Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  So how did he know those details if he didn’t go into the building? Well that had been another slip hadn’t it? According to Skulley, Steve used to come on a Thursday afternoon and polish his cars. Wilson loved those classics. And sometimes he would take one away, usually the Ferrari which seemed to be his favourite, leaving whichever car he had come in in its place. He would then return it the following day and switch back. Debbie told Radcliffe that that scenario fitted exactly with Simon’s sightings of Wilson’s DNA replica.

  Having dropped himself well and truly in the mire, Skulley had opened up, admitting that he held a key for the side door to the building – it had previously been used as a store room – and regularly used it when nobody was around to stroll around the cars. He had thought of it as a cross between a private car museum and a rich man’s hobby and when he had nothing to do he liked to just go in and sit in an expensive car. Some people don’t know what to spend their money on next he had suggested, adding that whoever owned the cars must have more money than sense. And no, he didn’t know who it was. Perhaps it was a pop star or a footballer.

  As to why he had never visited the building at night when there were people there, Skulley had said that he didn’t like the look of the people that came. And they kept the doors closed anyway. Even in summer when it was warm, the big doors remained closed. Could he describe the people? Well of course he could. They were young, old, tall, short, thin, fat – you name it and he could fit somebody to the description. But one thing did come out of the conversation; the caretaker had noticed that a small core of people came on a regular basis. Actually said Debbie, what he had seen was the same four or five cars arriving regularly. There were a couple of Fords, a BMW, a Jaguar and one that he wasn’t sure about that could have been a Toyota Lexus or Renault. Those came regularly and always at night.

  ‘You did well Debbie,’ complimented Radcliffe. There’s a pattern building up but we need a bit more detail. What about our friend Steve Wilson? Did the caretaker ever see him working on the other cars? Even just polishing them?’

  But he hadn’t. Skulley had made a point of stressing that Wilson, or Mr Steve as he called him, only ever cleaned his own cars. There had been one time he had said, when Mr Steve had been quite interested in a Ferrari that was identical to his own, but even then he hadn’t touched it and when asked by the caretaker, hadn’t even known who owned it.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ commented Radcliffe, dabbing his lips with a paper napkin to remove the last vestiges of gravy. ‘And I am coming around to the view that our Mr Wilson either isn’t involved at all, or only on the periphery.’

  ‘But what about his wife’s car Don?’ asked Lescott.

  Yes, there’s definitely something fishy there,’ he replied, ‘but that might be completely unrelated. I’ve got the wife’s boyfriend stewing at Albert Road at the moment, waiting for Kyle to get back and interview him, but I’ve had to release Wilson because other than whatever we find out about his wife’s car, we don’t have a thing on him. I’ve nothing on which to pin an application for more time so there was no choice. Actually I’m getting the feeling that he was just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and that his wife’s car is quite another issue. I wouldn’t like to be in his wife’s shoes when he get’s home though, she won’t be able to keep her secret now will she?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Simon, making his first contribution to the conversation. ‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly-on-the-wall. I bet that there will be skin and hair flying.’

  ‘And I bet you are right,’ responded Radcliffe, ‘but I don’t have time to eavesdrop. The CSI’s want me to look at something they’ve found on the Bentley, so now we’ve eaten we must be on our way. Kyle has already checked the VIN plate but so far we’ve not been able to contact the registered owner and from what the lads are saying, we might be checking up on the wrong details.’

  ‘A bloody shame about the poor sod trapped underneath it,’ offered Charlton. ‘If only I had seen the little convoy earlier you might have been able to get there before it was too late.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ replied the DI. ‘I know you are off duty Debbie, but I would like you to do me a favour if you can.’

  Lescott looked at him quizzically. Personal time was few and far between in her job, and they had made plans. On the other hand, with the DVLA search hanging over her, she needed all the support she could get.

  ‘When you saw the cars being moved isn’t really an issue Simon,’ commented Radcliffe. The critical thing was how long the guy was under the car after the lift was brought down on him. Thanks to your tipoff we got there before it was too late. You saved the guy’s life.’

  Debbie and Simon exchanged curious glances.

  ‘The doc was on his way to certify death but I also called in the paramedics to be on the safe side and they found a glimmer of life. Apparently he was on the verge when they arrived but they worked on him in the ambulance. Technically he was dead. He wasn’t breathing at all but they shocked him and kept him in the land of the living until they got him to hospital.’ Looking directly at Lescott he continued, ‘That’s what I want you to do Debbie. He’s in intensive care at Southport General on Town Lane. They have kept him sedated but they say he should be coming out of it in the next few hours. I can’t be in two places and Kyle needs to get back to talk to randy Brian. I’d like to find out who the unfortunate man is as soon as possible.’

  Fraser took that as his cue to leave.

  ‘Didn’t he have any ID on him then Don?’ asked Lescott .

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Radcliffe. He had no wallet, no cards, just a watch engraved with Love from GA, but then that could mean anything. Actually, although I don’t think he arrived at the college just in his overalls, we couldn’t find any outdoor clothes or other vehicles he might have arrived in either. He’s a puzzle.’

  ‘It’s too far off the beaten track to arrive on foot,’ offered Charlton.

  ‘Like I said, as well as who the bloody hell he is, there’s a lot the poor bloke can tell us,’ continued Radcliffe. ‘He is our best option so far and I’m hoping that when he comes round he’s not brain damaged – the doc says that that is a real possibility given the length of time he wasn’t breathing. But with a bit of luck he can tell us what was going on and who his cronies are. Then we can set off catching them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect too much Don,’ said Simon. ‘It looks to me as though this is a well-established gang and these blokes tend to look after their own. He won’t split on his accomplices for fear of retribution.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s an issue Simon. Whatever my allegiance, if somebody had tried to squeeze all the life out of me by dropping a Bentley on top of me, sure as hell I would want to get my own back.’ Turning to Lescott he said, ‘If you could drop in at the hospital on your way home Debbie, it would be a great help. Just check with the nurses there to see if he’s close to coming round. Give me a call if there’s anything imminent.’

  Lescott looked again at Charlton before answering. ‘I don’t think that I can Don. At least, not until quite late. I’m not going straight home from here.’ Another quick glance at Charlton. ‘I have plans.’

  ‘OK Debbie, I get the picture,’

  ‘No, wait a minute you two,’ Charlton butted in. Then, looking at Debbie continued, ‘Instead of taking us straight back to my place I could detour to the hospital. Its only eight miles down the road and I need to pop in to Tesco which is just opposite. We can then shortcut back through Shirdley Hill. It’s not a problem.’

  Debbie looked first at Simon, then the DI, but didn’t speak.

  ‘I know what you are thinking Debbie,’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘Do you?’ she replied. ‘That’s more that I do. I’m confused to hell.’

  Laughing, Radcliffe sought to put her at ease. ‘I’ve a real nerve intruding into your off-duty time Debbie,’ he said. ‘I bet that’s what you are thinking. And with Simon dropping you
in the shit earlier . . . . . no don’t say anything Debbie,’ as she started to protest. ‘I am well aware that without Simon’s help we wouldn’t have had the leads that got us to the car store anyway, not to mention that indirectly Simon saved this bloke’s life. So I don’t think that him being there when you check on an unconscious man lying in a hospital bed is going to cause anyone any more palpitations, do you?’

  Twenty-Seven

  Closing his car door with a slam, DS Kyle Fraser briskly covered the six paces across the small car park, taking the steps outside the building in two strides. Pushing open the heavy doors, he rushed through the public area and past the glassed-in enquiry desk, wending his way through several short corridors to reach the custody suite. After exchanging pleasantries with the desk sergeant, he instructed that a man currently in a waiting area be moved into his favourite interview room, before partly retracing his steps and taking a flight of stairs up to the area of Albert Road police station where most of the real work was carried out. This was where the boring day to day tasks and paperwork that were taking up more and more of a policeman’s workload with each passing day were done. Over a period of time, actual numbers of officers had increased but the hours spent on patrol, on the beat or other real policing had shrunk markedly and those officers finding themselves harnessed to computer keyboards or using up gallon after gallon of ink found their working lives ever more irritating.

  ‘OK Lou,’ he said as he entered the room. ‘I’ve got them putting Randy Brian into Interview Three. Are you ready?’ picking up a folder from his own desk.

  Was she ready? What a silly question. Of course she was. Death was never good, whatever the circumstances, but being involved with the current enquiries was a whole world away from trekking out to pensioner’s bungalows to follow up on burglaries. Fifteen minutes to get there, thirty minutes with tea and biscuits to take notes, fifteen minutes back to the station, and then a tedious half day of form filling and statement typing. The car thefts and murders had brought variety and, though she dare not admit it openly, excitement to her working hours. There had been a moment when she had held her breath, lest she be assigned as DI Davies’ lackey, sorting out security for the forthcoming political conference, then breathed a sigh of relief when Sean had fallen for that brief. And to sit in on an interrogation was an added bonus, even though referring to what was in front of her as interrogation was frowned upon.

  So Detective Constable Louise Green followed him out, struggling to keep up. Fraser walked at a fast pace, almost jumping down the staircase and exhibiting an urgency that charged Green with even more anticipation. Reaching the interview room before her, he took hold of the well-worn doorknob and waited for her to catch up.

  ‘Watch and listen,’ he said to her. ‘This guy could just be an innocent bystander or a key player. We don’t know. I’ve just dashed back from Ormskirk and Don Radcliffe is convinced that Randy Brian is involved. Me? I am not so sure. I think that there is a fair chance that he just fancied a leg-over with one of his work mates and happened to chose the wife of somebody seedy.’

  ‘That’s a bit crude,’ she replied, ‘but in any case, DI Radcliffe has released Mr Wilson without charge.’

  ‘I know that Lou,’ he said, ‘but I think he was wrong. We just didn’t have anything concrete to hold him on.’ Waving the folder in her face he continued, ‘this interview will be make or break. I want to find out if this bloke is involved – I am pretty sure that he is not – and to see what he knows about Steve Wilson. With a bit of luck Brian will be able to go back to his randy ways having put his lover’s husband well and truly in the frame.

  ‘Follow what I do and say,’ he continued. ‘Don’t jump in unless I give you the nod. OK, let’s go,’ as he turned the doorknob and strode confidently into the room.

  Sparsely furnished with only a table and four chairs, Interview Room Three was austere, instantly creating a feeling of insecurity in many interviewees. If only for that reason, officers sometimes brought suspects into the station to be interviewed rather than chatting to them in their own homes or offices where, on their own territory, they felt more confident.

  If that had been the intention, it didn’t seem to be working in this case. Seated at the opposite side of the table and facing them as they entered, the man they had come to interview looked anything but intimidated. Rather, he looked supremely confident and the absolute epitome of innocence.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Smith,’ said Fraser as he and his colleague took their chairs. ‘I am DS Fraser and this is my colleague, DC Green. Before we start, can I just confirm that you are helping us of your own free will and are free to leave at any time? However,’ he added, ‘if you do leave and we find that we need to continue our conversation at a later time, we may have to enforce that. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ he replied. ‘But for the record, I am not Mr Smith. My name is Bradshaw-Smith.’

  ‘My mistake,’ rejoined Fraser, adding, ‘DC Green will make a note of that,’ although he knew full well that the man’s hyphenated name was already on the typed sheet.

  Opposite the two officers, Bradshaw-Smith settled easily. He had scored round one and established his authority. Immaculately dressed, he oozed respectability and leaned back in his chair confidently.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he said, looking to score more pints, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why I’ve been brought here or why we are going through this charade.’ Leaning forward onto the table he brought his hands together, steepled his fingers, and rested his chin on his thumbs to show off a crisply laundered shirt with double cuffs secured with car shaped silver cuff links.

  ‘Please bear with us,’ responded Fraser. ‘All I want to do is ask your help in a little matter then we can all go home.’ Opening the folder in front of him he glanced down, then returned his attention to the dapper man sitting opposite.

  ‘That’s a nice shirt Mr Smith, did you get it from Next, or perhaps Matalan?’

  Bradshaw-Smith seemed affronted. ‘Good heavens no. Even the branded stuff is made by child labour in Asian sweatshops. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it. All my shirts are hand made in Jermyn Street, London. This is a T. M. Lewyn and I also have some Charles Tyrwhitt,’ pronouncing the latter Tyrritt.

  ‘My apologies,’ responded Fraser. ‘Police pay doesn’t stretch to much more than Marks and Sparks I am afraid.’ Changing the subject, Fraser continued, ‘I understand that you are friendly with a Mrs Alison Wilson, how well do you know her?’

  Watching him closely, Fraser detected only a slight change of expression before Bradshaw-Smith answered. Fraser was already warming to him. He was passing the test.

  ‘Alison?’ asked Bradshaw-Smith. ‘She is just a fellow teacher. There’s nothing more. I don’t know much about her other than she is a good teacher. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Don’t you mix socially? You know, organised trips to the Zoo at half term and meeting up in a pub afterwards when the children gave gone home, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. My half term is usually taken up with doing all the jobs at home that I don’t get time to do in term time. Teachers work harder than you think you know. I don’t get time to socialise with my colleagues, much as I would like to do.’

  ‘That’s strange. You see, our information is that you are quite close to Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘I don’t know where you get your information,’ returned Bradshaw-Smith indignantly, ‘but I would suggest that it is more than a little suspect. Alison Wilson is a colleague. Nothing more and nothing less. We are both teachers at the same school. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I assure you that our information is not suspect Mr Smith, replied Fraser. ‘That’s what we do Mr Smith. We collect accurate information and act on it.’ Pausing to let his words take effect, he continued, ‘And our information is that over the last few months you have spent six nights with Mrs Wilson at the Premier Inn, the Morris Dancers, the Bold and the S
carisbrick Hotel.’

  Bradshaw-Smith stared at Fraser, then, visibly shaken, said, ‘And where did you get that load of nonsense?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ responded Fraser, comfortable with the effect he was having. ‘But let’s drop the pretence shall we? We couldn’t care less about your dirty little goings on with Mrs Wilson because we are actually interested in her husband. What do you know about him Mr Smith?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about her husband. I’ve never even met him. And for the last time, my name is not Mr Smith.’

  ‘OK, have it your way. But let’s get one thing clear. Our information is accurate. We know all about you. We know all about your affair with Mrs Wilson and how many times you have slept with her. And we also know that while your family name is Smith, you added the Bradshaw bit yourself so that you could look good when you took up your present post. Isn’t Bradshaw the area of Bolton where you were brought up as a child Mr Smith?’ said Fraser, emphasising Smith heavily.

  In front of him, Smith had lost most of his composure, his confidence drained.

  ‘Look Brian,’ said Louise, her warm delivery and use of his first name giving a good cop, bad cop feel to the interview. ‘We are not really interested in you or Mrs Wilson. Just help us out here will you? What we want is the inside track on Mr Wilson. We know that you sold a car to him, so did he pay with cash or a cheque? And where did the registration come from? Did you buy that for her or did her husband?’