Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  It had taken a long time for her to tell her tale. Caroline sat with them in the lounge area and their cups were empty. On the face of it, hers was just a sad story. Two people drawn together by circumstances then separated by fate. But among the twists and turns of her secret love story, Davies had spotted something. Perhaps something that she had referred to actually had the potential to open up a few metaphorical doors.

  ‘That’s a sad story Caroline,’ he said. ‘Having talked to Kevin, I am sure that he would have understood, even if you had only come out into the open after his Dad had died. But what was the project that was going to transform Peter’s fortunes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘he didn’t tell me.’

  ‘’OK, let’s look at it another way. Who was he dealing with? Did he go to meetings for example?’

  ‘I don’t know who he was dealing with Inspector. He met up with someone a couple of times but I don’t know where – Skelmersdale, Ormskirk, Burscough – I don’t know, he didn’t say. But he was always up beat and chirpy when he came back. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Not Southport Caroline?’ added Lescott.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Once or twice he would say things like “the Skem Rogues will bolster my bank account” or something similar but I haven’t the faintest idea what he meant. He never said.’

  ‘But didn’t you ask him what he meant?’ asked Davies.

  ‘Of course Inspector, but he just smiled. All he would ever say was that his luck was changing.’

  ‘Yes, well it certainly did didn’t it?’ responded Lescott.

  Twenty-One

  Pouring yet another cup of his favourite Bewleys coffee – rich and strong, yet at the same time mellow and smooth – Simon Charlton ambled over to the balcony, slid open the doors, and settled into his chair. Although the weather was by no means suitable for sun bathing, being on the lee side of the house and protected by a small roof, the balcony was almost an all-weather feature, and certainly his favourite place in the house.

  Picking his notes up from where he had left them on the floor at the side of his chair, he turned the pages, trying to find an indication as to how they all fitted together. Inspector Radcliffe’s suggestion that the cloned registrations were being used to transport stolen vehicles was feasible, but that theory only accounted for the plates in Kevin Archer’s workshop, leaving all the registrations he had documented at the mansion at the strange estate in the country unexplained. Of course, the inspector might well have information about those that he was not disclosing, and under the circumstances, asking Debbie wasn’t an option – she was already in enough trouble at work thanks to providing him with the address details – but then again, if she had not checked the registrations out for him, Radcliffe wouldn’t have any leads would he? Touché.

  But, thought Simon as he sipped his coffee, that wasn’t helping at the moment. Although he had been warned off, and for sure he didn’t want to make things worse for Debbie, not knowing what the strange store of cars was or who owned them was annoying him.

  Movement on the opposite side of the canal caught his attention. It was there again. A Ferrari was making its way from the bridge and towards Ormskirk. Or was it going towards the country mansion? As he watched, the red car drove parallel to the canal, disappeared behind a small copse where he could hear it accelerating into the distance, its melodic note music to his ears. Simon flipped back through the sheets on his knee until he found the page for the Ferrari. Other than the registration number it was blank. He had no information. Of course, from his own knowledge he knew it’s make and model, and from his observations he knew it’s colour, but without asking Debbie, he didn’t know who owned it or the owner’s address.

  Out of sheer frustration he moved back into the study and went on-line to locate the EBC Brakes web site, a supplier he had used when he needed performance brake parts for his own car. It wouldn’t give him any more information than he already knew – certainly not owner address details – but at least he was doing something. Entering the car’s registration into the site’s search box labelled UK Car Registration Search, he clicked the send button and waited for the display to refresh; Ferrari / F430 / Eight cylinders in V configuration / 4300cc. Without an inside track to the DVLA at Swansea, he could not access anything more than he already knew. No owner details. No address details. But why bother? Frustration. Sheer frustration.

  As the screen refreshed, Simon watched each line display. Make: Toyota, Cylinders: 4, Capacity: 1600cc.

  No. No. No!

  The car was a Ferrari. No doubt. And the scream of its engine, like that in his own Olympic, was pure Italian tenor, not Japanese teenybopper. Clearing the browser history and cache he repeated the search. Surely there had been an error. But no, there it was again. A four-cylinder Toyota of just 1600cc capacity.

  Why would a hot-blooded Ferrari show up as a two-a-penny hairdresser’s car? The most obvious reason was that the Ferrari owner had purchased the registration as a cherished number, but that didn’t look likely because the registration was in no way distinctive. In any case, would anybody linked to the other cars bearing dubious plates take a chance on attracting attention to himself with a personal plate? Very unlikely.

  Under the circumstances there was only one course of action. With the Toyota details still displaying on-screen and the sheaf of papers open at the Ferrari registration, he reached for his phone and dialled Debbie’s number.

  Before the number connected he cancelled the call and replaced the receiver.

  ……….

  Frank Davies looked at the old man. Sat in his armchair he looked comfortable and relaxed. Where others his age worried about the cost of heating or whether they would see another human being from one week’s end to the next, he seemed unconcerned and oblivious. Perhaps that was what old age did; you became oblivious.

  Tracking down Arthur Jarvis hadn’t been difficult. Running a simple on-line telephone directory for Tonbridge, Debbie Lescott had found six entries with the name A Jarvis in Tonbridge. Phoning each in turn, she quickly found that four were Alice, Andrew, Alex and Alan, leaving only two Arthurs. And of those, one was a twenty-year-old student while the other lived in a sheltered housing development.

  Bingo! Arthur Jarvis lived in a comfortable retirement apartment. A modern L shaped building next to the Baptist church that had originally owned it, the Riverside Housing Association, who actually referred to it as a Scheme, now owned Leslie Tew Court. With three changes of train and an expensive taxi from Tonbridge station along the High Street and further than he had expected, Davies had found the journey a bit of a fag. But now he was here, the old guy was extremely hospitable, very friendly and eager to help. The time might not have been wasted after all.

  With a reasonable head of shiny silvering hair and a trim military style moustache that still retained vestiges of dark colour, Arthur Jarvis still cut a crisp figure. Clearly, he had been a smart guy in his prime. Now in the twilight of his years – though articulate and in full command of his faculties - Jarvis’ clothes had obviously seen better days and were well worn, but retained their air of formality. His grey trousers were almost threadbare, yet their creases were as crisp as the proverbial knife-edge. And though the temperature in the apartment was close to twenty-three degrees – and that with a window open – he wore a white long sleeve shirt and a waistcoat that matched his trousers. The shirt wasn’t new either, but like the trousers, it too was crisply pressed, its double cuffs secured by gold cuff links and its open neck filled with a Sammy cravat. Overall, he presented a crisp image that spoke volumes for his attention to detail and why the Green Fields site had presumably been so well ordered and successful in its early days.

  Having first insisting on brewing up for the two of them, Jarvis had settled himself in his favourite chair and opened the conversation with his own questions. ‘Well Inspector,’ he said. ‘I don’t hear much from up north these days you know, but to have broug
ht you all the way down here he mustn’t have died in his sleep. So what do you want from me? Is there a dispute over the land or something?’

  Taken aback, Davies mused over the questions before answering. He was more used to asking questions than answering, but what the old man had said was interesting. Sure, Debbie had told the old man of Archer’s death over the phone, but as far as he knew, nothing had been said about either the circumstances or the family feud.

  ‘What makes you ask that Mr Jarvis?’ he countered.

  ‘It makes sense lad,’ came the response. ‘If Archer had just passed away then you lot wouldn’t be involved and a high ranking officer wouldn’t have travelled all the way down here to see me. Would you like another cup Inspector?’

  ‘You are quite right,’ replied Davies,’ declining another drink. ‘But I meant your reference to land. Why mention land?’

  ‘I already knew that Peter and his sister were in dispute about something because he phoned me. But I wouldn’t have thought that would involve the police.’

  ‘When was that then Mr Jarvis. Who did you speak to, Kevin or Peter?’

  The old man looked quizzically at Davies. ‘Kevin is the grandson. It’s Peter who’s Fred Archer’s son. I spoke to Peter a couple of weeks ago. Actually, he was supposed to come down here but he never turned up. I just supposed that they had sorted everything out themselves and would get back to me later.’

  Now it was Davies’ turn to look quizzical. ‘And why would they get back to you Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘Because of the land of course.’

  ‘Mr Jarvis,’ continued Davies. ‘We seem to be talking at cross-purposes here. Fred Archer did pass away naturally. Unfortunately though we are involved. Now, please explain your reference to land, why it should be a problem, and why any of the Archer’s should need to get back to you. You sold the caravan site years ago didn’t you?’

  Jarvis looked at Davies pensively, obviously assessing the policeman and wondering how far he should open up. Davies returned the stare, locking eyes with the old man and raising his eyebrows, clearly challenging him to break the silence.

  Jarvis sighed, then launched into what turned out to be quite a story. ‘It’s not straightforward Inspector,’ he said. ‘My father was a farmer. When he retired I didn’t want to take over and become a farmer myself. So he chopped the farm up into two parcels and I developed one of them into the caravan site. I took the more attractive part with access from the bottom road and he sold the rest to Fred Archer. There were two houses, some outbuildings and a barn, and a few fields. Archer ran it as a smallholding but the buildings were in a bit of a state so he knocked the two houses through into one and did them up. I did hear that when he retired he rented out the fields and let his daughter convert the outbuildings into a house but I’m not really sure. When I had had enough and wanted to retire myself, old man Archer said his son – that’s Peter - wanted to buy the caravan site. That’s what happened Inspector. Peter bought it from me and I moved to a bungalow near my family. I moved here a couple of years ago.’

  ‘That all seems straightforward Mr Jarvis. But I still do not see where the reference to land or a land dispute comes in.’

  ‘Ah, well. That’s the thing isn’t it?’ said the old man, giving Davies a steady stare. ‘It’s the fields I loaned that they are squabbling about isn’t it?’

  Davies had followed the story to that point but by now was quite confused. Were all residents of sheltered housing schemes dotty? It certainly seemed so, although Jarvis had appeared to be quite articulate at the outset. ‘Look Mr Jarvis,’ he said, ‘I don’t follow you. Which fields are we talking about and who did you loan them to?’

  ‘When we separated the farm into two lots,’ replied Jarvis, ‘it was chopped roughly into two equal halves. But setting up the caravan site was wildly expensive; I had to put roads in, electric hook-ups and drainage for each pitch, as well as the reception building and launderette. So to keep the cost manageable, instead of the complete half, I only developed about one third of the total. We loaned the spare to Archer and he added it to his 50%. Just temporarily of course.

  ‘The arrangement was that he could have the use of it for free until such time that I was ready to expand the caravan site. But as it got established I was happy with the site as it was so I never expanded. I sold the site to Archer’s son Peter, so by rights he then owned the extra land his dad farmed. When he telephoned me he said that he needed to expand to compete with a new site so he now needs that land, but his sister, I’ve forgotten her name Inspector, wouldn’t release it. Apparently the sister grabbed the father’s land and Peter got cut out. Still, you could have checked all of that without coming all the way down here. All you needed to do was ask Peter. You could ask him why he didn’t turn up here when he said he was doing as well. I bought some biscuits – I don’t eat biscuits usually – and they are still in the packet.’

  Davies pondered the information. Certainly it provided some substance for the family feud, but any dispute could easily be verified by the Land Registry, so in reality, not a major problem. ‘I am grateful for the explanation Mr Jarvis,’ he said, but that’s not much of a problem is it? I mean, the deeds will set out boundaries won’t they?’

  ‘Quite right,’ responded the old man. ‘But verifying it all would cost a lot of money. Money that neither Peter nor his sister have.’ Locking eyes with Davies and with a cheeky little grin forming at the edges of his mouth, he continued, ‘The disputed land is a wide stripe between the caravan site and the old man’s land. Unless you have a written description including landmarks, the only way to establish where the boundaries are is to call in the surveyors to measure up. And believe me, that’s an expensive process.

  ‘From what I understand, old man Archer never told Peter about it. He just let him think that the boundary between the caravan site and the smallholding was at my perimeter fence. I cannot remember it being discussed when I sold to Peter and I suppose I just presumed that father and son knew about it. When we originally split the farm and sold part to old man Archer, we wrote down a full description of where the boundary was and how it could be identified, the terms of the loan and how it was not part of the land Archer was buying. We both had a copy but on the phone Peter told me that there was no record of it in his fathers documents. He was coming down here to copy mine. That’s about it Inspector. Why don’t you ask Peter?’

  ‘I would like to Mr Jarvis,’ replied Davies, ‘but the sad thing is that Mr Archer senior and his son Peter have both died. Actually, Peter died on the very day he was supposed to be coming down here to see you. And we are involved because Peter Archer’s death was not, shall we say, normal.’

  ‘Oh good heavens,’ stuttered Jarvis, who seemed to suddenly grow even older. ‘Oh my God. What happened? Oh Good Lord. I sort of assumed that Kevin was referring to his grandfather’s death.’ Then, looking directly at Davies, ‘I think I need another drink Inspector. I’ll put the kettle on. Oh dear dear. What next?’

  ……….

  Walking through the square and past the clock tower, Simon Charlton took in what was surely one of the most off-the-wall images he had experienced. With the coming of pedestrianisation, the centre of the old market town had reverted to it’s heritage format; asphalted streets had once again become cobbled, modern street signs had been replaced by reproduction Victorian versions, and many shop frontages, particularly those of banks and stone buildings, had been cleaned and sandblasted. Where for two days each week the town awoke from its more normal comatose state with market stalls lining town centre streets, now, early on a Sunday morning, everything was ghostly quiet, the streets were empty and there was hardly a soul in sight.

  Had there been an onlooker, Simon himself would have looked out of place, his bright red padded jacket with its ACC logo, which was an abbreviation for Aintree Circuit Club, cutting a decidedly modern image. But through his eyes he didn’t need Dr Who’s tardis to transport him back in time. As he looke
d doen the cobbled street past the clock tower, an old Model T Ford, a vintage Bentley and a 105E Ford Anglia with its distinctive raked back rear window that had been built at the Liverpool Halewood factory back in the sixties were all parked up. Sheer nostalgia, all he needed to complete the illusion was to be seeing it all in black and white. In his minds eye, it was.

  Walking on, outside WH Smith he passed a magnificent Jaguar C Type sports car and, on the opposite side of the street, two classic Formula One race cars being unloaded from their trailers; Alan Jones’ championship winning Saudia Williams and Graham Hill’s BRM, both lovingly maintained and still campaigned in classic race events. At seven thirty on a Sunday morning, none of the shops would be open for close on four hours. None that is except for the Mustard Club, on the first floor above The Green Room café. The organisational HQ for Ormskirk MotorFest, the Mustard Club was Simon’s destination; where he would check in and sign on; where he would register the Olympic both as a static exhibit and a participating vehicle in the cavalcades.

  The MotorFest had put the sleepy little market town on the map. For five days of each week it virtually hibernated, while the street market attracted customers from around the locality on Thursdays and Saturdays. On the best market days, public car parks were jammed full and the town centre busy with up to three thousand shoppers but the annual automotive extravaganza, a unique free to attend family day out, broke all records and additional car parking had to be arranged at the nearby Edge Hill University, serviced by a park-and-ride bus service operated by classic buses. Come the official opening time at eleven o’clock, the streets in the town centre would be lined with classic and vintage cars, racing and rally cars, and racing motorcycles, all attracting a milling throng of happy visitors, eagerly wandering between the displayed vehicles and chatting with their owners, many reminiscing back to their own earlier motoring experiences.