somebody was moving the discussion on. The subject of crowd safety was now effectively closed.

  ‘It is entered, but I might not bother. If I do bring the car I’ll be stuck there keeping an eye on it all day to stop kid’s sticky fingers being wiped all over it and won’t be able to enjoy having a look round myself. I’ll decide later.’ Looking at his friend, he continued, ‘Do you know, last year I only left it for five minutes and when I came back there were two snotty nosed kids sat inside, one playing with all the buttons and switches and the other with ketchup dripping off a hot dog, a real yobbo type taking their photo. He gave me a real mouthful when I told them to piss off.’

  As more drinks were brought from the bar, what had started as a club business meeting developed into social chitchat. It always happened. Old timers liked to lose themselves in their memories, new members were too polite to stop them, and most actual business was done l
ater by email or telephone.

  ‘When was the last time you had the Scoobie out then?’ enquired a short, stocky member with unruly wiry hair.

  ‘I did a track day at Aintree for a bit of fun,’ he replied, ‘and it was entered in a single venue stage rally at Three Sisters last week but I had to cry off at the last minute.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can justify keeping the thing when you only run it every Preston Guild. Mine costs me a fortune to keep tuned up but you’ve got the Jag as well.’

  ‘Oh, it has it’s flip sides.’

  ‘Yeah – when you lost it and flipped it on the mountain. That’s it’s flip side,’ chortled another, prompting an outburst of laughter.

  ‘OK, very funny. So I was a little over enthusiastic and lost it on the back loop at Sisters. But I’ve never done that since and its hardly a mountain anyway – just a bit of the old mining slag heap. Right then, I’m driving so I am having another coffee before I go home. And for your information, the Jag is a company car anyway, just like your van. I pay tax on it though.’

  ……….

  Sitting on his balcony watching narrow boats chug along the canal beneath him, Simon Charlton was deep in thought. Away with the fairies as his wife used to say. Since she had gone, Simon was often with the fairies, though recently they had been dancing to more relaxing tunes than when it had first happened all those years ago.