Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (13 page)

‘How’s the Bentley James?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ replied a visibly
sinking Ashcroft. ‘It was nicked right off our drive the day before yesterday.’

‘You don’t say. Were you in the house? Didn’t
you hear it go?’

‘No George, I bloody didn’t. If I had I would
have been right out there.’

‘And what good would that have done dear?’ cut
in his wife. ‘Let’s face it, you’re not exactly a long distance runner anymore
are you? And what would you have done anyway, one old man chasing young
villains in a new Bentley. You’re hardly a match for them are you?’

As his wife’s response brought laughter from
the assembled friends, Ashcroft’s face clouded even further. This was his
beloved Bentley they were talking about. How could he hold his head up arriving
anywhere in a Ford? And how long would that last anyway? Insurance was supposed
to replace like for like wasn’t it? Yet the company had said that sufficient
time would have to elapse for the police to find the car and return it before
they would consider either paying him out or replacing the car.

‘Bloody crafty these car thieves.’ He said.
‘They must have come into the house bold as you like while we were watching TV,
taken my keys from the hall table and just driven off in the car. We heard
nothing at all but when we came to turn in for the night my keys were gone. I
searched everywhere but couldn’t find them so I wondered if I had left them in
the car. It’s not something I’ve done before but it was the only thing I could
think of. So I went out to the car – and it had gone.’

‘What have the police said James? Have they any
idea what’s happened to it?’

‘Well I phoned Arthur Handley, he’s a Detective
Chief Inspector you know and a friend of mine, but it’s not looking all that
promising. According to Arthur there’s been a spate of stolen cars, all high
value cars like ours, and they’ve no idea who’s nicking them or where they have
gone. You don’t realise how it feels until it’s yours that’s been nicked.’

‘Oh come on James,’ responded his wife. ‘It’s
only a car for God’s sake. Anyone would think that it was Gwen that had been
stolen. Come on, get a life. It will turn up somewhere,’ adding as a cheeky
afterthought, ‘and if it doesn’t, you’ll just have to buy another.’

‘Gwen’s already been stolen. The only time we
see her now is on evenings like these when we are invited to join her and her
cronies. Otherwise she’s off somewhere on the razzle. And at her age too.
Christ, she’s still at school,’ he responded.

‘You’ll have to excuse him I am afraid,’ she
said with a chuckle. ‘Gwen used to be the apple of her father’s eye but since
she met Patrick he’s out in the cold. Young love and all that. James forgets
that we were her age when we met – he’s found it hard to accept that his
daughter is no longer his little girl. Then when the car went it was the last
straw. He’s lost two babies in such a short time.’

Turning to her husband she asked him how old
they had been when they met. Wasn’t Gwen just as old as she had been. She
pointed out that not only was Patrick working, the only reason that their
daughter was still at school was that the school leaving age had been raised.
In her opinion he seemed a nice lad and, reminding him that when they had met
he had just been known as Jimmy
Ashie
, only becoming
James to further his position in the community because it sounded posh, she
guessed that Patrick was probably known by a nickname or abbreviation by his
friends too. There really wasn’t much between them save a generation, so why
all the fuss. He should leave the youngsters alone.

……….

Four girls, four boyfriends, eight parents.
Stilted conversation at first then a good meal to open everybody up. With
barriers broken down had come a generation clash. Loud rock in one room and
soft background music in another had clearly defined their cultural
differences, with, predictably, youngsters and their elders at opposite ends of
the house.

‘When we were their age and we got the chance
to disappear behind a closed door we bloody well enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we
girl?’

George’s wife’s cheeks flushed red – and
the other parent couples exchanged knowing glances with barely hidden smirks.

‘George!’ came the embarrassed response.

‘Don’t say that you’re envious?’

‘No, I’m not envious. We had our fun alright in
those days and we still do for that matter, don’t we girl?’ Her blush deepened.
‘It’s just that we thought that we were so grown up at the time but when I
looked at our girls tonight I realised that back then we were really a bit wet
behind the ears. I just wonder how we didn’t go astray that’s all. I mean, I
wouldn’t like to think that our girls were getting up to the sort of things we
did. I try to keep ours in check but I’m told that I’m out of line and being
too strict. I’m buggered if I know the answer.’

Mike Johnson looked around at his guests. James
had been crotchety when they first arrived and now George was getting a bit
maudlin too. But didn’t they have a right to think that way? Didn’t they have a
right to be concerned? Variously a property developer, a dentist, a lawyer, and
Mike himself an artist, they were all from the same mould – successful
businessmen from rather ordinary backgrounds – and in their youth they
had all been rather spirited. Each and every one of them could see mirror
images of their wives and themselves in their daughters, now ensconced with
their boyfriends in the big room with rock music blasting out and God knows
what hanky
panky
going on.

‘We’ve all a right to be concerned, that’s for
sure,’ said Johnson. ‘We were all tearaways in our time. I remember you George
had a bit of a reputation, and James was the school bully when we were at
Meols
Cop. Look at you both now, meek and mild and butter
wouldn’t melt in your mouths.’

‘What do you mean, my George had a bit of a
reputation?’ said his wife. ‘It’s news to me. What don’t I know after all these
years’

‘Mike’s going back a long time but I know what
he means.’ Cut in the dentist, trying to defuse the situation he had
unwittingly created. ‘I suppose it’s just the exuberance of youth and all that
and we’ve to let them grow up just like we had to do. But it’s not easy keeping
quiet when you want to help them steer clear of the mistakes we made.’

‘Really George. A mistake now am I?’

‘Well,’ came another retort, ‘James is still a
bit of a bully, you just don’t see his moods like I do, but from what I hear he
throws his weight around at the council meetings just as much as he did at
home.’

‘Ladies, ladies.’ Mike tried stop the
revelations getting out of hand. ‘Don’t take my comments too literally. We were
all a bit spirited I guess back then but that’s no more than you expect of
healthy youngsters growing up is it? I only realised the angst that my parents
went through with me when we started going through the same process with ours.
But looking back I wouldn’t have changed it because we had a ball and it made
me at least value what we have now. I don’t think that any of us have cause to
recriminate ourselves. At least that group down the hall belting seven bells
out of my new sound system aren’t out beating seven bells out of old ladies.’

‘Talking of which Mike, is there any news on
the bloke that beat seven bells out of you the other week?’

After light heartedly protesting at being put
in the same context as an old lady, Johnson explained that there had been very
little progress. The police kept turning up and asking questions but that was
about it. Perhaps if he had been caught speeding there would have been more
enthusiasm shown. That seemed to touch a nerve and had been met with murmurs of
ascension from his guests. Misplaced priorities were suggested. Another guest
thought the inactivity might be more like taking the easy option, speeding
motorists being easier to catch than unknown thugs. But Mike had responded that
his attacker wasn’t unknown. The delay in catching the culprit was only because
the police didn’t seem capable of taking on-board that he had been attacked by
his wife’s brother so were looking in other directions. Pretty obviously they
were drawing a blank. Peter Archer had definitely been the attacker and
sometime, whether sooner or later, Mike would get his own back. But less of
that, lets change the subject.

She was tired. Getting back into the groove of
entertaining had been stressful but catering for so few people had been a
breeze. Now, with everything over and the door just closed on the last guests,
all that remained was to load the dishwasher and climb into bed.

Ten

The detective leaned back in his chair, pressed
a pencil against his lips and twirled it between his fingers. Deep in thought,
he put the pencil down, reached up and put his hands behind his head, and
balancing his chair on its two back legs, rocked silently to and fro. His mind
elsewhere, anybody could have walked past him and he wouldn’t have known. There
was a thud on the roof and he ducked his head instinctively. He dropped the
chair back onto all four legs and reached out for his cup. It was empty. Nobody
else seemed to have noticed the noise, or if they had then they weren’t
bothering. Not having reached a conclusion about anything and not having been
inspired with an instant solution to the day’s problems either, he felt that
the job was not going anywhere and wasn’t likely to change direction any time
soon either.

Or in other words, a normal day, plain and
simple.

But murder wasn’t normal. A dead body found in
a fireplace in a ruined building with no clues and no clear identity wasn’t
normal. The find was more like an Agatha Christie novel, though with its
roaming peacocks, pond and ruin, the location was more like something out of an
Enid
Blyton
Famous Five story. No way was it normal
and somewhere there just had to be a lead.

Jerking his head up he came out of his reverie
as the door opened and in strode his sergeant. Debbie
Lescott
was clutching a sheaf of papers under her arm. Looking around the room until
she spotted her boss, the sergeant pulled the papers from under her arm and
dropped them next to the empty cup in front of the Inspector.

‘Not a bloody thing Frank,’ she said as she sat
down. ‘I’ve gone over every one of those statements and there’s nothing out of
the ordinary as far as I can see.’

Davies’ mood wasn’t improving. Something had to
turn up somewhere. Debbie
Lescott
had spent time with
each of the staff in the farm shop, the Hay Loft Tea Shop and the photo studio,
certain that their statements would throw at least a small glimmer of light on
the dead man’s last few hours. Surely somebody must have seen something? But
they hadn’t – or so they said. The man had been seen before – he
had bought veg from the farm shop the previous week – but nobody knew his
identity or where he had come from, and nobody had seen him on that fateful
Saturday.

‘The CSI’s not found anything.’

‘What, nothing at all?’

The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, just well trodden
leaves and general dry earth, an old fag packet and a chocolate wrapper.’

The dead end was getting even deader. The CSI
had found nothing and none of the farm staff had seen anything. The dead man
just seemed to have parachuted in from nowhere.

A waitress brought them more coffee.

‘Thanks love,’ said Davies. Then as she turned
to go back to the serving counter he shouted after her.

‘Excuse me love, are you new here?’

She stopped and turned. ‘No. Actually I’ve
worked here for three years. Why? Is something wrong?’ Putting her fingers
quickly to her lips as she realised that her words didn’t sound right given the
circumstances. When a dead body had been found there was definitely something
wrong wasn’t there? ‘I mean, is there something wrong with your coffees?’

Davies settled her concern. No, there was
nothing wrong with their drinks. In fact, they were excellent – and
thanks for that. But they had talked to all of the employees at the Hay Loft
and he didn’t remember seeing her statement. She had then explained that she
worked part time. She worked a couple of days in the week over the lunchtimes
because that fitted in fine with children’s school, and she sometimes did extra
at weekends if the café was busy. And yes, she had been working on Saturday
morning.

Settling down in a chair at the table with them
she had told them that she hadn’t seen anything unusual on that Saturday at
all, just the regulars coming in for breakfasts or a mid morning tea or coffee.
Well, not regulars really she had said. But once a month there was a car boot
sale on the field alongside the scout hut just a few hundred metres up the
road. They always had a few extra customers in the Hay Loft for breakfast, or a
mid morning drink or snack when it was the car boot day.

Then it had got interesting. When she had been
shown the photograph of the dead man she had at first hesitated, then said that
yes, she had seen him. He had been in the Hay Loft with another man some time
ago, perhaps a week or ten days previously, she couldn’t be sure. Davies
thought that that tied in with him having bought veg from the farm shop –
probably the same visit. They had had a coffee or tea, she couldn’t remember
which exactly but they definitely didn’t have anything to eat. Then on Saturday
she had seen him talking into a mobile phone near the pond in the farmyard when
she had arrived for work. No, he hadn’t come into the café and no, she didn’t
see him again. It had been quite early before they had opened the café. Nor had
she seen the other man since the earlier visit when the two men had shared a
drink. And she couldn’t describe him either, other than a similar build,
similar height, and even similar features to Davies.

Clearly her memory was not the best, but least
they were getting somewhere. The sergeant took her statement while everything
was fresh in her mind, telling her that to save her having to go into Southport
Police Station she would get it typed up and bring it back for her to sign.
Before she could thank her for her help there was another sudden bang on the
roof.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ exclaimed
Davies, ducking involuntarily.

The waitress laughed. Apparently the peacocks
strutting around the farmyard had a tendency to fly up in the air and then land
heavily on the roofs of the outbuildings. All the workers were used to it and
paid no attention – but it sure as hell scared the living daylights out
of new visitors. Actually, it was quite funny sometimes.

Davies was desperately looking for a lead.
Anything. And what she had told them might even turn out to be very important.
Whether it did or it didn’t, it was the first positive bit of information and,
at least, confirmed that Mr Dead Man had actually arrived at the farmyard
alive, and also that at that point he seemed to have been on his own. Whether
he had remained there or gone off somewhere else in the intervening time
remained unclear, but several hours remained unaccounted for. The place was a
throwback to yesteryear. His children would love it with all the birds
strutting around and the old world charm. Trying to solve anything had just
moved up from impossible to almost impossible. Thanking her for her help they
made their way to the door.

‘Hell Debbie, this place is a nightmare, said
Davies. ‘There isn’t any security at all. Nobody knows who anybody is or what
they are doing. You can just wander in from the road, potter around the farm
buildings, disappear into the woods, or do whatever you want and nobody gives a
toss’

‘I know,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Apparently the
old hall is a listed building to which the public are allowed access by the
Leverhulme
Estate who own it. The farm here is actually in
the hall grounds and the farmer is a tenant so he can’t stop people coming up
the drive, parking up or going through his farmyard. With people coming to buy
from the farm shop, some going to the photo studio and others to the café as
well as visiting the ruined hall it’s impossible to keep track of who should
and should not be here. Nobody seems to know which vehicle belongs to whom and
sometimes a car is here for more than a day.’

Listed building indeed! Listed few walls more
like. Very little remained and ruin was an apt description. Rising from the
table and making his way to the door, Davies mused over the conflicting views
of the doctor, the pathologist and the CSI. John wasn’t usually far away from
reality with his first impressions but the doctor’s view that the death had
been a clear heart attack case had been turned upside down by the pathologist.
Davies hoped to find some measure of evidence to back up the doctor’s original
diagnosis and get things back on track. Then the scene of crimes specialist,
also never usually wrong, confused things by saying that although it was
unlikely that the dead man had been killed at the scene, there were no
indications that he had been brought there after death either.

From the café doorway, Davies looked around the
farmyard. There were no people around, the only movement being hens, a rooster
or two, ducks and the peacocks. Parked up in front of the tea shop were six or
seven cars. Across to the left was the pond behind which he could see the
entrance lane and more cars parked in front of a stone building now being used
as the farm shop. Across the yard from the Hay Loft was the entrance to the
woods that led to the ruined building, and to the right a more modern metal
barn and an older open barn in which hens and a couple of roosters sheltered
near old rusty farm machinery. It was a picture of rural charm and nothing
seemed amiss.

‘Where is everybody Debbie?’ he asked his
sergeant as they left the tea shop and headed into the yard. ‘There are cars
everywhere but no people.’

‘Well the Hay Loft is doing good breakfast
business and the photo studio next door has a special offer running, so that
could account for the cars here,’ she replied as they walked along the edge of
the pond. ‘There could be customers in the farm shop too. Certainly, nobody
will be in the woods because we’ve got it cordoned off.’

A peacock displayed right in front of them,
fanning its feathers and seemingly unconcerned at their intrusion into its
world. Just past the pond, Davies stopped at the entrance from the lane into
the farmyard and looked around. Anyone entering the yard or turning in front of
the farm shop could see the whole of the yard at a glance – from the gift
shop and tea shop on the right, to the open barn straight ahead and the farm
shop to the left. The entrance to the woods however was hidden from view behind
the farm shop, as was the metal barn. Three cars were parked outside the farm
shop. As they reached the end of the building they could see the entrance to
the woods identified by an old weather beaten sign and guarded by blue police
crime scene tape just past an old van parked against the gable.

Ducking under the tape they entered the path
and after a few metres of open ground were soon walking through a tight avenue
of trees and foliage. They walked in silence. Shoes no longer crunched harshly
on gravel, their footsteps becoming eerily quiet on a carpet of soft earth and
leaves. The track turned acutely to the right so that they were walking
parallel to the farmyard, then just a few metres on took an abrupt turn into
the wood. Dense foliage blocked out the sun and masked sky. The old well
flanked by a wall overgrown with ivy and creepers loomed out of the wood,
behind which was the remains of the room where the body had been found. Davies
could see the attraction of the place to lovers of English heritage, amateur
historians – and courting couples – but wasn’t seeing anything new
as far as the enquiry was going. Retracing their steps along the path, Davies
stopped and scanned around as they reached the farmyard. In the short time they
had been in the wood, most of the cars outside the farm shop had gone. Across
the yard he could see the entrance to the Hay Loft Tea Shop but the stone
building of the farm shop prevented him seeing anything else.