Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  As he drove along, the scenery changed dramatically. The car showrooms, dockland and industrial premises of the city gave way first to commuter suburbia then, as he approached Southport, to fresh open farmland, sand dunes and the beach. His spirits always rose as he left the confines of the city and drove back towards fresher air.

  Fraser’s report about his and Lescott’s visit to Kevin Archer had given him much to think about but Louise Green’s account of her conversation with the car plant HR lady excited him. Using Rick Worth as a shortened version of Patrick Ainsworth was improbable. However, if there was no Richard Worth employed at the JLR plant and Patrick had not turned up for work since exactly the day Rick Worth got himself pinned under a Bentley, there were too many coincidences to discount the two being one and the same. And if you also worked Cyrec Krawiec into the equation, that was definitely one coincidence too many. All they needed now was for some forensic results to come through, Patrick Ainsworth’s ID picture to arrive, and Rick Worth to regain consciousness.

  Thirty

  ‘The sooner this political conference comes around and we can forget about it the better. I don’t think I can stand three months of this boring rubbish.’

  ‘What’s up Frank,’ responded DI Radcliffe with a chuckle, ‘it sounds as though you’re not happy unless you’ve got a murder to detect.’

  ‘No,’ replied Davies. ‘It’s not that. I prefer people to live than pop their clogs. But all this legwork just for a bunch of politicians that couldn’t care a damn for us normal people goes against the grain. I’m a detective not a bloody pen pusher. Why did planning their security get piled on us anyway? Uniforms are trained to wait around for ages and drink tea and coffee – we are trained to detect.’

  ‘According to Handy Andy we will all be on the political trail soon due to understaffing. I just guess that you’ve started the ball rolling and we will join you soon. But where have you been waiting and who’s tea have you been drinking?

  Frank Davies looked at his friend. Though the two of them had worked together for many years, Radcliffe was older by several years and had progressed all that much sooner. Apart from age, the two men differed in many ways. Being of the build that tended to be too heavy and thick-set to look fashionable, Radcliffe tended to grow into his clothes rather than wear them and he was quite content with a base model Vauxhall or Ford. If it had four wheels and was reliable it would do. In contrast, Davies was more of a smart dresser, conscious of his image and keen to score points. Whether that was by delivering results or just driving a better car he did not care. All the same, although he would never have admitted it, Davies secretly envied his mentor’s case success rate.

  ‘I still say that it’s a job for uniforms,’ responded Davies. ‘Take this morning for example. I took young Sean along to check out the Floral Hall, the Theatre and Ramada Hotel where the focus of the conference will be. It should have taken us about fifteen minutes at each of them – say an hour all told – but we wasted more than that at the Floral while they found the manager and it was the same in the Ramada. At least they gave us a coffee out on the veranda overlooking the Marine Lake while we were waiting. But the guy at the theatre never turned up and what should have been less than half an hour talking to two blokes wasted a whole morning.’

  Radcliffe laughed. ‘Well at least that’s a few visits out of the way that I won’t have to do when I get roped in,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘but I’ve had my own share of talking and wasting time too you know.’

  ‘You? Don’t make me laugh. As if you’ve not got plenty to keep you busy, you’ve also got my death at Lydiate Hall to play about with.’

  ‘For the time being I have, but it looks as though my time is almost up on that score.’

  ‘Time up? In what way?’ asked Davies.

  ‘Like I said,’ replied Radcliffe, ‘while you and Sean were lazing about drinking coffee and watching the paddle steamer on the Marine Lake, I was justifying our progress to our bosses in Liverpool. I spent about the same time actually talking as you did, but with the drive there and back it took me a full morning. And I don’t think that I achieved much either.’

  ‘No? I thought that you were close to cracking both the murders and car thefts.’

  ‘I wish,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘We are about to move on the car thefts but I haven’t a clue on any of the murders. Despite my best efforts, HQ only gave me a day or so more, then they will take over. I cannot be in two places at one time so with me being tied up with the car thefts operation, nothing is going to happen deaths wise is it?’

  ‘I wish I could help Don,’ responded Davies, ‘Like I told you, I think that the couple that found Archer are hiding something, particularly the lad, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the town artist bloke wasn’t connected either. Family feuds can be lethal you know.’ Giving his colleague a cool stare, Davies qualified his reasoning, ‘That’s the direction I would be looking in, not looking for a serial killer.’

  ‘Don’t forget that all three died the same way Frank.’

  ‘I’m doubtful. I reckon that it is pure coincidence. Put some pressure on the young lad or the randy artist and I’m sure that it will pay dividends.’

  ‘Unless something earth shattering comes along, the young couple are out of the frame Frank. As for Mike Johnson, he’s not in the best of shape and keeps rambling when we talk to him.’

  There was a knock and DS Lescott leaned around the door as it opened.

  ‘Well look who’s here,’ said Davies. ‘I get saddled with dozy Sean and my favourite partner decamps to the opposition.’

  Ignoring his sarcasm, Lescott aimed her question directly at Radcliffe. ‘Are you ready Don? We are all here now.’

  ‘Yes Debbie,’ said Radcliffe. ‘Bring them in. It’ll be a squash but we will manage.’ Adding for Davies’ benefit after she had gone, ‘I’m briefing them for the car thefts operation. Like I said, it’s about to go and I am hopeful. Always supposing that they don’t move out before we arrive like they did last time that is.’

  ‘How long will you be?’ asked Davies. ‘I’ve still a bit of this report to complete but if you won’t be long I can disappear for half an hour to give you my seat.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it Frank,’ Radcliffe told him. ‘There’s only the three of them so we will manage.’

  After Lescott had returned with Louise Green and Kyle Fraser in-tow, Radcliffe briefed them on the proposed operation. Intelligence suggested that the car thieves had been rattled by the earlier pounce on the former catholic college on the mansion estate in the country and had decamped to another location on a very temporary basis. There were two potential locations. One was a farm at Burscough that had numerous empty buildings and the other was on a back road going out of Southport towards Ormskirk. Cars had not been seen going into or out of either but it was believed that the Burscough farm was more likely than the Scarisbrick location.

  He thought that the cars would be moved out to a more secure location about fifty miles away near to Manchester Airport by the end of the week, so the planned operation was to pre-empt the thieves by swooping on the farm later that afternoon. If they drew a blank then they would debrief and assess options for other locations, the problem being that they couldn’t just go raiding all the farms in the area or they would have the National Farmers Union on their backs.

  ‘Right you lot,’ said Davies. ‘I’m going to leave you to your fun and games. While you go rushing around in the countryside, I have to go through my extremely boring report with an extremely boring boss so that he can hand it to the equally boring Home Office and get all the credit for it.’ Looking around the crowded room he added, ‘I’ll leave you to worry about the NFU.’

  ……….

  ‘That’s quite comprehensive Frank,’ said DCI Handley, peering at him over his glasses. ‘I know that it went against the grain but Uniforms will appreciate what we’ve done for them.’

  The “we” wasn’t lost on Davies. As he had o
bserved only minutes earlier, he expected that Handy Andy would take the credit for his work.

  ‘Can’t say I am bothered about that Arthur,’ replied Davies. ‘Sorting out arrangements for the conference is a job for the Home Office or Uniforms, not us. I’m just glad to have finished so I can get back onto real policing.’

  ‘We get support from Uniforms from time to time so we’ve got to reciprocate,’ responded Handley. ‘But let’s put that aside for now shall we?’

  Turning the pages of Davies’ report, he looked across at the DI and made a few observations. This was only the start. It was just a start for the teams that would do most of the work. He should understand that when the country’s leading politicians arrived in town they would bring with them huge responsibilities for all the security and emergency services – we didn’t want another JFK assassination or Brighton bombing now did we?

  Going back and forth through Davies’ report, Handley picked up on the DI’s suggestion that a major concern would be on Southport’s streets rather than in the convention venue itself. Davies had then explained that in his opinion, the security services that normally accompanied politicians of the major parties would be able to handle all issues at the venue as a matter of course and that since the Ramada was linked directly to the foyer of the Floral Hall where the conference would take place, they would in effect have the top delegates under one roof all of the time. The same could not be said for junior ministers, backbenchers and ordinary party members however because they would be staying in hotels up to half a mile away. Their transit between hotels and conference venues had the potential for disaster since they would be using the main routes of Lord Street and the Promenade. Didn’t Handley think that there could indeed be potential for a JFK style incident?

  Actually, Handley didn’t. He thought that that was taking things a bit far. However, getting delegates from the various hotels to the venue would, as Davies had so rightly identified, mean that they would be mixing with both residents and tourists and keeping the way clear would be problematic.

  After discussing other aspects of the report, Handley had sought to reassure his DI. He could now have a break from the conference-policing plan, take the afternoon off and report back in the morning bright and breezy for more real policing.

  ……….

  Sitting up in his hospital bed, though visibly bruised and battered, to all the world Mike Johnson appeared ready to face whatever life might throw at him. Yet inside Johnson was in turmoil. The world had already thrown its worst – and it had hurt.

  Two beatings in a very short time would be enough for anyone, but business problems stemming from low priced competition and a fall in the popularity of amateur art had hit his formerly prosperous virtual monopoly art shop. What had been a licence to print money had become a loss making liability and with his bank first putting a cap on his borrowing and then calling in his loans, he had been forced to resort to other sources of finance.

  Milling everything over in his mind – reliving every business blip and negotiation - he could identify where he had made the wrong decisions and where he should have taken action. He could see where the initial signs of a downturn had emerged, where he should have taken preventative action and when he should have just closed the shop and walked away. The memories of stubborn resolve and, being honest, sheer pig headedness that had driven his actions, hurt almost as much as the beatings he had endured. For sure he had endured the pain, but would he, could he, endure the aftermath?

  For three days he had been in a coma. Those days were lost, as had pretty much everything else for a while. Then slowly the recollections had returned. First the bad ones. Then, filling in the holes, some of the good ones. Bad outnumbered good. And by some measure. At more than one point since he had regained consciousness he had wished most fervently that he had not survived, that his attackers had finished the job they had started.

  After the first attack he had been convinced that his brother-in-law had been the culprit, even recognising his voice. But the second attack had made him wonder. By the time that had happened Peter had been dead, so had the first attack not been by him either?

  He was pretty sure that he knew who had attacked him in the car park. But he could not admit that openly. How could he have faced up to admitting he had stooped to using loan sharks, especially when he was a respected businessman? Well that notion had gone up in smoke for a start. From what Joan had said the business had been closed since the attack, and if anything got out about his dealings then his respectability would be shattered as well. Hells bells, don’t fool yourself Michael, business and respectability were already down the pan.

  Since regaining consciousness he had listened to those around him. His wife had filled him in on things behind the scenes at the art shop that he normally handled and of which she had no prior knowledge. She did not know that he had heard. She thought he was either unconscious or sleeping. When there had been a group around his bed he had feigned sleep and they had talked over him. He had learned a lot from those conversations. Too much perhaps. Now, knowing what he did, he wondered whether he should ever be awake when visitors came. Life was an ass.

  ……….

  Alison Wilson watched her husband as he pulled on a red and black one-piece flying suit and pulled up the zipper. This would be her first ever flight and the prospect of taking her maiden flight in a flimsy little microlight aircraft had been an exciting idea. Never having flown in anything smaller than an airliner on a package holiday, now that the moment had actually arrived she wasn’t as sure. Or more accurately, she was scared stiff.

  Steve had borrowed a suit and helmet for her from the flying club. Previously she had always shied away from joining him, much to his frustration, yet he desperately wanted to share the pleasure he derived from his flying. She had never seemed at all keen to join him and on the odd occasion that he had thought she was ready to take the first step, his flying had coincided with her needing to attend some conference or education seminar. So the opportunity had never arisen. But at last she had agreed. The whole escapade had been his idea, a get-away-from-it-all experience to free them both from the aftermath of their ordeals with the police. She had no events to attend and in her fragile state seemed to want to demonstrate her solidarity behind he husband.

  ‘You look rather fetching in that suit Ali,’ Wilson said, turning to his wife as she stood watching him in a matching red and black one-piece.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up fetching my dinner up. My knees are shaking.’

  ‘Don’t worry my love,’ he said comfortingly. ‘There’s nothing scary about it and once we are up you’ll find there’s no sense of speed and you will love the view – it’s magical.’

  She was doubtful. Joining her husband when he went flying had seemed a good way of putting their marriage back on track, though with a little luck he still didn’t realise that it had ever been derailed. As they walked across to the frail looking little machine she began to doubt that she could go through with the flight. Or if she did, that they would actually arrive back on terra firma in one piece.

  ‘Are you sure that this thing can fly us both?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Don’t be silly. Look,’ he said with a smile, ‘there wouldn’t be two seats if it couldn’t, would there?’

  Taking her hand he showed her how to climb in and fix her safety belt.

  ‘Yours is the back seat so you will be high up and able to see over me. You’ll have a great view and will be able to see everything I do to control the aircraft. Put one foot on this bar,’ he instructed, ‘then hold the back of the seat and pull yourself up.’

  Following his instructions she hauled herself into the seat, put her feet on the foot bars, clicked the seat belt and finally pulled on a pair of thick gloves. After making sure that her helmet was properly fixed and her intercom was working he turned and took his place in the front seat.

  Knowing that the ta
ke off from a grass airstrip would necessarily be bumpy, Steve knew that he would need to get the little aircraft into the air quickly if the experience was not to put his wife off flying completely. He had never managed to get her into the seat of a microlight aircraft before, even when static on the ground with the engine not running, so a good take off on this, her very first flight, was essential.

  Applying full power but holding the microlight steady with the toe brakes, Wilson allowed power to build before releasing the brakes to start the aircraft on its take-off roll. Judging speed with care he rotated as quickly as possible, climbing away from the airfield and banking to their right to head out over the dual carriageway to the coast.

  ‘Oh Steve,’ he heard his wife shout through the intercom. ‘Keep it straight. We’ll fall out if you lean it over like that.’

  Laughing, Wilson consoled her. ‘No problems Ali,’ he said, ‘that’s the way we turn, it’s like riding a bike, we bank over in the way we want to go then straighten up when we’ve turned enough.’

  ‘Well I’ve already turned enough,’ responded Alison, clearly not at ease. ‘Just go bloody straight will you, wherever it takes us.’

  Wilson flew the craft out to the coast and then took a very leisurely turn north with very little bank to make it as comfortable for his passenger as he could, finally flying parallel to the foreshore a few hundred metres over the sea so that to their right they had the magnificent view of the beach and sand dunes he loved so much.

  As they flew along he pointed out various landmarks, the nature reserve at Freshfield, Southport’s rebuilt Victorian pier and, after they had turned to make their return, their own house.

  ‘I can see it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Steve, I can see our house.’

  Happy that she was now, quite obviously, enjoying the flight, Wilson flew a lazy full circle so that she could experience the joy of flying over their house a second time.