Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (40 page)

Standing, Fraser closed the file and tucked it under
his arm.

……….

Turning his key in the lock, Steven Wilson paused,
trying to take himself in hand. Regaining his self-control was not easy but
then that must be understood, nobody expects to be a prime murder suspect.
Having been held in a cell overnight, Wilson had been puzzled why his wife had
not visited him. Perhaps she had reported him missing and, when told he was
being held on suspicion of murder, decided to distance herself. Or perhaps one
of a hundred other possibilities. Alison was a damned good teacher and
brilliant with children, but he had always handled all aspects of officialdom
because they were out of her comfort zone. Perhaps she had just been too scared
to enter the police station.

And all because of that little shit, Brian
Whatshisname. Wilson had kicked himself several times while in custody; why had
he not at least run an HPI check on the car before buying it? He always
recommended others to make their checks before buying a second hand car so why
had he not followed his own advice? Silly bugger.

Normally well dressed, Wilson was clearly not his usual
self. You didn’t take your overnight bag into the police station did you? Still
in the same clothes he had been wearing in the office two days ago, his shirt
was dishevelled and his tie now bunched up and hanging out of a trouser pocket.
Unshaven and mentally worn down, at best he looked a scruff.

Closing the door behind him he walked down the hall
into their large kitchen. Alison was sat on a high stool at the breakfast bar.
Showing no sign that she had even heard him come in, she did not turn to greet
her husband. Her head was nestling on her arms on the breakfast bar, her
shoulders slowly rising and falling as she sobbed.

Wilson didn’t know what to say or do. Day in and day
out he wrestled with decisions at work, he handled the problems experienced by
his staff and calmed disgruntled customers, but this was a new experience and
he simply did not know what to do.

Slowly, she lifted her head and looked across at him
with glazed eyes, wiping them with her sleeve.

‘Oh Steve,’ she blurted out. ‘I am so, so, sorry.’

For what to both of them seemed an eternity they just
looked at each other silently.

‘And what my love have you got to be sorry for?’ he
said, breaking the silence. ‘It is all my fault. I should have run an HPI. It
is what I always tell others to do. I should have known that there would be
something wrong with a virtually new car being offered for less than half its
value. I should have smelled a rat. I don’t know if your teacher mate knew
anything about it – perhaps he didn’t and just acted in good faith
– but it is my business for heavens sake and I should have known.’

Again, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Her lips
were swollen and her makeup in such a mess she could have been the victim of a
beating. Together they looked a sorry pair. Thoughts whirled in her head. Did
he know about the affair? It certainly sounded as if he didn’t. So could
something be salvaged? Was, perhaps, all not lost?

‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, her voice wobbly
and her words punctuated by sobs. ‘The police said you were being questioned
about a murder and then they took my car away.’

‘I’ll sort the car. That’s not a problem. Apparently
yours was a ringer and because I am in the motor trade they thought that I was
involved - then they linked that to
Pawel
and started
talking about murder. It was hell for a time.’

‘What do you mean, a ringer?’ she asked, sobs
reducing as her mind wrestled with new information. And who’s
Pawel
?’

‘Your car was stolen Ali. It was stolen and then its
identity changed by altering the numbers. Once that’s done it can be
re-registered. It’s called ringing. I don’t know where your car was stolen from
but whoever nicked it probably bought a written off crashed car of the same
model then changed the details. That’s how they sometimes do it.’ Looking at
her forlornly he added, ‘Bloody hell Ali, I walked right into it. I’ve been a
bloody fool.’

‘So what about this
Pawel
bloke then? Who’s he?’

‘One of my Polish mechanics.
Pawel
Lewinelsky
. He didn’t turn up for work for a couple
of days and didn’t answer his mobile when we called him either. Apparently the
police found him in the gutter behind the Bold on Lord Street.’

So what had happened to him? Did he get into a fight
in the pub? Surely the police know you didn’t go anywhere near – everyone
knows you don’t drink.’

‘No Ali. Not a pub brawl. Apparently he was murdered
but they didn’t tell me how. They just kept asking questions not telling me
things. But another bloke got killed driving over the moss and because they
were both Polish and
Pawel
worked for me and you were
driving a stolen car, they thought they had a link.’

Again they looked at each other in silence. Slowly
she slipped off her stool and walked across the kitchen. Leaning against him, a
sodden tissue still clasped in her clenched hand, she buried her face in his
crumpled shirt, her tears forming rivers down the cloth. Resting his stubbly
chin on her head and drawing her close, he felt, rather than heard, her sobs.

……….

Simon Charlton had parked the Olympic in the car park
outside the huge Tesco supermarket, slotting it into one of many spare bays
over towards the road at the edge of the site. The furthest away from the store
entrance, these were the least used but ideal for his purpose. While parking
charges had recently been increased at the hospital, almost doubled in fact,
the supermarket was only a few minutes walk away and parking was free. Those
bays were closest to the footpath leading to the road.

Having parked the car they had gone their separate
ways; Simon into the store to do his shopping and Debbie across to the
hospital, with an agreement that they would meet in Applejacks, the hospital
coffee shop, which was where they both were, mugs of hot coffee in front of
them, albeit from a vending machine.

‘A bit of a waste of time then?’ observed Charlton,
sipping his coffee and holding the mug in two hands for warmth.

‘I suppose so,’ replied Debbie. ‘But they are
expecting him to come round shortly.’ Brightening she smiled at Simon and
added, ‘But once we’ve drunk up we are on our way. Then it will be Don
Radcliffe’s problem and I will have carried out what you dropped me into.’

‘Come on Debbie,’ he countered. ‘You need to get some
Brownie points to counter the muck you were in and it’s only cost us a bit of
time.’

Debbie sensed somebody standing next to her.

‘Excuse me sergeant,’ said the nurse, ‘there’s some
activity on the monitor and the doctor thinks that there may be a change
shortly. Perhaps you would like to come back up?’

Debbie exchanged glances with Simon. Yet again their
plans were being thwarted.

Following the nurse they soon arrived back at the
intensive care department that Debbie had left only fifteen minutes earlier.
There was far more room around each bed than Simon thought usual and two were
completely screened off by curtains. Of the four remaining beds, one was
unoccupied but patients in the other three were linked up to equipment and
monitors by numerous tubes and wires. There was an eerie silence in the room
– no chattering or watching TV in here – underscored by the
constant whirring and humming of the machines and regular pinging noises.
Everything seemed efficiently under control yet lacking in coordination, the
pings from one patient’s monitors not synchronising with those of the others.

The nurse led Charlton and
Lescott
to the far end of the ward, where a doctor was checking a monitor while another
nurse checked her patient. Turning as he heard them approach, the doctor
apologised for wasting their time, explaining that the unknown man was not
coming out of sedation as fast as he had expected. This was going to be a
longer job than he had thought.

Tucked up in his hospital bed, Simon thought that the
man did not look ill at all, just asleep. The nurse had pulled the bed sheet
almost up to his shoulders and tucked him in like a mother looking after her
helpless child, laying his arms on top of the covers. Wearing hospital pyjamas
his hands and face looked clean and bright, his hair had been combed and other
than the spider’s web of tubes and wires, there were few clues to the trauma he
had experienced.

Given what he had gone through, Charlton had expected
him to have been visibly injured and what he was looking at surprised him.
Debbie saw his surprise but did not comment, turning instead to the doctor.

‘Doctor, what are we looking at here? The nurse said
there was some activity on the monitor. Does that mean he will be OK or is
there still a chance he might be brain damaged? Obviously we cannot have an
officer standing around doing nothing for hour after hour but we do need to
know who he is and ask him some questions.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied the doctor,
writing an entry on a chart. ‘I did think that there were some signs but maybe
I was being a little hasty. He is progressing nicely but looks as though we
will have to wait a few more hours before anything becomes any clearer I am
afraid.’ Hanging the clipboard on the end of the bed he told
Lescott
that she would just have to be patient and then
disappeared behind the curtain surrounding the next bed.

Walking down the corridor, Debbie ribbed Simon. Here
was the big guy, the man that lived an action packed life full of high
performance cars and sessions at the indoor kart circuit. The man who always
had something to say and always voiced his opinion. Yet at the bedside of a
sick man he had been silent and ashen faced. God only knew how the wimp would
react if he came up against some of the sights she had to contend with. It had
been said in obvious jest, but with clear jibe undercurrents.

‘I didn’t expect him to look so ordinary,’

‘He is ordinary Simon. He’s just a normal bloke
that’s been the victim of an accident. That’s all.’

‘I know. But there isn’t a mark. I expected lots of
bruising or some cuts and obvious damage.’

‘He’s not been beaten up,’ she replied as they strode
along. ‘He was crushed under a vehicle. No doubt there will be some marks on
his body but they will be hidden by the bedclothes won’t they?’ adding, ‘Simon
Charlton, you old softie.’

Simon stopped suddenly, putting his hand out to stop
Debbie going any further. ‘It wasn’t his condition,’ he said.

Looking at him, Debbie sensed a change. She had never
seen Simon react in this way. Hospitals, accidents, illness, and beatings
– he had seen them all and simply took them in his stride. Apprehensive,
she waited for an explanation.

‘Debbie,’ he said gently. ‘I know him.’

Twenty-Seven

Closing his car door with a slam, DS Kyle
Fraser briskly covered the six paces across the small car park, taking the
steps outside the building in two strides. Pushing open the heavy doors, he
rushed through the public area and past the glassed-in enquiry desk, wending
his way through several short corridors to reach the custody suite. After
exchanging pleasantries with the desk sergeant, he instructed that a man
currently in a waiting area be moved into his favourite interview room, before
partly retracing his steps and taking a flight of stairs up to the area of
Albert Road police station where most of the real work was carried out. This
was where the boring day to day tasks and paperwork that were taking up more
and more of a policeman’s workload with each passing day were done. Over a
period of time, actual numbers of officers had increased but the hours spent on
patrol, on the beat or other real policing had shrunk markedly and those
officers finding themselves harnessed to computer keyboards or using up gallon
after gallon of ink found their working lives ever more irritating.

‘OK Lou,’ he said as he entered the room. ‘I’ve
got them putting Randy Brian into Interview Three. Are you ready?’ picking up a
folder from his own desk.

Was she ready? What a silly question. Of course
she was. Death was never good, whatever the circumstances, but being involved
with the current enquiries was a whole world away from trekking out to
pensioner’s bungalows to follow up on burglaries. Fifteen minutes to get there,
thirty minutes with tea and biscuits to take notes, fifteen minutes back to the
station, and then a tedious half day of form filling and statement typing. The car
thefts and murders had brought variety and, though she dare not admit it
openly, excitement to her working hours. There had been a moment when she had
held her breath, lest she be assigned as DI Davies’ lackey, sorting out
security for the forthcoming political conference, then breathed a sigh of
relief when Sean had fallen for that brief. And to sit in on an interrogation
was an added bonus, even though referring to what was in front of her as
interrogation was frowned upon.

So Detective Constable Louise Green followed
him out, struggling to keep up. Fraser walked at a fast pace, almost jumping
down the staircase and exhibiting an urgency that charged Green with even more
anticipation. Reaching the interview room before her, he took hold of the
well-worn doorknob and waited for her to catch up.

‘Watch and listen,’ he said to her. ‘This guy
could just be an innocent bystander or a key player. We don’t know. I’ve just
dashed back from
Ormskirk
and Don Radcliffe is
convinced that Randy Brian is involved. Me? I am not so sure. I think that
there is a fair chance that he just fancied a leg-over with one of his work
mates and happened to chose the wife of somebody seedy.’

‘That’s a bit crude,’ she replied, ‘but in any
case, DI Radcliffe has released Mr Wilson without charge.’

‘I know that Lou,’ he said, ‘but I think he was
wrong. We just didn’t have anything concrete to hold him on.’ Waving the folder
in her face he continued, ‘this interview will be make or break. I want to find
out if this bloke is involved – I am pretty sure that he is not –
and to see what he knows about Steve Wilson. With a bit of luck Brian will be
able to go back to his randy ways having put his lover’s husband well and truly
in the frame.

‘Follow what I do and say,’ he continued.
‘Don’t jump in unless I give you the nod. OK, let’s go,’ as he turned the
doorknob and strode confidently into the room.

Sparsely furnished with only a table and four
chairs, Interview Room Three was austere, instantly creating a feeling of
insecurity in many interviewees. If only for that reason, officers sometimes
brought suspects into the station to be interviewed rather than chatting to
them in their own homes or offices where, on their own territory, they felt
more confident.

If that had been the intention, it didn’t seem
to be working in this case. Seated at the opposite side of the table and facing
them as they entered, the man they had come to interview looked anything but
intimidated. Rather, he looked supremely confident and the absolute epitome of
innocence.

‘Good afternoon Mr Smith,’ said Fraser as he
and his colleague took their chairs. ‘I am DS Fraser and this is my colleague,
DC Green. Before we start, can I just confirm that you are helping us of your
own free will and are free to leave at any time? However,’ he added, ‘if you do
leave and we find that we need to continue our conversation at a later time, we
may have to enforce that. Do you understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ he replied. ‘But for
the record, I am not Mr Smith. My name is Bradshaw-Smith.’

‘My mistake,’
rejoined
Fraser, adding, ‘DC Green will make a note of that,’ although he knew full well
that the man’s hyphenated name was already on the typed sheet.

Opposite the two officers, Bradshaw-Smith
settled easily. He had scored round one and established his authority.
Immaculately dressed, he oozed respectability and leaned back in his chair
confidently.

‘Sergeant,’ he said, looking to score more
pints, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why I’ve been brought here or why
we are going through this charade.’ Leaning forward onto the table he brought
his hands together,
steepled
his fingers, and rested
his chin on his thumbs to show off a crisply laundered shirt with double cuffs
secured with car shaped silver cuff links.

‘Please bear with us,’ responded Fraser. ‘All I
want to do is ask your help in a little matter then we can all go home.’
Opening the folder in front of him he glanced down, then returned his attention
to the dapper man sitting opposite.

‘That’s a nice shirt Mr Smith, did you get it
from Next, or perhaps Matalan?’

Bradshaw-Smith seemed affronted. ‘Good heavens
no. Even the branded stuff is made by child labour in Asian sweatshops. I
wouldn’t be seen dead in it. All my shirts are hand made in Jermyn Street,
London. This is a T. M.
Lewyn
and I also have some
Charles Tyrwhitt,’ pronouncing the latter
Tyrritt
.

‘My apologies,’ responded Fraser. ‘Police pay
doesn’t stretch to much more than Marks and Sparks I am afraid.’ Changing the
subject, Fraser continued, ‘I understand that you are friendly with a Mrs
Alison Wilson, how well do you know her?’

Watching him closely, Fraser detected only a
slight change of expression before Bradshaw-Smith answered. Fraser was already
warming to him. He was passing the test.

‘Alison?’ asked Bradshaw-Smith. ‘She is just a
fellow teacher. There’s nothing more. I don’t know much about her other than
she is a good teacher. Why do you ask?’

‘Don’t you mix socially? You know, organised
trips to the Zoo at half term and meeting up in a pub afterwards when the
children gave gone home, that sort of thing.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing. My half term is
usually taken up with doing all the jobs at home that I don’t get time to do in
term time. Teachers work harder than you think you know. I don’t get time to
socialise with my colleagues, much as I would like to do.’

‘That’s strange. You see, our information is
that you are quite close to Mrs Wilson.’

‘I don’t know where you get your information,’
returned Bradshaw-Smith indignantly, ‘but I would suggest that it is more than
a little suspect. Alison Wilson is a colleague. Nothing more and nothing less.
We are both teachers at the same school. That’s all there is to it.’

‘I assure you that our information is not
suspect Mr Smith, replied Fraser. ‘That’s what we do Mr Smith. We collect
accurate information and act on it.’ Pausing to let his words take effect, he
continued, ‘And our information is that over the last few months you have spent
six nights with Mrs Wilson at the Premier Inn, the Morris Dancers, the Bold and
the
Scarisbrick
Hotel.’

Bradshaw-Smith stared at Fraser, then, visibly
shaken, said, ‘And where did you get that load of nonsense?’

‘Never mind that,’ responded Fraser,
comfortable with the effect he was having. ‘But let’s drop the pretence shall
we? We couldn’t care less about your dirty little goings on with Mrs Wilson
because we are actually interested in her husband. What do you know about him
Mr Smith?’

‘I don’t know anything about her husband. I’ve
never even met him. And for the last time, my name is not Mr Smith.’

‘OK, have it your way. But let’s get one thing
clear. Our information is accurate. We know all about you. We know all about
your affair with Mrs Wilson and how many times you have slept with her. And we
also know that while your family name is Smith, you added the Bradshaw bit
yourself so that you could look good when you took up your present post. Isn’t
Bradshaw the area of Bolton where you were brought up as a child Mr Smith?’
said Fraser, emphasising Smith heavily.

In front of him, Smith had lost most of his
composure, his confidence drained.

‘Look Brian,’ said Louise, her warm delivery
and use of his first name giving a good cop, bad cop feel to the interview. ‘We
are not really interested in you or Mrs Wilson. Just help us out here will you?
What we want is the inside track on Mr Wilson. We know that you sold a car to
him, so did he pay with cash or a cheque? And where did the registration come
from? Did you buy that for her or did her husband?’

Subdued, Smith looked from one to the other but
did not reply.

‘Come on Mr Smith,’ urged Fraser. ‘Stop playing
games. You have the answers so just give them to us and we can all go home. Or
do I have to make this official? I can caution you and switch the recorder on
if you wish, but it will then get messy. It’s up to you Brian.’

‘OK he said. Have it your way. Ali and me were
an item. Her husband’s a bit of a wimp. She got bored and I was there. It’s
over now though.’ Looking up, he continued, ‘She wanted a new car and I heard
of one going cheap. That’s all. I told her about it and she fancied it. I took
it round to their house and her husband bought it for her. That was the first,
and the last time, I saw him.’

The about turn had been remarkable. A confident
and almost arrogant dandy had been reduced to a weak lump of putty, even
affecting his grammar and presentation. Proper questioning could at last
commence.

Changing tack, Fraser started pressing Smith
about the car. Who owned it, how much had it cost and why was the price so low
for an almost new car? How did he find out that the car was for sale and had he
taken a commission for finding a buyer?

Then he had changed direction abruptly, with
probing questions about Steve Wilson. Repeating DC Green’s still unanswered
questions he had again asked how Wilson had paid then moved on to more personal
aspects of the Wilson’s life.

Repeating his directional change ploy, Fraser
then went back to the car Smith had located for his lover, digging deeper and
deeper each time, finally bringing the interview to a close with a hearty,
‘Thank you very much for coming in Mr Smith. We really appreciate all the help
you have given us.’ Then, in an advisory tone, ‘If I were you I wouldn’t
discuss any of this Mr Smith. Mr Wilson is aware of his wife’s infidelity and I
suspect that he isn’t all that happy about it. I would steer a wide berth if I
were you,’ adding, ‘between you and me, the information you’ve given us about
Mr Wilson has been very helpful.’