Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  ‘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 Scarisbrick 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?’

  Subdued, Smith looked from one to the other but did not reply.

  ‘Come on Mr Smith,’ urged Fraser. ‘Stop playing games. You have the answers so just give them to us and we can all go home. Or do I have to make this official? I can caution you and switch the recorder on if you wish, but it will then get messy. It’s up to you Brian.’

  ‘OK he said. Have it your way. Ali and me were an item. Her husband’s a bit of a wimp. She got bored and I was there. It’s over now though.’ Looking up, he continued, ‘She wanted a new car and I heard of one going cheap. That’s all. I told her about it and she fancied it. I took it round to their house and her husband bought it for her. That was the first, and the last time, I saw him.’

  The about turn had been remarkable. A confident and almost arrogant dandy had been reduced to a weak lump of putty, even affecting his grammar and presentation. Proper questioning could at last commence.

  Changing tack, Fraser started pressing Smith about the car. Who owned it, how much had it cost and why was the price so low for an almost new car? How did he find out that the car was for sale and had he taken a commission for finding a buyer?

  Then he had changed direction abruptly, with probing questions about Steve Wilson. Repeating DC Green’s still unanswered questions he had again asked how Wilson had paid then moved on to more personal aspects of the Wilson’s life.

  Repeating his directional change ploy, Fraser then went back to the car Smith had located for his lover, digging deeper and deeper each time, finally bringing the interview to a close with a hearty, ‘Thank you very much for coming in Mr Smith. We really appreciate all the help you have given us.’ Then, in an advisory tone, ‘If I were you I wouldn’t discuss any of this Mr Smith. Mr Wilson is aware of his wife’s infidelity and I suspect that he isn’t all that happy about it. I would steer a wide berth if I were you,’ adding, ‘between you and me, the information you’ve given us about Mr Wilson has been very helpful.’

  Standing, Fraser closed the file and tucked it under his arm.

  ……….

  Turning his key in the lock, Steven Wilson paused, trying to take himself in hand. Regaining his self-control was not easy but then that must be understood, nobody expects to be a prime murder suspect. Having been held in a cell overnight, Wilson had been puzzled why his wife had not visited him. Perhaps she had reported him missing and, when told he was being held on suspicion of murder, decided to distance herself. Or perhaps one of a hundred other possibilities. Alison was a damned good teacher and brilliant with children, but he had always handled all aspects of officialdom because they were out of her comfort zone. Perhaps she had just been too scared to enter the police station.

  And all because of that little shit, Brian Whatshisname. Wilson had kicked himself several times while in custody; why had he not at least run an HPI check on the car before buying it? He always recommended others to make their checks before buying a second hand car so why had he not followed his own advice? Silly bugger.

  Normally well dressed, Wilson was clearly not his usual self. You didn’t take your overnight bag into the police station did you? Still in the same clothes he had been wearing in the office two days ago, his shirt was dishevelled and his tie now bunched up and hanging out of a trouser pocket. Unshaven and mentally worn down, at best he looked a scruff.

  Closing the door behind him he walked down the hall into their large kitchen. Alison was sat on a high stool at the breakfast bar. Showing no sign that she had even heard him come in, she did not turn to greet her husband. Her head was nestling on her arms on the breakfast bar, her shoulders slowly rising and falling as she sobbed.

  Wilson didn’t know what to say or do. Day in and day out he wrestled with decisions at work, he handled the problems experienced by his staff and calmed disgruntled customers, but this was a new experience and he simply did not know what to do.

  Slowly, she lifted her head and looked across at him with glazed eyes, wiping them with her sleeve.

  ‘Oh Steve,’ she blurted out. ‘I am so, so, sorry.’

  For what to both of them seemed an eternity they just looked at each other silently.

  ‘And what my love have you got to be sorry for?’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘It is all my fault. I should have run an HPI. It is what I always tell others to do. I should have known that there would be something wrong with a virtually new car being offered for less than half its value. I should h
ave smelled a rat. I don’t know if your teacher mate knew anything about it – perhaps he didn’t and just acted in good faith – but it is my business for heavens sake and I should have known.’

  Again, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Her lips were swollen and her makeup in such a mess she could have been the victim of a beating. Together they looked a sorry pair. Thoughts whirled in her head. Did he know about the affair? It certainly sounded as if he didn’t. So could something be salvaged? Was, perhaps, all not lost?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, her voice wobbly and her words punctuated by sobs. ‘The police said you were being questioned about a murder and then they took my car away.’

  ‘I’ll sort the car. That’s not a problem. Apparently yours was a ringer and because I am in the motor trade they thought that I was involved - then they linked that to Pawel and started talking about murder. It was hell for a time.’

  ‘What do you mean, a ringer?’ she asked, sobs reducing as her mind wrestled with new information. And who’s Pawel?’

  ‘Your car was stolen Ali. It was stolen and then its identity changed by altering the numbers. Once that’s done it can be re-registered. It’s called ringing. I don’t know where your car was stolen from but whoever nicked it probably bought a written off crashed car of the same model then changed the details. That’s how they sometimes do it.’ Looking at her forlornly he added, ‘Bloody hell Ali, I walked right into it. I’ve been a bloody fool.’

  ‘So what about this Pawel bloke then? Who’s he?’

  ‘One of my Polish mechanics. Pawel Lewinelsky. He didn’t turn up for work for a couple of days and didn’t answer his mobile when we called him either. Apparently the police found him in the gutter behind the Bold on Lord Street.’

  So what had happened to him? Did he get into a fight in the pub? Surely the police know you didn’t go anywhere near – everyone knows you don’t drink.’

  ‘No Ali. Not a pub brawl. Apparently he was murdered but they didn’t tell me how. They just kept asking questions not telling me things. But another bloke got killed driving over the moss and because they were both Polish and Pawel worked for me and you were driving a stolen car, they thought they had a link.’

  Again they looked at each other in silence. Slowly she slipped off her stool and walked across the kitchen. Leaning against him, a sodden tissue still clasped in her clenched hand, she buried her face in his crumpled shirt, her tears forming rivers down the cloth. Resting his stubbly chin on her head and drawing her close, he felt, rather than heard, her sobs.

  ……….

  Simon Charlton had parked the Olympic in the car park outside the huge Tesco supermarket, slotting it into one of many spare bays over towards the road at the edge of the site. The furthest away from the store entrance, these were the least used but ideal for his purpose. While parking charges had recently been increased at the hospital, almost doubled in fact, the supermarket was only a few minutes walk away and parking was free. Those bays were closest to the footpath leading to the road.

  Having parked the car they had gone their separate ways; Simon into the store to do his shopping and Debbie across to the hospital, with an agreement that they would meet in Applejacks, the hospital coffee shop, which was where they both were, mugs of hot coffee in front of them, albeit from a vending machine.

  ‘A bit of a waste of time then?’ observed Charlton, sipping his coffee and holding the mug in two hands for warmth.

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Debbie. ‘But they are expecting him to come round shortly.’ Brightening she smiled at Simon and added, ‘But once we’ve drunk up we are on our way. Then it will be Don Radcliffe’s problem and I will have carried out what you dropped me into.’

  ‘Come on Debbie,’ he countered. ‘You need to get some Brownie points to counter the muck you were in and it’s only cost us a bit of time.’

  Debbie sensed somebody standing next to her.

  ‘Excuse me sergeant,’ said the nurse, ‘there’s some activity on the monitor and the doctor thinks that there may be a change shortly. Perhaps you would like to come back up?’

  Debbie exchanged glances with Simon. Yet again their plans were being thwarted.

  Following the nurse they soon arrived back at the intensive care department that Debbie had left only fifteen minutes earlier. There was far more room around each bed than Simon thought usual and two were completely screened off by curtains. Of the four remaining beds, one was unoccupied but patients in the other three were linked up to equipment and monitors by numerous tubes and wires. There was an eerie silence in the room – no chattering or watching TV in here – underscored by the constant whirring and humming of the machines and regular pinging noises. Everything seemed efficiently under control yet lacking in coordination, the pings from one patient’s monitors not synchronising with those of the others.

  The nurse led Charlton and Lescott to the far end of the ward, where a doctor was checking a monitor while another nurse checked her patient. Turning as he heard them approach, the doctor apologised for wasting their time, explaining that the unknown man was not coming out of sedation as fast as he had expected. This was going to be a longer job than he had thought.

  Tucked up in his hospital bed, Simon thought that the man did not look ill at all, just asleep. The nurse had pulled the bed sheet almost up to his shoulders and tucked him in like a mother looking after her helpless child, laying his arms on top of the covers. Wearing hospital pyjamas his hands and face looked clean and bright, his hair had been combed and other than the spider’s web of tubes and wires, there were few clues to the trauma he had experienced.

  Given what he had gone through, Charlton had expected him to have been visibly injured and what he was looking at surprised him. Debbie saw his surprise but did not comment, turning instead to the doctor.

  ‘Doctor, what are we looking at here? The nurse said there was some activity on the monitor. Does that mean he will be OK or is there still a chance he might be brain damaged? Obviously we cannot have an officer standing around doing nothing for hour after hour but we do need to know who he is and ask him some questions.’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied the doctor, writing an entry on a chart. ‘I did think that there were some signs but maybe I was being a little hasty. He is progressing nicely but looks as though we will have to wait a few more hours before anything becomes any clearer I am afraid.’ Hanging the clipboard on the end of the bed he told Lescott that she would just have to be patient and then disappeared behind the curtain surrounding the next bed.

  Walking down the corridor, Debbie ribbed Simon. Here was the big guy, the man that lived an action packed life full of high performance cars and sessions at the indoor kart circuit. The man who always had something to say and always voiced his opinion. Yet at the bedside of a sick man he had been silent and ashen faced. God only knew how the wimp would react if he came up against some of the sights she had to contend with. It had been said in obvious jest, but with clear jibe undercurrents.

  ‘I didn’t expect him to look so ordinary,’

  ‘He is ordinary Simon. He’s just a normal bloke that’s been the victim of an accident. That’s all.’

  ‘I know. But there isn’t a mark. I expected lots of bruising or some cuts and obvious damage.’

  ‘He’s not been beaten up,’ she replied as they strode along. ‘He was crushed under a vehicle. No doubt there will be some marks on his body but they will be hidden by the bedclothes won’t they?’ adding, ‘Simon Charlton, you old softie.’

  Simon stopped suddenly, putting his hand out to stop Debbie going any further. ‘It wasn’t his condition,’ he said.

  Looking at him, Debbie sensed a change. She had never seen Simon react in this way. Hospitals, accidents, illness, and beatings – he had seen them all and simply took them in his stride. Apprehensive, she waited for an explanation.

  ‘Debbie,’ he said gently. ‘I know him.’

  Twenty-Eight
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br />   Putting the receiver down, Radcliffe pondered the information he had just been given. While it had only been a grain of an idea, not really a possibility, the thought had kept crossing his mind to the point where it just had to be followed up. And now a few unconnected events were becoming connected. Things that had been completely individual were looking as though they might be linked. And if they were, a whole bunch of possibilities would click into focus. Yet if they were not, if the idea was just supposition with no real connection, then he would be up the creek without a paddle. He was the officer running the enquiry so his subordinates would point to where they had received their instructions and any flak would be directed at him. Above, DCI Handley would be insulated from any failure. All roads led to DI Radcliffe.

  So he had made a call so that he could close the lid on what had been a flaky idea in the first place. Only it hadn’t done that. The pathologist had been quite supportive – impressed he had said – and had thought Radcliffe’s suggestion sufficiently sound to be a possible link. So that had prompted a second call, and now the third. At that point he was unlikely to shout Bingo! - and there were still some numbers missing, key pieces in the jigsaw, any of which could blow the complete theory apart. But after his phone calls he now had the bit between his teeth, and, after looking on helplessly while the investigation floundered like a lost driver aimlessly trying to find his way home, at last he felt that he was back in control. Or if not in control, at least he had a direction in which to travel.

  A direction, certainly, but not a final destination. That would need more work and more time. Perhaps more time than they actually had available.

  Which was exactly why he now had three officers in his office, all of whom were wondering why they had been summoned. Briefings usually took place down the corridor in the larger meeting room that could accommodate the whole team, while by and large, individual officers would discuss issues in the DI’s office. So, were they to be given a kick up the pants like errant schoolchildren? Were they going off in some new direction as a result of some earth shattering information that had suddenly come to light? Or were they wallowing around out of their depth with somebody looking for a scapegoat on which to pin blame?