Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (24 page)

The lights changed and the queue moved forward,
Simon taking a left when he reached the junction, and then another to skirt the
industrial estate. After a couple of miles he turned onto a winding road that
would take him in the general direction of home. He was enjoying himself again.
Up ahead was a section with a farmhouse on one side and a long low stone wall
on the other, before which he always opened his side window, slowed slightly,
dropped a gear and floored the accelerator. Known affectionately by enthusiasts
as the Alfa howl, the roar of the engine as the melodic noise bounced off the
hard stone walls, amplified and tuned like an Italian tenor, was mesmeric.
Entranced, he
snicked
the gear lever back into top
and fed the coupe through lazy bends in a smooth flowing action, finally
braking hard as he approached a small hump over a drainage gulley, then
accelerating again as he flicked the car alternately left and right through a
series of bends.

With adrenaline running high, Simon progressed
onto a long straight section and approached a crossroads. Masked by dense
trees, the junction was a known danger spot but instead of just easing off and
using his brakes, Simon used the gears to slow the little coupe, changing down
early each time to again savour the howl of the engine on the overrun. Sitting
at the junction, Simon checked for traffic and engaged gear to move forward.
Accelerating hard, half way across the junction he swung the wheel to his
right. The rear wheels lost grip and the tail of the coupe slid out just
missing the kerb, before he brought the car back under control. Accelerating
down the road, he thought that perhaps the red blob that had caught his eye in
the distance might just be the car he had been following. But then it might not
either. Whether or not, another excuse to drive wonderful country lanes almost
devoid of traffic was not to be missed, and with his foot planted to the floor
he sped off after the car, whatever it was. This was a new route for him and his
heart rate went up a notch as he negotiated blind bends through unfamiliar
territory, until at last he made up sufficient ground to see the red car in
front.

Yes! It was the same car. Easing off to keep a
safe distance he followed the car for several miles until it slowed and turned
into an entrance between huge gateposts. Holding back, Simon stopped close to
the entrance. There was some sort of gatehouse that appeared to be empty, then
a long drive that just disappeared into a wall of trees. Turning between the
gate posts he drove slowly down the drive and past a side track, stopping where
a lake could be seen through the trees. Ahead was a huge building that looked
like some sort of stately home or country retreat. He parked the Olympic on a
grass verge, shielded by a row of trees.

Keeping to the grass verge, which would be
quieter than the gravel driveway, he walked towards the building. It seemed far
too big to be a single building, more likely long wings arranged around a
central courtyard. Approaching, he could see two wings, each four stories high
under pitched roofs with castellated towers at the corners, giving a grandiose
presence not far removed from that of a university in Oxford or Cambridge. One
of the wings could have been used to film
Brideshead
Revisited, for with a Palladian style porch under a clock tower at it’s centre
accessed from the gravel approach by twin flanking stone staircases, it looked
out over the lake with the appearance of a stately home. In direct contrast,
the other wing he could see was much simpler, separated from an immaculate lawn
by a row of perfectly tended shrubs, with just a simple open archway at mid
section, presumably leading through to some inner sanctum.

The grounds appeared to be well tended and the
building itself perfectly maintained, but the whole place was strangely silent
and empty. There were no vehicles, no people, and the red brick conglomerate
was deadly quiet. If indeed the property were some sort of stately home, then
he would have expected a public car park and visitor signage, some visitors
admiring the grounds or daintily bedecked waitresses from a teashop. But
instead it was just a huge, empty, eerie building.

At the far end of the Palladian frontage and
linked to it, stood another building. Unlike the main wings of the property, it
was altogether more gothic in style. If the main property was a stately home of
some sort then perhaps this could be a private chapel. But he could also
imagine monks in their habits, walking along the corridors of the more simple
main building, to matins or evening prayers in the chapel – and at other
times, silence.

Like now, when a ghostly silence pressed down
like a forgotten cloud. The gravel path turned around the gothic building and
back into the main property which he could now see was indeed a number of wings
arranged in a rectangle, with an open area the size of a tennis court and a few
smaller buildings next to the gothic building. Large doors in the gable of one
of them were open, through which he could just make out the fronts of a line of
about eight cars, while outside was the red car he had followed. From his
vantage point, little more could be seen, but while he watched, a figure
squatted down and removed the registration plate from the front of the red car
before backing it into the building and closing the doors.

Retracing his steps back to the Olympic, Simon
turned the coupe around as quietly as he could, made his way back to the road,
and drove home.

……….

This was beginning to become a habit. Switch on
the coffee machine, switch on the Mac and wait for it to boot up. Run a search,
make a phone call, then pour out a coffee and take it onto the balcony to
ponder. How many times had he done that recently? Too many for comfort, that
was for sure. Too much pondering. And too much coffee.

Although none of the cars Simon had been able
to make out inside the gloom of the outbuilding had matched the registration
plates hung in the Green Fields workshop, he had struck gold with the car he
had followed; its registration had definitely been one of the plates hanging on
Kevin Archer’s workshop wall. Simon had again phoned the registered owner
– an architect in Kent – and been assured that yes, his car was
still outside on the drive. Was he sure? Of course he was sure. Actually, he
could see it from where he was standing talking on the phone.

So the car driven from the workshop at Green
Fields to the wonderful residence out in the country must have a different real
identity. Who had been driving it was also a mystery. Never able to get close
enough to make any identification, he had no real idea, but with only Kevin
Archer and Mick Worth anywhere near the workshop at the time, it had to be one
of them. As for the strange premises to which it had been taken, the plot thickened.
He’d no idea what it was or who lived there.

Intending to go directly home after leaving the
country property, he had actually diverted to Green Fields Caravan Park,
finding that most of the cars had gone and the parking area was almost empty.
Half a dozen mourners remained in the reception room but not Kevin or Rick
Worth. Kevin wasn’t in the office either but when Simon checked the workshop he
found that the padlock was again unfastened and just hanging on the staple. His
curiosity running wild, he’d checked the registration plates on the wall, and
sure enough, one set was missing. Just to convince himself that the
registration was one of those he had checked earlier, he had then taken down
the logbook and found the page where its number had been jotted. Flicking
through the pages before he returned it to the shelf, he had then noticed a
couple more entries since he had borrowed the log and made copies. Two more
dates with PA detailed. Why would the workshop be reserved for Archer senior
after he had died?

Sitting on his balcony later with a coffee, he
could see neither reason nor connection, but instinctively knew that there must
be both.

Going back inside to the Mac, he opened Firefox
and studied Google maps for the area. Eventually he found what he thought was
the stately home in the country. From the satellite image, the rectangular
building with central grass courtyard looked correct, there was a lake in the
right position, and the driveway from the road seemed to be white or light grey
gravel. But from the aerial view he couldn’t be sure. Dragging the Street View
icon, he waited for the screen to refresh. But it didn’t. Google didn’t have a
street view for the property. Switching to Bing maps, he again located the
premises and clicked on Birds Eye View. This time he was in luck. An angled
view displayed on which he could identify the Palladian wing with some
certainty. He could see that the smaller building with the garage doors, though
lower than the others at just a single storey, was actually quite long, almost
half the length of a full wing in fact. But more interestingly, the satellite
image showed two windows in the solid gable, which meant that the garage style
doors must have been fitted later.

But how much later? If the satellite images were
up to date then converting the building to a car storage facility must have
been done recently. Typing in new search criteria, Simon brought up the imagery
for Southport Promenade. Blast it! According to the display on his screen, what
had for several years been the Ramada Plaza, a rather upmarket hotel, casino
and restaurant complex overlooking the Marine Lake, still showed up as the
Floral Hall Gardens. On that basis the garage doors at the country property
could actually have been installed at any time and for any purpose over more
than a decade.

Returning to the Google imagery he checked the
property and its surroundings. Golf clubs and even some small pubs were
identified with names but not the buildings in which he was interested. There
were a few road names and locations; Dean Wood, Roby Mill, and College Road
among others. Often, names indicated historical facts so could that be the case
here? Had the owner of Roby Mill built himself a huge country residence nearby?
If the property was a monastery, then had Dean Wood been named after a
clergyman? Or did College Road link the building to some long defunct
educational establishment that the local council could no longer afford to run?
They could all be possibilities. Or none, the college idea being possibly the
least probable given the huge sums poured into upgrading the nearby Edge Hill
Teacher Training College – a much less impressive building - to
university status.

Simon was confident that the chosen tools of
his trade gave him an advantage over his contemporaries. He believed that his
Mac was head and shoulders above a normal PC, that his beloved
Bewleys
coffee was superior to
Douwe
Egberts
, and that his Alfa Romeo
engined
Rochdale Olympic eclipsed the Porsche it resembled. Whether that was real or
psychological, the facts were that either side of a death there had been two
brutal attacks on the same man. And an expensive red blooded Italian sports car
in a workshop on a decrepit caravan site had been driven by a driver with no
chance of being able to afford it – whichever of the two it had been
– to a location that was stranger than a set in a Hammer House of Horror
film. Turning to fill up the coffee machine yet again, he was no further
forward with the Johnson case.

Eighteen

Turning the papers in front of him with a sigh,
Radcliffe popped a painkiller into his mouth, reached out for his cup and took
a long hard gulp of the tepid liquid. The third murder hadn’t lessened his
workload and his head banged from continual checking of statements, reports,
forensics and his own notes. Coffee wasn’t stimulating him and the painkillers
weren’t killing the pain. The only good point, if you could call it that, was
that Frank Davies was out somewhere trying to find
Lydiate
Man’s murderer, so Radcliffe could ache, doze and whatever else he wanted to do
in relative peace and solitude.

Until summoned by Handy Andy that is. Twice
this morning he had had to drag himself along the corridor to the boss’s
office. First it had been to explain what progress his team had made in solving
the car thefts crimes, the predictable answer of course being precisely
nothing. That response had not even warranted one of
Handy’s
cups of ground coffee. Then, later, another trip up the corridor, that time to
outline how the Pole fitted in with
Lydiate
Man and
RTA. And again, nothing to go on, no supposed theory and no prospect of swift
action. And again, no coffee. Although Radcliffe’s head was thumping, it had
been his backside that had, metaphorically of course, been given the kicking.
Best men on the job. Expected more (and quicker). Should be put to bed by now.
There’s a real danger that Liverpool will take this off us. They were all
arguments levelled at Radcliffe.

Well so bloody what? If he was the best man for
the job, why was he being given a hard time? And if Liverpool wanted the case
(or cases as they had become), why not let them have them? If Liverpool took
the cases then he wouldn’t be nursing a blinding headache or be both mentally
and physically wrung out.

He had asked where Frank was. And he’d known
that he had stepped over the line before he had even finished asking the
question. Frank was working ‘his’ case and would, no doubt, deliver the culprit
on a plate quite quickly. Frank got results. Frank was destined for big things
and if Radcliffe wanted to go in the same direction then he would be best
advised to get his cases cracked quickly too.

Of course, none of that had been said. But the
implications were hardly veiled. The headmaster’s favourite could do no wrong and
all others must toe the line. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. It hadn’t
been Handy Andy’s normal attitude, but had become a more recognisable trait
since Frank Davies had been promoted to the same rank as Radcliffe.

Swigging another mouthful of half cold, bitter
tasting instant coffee, he couldn’t help feeling that Handy was at least half
right. Though the current cases were complex, somewhere there must be clues.
Clues that he had either overlooked or not recognised. Which was why he had
just spent hours pouring over everything that had been done or reported so far.
And why his head was spinning.

Switching his computer off and moving the files
to one side, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started jotting a few
notes in readiness for a press briefing reluctantly set up by Handley for the
following morning, for the third murder had blown any possibility of claiming
that the cases were unconnected right out of the water. With notes complete,
Radcliffe pushed them into his brief case, returned his pen to its slot in the
desk drawer and pushed his chair back as there was a knock on the door.

‘Hope I’m not disturbing you Don,’ said
Sergeant Fraser pushing the door open, ‘there’s been a bit of a development you
might be interested in. Actually, Debbie’s turned this one up but Frank’s not
here so she’s been bouncing it off me.’

‘That’s the story of my day so far Kyle,’
responded Radcliffe. ‘Every time I’ve been at a dead end, Handy Andy has had me
traipsing up the corridor for a kicking. The pain killers and coffee aren’t
working and when I pack up to go home, in you come looking and sounding as
though you have just won the lottery – or from what you say, Frank’s won
the lottery.’ Pushing himself back to his desk Radcliffe continued, ‘OK Kyle,
bring her in and let’s have it. But make it quick mind, I’m pushing off home to
grab what free time I can.’

Radcliffe waited until the two sergeants had
settled themselves. And then waited some more, as neither seemed likely to say
anything. Finally he broke the silence. ‘Come on then love. Don’t be bashful.
Spit it out. What’s the marvellous breakthrough that is going to solve one of
our murders? If you were going to tell Frank then I am guessing that you’ve
stumbled on something about Peter Archer, the
Lydiate
Man. Come on Debbie, I won’t bite you know.’

The sergeant shuffled in her chair. Clearly
embarrassed, she looked Radcliffe in the eye then quickly glanced across at
Fraser.

‘It’s a bit delicate Don,’ cut in Fraser.
‘Debbie only felt that she should talk to Frank because she works with him,
she’s part of his team. What she’s found out is not related to the murders
though. It’s the cars. And there are several implications too. Actually she
came to Louise and then Lou came to me.’

‘And you brought it to me,’ quipped Radcliffe.
‘So to whom do I pass it?’

‘OK Sir,’ replied
Lescott
at last. ‘I’ve got some information that puts a complete new face on the car
crimes your team is working on. But how I came by that information and how I
had to work it to get something tangible could get me into hot water.’

Radcliffe frowned and raised his eyebrows
towards the young woman, then to Fraser who just held his stare.

‘All right Debbie,’ said Radcliffe in his most
fatherly manner. ‘Let’s start at the beginning shall we? First off, while we
are in this room with no public around, it is Don, or boss if you must, but not
sir. Secondly, kicks up the arse are par for the course so you’ll have to get
used to them, but if your information is as important as you both seem to
think, I expect that we should be able to sweeten the pill with those upstairs
and keep you clean. Now then, let’s get down to business.’

His friendly Uncle act had done the trick.
After some trepidation she had opened up. Slowly at first, then more relaxed as
she got deeper into her story. Whether that was because she had decided to
trust him or simply an ‘in for a penny in for a pound’ mentality he was unsure.
He hoped the former.

‘A friend of mine asked me to check some
vehicle registrations with Swansea.’

‘Which friend Debbie?’

‘Just a friend sir. I mean, Don.’

‘Male or female? It makes a difference.’

‘Male.’

‘OK. So he softens you up with a kiss, a cuddle
and a session in bed and then you break the rules for him?’

‘No! No!’ Then a softer, ‘no Don, I’ve never
slept with him. He’s just a friend.’

‘A friend worth getting into trouble for?’

She looked down and bit her lip. She said
nothing.

‘A friend worth losing your job for maybe?’

Looking him directly in the eye she replied, ‘I
don’t know. I’ve not thought about it. But yes, if it came to it I suppose so.’

‘Right Debbie,’ said Radcliffe, so at least we
know where we stand. He’s more than just a friend. Let’s hope it doesn’t come
to that. Now then, why couldn’t he just go on-line and do an HPI or RAC check?’

She had explained that that would only have got
him the basic vehicle details whereas her friend was actually looking for
address details of the owners.

‘I hope that you said “no” Debbie,’ cut in
Radcliffe, though he knew instinctively that she hadn’t. She had gone ahead,
checked the registrations and passed over address details to her friend.

Radcliffe gave his disapproving look again
– an unspoken “why” - but said nothing.

Fraser broke the silence. ‘Just hear her out
boss. Please.’

Leaning back in his chair and crossing his
arms, Radcliffe looked straight at the young sergeant. ‘OK Debbie,’ he said,
‘this had better be good.’ Her eyes were already moist and he could see that
she was close to the edge. He needed to give support yet at the same time rules
must be observed.
Lescott
had risen to sergeant
quickly and could go far but a serious breach of procedure could stop her in
her tracks. ‘If your mysterious friend had just passed the registrations over
to you it would have been a tip off. If you had then followed up on them it
would have been using your initiative. But for heaven’s sake Debbie, giving
your bloke the addresses – that’s close to career suicide love.’

‘Hold on,’ cut in Fraser. Debbie’s on to
something here, but she wouldn’t have been if her fella hadn’t followed up so
that she could take it further.’

‘What do you mean, followed up?’ Then, turning
to face the almost distraught sergeant, ‘What does this bloke of yours do
Debbie?’

‘He’s a private detective Don.’

‘Christ! What in hell’s name were you thinking
of Debbie? Please tell me I’m dreaming all this.’ Then, with yet another sigh,
‘Spell it out for me Debbie. Let’s know the worst so we can either put your
info to good use or try and put some damage limitation into place for you.’

Lescott
had explained that because he had been
concerned that there might be a cloning scam going on, her bloke had asked her
to get the owner’s addresses for a few registration numbers. When the sergeant
had pulled up the information she had noticed that the brands neatly matched
the high value cars currently being investigated on the stolen list. Intrigued,
she had done more digging and found that most of the registrations were for
cars in other parts of the country, with only two registered keepers actually
in the area.

‘Cloning isn’t a new phenomenon,’ responded
Radcliffe. ‘But it is usually the way that owners of ordinary cars avoid speed
camera tickets, so to be honest I doubt it being a factor here. And for sure,
it’s not connected to any of our three murders.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure Don,’ replied Fraser. As
well as the first batch of numbers, Debbie’s guy also threw up some interesting
links.’

‘God love us,’ cut in Radcliffe. ‘Give me
strength. Not more?’

Passing over a number of A4 sheets, Fraser
continued, ‘Debbie’s put all the
regs
together. If
you check out the registered keepers there’s a main group miles away from here
and a small group left over with keepers on our patch. Those on our patch are
quite interesting.’

Radcliffe scanned the lists. The local group
was more than interesting. Looking up, he looked
inquizatively
at the two sergeants.
Lescott’s
face was virtually
expressionless. Fraser’s was a little more smug. ‘is this for real?’ he asked.
‘I can see why you didn’t want to take this to Frank Debbie. The names you have
here are, shall we just say, interesting. Frank would have had a field day.’

‘I thought that that would interest you Don.
But look at the main group too. Debbie has done some sterling work and it’s
fascinating. Not only are there links to all and sundry – including at
least one murder - she’s also worked out a possible way they could be lifting
the cars.’

Brightening,
Lescott
straightened and continued where Fraser had left off. ‘There’s one registration
per brand sir. I mean Don. Or in some cases, per model within a brand. Just
imagine now that you lift a car – say a Ferrari – and whiz it
somewhere close to disable the tracker. If the plates are swapped at the same
time, then if the car is spotted by one of our patrols when it is being moved
on, it’s not only a different car, it is fully legal so will not be
challenged.’