Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (27 page)

‘Is that clear?’

Heads nodded.

‘Right then. Frank, bring us up to date on
Lydiate
Man please.’

Taking his place at a large white board, Davies
went through developments so far. How it had been impossible to collect data
from the crime scene due to the type of ground. How there had been no
indications of fold play. How according to the pathologist, the type of
asphyxiation required a heavy weight to be applied for some short time but not
as with a blow or being hit. To have had the required effect without damaging
the body the weight had to have been applied almost gently, remained for a
short while to cause asphyxiation, then removed. None of that could have
happened at the scene and Davies had his reservations. There were, he
suggested, as many indications of a simple heart attack as for asphyxiation. It
simply was not conclusive. So far they had no clues as to how it had been
achieved or by whom. There was a well-known family feud so the first
possibility had been the deceased’s brother-in-law. However, Johnson remained
in hospital and had yet to be questioned.

Not a great deal of progress then.

‘What about the young couple who found the body
Sir, are they out of the frame?’

Davies looked in the direction of the questioner,
identifying a young DC.

‘Debbie will be interviewing them again but it
looks as though all they did was find the poor sod.’

‘Not all they did from what we hear Guv’ an
observation greeted by laughter around the room.

‘Since when was murder a laughing matter?’ cut
in Handley. ‘I’ll remind you that this is a serious crime and merriment is
completely out of order.’

Handing over to Radcliffe, Davies retook his
seat next to Handy Andy. There had been little progress on the
Lydiate
murder, Handy had put a stop to any mirth and he
was not aware of much on the other two murders either, so Don wouldn’t be able
to gain any advantage.

Leaving Davies’ scrawling on the white board,
Radcliffe added some of his own. His quick recap detailed the links between the
Lydiate
and drainage ditch deaths, reiterating the
salient points made by Davies.

A hand shot up. ‘What about the third murder
Sir? What details do we have? What connections are there?’

‘Officially, there are no connections between
it and the first two deaths and it is not suspicious. It is a natural death
following a night in the pub. The deceased was found in a heap at the back of
the Bold in the early hours. It looked like a normal death after a skin full.
But after the first two deaths the doc was on the lookout so it was picked up
quickly. We’re not announcing that for the time being.’

‘The Bold in
Churchtown
Sir?’

‘No. Right here in Southport centre. The Bold
on Lord Street. The body was found in a crumpled heap on the pavement of
Stanley Street at the back of the pub.’

‘Ideal for no clues then,’ said a DC on the
front row. It was a statement rather than a question.

’Exactly,’ responded Radcliffe. There are some
inconsistencies but it does look as though we have a pro here. Not only does he
know how to make his handiwork look like natural causes, he also knows how to
plant his corpses without leaving clues. He does seem to be
fornsically
aware. The first death we couldn’t lift anything from the springy ground and
the last was on solid pavement, again with no clues. Between those he got a bit
sloppy with the Pole though, but that was more a hammy attempt at creating a car
accident – he still disguised the cause of death pretty well.’

‘Are we sure that there’s just one culprit or could
the deaths be unrelated.’

‘I’m pretty sure we are dealing with one
perpetrator. I’m inclined to go with the pathologist’s findings rather than DI
Davies’ view, which means that to have three incidents with the same very
unusual cause of death one after the other is just too much for coincidence.
The first one out at
Lydiate
fooled the doc and only
some brilliant work on the slab picked it up, otherwise our culprit might have
got away with the second and third as well.

‘What we need to find out is how these three
bodies got to their discovery sites. I want door to door along Stanley Street.
See if anyone saw somebody being dragged after closing time – like a
drunk. There’s a chip shop a few yards away so someone needs to ask customers
as well. Kyle, can you organise that? Try it around the same time in case any
of the regulars saw anything.’

Addressing the whole group, Radcliffe put on
his stern look.

‘I don’t need to remind you of the Chief’s
warning,’ he said. ‘Or at least, I shouldn’t need to.’ Looking around at a sea
of blank faces he continued, ‘None of this is being released. No leaks please.’

Handley added a blunt warning, ‘No leaks
– period.’

As the three officers left the room, background
noise increased markedly. Debbie
Lescott
looked
nervously across at Kyle Fraser, who smiled and winked. There had been no
mention of either her indiscretion or the cloned registrations, both being kept
in the car thefts inquiry and out of the murder briefing.

For now.

……….

After just a short coffee break, the three
officers moved down the corridor to a spare meeting room, hurriedly pressed
into service for the press briefing. Radcliffe was relieved to see that only a
handful of press personnel were present, hopefully down to the low profile at
which the crimes had been held so far.

Scanning the faces in front of him he quickly
assessed the success of their hush
hush
policy. So
far so good. From what he could see representation was just the three local
newspapers – two free sheets and one paid for title - plus a couple of
agency stringers, a hack from the local internet forum and a reporter from
Radio Merseyside. That was good. He could handle all of them and the spread
would help with the local witness appeal they hoped to run. Significantly, the
absence of nationals showed that there had been no leaks so far.

Of the locals, the Champion and the
Visiter
both tried to give their readers the impression of
independent news gathering but actually put their weekly newspapers together
using mainly young employees rehashing supplied press releases or supplied
leads, most of their real reporting being Mothers Union meetings or the local
line dancing club.

The third title was another matter altogether.
To Radcliffe, Les Starr was an effeminate little toad who thought himself to be
the ultimate authority on everything from local news to motoring. Usually he
followed the same route as his contemporaries, often rewriting press releases
in a way that completely changed their meaning and compromised their accuracy.
But Les Starr enjoyed police briefings. Putting on his investigative journalist
hat he could weave irrelevant facts into his exclusives that were not just inaccurate
but often complete fabrication. His presence enabled him to bang the drum,
which was apt, for the newspaper he represented was called the North
Meols
Drum, North
Meols
being the
original name for Southport going back a couple of centuries.

Starr had served his purpose on a number of
occasions, running what he thought were exclusives from information quietly
orchestrated by Radcliffe. But left to his own devices he could easily be a
menace, banging his personal drum completely out of time.

As with the earlier team meeting, Handley
brought the briefing to order. First he introduced Davies and Radcliffe, then
set out the ground rules, much of which was wasted time since with all the
assembled journalists being essentially local, everyone knew each other and
Handley always ran his briefings in the same way. Still, if it kept him happy,
the media would humour him.

Having discussed strategy with his two
Inspectors during their coffee break, Handley then handed over to Radcliffe who
would cover all bases so as to keep the briefing as short as possible.

Taking Handley’s place, Radcliffe told the
journalists that there was no need to take notes, although they were free to do
so if they wished. Directing his gaze at Starr he continued that for the sake
of accuracy, a
handout
had been prepared that would
be available to them all as they left. Using his own copy of the
handout
as a crib sheet, Radcliffe announced that the
briefing had been called to advise of a change in circumstances of incidents
that had happened recently. Two deaths in the area, one thought to be a heart
attack and another a few days later seemingly the result of a tragic car
accident had since both proved to have a different cause of death. Lab results
were awaited before further details could be confirmed.

‘You’ve called a joint briefing. Does that mean
that the two deaths are connected?’ asked a young woman from the Southport
Visiter
.

Radcliffe had anticipated just such a question.
‘We called one briefing because there isn’t enough information to fill two
separate meetings – and we can’t afford the time for two briefings
either. It was hard to put more than a couple of paragraphs together on the
handouts
but we preferred to get you together rather than
just issue hard copy because I would like to ask you all to run an appeal for
us. I would like you to run an appeal for anyone who might have seen an older
man slumped in the old ruin of
Lydiate
Hall, or might
have seen someone at the scene of the accident at the drainage ditch. That
would help us a lot.

Looking around the room, Radcliffe saw no
dissention, just nods and confirmation from everyone. That’s the way to do it.
Job done.

‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Thank you all for coming.
I am sorry that the briefing was so short. Remember to pick up a
handout
as you leave.’ Then, as an afterthought as Handley
and Davies stood to leave, ‘And don’t forget to run that appeal for me please.’

‘Inspector Radcliffe,’ squeaked a voice from
the second row. ‘Can I ask a question?’

The three officers turned back. Radcliffe
sighed inwardly. Bloody Starr.

‘Yes Les. Of course. What is it?’ he
diplomatically replied.

‘Thank you. Is it true that there has been a
third death? Was a body found behind the Bold?’

Handley and Radcliffe exchanged glances. Davies
appeared expressionless. Shit, thought Radcliffe, where did that come from?

‘Yes Les, you are quite right. The body of a
middle aged male was found after the pubs had closed. But this briefing wasn’t
called to discuss that.’

‘Quite Inspector. But can you confirm that the
cause of death in all three cases was the same, and that the cause of death was
actually a type of asphyxiation that indicates a sex game gone wrong?’

Momentarily, Radcliffe had been caught
off-guard. From where had the little poofter got his information?
 
The room was suddenly eerily silent. The
radio
recordist
had stopped dismantling his cables
and the attention of every journalist was fixed on Radcliffe – pens
hovering over pads.

‘I don’t know where you get your information
from Les,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘And no, I cannot confirm any of your
speculation. As I said, all the information is on the
handout
and I must warn you against fabricating anything just to sell papers. We know
nothing of any sex games and at the moment we are waiting for more information from
the lab. That’s what I said before and what is printed on the sheets. I’m all
for freedom of the press but we won’t stand for any contrived piffle or out and
out fabrication. You got that?’

Muttering a barely audible ‘in my office, now,’
Handley turned on his heel and left the room, closely followed by Davies and
Radcliffe as a WPC gave each journalist a printed
handout
.
Few were all that interested, most thronging around the Drum reporter who
wallowed in his sudden popularity but declined to give any information to his
competitors.

Twenty

Turning off the country road, the Jaguar pulled
onto a gravel car park, steering carefully between the ruts and potholes to
avoid the puddles. It was all in vain. Unmaintained more than unkempt, the car
park boasted more craters and valleys than the surface of the moon and the
lodging water would have kept a small laundry operating. Gingerly the driver
negotiated the best route he could, finally coming to a halt next to a wooden
building with a worn sign identifying it as ‘reception.’

Looking back at the car, its driver took in the
muddy spray from the wheel arches and along its sills, giving it the appearance
of a rally car having just finished a tortuous event rather than an up-market
luxury saloon, cosseted by its owner. Looking down, his highly polished shoes
were also caked in filthy brown muddy water; no doubt he would leave muddy
footprints wherever he went and his shoes would dry with an unsightly beige
deposit. At the side of him, his assistant – his passenger just minutes
before – was as clean and tidy as if she had just dressed for an
important appointment. How did she do that? Why were her shoes not caked in mud
also?

‘Come on,’ he said, let’s see if the rest of
this place is as shitty as it is out here.’

Leading the way he reached for the door and
entered the building.

Inside, ageing seats and old laminate-topped
tables were arranged to one side, with a timber reception desk to the other. He
guessed that when it had been built it was all supposed to be rustic in a log
cabin sort of way. Now it was out of date, worn out and decidedly shabby.

A young man appeared behind the desk. ‘Can I
help you?’ he enquired.

‘We are looking for Kevin Archer.’

‘That’s me,’ said the young man. ‘What can I do
for you? Are you interested in bringing a caravan here?’

Absolutely not thought the man. Who in their
right mind would want to bring a van here? From the state of the car park, a boat
would be more appropriate.

‘I am Detective Inspector Davies and this is
Detective Sergeant
Lescott
,’ he said as they
displayed their warrant cards. ‘We would like to have a word with you about
your Father’s death. Is there somewhere private we can go?’

‘I’ve already told two other policemen all I
know. But I want to help. I want you to catch whoever did this to my Dad so if
there is anything at all I can tell you, please feel free to ask. Why don’t you
take a seat at one of the tables over by the window and I will bring a drink
over? We don’t have proper coffee so it will have to be instant I am afraid,
but we won’t be disturbed. It’s mid-week so only the residents are on site and
none of them come in here.’

From their allocated seats they could see
through to what appeared to be a rather primitive kitchen, where Kevin Archer
was spooning supermarket own-brand value instant coffee into old mismatched
mugs, pouring water out of the oldest electric kettle imaginable and topping
the whole thing off with a spoonful of instant dried milk. No wonder they were
unlikely to be disturbed. Davies suspected that the only purpose anyone would
have to enter the building would be to complain when something wasn’t working.
And given his impression of the site so far, that might be quite often.

Kevin brought two steaming mugs of coffee over,
then returned with his own, plus teaspoons and a bowl of white sugar. The sugar
was covered with clumps of brown crystals where previous users had dipped their
wet spoons back into the bowl after stirring their drinks. Given the low
throughput of customers, it could have taken quite some time to amass the
amount of golden crystals now evident. Davies and
Lescott
both suddenly became drinkers of coffee without sugar.

‘Right Inspector . . .
er
. . um,’

‘Davies,’ prompted the policeman.

‘Yes. Well. I’m not very good with names.
Anyway, what do you want to know?’

‘Mr Archer,’ replied the detective. ‘I am
puzzled as to why you didn’t report your father as missing.’

‘Because I didn’t know he was missing. Surely,
you know all this? I told the other policemen.’

‘Yes, of course. But it seems strange to me
that your father goes off on a trip to London and then doesn’t keep in touch
with you. You are running a business here Mr Archer. If I was running a
business and needed to make a trip away, then as sure as hell I would keep in
touch – either from the phone in my hotel room or using my mobile. Didn’t
it seem strange that your father didn’t do that Mr Archer?’

‘Not really. My Dad isn’t – I mean wasn’t
- like that. He was a bit old fashioned really. He used a normal phone and
wrote letters but he didn’t have a mobile phone and we’ve never had a fax
machine. I only managed to persuade him to get an Internet connection a couple
of months ago, and even then, he never used it. He wouldn’t have known how to
actually. It was for me. In any case, I do most of the day to day work here so
he wouldn’t have much to check up on would he?’

‘That’s interesting Mr Archer,’ commented
Davies. ‘Your dad must have been one of the only people I know without a mobile
phone.’

‘Well you can take it from me Inspector, he
didn’t.’

‘Do you have a mobile Mr Archer?’ asked Davies.

‘Yes, of course. I use it all the time. I have
an iPhone. I wouldn’t like to be without it.’

‘So what did you do with your old phones then?’
asked
Lescott
.

‘Have you still got any of them?’ added Davies.

‘Were they on contracts or pay as you go?’
continued
Lescott
.

‘Hey, what is this? Why the preoccupation with
my phone? I thought you were trying to find my Dad’s murderer.’

‘We are Mr Archer. But this is relevant. Now,
will you please answer the question?’ pressed Davies.

‘I can’t see the relevance. This is potty.’
Then, after pausing and looking quizzically at the two officers in turn,
continued, ‘OK. I’ve had several mobiles over the years. Mostly I’ve broken
them at work. You know, dropped them onto some stonework or smashed them while
repairing something. It’s a physical job. I’ve not kept any. I did have pay as
you go at the start but I’ve had a monthly contract for two or three years
now.’ Then, fixing eyes with Davies, ‘So, what’s this all about?’

‘We’ll get to that in a moment Mr Archer,’
replied Davies. ‘Did you ever lend your phone to your father?’

‘And who did your father go to see in London?’
added
Lescott
.

‘You’re a bloody double act you two aren’t you?
Why can’t you give me time to answer the first question before hurling the next
one at me?’

‘Well Mr Archer?’ pressed Davies.

‘There would be no point lending Dad a mobile
because he doesn’t know how to use one. And I’ve no bloody idea who he went to
see. There. Will that do?’

‘No, but it’s a start,’ said Davies with a sly
grin. ‘Now Mr Archer, when you told my colleague that your father had gone to
London, it seemed that you knew who he was going to see. Why don’t you now?’

‘Dad told me but I didn’t make a note of it.
I’d never heard of the guy before so it meant nothing to me. All I know is what
Dad told me. He said he was going to see the bloke he bought the caravan site
from. He said that the bloke moved into a house near here for a while but then
moved down near London. That’s all I know. Please Inspector, what’s this all
about? Why the interest in my phone and where Dad went?’

‘Mr Archer,’ intoned Davies. Some of our
enquiries may seem repetitive or even not relevant but we have to be very
thorough. For your information, we found a mobile phone in your father’s van so
we are assuming that it was your father’s phone. As for whom your father went
to meet, don’t forget that he didn’t get to London so he didn’t meet anyone. He
only got a few miles down the road didn’t he?’

‘And he met somebody for a chat and a coffee
– presumably by prior arrangement,’ added
Lescott
.

‘So nothing can be taken for granted and much
of what we were told earlier doesn’t hold water,’ concluded Davies. ‘Now then
lad, I’m asking you again, what did you do with your old mobile phones and did
you lend one to your Dad?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Kevin. ‘No, I never lent my Dad
a phone. I replaced mine when they broke. It wouldn’t be any use lending a bust
phone would it? In any case, he didn’t know how to use one.’

‘Well clearly, that’s not right,’ commented
Lescott
. ‘The phone we found in his van was charged and had
been used. We are checking its call history now.’

‘So if your dad wrote letters, perhaps he made
a note of who he was going to see somewhere. Where did he keep his business
diary?’ asked Davies.

‘He wasn’t that organised. I started keeping
some records when I bought the computer and we got the Internet connection. But
that was just what I did, not Dad’s things. He tended to make notes on a spiral
calendar sometimes and on bits of paper otherwise. They’re still in the
office.’

‘Well let’s have a look at them shall we?’

The office turned out to be a dismal room
adjacent to the equally dismal reception area, with once trendy rustic décor
that matched the reception area; dated, old fashioned and in desperate need for
a
refurb
. At one end of the room, two old metal
filing cabinets stood in the corners flanking an equally old wooden desk that
would not have looked out of place in a TV period drama. Its surface was
completely covered with piles of papers, overflowing tray systems for ‘in’ and
‘out’ and an old fashioned receipt spike held a wad of small papers, their age
betrayed by their yellowing colour that gave the spike the look of a kebab
skewer. At the other end of the room and with access to the area behind the
reception desk was what Davies had earlier believed to be a self-contained,
though rather scruffy kitchen.

Moving over to the desk, Kevin moved papers
around and sorted through piles of notes. Drawing a blank, he turned to the
wall next to one of the filing cabinets and lifted a spiral bound pad off a
hook.

‘I can’t find any letters or notes,’ he said to
the two officers. ‘Dad never filed anything so I clear his desk every couple of
weeks. Dad only used that filing cabinet to store the tea bags and sugar but
I’ve tried to keep things fairly straight in this one. Since he died I haven’t
had the heart to touch anything so it’s even more of a mess than usual. There
doesn’t seem to be anything on the desk though and I know I haven’t filed
anything.’ Holding op the spiral pad he added, ‘This calendar’s the last chance
Inspector.’

A standard WH Smith calendar showing one week
to each page, Davies could see that although entries had been scribbled in
ballpoint pen, the small space for each day did not allow much detail. Flipping
back to the week of his father’s death, Kevin scanned the entries then looked
up at Davies.

‘I think this is it inspector,’ he said. ‘Dad
said he was going to see a bloke in
Skelmersdale
.
Look here. Dad’s written Cars
Skem
, then on the same
day, Arthur Jarvis Tonbridge.’ I’ve no idea where Tonbridge is. Isn’t it in the
Midlands? I thought he said he was going to London. But if I remember rightly,
the guy he was going to see might have been this Arthur Jarvis. It rings a
bell.’