by Vic Marelle
‘Oh but we do,’ he replied confidently. ‘Because it was at that point – when it was split up – that the new boundaries were created.’
After he had explained the history of their two properties, how old Mr Jarvis had split the land almost exactly in half, gifting one half to his son Arthur and selling the other to Joan’s father, he went on to detail how young Arthur had planned the development in three phases, with his father financing him through phases one and two. Phase one had been to lay out the site and to put the central facilities in place. Phase two was to build the reception complex. Phase three was an extension of the site in general to the full size of the land allocation and to put in some upmarket facilities.
It had all made sense to her. Initial development must have cost the young Jarvis a huge amount of money. Yet looking at the site now, no way could it be described as up-market. Where indeed was Kevin leading with what, so far, had been no more than a bedtime story?
‘Is this all relevant Kevin?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think that I am all that interested in how this Arthur bloke developed the site or how long it took him.’
‘It’s entirely relevant Joan,’ he replied. ‘Just hear me out please.’
He had then gone on to explain how Arthur had not developed all of his allocation for Green Fields because setting up the infrastructure had been too costly, even with his father bankrolling him. Phase three had never taken place. What existed when Peter Archer had bought the site was only development as phases one and two. Which meant that the general upgrades had not been done and, crucially, the site had not been expanded onto the additional land.
‘But I don’t see how that can be,’ she observed. ‘Where is this extra land supposed to be? Your car park is bounded by the bottom road and the boundary at other side of your site is our joint boundary. Where in heavens name is this extra land that Arthur Jarvis didn’t expand onto?’
Which Kevin took as a cue to drop his bombshell, explaining about the short-term free loan of land that had become decidedly long term and the visual markers that enabled the true boundary to be identified. Visibly shocked, Joan found the story too far fetched to believe. If the story were to be true, why had her father not told her? Indeed, why had he told her that his land went right up to the existing boundary of the caravan site? Thinking back she could not remember any time when her father had ever said that the boundary of his land had not been the common boundary with Peter’s caravan park.
Yet her nephew seemed more sure of himself than she had ever seen him. Very confident. This would need careful management if his outlandish claims were to be rejected. And they must be of course. Jarvis must have been hallucinating – though for what motive she could not imagine – and she doubted that any word description of the boundaries or plan actually existed. Kevin had gone to fix another coffee and when he returned she would simply reject his suggestions and advise him that in the absence of any documented evidence, if he wished to continue on his improbable course then he would have to follow her solicitor’s advice and engage surveyors to plot the whole site accurately. And since he did not have the money for that, the silly idea would die.
As she looked up, Kevin returned to the table and gently placed two documents onto the table in front of her. One was a very detailed description signed by four people; she recognised her father’s signature among them. The other, a much larger sheet, was a detailed plan.
Oh shit!
Twenty-Nine
Turning off the country road, Fraser parked the unmarked Vauxhall police car, and turned off the ignition. ‘Not the most attractive place to come for your holidays is it?’ he remarked to Debbie Lescott.
‘I don’t think that that is the market they are targeting,’ she replied. ‘It’s more the private caravan owner coming every weekend and a few residential owners.’
As they talked, the door of a shabby looking wooden building opened and a middle-aged woman came out followed by a younger man. Standing talking, the woman seemed agitated, illustrating virtually everything she said with body movements. From the expression on her face and the frantic way she was waving her arms, pointing her finger and then placing both hands on her hips in defiance, the conversation did not seem to be going in her favour. In contrast, with his hands firmly stuffed into his pockets and feet well planted slightly apart, the young man seemed quite relaxed, saying little but displaying a slight smile tinged with obvious sadness.
As they watched, the woman turned away, walked a few metres to a car, and with the wheels throwing up a flurry of gravel, drove out of the car park.
‘Well now, what do you make of that?’ asked Fraser as he opened his door.
‘We’ll soon see,’ replied Lescott, ‘Kevin’s seen us. I wonder if we will get a coffee?’ Reaching the door where Kevin Archer was waiting for them, she made the introductions.
‘Yes sergeant,’ he said, ‘I remember you from a couple of days ago. What can I do for you this time, have you caught my father’s killer yet?’
After admitting that as of yet, no, they had not charged anybody with Peter Archer’s death, Lescott got right to the point, asking him if he knew a Rick Worth. Kevin Archer had been surprised at her abruptness, as she had anticipated, but didn’t seem ruffled. Yes, he knew Rick. In fact, Rick was a mate and he saw him at least once a week, sometimes more. When pressed he confirmed that sometimes they met for a pint at a local pub or in Southport, but that mostly Rick came to the caravan park.
‘Hey,’ exclaimed the young man. ‘What is this? Has the bloody fool been done for drink driving or something?’ Then looking at their non committal expressions, added, ‘Or speeding perhaps in one of the fancy cars he brings?’
‘Lescott and Fraser exchanged glances.
‘Perhaps we could go inside Mr Archer,’ suggested Fraser.
‘Oh, of course, this way,’ he said turning back into the reception building. ‘Would you like a tea or coffee? I made one for my aunt before she left so the water is still warm and won’t take long to boil.’
Over their drinks they established an easy rapport with the young man. For one so recently bereaved he struck them both as being remarkably self-assured and positive in his outlook. Perhaps that was the reason. Having previously lost his mother and now his father, not forgetting that dad had also been his boss, Kevin had either to grasp the metal and take responsibility in his hands or sink in a sea of melancholy. The lad seemed to be doing OK.
Kevin Archer had come across as a genuine sort of guy. Fraser had mentioned the possibility of there being a link between car thefts and the person or persons responsible for his father’s death and Lescott asked when Rick Worth had last been at the caravan park. His response to the two-pronged attack had been quite predictable. He was confused at the two different lines of questioning and didn’t see the relevance. Turning to Lescott he told her that he had not seen his friend Rick for several days, then for Fraser’s benefit added that his father had been a car enthusiast so did come in contact with other car mad people. They all were actually, his dad had always tinkered with cars, Rick was something of a car fanatic and although Kevin himself couldn’t afford anything better than the old Toyota pickup at the moment, he also was a car enthusiast. Quite what car thefts had to do with his dad he could not imagine.
The young man seemed genuinely surprised when told that his friend was in hospital. Deliberately leaving out where he had been found, Lescott just said that the unfortunate Mr Worth had had an accident while working under a car and was unconscious in hospital.
‘That’s incredible,’ replied Archer. ‘Rick does his foreigners here. He should have come yesterday but didn’t turn up.’
‘Perhaps he does some jobs elsewhere,’ suggested Fraser.
‘No, I’m pretty certain he doesn’t,’ replied Kevin. ‘He works at the JLR plant so can’t do anything there and dad let him use our workshop whenever he wanted.’
‘What, for free?’ said a surprised Lescott.
‘We
ll, sort of on barter. He works on dad’s van and my pickup and we call it quits.’
With a puzzled expression, Kevin considered what he had been told, what he was being asked and the scant details he had been given. Why was he being questioned? When the police had arrived he had hoped that there might be some news on his father’s killer. The strange questions he had been asked hadn’t filled him with confidence and from what he could see, the police were in fact no further forward. That his father might have been involved in some sort of car theft was too far fetched to be believed. But he supposed that some of the people known by his father might have had their murkier sides.
But what was going on with Rick? It was unusual for him not to turn up when he had arranged to use the workshop and for him to have hurt himself under a car was unthinkable. Rick was very safety conscious. Not only that, if he was unconscious it must have been a serious accident. So what could have happened? Could a car have fallen on him? Well no, of course not. Rick would never work on a car propped up on bottle jacks or bricks. And why would the police be interested if it had been a genuine accident?
Neither officer was saying anything. Clearly they were watching him for some tell tale clue. But why? What did he know? Then an awful thought passed his mind. What if somebody his father knew was involved in car theft? And what if that somebody also knew Rick? Was there a link between his father’s death and Rick’s injury?
Well of course there wasn’t. That was just stretching things too far.
‘You’ve got me very confused,’ he said. We don’t know everything about our friends and acquaintances do we, so I suppose that somebody we know might be involved in something unsavoury. But dad wouldn’t have known about it I am sure. As for Rick, I don’t see the connection I am afraid.’
‘We are not saying that there’s a connection,’ responded Fraser. ‘Rick might know somebody involved with car thefts and in a roundabout way they might have got to know your dad. That doesn’t mean that either your dad or Rick are involved but it could give us a lead on who killed your dad.’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot,’ added Lescott, ‘but we desperately need to get some answers.’
‘That’s right,’ contributed Fraser. ‘What sort of jobs does Rick do in your workshop? Does he bring cars here for servicing and repair, with payment into his back pocket?’
‘Like I said, he services our van and pickup, but we don’t pay him. I’ve never seen him servicing other cars though.’
‘So if he isn’t doing servicing, what does he do exactly?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea sergeant. He brings fancy cars here, puts them on the ramp in our workshop and spends a couple of hours on them but I’ve never seen him doing the normal service jobs – you know, doing an oil change or fitting new spark plugs.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Lescott. ‘Mr Archer, can we just have a look at the workshop? It might give us an idea.’
Kevin hadn’t seemed to have any reservations about taking them into the workshop. He had been more than happy to reminisce about his father’s karting days at the Three Sisters track and the various classic cars his dad had restored in the workshop. There wasn’t a lift, just an old fashioned ramp with a pit. Going from memory, Lescott thought that while perhaps one or two sets might be missing, more than half a dozen pairs of registration remained on the wall. Kevin claimed not to know anything about them. They had been there a couple of years or so but Rick had never said why he had them. It just hadn’t been a topic of conversation.
Looking around the workshop, Fraser ran his hand along the edge of a worktop, opened a few drawers and picked a mall component up, commenting that he had always had an interest in cars and that it would have been a dream come true to have his own workshop. Kevin had understood. He himself had always wanted to build his own car, not a kit car but one of his own design. He had never had the funds to be able to do it but hopefully he might at some point in the future.
Lescott took the cue to add her own automotive views. She wasn’t an enthusiast herself but her friend was and she thought that he also would like to build his own car. Whether that would be a kit car or one of his own design she did not know, but it was all academic because he hadn’t got a workshop.
……….
DC Louise Green looked at the notes scribbled on the pad in front of her. The nice lady in the HR department at the car factory had been very helpful but had not been able to find any trace of a Rick Worth. Having checked the complete employee roster she had drawn a blank.
Following a hunch, Louise had then asked her whether it was possible to check how many employees had not turned up for work over the last week, and of those, which were still not at work. Yes it was possible, just a couple of keyboard clicks in fact. That initial search had thrown up a dozen names, reducing to four for those still not at work. After discounting two female employees who obviously did not fit the description, just two names remained, one English and one Polish. The Polish employee was named as Cyrec Krawiec, which from the case board Louise could see was the name of the second victim who had been found in the car. The English employee was more interesting. Patrick Ainsworth could, with a little stretch of the imagination, be shortened to Rick Worth, although Louise would have expected him to be known as Pat or Paddy.
Although it was really stretching things to end up with Rick Worth from Patrick Ainsworth, they did know that although there was no Rick Worth employed at the plant he did work there and that Patrick Ainsworth suddenly bunking off work fitted exactly with Rick Worth being pulled from under the Bentley. That Krawiec was an associate also employed at the plant forged more links that couldn’t be ignored.
But it would all fall apart if Patrick Ainsworth were not to be Rick Worth. Louise had asked if the plant kept ID photos of their employees. Apparently not for all the workforce, but in some cases yes. The HR lady would check.
……….
Following the traffic as it flowed from Parliament Street into The Strand, Don Radcliffe glanced across to the buildings on his left, once a downtrodden scruffy collection of dockland buildings that had fallen into disuse around weed infested disused docks. It had taken several decades, but the empty decrepit complex had been transformed into the tourist attraction that was the present day Albert Dock and Maritime Museum. And that had underpinned the modern additions that now flanked the dock; the Echo Arena, venue for pop concerts and flamboyant theatre, and the cruise liner terminal where the world’s biggest ships berthed at the Pier head.
Radcliffe could only see such iconic buildings in isolation as he drove parallel to the river to where he would turn off for the eighteen-mile drive along the coast to Southport. Liverpool’s magnificent waterfront was the equal of most worldwide but rarely publicised. To witness its true magnificence the waterfront needed to be viewed from across the river at Birkenhead, where the view was transformed from a clutch of individual buildings into a widescreen panorama with a backdrop of the Roman Catholic Cathedral, known locally as God’s Sputnik because of its futuristic shape, the Anglican Cathedral, and the iconic Liver Building with its two Liver Birds.
Radcliffe enjoyed that vista whenever he could, but now was not the time. His meeting at HQ, though heavy going, had been quite productive and he had achieved what he had wanted. Against the odds he had gained support for his suggested course of action and for the time being he would continue to head the inquiry. But time was pressing and he needed to be back in his office. There was no time for sightseeing trips on this journey. Since leaving the meeting the Vauxhall had become his temporary office and he had already received reports from both DS Fraser and DC Green over the Bluetooth speakerphone. While talking to Green he had inadvertently got himself into the wrong lane and, realising his error at the last moment had unceremoniously cut in front of the car on his inside. He had waved his apology but the two-fingered response he had received left nothing to the imagination. He had made that mistake before, using the outside lane that act
ually disappeared down into a vast underground car park for the Liverpool One shopping complex. An expensive car park, the only way out had been through a pay station and his error had cost him several pounds. Hands free phones helped – but his concentration was inevitably divided and that wasn’t good for road safety.
But several holes still remained to be filled and these were occupying his mind more and more. Convinced that solving the car thefts case would deliver the three murder case culprits, he still had no idea where the cars were being stored, where they ultimately went to, or who was involved. Which, if his theory was correct, meant ditto the murders.
Waiting for the lights to change he cast an eye across to a huge glass fronted BMW showroom on the corner. Beyond he could see a similar sized Lexus showroom and another for Mercedes. Turning left into Great Howard Street he passed showrooms for almost every car brand he could think of until eventually he was driving out of Bootle and towards Waterloo. Somewhere he was missing something. So many car brands all nestling along the road from the city towards Southport must be relevant and he felt that somewhere there was a clue.
Manoeuvring into the outside lane – the route was a nightmare at a number of points if you did not know which lane to take – he started the climb that would take him over the huge island at the entrance to the container base at Seaforth. Across to his left as he crested the flyover he could see hundreds of containers stacked up and huge container vessels being loaded, beyond which the river glinted in the sun. This was another view he enjoyed, though only for a fleeting moment until he began the descent to yet another junction, by which time the view over the docks would be lost. He actually enjoyed driving in the other direction more, for after cresting the flyover the view across to the river lasted for another half mile. On the way to his meeting he had almost bumped into the car in front, the view of the docks with a row of camper vans lined up ready for export having occupied his thoughts completely.
