Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (33 page)

Like hell there was nothing to worry about.
This crazy episode had suddenly got very serious. No, it wasn’t bloody OK. No,
he didn’t want the conversation recorded. And no, there wasn’t anything he
could tell them that would help with their enquiries. What enquiries anyway? Oh
shit, it was the Polish employees. Or if not, the exports.

‘Do what you bloody want,’ he said.

The sergeant reached across and switched on the
recorder, then announced the names of himself and his senior officer. Looking
across, the sergeant asked him to confirm his name and then looked at the
inspector.

‘Firstly I would like to thank you for coming
in,’ said Radcliffe.

‘I didn’t have much bloody choice did I?’ he
replied. ‘What is this all about anyway? I have a business to run you know.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ replied the detective, ‘so
the quicker we can get this done the quicker you can get back to it. Like I said,
I appreciate your generosity in giving up your time to help us. And I apologise
for not putting you in the picture earlier.’ Twirling a pencil between his
fingers and looking somewhat pensive he continued, ‘but it is a little
delicate.’

Generosity be damned. And why delicate. Oh
bloody hell; it was definitely the damned Polish guys.

‘Do you employ a man called
Pawel
Lewinelsky
?’ asked Radcliffe.

Blast. How could he fudge this one? ‘Yes
Inspector, I do.’

‘How long has he worked for you?’

‘Off hand I’m not sure,’ though privately he
could have given the exact date that
Lewinelsky
had
arrived in the country and the exact date he had started work. ‘About six
months I think,’ he added.

‘He is Polish isn’t he?’ asked Radcliffe.

‘Yes.’ He wasn’t sure where this was going, so
keeping his answers short might be the least problematic.

‘You employ several Poles then?’ It was the
first time that the sergeant had spoken since making the introductions for the
recording.

‘Yes, I do,’ then looking first at the sergeant
and then the inspector, added, ‘I don’t like to admit it but they are bloody
good workers. Actually, they are a damned sight harder working than our own
people.’

‘And cheaper,’ added the inspector.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And they don’t ask questions,’ offered the
sergeant.

‘Questions? What sort of questions?’

‘We’ll come back to that,’ cut in the
inspector, continuing, ‘has Mr
Lewinelsky
come to
work this morning?’

‘No Inspector. He wasn’t in yesterday either.’

‘Did he call in sick? Have you had any contact
with him?’

‘No. He didn’t turn up yesterday so when he
didn’t turn in today my assistant called him but he didn’t answer his phone.
What’s the problem?’

Ignoring the question, Radcliffe continued
digging. ‘Why didn’t you go round to check? Is he in the habit of taking days
off?’

‘No Inspector. Actually he has been very
reliable. Like I said, his sort work hard. But I am a busy man and I cannot
spend time chasing around after employees who decide to take some time off,’
then, looking directly at Radcliffe, ‘or sitting answering silly questions.’

‘Believe me, our questions are not silly. We
have a serious matter to sort out and you can help us,’ said the sergeant.

‘And we can either do it the nice way so that
you can get back to your business quickly or we can caution you and you can
bring your solicitor in which could get messy,’ added the inspector, a serious
expression on his face.

Looking at them both in turn he tried to gauge
where this was going, but neither of them was giving anything away. It was
getting out of hand. And all for the sake of saving a few bob on the wage bill.

‘What do you mean by “his sort” then,’ asked
the inspector. ‘Did you mean somebody that would bend the rules or turn a blind
eye if he saw something going on that wasn’t quite right?’

‘Of course not!’ he stormed. ‘I don’t know what
you are talking about. What rules? And what isn’t quite right?’

‘You tell me.’

Radcliffe just watched the man and waited.

And waited.

The two men locked eyes, each willing the other
to break off or to be the first to speak.

Fraser came to the rescue. ‘What is his sort?’

‘He’s Polish. We’ve got six working for us and
they work twice as hard and for longer than any of our lot.’

‘Do you own a DNA 430 that looks like a Ferrari
F430 but is based on a Toyota MR2?’ asked the inspector, adding in the
registration details as a final confirmation.

‘Yes, that’s mine,’ he replied.

‘So where’s the attraction of driving a car
that looks like an expensive supercar but is in fact a cheap little Japanese
runabout with a four cylinder engine?’ asked the sergeant, ‘I would have
thought that somebody like you would want the real thing.’

I’ve got expensive cars,’ he replied. ‘It’s a
bit like the woman with expensive jewellery who stores them away in a safe and
has a replica made so that she can have the pleasure of wearing them without
the risk.’

‘Have you got a real F430 then?' countered
Fraser.

‘No I haven’t,’ came the brisk response. ‘But I
do have cars that are worth much more. The DNA is just for a bit of fun. We
took a Toyota MR2 in part exchange and rather than scrap it I bought the panel
set and did the conversion.’ Then looking directly at Fraser he added, ‘And for
your information sergeant, it’s not a cheap little runabout and it doesn’t have
a four cylinder engine.’

‘That’s strange,’ replied Fraser. ‘I thought
that MR2 stood for mid
engined
runabout with two
seats and it had a 1.8 litre four pot.’

‘You are well-informed sergeant. But we dropped
an Alfa V6 into my car. It’s not as potent as the Ferrari engine but it sounds
good and it is lots of fun. Why the interest?’

Again, his question was ignored.

‘When do you drive it and where do you keep
it?’

‘I don’t like your questions,’ he said, looking
directly at Radcliffe. ‘You drag me in here without any explanation, keep me
waiting for ages, then ask me silly questions about my employees and my cars.
What the hell is going on here? Can I go now?’

‘I’m afraid not Sir,’ replied Radcliffe, ‘we
haven’t finished yet. Answer the question please. Where do you go in the car
and where do you keep it?’

‘I just take it for a spin now and again,’ he
replied. ‘It’s a lovely car to drive, particularly through the lanes. I keep it
at a place out in the country.’

Going through a list of vehicle registrations,
Fraser looked him in the eye and asked him if they were kept at the same place
as the replica and were they his.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Quite a value in that little lot,’ observed
the sergeant, adding sarcastically, ‘or are all those fakes as well?’

‘The DNA isn’t a fake, it’s a replica. It’s registered
as a Toyota and I don’t cover that up. It’s not a fake.’

‘That’s open to conjecture,’ cut in Radcliffe.
‘All the badges are Ferrari so to my way of thinking it is a fake. So, what
about the others? Are they real or fake?’

‘The DNA is a replica. All the other cars are
originals. They are classics. That’s my hobby. Some I have paid a lot of money
for. Others were bought as non-runners or even basket cases and I have rebuilt
them. I did the DNA just for fun.’

‘OK.’ said Radcliffe, passing over a sheet of
paper on which a number of vehicles were neatly detailed, a series of columns
giving registration, make, model and other information for each car. ‘What
about these? Are these yours as well?’

After scanning the list he shook his head. ‘Not
mine Inspector,’ he said, looking down the list again before adding, ‘my
interest is with classic cars but most of these are current models.’

All three swivelled to look in the same
direction as, after knocking, the door opened and a young constable entered.
Holding a sheet of paper, he placed it in front of Radcliffe and bent to
whisper in his ear.

For the benefit of the recording, Fraser said,
‘Constable Jefferies has just entered the room.’

Listening intently, Radcliffe nodded and
thanked the constable who then turned and left. Fraser announced that the
constable had left the room and that the interview was now continuing. Taking
back the vehicle detail sheet that had, only minutes before been the subject of
his questions, Radcliffe placed it next to the pile in front of him, neatly
covering the sheet brought in by the constable.

‘Do you know a man by the name of
Cyrec
Krawiec
?’ asked Radcliffe.

After a short pause came an equally short, ‘No
Inspector, I don’t think that I do.’

Pushing the new sheet brought in by the constable
across the table, Radcliffe once again changed tack, asking, ‘What about this
one?’ turning the paper around so that it could be read easily.

Printed in the centre of an otherwise blank
sheet was a single registration. Radcliffe saw a flicker of recognition
followed quickly by puzzlement.

‘That’s my wife’s car,’ he replied. ‘What’s
wrong? Has she had an accident? She’s away for the weekend. Stop the bloody
games Inspector. Tell me what the hell’s going on.’

‘I’m not aware of any accident,’ replied
Radcliffe. ‘But if this is your wife’s car, why isn’t it registered in her name
then?’

‘You didn’t need to drag me here to find the
answer to that,’ he said. ‘It’s in my name so that I can include it on the
business insurance scheme. It saves me quite a bit of money.’

‘Radcliffe took the paper back and placed it on
his pile, adding also the vehicle list. With a resigned look he turned to
Fraser and gave an imperceptible nod.

‘You own a successful business,’ said the
sergeant. ‘You employ a number of Eastern European workers, you dismantle cars
and sell the parts second hand, you repair cars, you buy and sell cars, you are
an official MOT testing station with your test rig linked to the government
register. Is that correct?’

‘It’s not a secret,’ he replied. I’ve built my
business up with hard graft over many years. Now, what’s wrong with that?’

‘Bear with us a little please,’ responded the
sergeant. ‘To run your business you have a workshop close to town, two lock-up
warehouses in
Birkdale
and another next to your
workshop. You are also a silent partner in an auto-electrical repair business,
is that also right?’

‘Yes,’ the reply was curt. ‘And I have a body
shop and spray booth on Virginia Street,’ he added.

‘Of course,’ said Fraser sarcastically. ‘How
remiss of me to leave that off,’ adding, ‘but with all those different sites
capable of storing lots of cars, why is your fake Ferrari not kept in one of
them?’

‘Because I keep my own cars separate from the
business. Look,’ he said, ‘you’ve gone all round the houses and I don’t know
where the hell you are going. You’ve asked me about my employees, my wife, my
cars, and you have obviously been checking up on how I run my business but I am
lost here. I’ve been as patient as I can be and answered your questions honestly.
But I’m wasting time when I should be in my office running my business. For the
life of me I cannot see the connection between my cars, my employees and my
wife.’

‘That’s quite a speech,’ commented Radcliffe.
‘But since you ask, there is a connection, but more of that in a minute. You
see, we scooped
Pawel
Lewinelsky
out of the gutter behind the Bold Hotel a couple of nights ago.’

‘I’m not surprised Inspector. He does like his
drink I am afraid. That was his only problem.’

‘Was? Why was?’

‘Is then. Does it matter?’

‘As a matter of fact it does,’ added Fraser.

‘Mr
Lewinelsky
is
dead.’ The statement was short and crisp with no attempt to soften its effect.
Radcliffe continued, ‘and a few days before that,
Cyrec
Krawiec
died in a car out near
Lydiate
.
They are both Polish, one of them works – or should I say used to work
– for you, and neither of them died from, shall we say, natural causes?’

‘What the . . . ‘

‘Hold on,’ commanded Fraser, ‘Inspector
Radcliffe hasn’t finished yet. Believe me, the coincidences do stretch the
imagination.’

‘You have admitted to owning a number of cars
stored out at a former Catholic college but we believe that some of the
vehicles there have been stolen,’ said Radcliffe. ‘There’s certainly an issue
with your wife’s car because its engine and chassis numbers don’t tally with
official records for the registration.’

Allowing the information to sink in, Radcliffe
continued, ‘A number of expensive cars have been stolen and it looks as though
some of them are being held alongside some of the cars that you legally own.
Two Polish nationals have been killed, one of whom was employed by you. When
the cars were stolen their tracker units were disabled and, surprise
surprise
, you own an auto-electrical business. Not
forgetting your wife’s car of course, the details of which
which
don’t match official records.