Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (49 page)

Feeling as though he had just
become the meat in a sandwich, Kevin started to rise, giving his aunt a sad
look. ‘I think that I had better go,’ he said. ‘I guess you two have things to
talk about.’

‘Stay there,’ Joan commanded,
reaching over and putting her hand on his arm to stop him, shaking her head
slowly and pursing her lips. Turning to her husband she continued, ‘Mike, we
went through all this earlier. This is not your house. The house and land are
mine. You don’t live here any more either. You are a lodger for a maximum of
one month. Now, get out of this room and close the door – this is a
private conversation.’

Mike glared at his wife, then,
taking a shaky step back, slammed the door. They could hear him lurch against
it and bump into the cloakroom door as he turned in the hall.

‘Shouldn’t I go and help him
Joan?’ asked Kevin. ‘He’s in a pretty bad way you know.’

‘No Kevin. Let him be. It’s about
time he started standing on his own two feet – metaphorically as well as
physically,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘though perhaps neither is possible
right now.’

Turning back from the now closed
door, Joan again pointed to her plan rolled out on the table, drawing his
attention to the caravan park reception complex and explaining that once the
caravans had been removed, the existing concrete rafts could be utilised as the
bases for new up-to-the-minute buildings.

He could see the sense in her
proposals but they seemed more than a little one-sided. Most of the
development, at least over the first three or four years, would be on his land
not hers. Caravans currently providing him with site rents would be removed and
his complete reception complex torn down. And importantly, so would his house
that was actually joined to the workshop. Where would the caravans go, from
where could he derive and income, and importantly, where would he live? In
contrast, his aunt would remain sitting pretty in her fancy house on the hill,
her land untouched and all the turmoil going on out of her sight, beyond the
tree line.

‘No Joan, it seems a bit one
sided to me. As far as I can see, your plan is to throw all my tenants off,
demolish my buildings and leave me with no business, no income – no roof
over my head even – while you just mortgage your house to pay for some
chalets on my land that I might never be able to let.
Butlins
and
Pontins
went down the tubes because people don’t
want chalets any more Joan. I can’t see the advantage in throwing the caravans
off and putting my tenants out of their homes. Some of them live there you
know, they are not holidaymakers. I can’t throw old Mrs Jessop and her cronies
out on the street now can I? And it looks as though you want to demolish my
home as well. Where am I supposed to live? And what’s in all this for you?’

She hadn’t expected such a
response. Blindly describing the physical aspects of caravans, buildings and
infrastructure, she had completely ignored the simple questions of why such
development should be done or whom it would be targeted at.

‘That’s not it at all,’ she said.
‘I got a little wrapped up in the mechanics of how to do it and completely
forgot to outline why. I’ll put the kettle on and then I will start again at
the beginning. If you will let me that is.’

Over a fresh pot of tea she had
explained in great detail. Outlining a bleak future for Green Fields Caravan
Park she hadn’t pulled any punches. The park was on its knees with no money for
refurbishment. It had no amenities, no swimming pool or function room, no café
or bar. There were no recreation facilities for children, and the reception
complex, including its out dated laundry, were simply worn out. There was no
doubt that without a major
refurb
, which he couldn’t
finance anyway, many of the caravan owners would follow the three that had
already decamped to the new
Lockside
site.

Facing her he just let her go on.
Everything she was saying was correct. Without an injection of cash his future
did look bleak. That was what his father had been trying to do: to get back the
land that was rightfully his and then to set up the means to finance its use.
Unfortunately however, Peter Archer had not told his son how he intended to
raise the required funds and that information had died with him. Kevin could
not see the answer.

‘Wouldn’t that be better for you
Kevin? You would have more space and a conventional building instead of your
old wooden thing.’

What in heavens name was she
talking about? Her detailed overview of the state of Green Fields had prompted
him to appraise the site from a visitor’s viewpoint. Doing so had forced him to
agree with his aunt and, for sure, if he were a punter thinking of siting a
caravan, he would discount Green Fields as soon as he had driven into its
dilapidated car park. Far away in his own thoughts, he had completely missed
her suggestions of how it could all be rectified.

‘Sorry Joan, I was miles away.
After you said about losing more vans to
Lockside
I
daydreamed a bit. Actually you are spot on. There were two more cancellations
over the weekend – both from long term tenants.’

Recapping, Joan had outlined her
plan. Their land had once been one farm. She suggested again combining them as
one unit jointly owned by the two of them. Because of the family feud her
father’s big four bedroomed farmhouse had remained empty since his death. Her
suggestion was that if it was modernised then Kevin could move into it instead
of continuing to live in a decrepit wooden chalet that needed knocking down.
That would then mean that Granddad’s house and its garden would be owned by
Kevin and she would keep her house and its garden. All the rest would be
legally combined under their joint ownership.

But there was no question of
holiday chalets, children’s playgrounds or redcoat style entertainment. What she
proposed was a retirement village, a complete gated community in the country
for residents aged 55 or older. Caravans would be replaced, not by holiday
chalets but by modern retirement bungalows. She had researched the market and
although technically of prefabricated construction and capable of erection
on-site quickly and economically, these modern bungalows were terrific homes.

Clearly she was enthusiastic. Had
he not been overawed for part of the time and away in his own thoughts for the
remainder, he would not have been able to get a word in edgeways anyway.

‘Making it an over 55 complex
means that we can sell some units outright, sell some on shared ownership which
then continues to bring part rental in, and keep some for us to rent out,’ she
concluded, adding ‘and all of them will pay a service charge anyway.’

‘OK, I can see that,’ he replied,
‘but where does the money come to do all this? The old caravans can just be
towed away but how do we finance the bungalows?’

‘While the land is split between us
it is a problem, obviously. But once the land has been combined the houses can
be re-mortgaged to kick-start the project,’ replied his aunt. ‘And with a
proper business plan I am sure that a loan could be obtained to finance the
first phase.’

‘I’ve got to admit that I like
the idea in principle,’ responded Kevin. ‘Replacing our reception with a brand
spanking new building that houses a common residents lounge, library, café,
games room and function suite is a very attractive proposition. And some of the
vans on the site at the moment are getting long in the tooth so your modern
bungalows sound a good idea too. But we would need more money than a mortgage
on the houses would provide and I doubt the banks would want to know. Dad tried
that and got nowhere.’

‘You are right Kevin. Financing a
run-down caravan park isn’t the safest investment for a bank is it? But
retirement homes are getting more and more popular and the American idea of
gated communities are considered to be top of the pile.’ With a big smile of
confidence she concluded, ‘I’ve bounced it off my friend at Barclays and he
says that we will have no trouble raising the funds without bringing in outside
investors, but that a watertight business plan would be essential. He also said
that we would have to put both houses into the pot as security, even if only to
demonstrate our commitment. I am prepared to do that Kevin, both for our
futures and those of our children.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ he responded
with a grin. ‘I have a cousin – your daughter – but I’ve not even
got a steady girlfriend, let alone got married. That’s all a bit in the future
isn’t it?’

‘We have to look forward or the
past will wipe us out. One day you will have your own family and what I see
down at Green Fields at the moment isn’t going to give you a family income. I
don’t think that your wooden chalet would impress a future bride either would
it Kevin?’

What had been planned as a
friendly thirty-minute chat had developed into a full-blown business meeting.
And that had then stretched to continue through dinner and into the early
evening. So intense were their discussions that neither of them noticed sudden
burst of activity along the road at the end of the drive or flashing blue
lights.

Thirty-Four

‘Right Gentlemen,’ said DCI Arthur Handley,
‘before we get to grips with the murder cases I would just like to apologise
Frank for having you go hither and thither instead of letting you concentrate
on your existing cases.’

‘Didn’t work though did it?’
replied Davies, ‘I’ve had to come back in the end.’

‘Let’s not get into that Frank.
It had to be done, just leave it at that.’

Handley made a show of moving
some papers about on his desk, shuffling a couple of large envelopes and then
putting everything back largely as it had been in the first place. In front of
him, DI Frank Davies and DI Don Radcliffe sat waiting to be grilled about an
investigation that had not gone anywhere. Three cases really, although the
common cause of death had linked them indelibly. It was a known fact that the
first twenty-four hours in any enquiry were crucial. These had gone way over
that time scale and as far as his superiors would be concerned, it mattered
little that Davies had run one enquiry and Radcliffe the other two. In their
Liverpool ivory towers, Handley would be tarred with the failures of his junior
officers as if he had run the cases himself. Clearly, Davies needed to protect
his backside with the fact that he had been taken off the Archer case –
so this meeting would be crucial.

‘I must say that I share Don’s
concern that the first scene wasn’t secured,’ Handley directed at Davies.
‘Anything could have happened between your initial visit and when you
eventually went back and secured the place Frank.’

‘What is this?’ burst out Davies
irately. ‘I have already discussed this with Don. Am I being ambushed and set
up as a scapegoat?’

‘Certainly not Frank,’ responded
the DCI. ‘I am playing devils advocate. These are exactly the questions that I
will be asked tomorrow and I want to have the answers.’

‘Sounds like a rerun of the Home
Office thing.’

‘Yes, in a way I suppose that it
is. Once again I am having to justify our existence. But in this case I don’t
go along with what the CSI lads said to you and I don’t suppose HQ will either.
Just think about it Frank, the perpetrator could have taken something from the
scene, or left something and gone back for it, anything like that, and with it
all being unsecured we don’t have a clue do we?’

‘Oh really Arthur,’ responded
Davies, ‘that’s all a bit far fetched. I mean, what’s somebody going to take
for God’s sake?’

‘Well we don’t know do we? But
there could be lots of scenarios. There was no identification on the body so
perhaps the perpetrator went back and took Archer’s wallet, his credit cards
and other identification.’ Letting the suggestion sink in, Handley continued,
‘Or he could have returned later to retrieve incriminating evidence out of
Archer’s van. Remember, it was parked at the farm shop. Since the scene was not
secured until later we will never know will we Frank?’

Davies shuffled on his chair. Was
he being set up or just grilled, so that in turn, his superior officer would be
able to withstand a grilling from even higher?

‘That’s all a bit fanciful isn’t
it?’

‘No Frank, actually I don’t think
that it is.’

Handley raised his eyebrows and
leaned back in his chair, closing the folder that had been open in front of
him.

‘How are you Frank?’ he asked.
‘Have you got anything worrying you?’

‘Davies sat up smartly. The
question was off the cuff and entirely unexpected.

‘Not particularly Arthur,’ he
replied. ‘Getting used to married life again is a bit strange after being my
own boss for three years, but it’ll settle down soon I suppose. Why do you
ask?’

‘You’ve seemed a bit edgy,’ said
Handley. ‘I thought that it was because you were irritated at doing the
conference thing but if there’s anything else on your mind you can discuss it
with me you know.’

‘I’ve not enjoyed it that’s for
sure,’ responded Davies. ‘Let’s face it, doing uniforms job for them isn’t much
better than being put on gardening leave is it?’ Warming to the theme he
continued, ‘I am a detective Arthur, not a traffic cop or a uniformed plod on
the beat.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it as
strong as that,’ replied Handley, holding up a finger to put Davies
metaphorically on hold while he took yet another call. ‘Yes, thanks for that,’
he said into the phone, ‘bring it in will you please.’

Handley once again turned to the
two men seated in front of him and changed tack, asking Davies about his
meeting with the Home Office men. His attention had now moved to the Ramada
Hotel and the perceived risks Davies had identified.

As Davies started to update
Handley, there was a knock on the door and an officer gave the DCI an envelope.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, ‘do continue Frank.’

 
‘They are genuine concerns Arthur,’
offered Davies. ‘Right across the Marine Lake from the Ramada there are two
real opportunities for a marksman to pick off any delegates out on the
veranda.’ Making eye contact he added, ‘Yes Arthur, chances to pop off the PM.
Afternoon tea or evening dinner on the veranda overlooking the lake is one of
the Ramada’s selling points and there’s no way you will stop the likes of the
PM and his cronies from doing that. There’s a clear shot from the ocean Plaza
retail site and that worries me. The Home Office boys saw the risk but the two
Merseyside Police officers that
werewith
them from HQ
didn’t seem to understand. It was quite strange. I didn’t understand it
really.’

‘That maybe so,’ replied Handley,
‘but there are other issues we need to look at. Let’s get back to our main
purpose shall we?’ Shuffling his papers again, Handley put one in front of him.
‘Let’s look at the common links between the three deaths for a minute.’

‘I don’t think that there are any
Arthur.’

‘What? No links? What about the
same cause of death for all three and the same nationality for two and three?’

‘I know what the pathologist
said,’ replied Davies, ‘but I think that he’s wrong.’

Handley gave him his famous chin
down, eyebrows raised, furrowed brow and bottom lip held between his teeth look
that said ‘you can’t be serious’.

‘I think that the first death,
Peter Archer, was as the doc said – a heart attack,’ offered Davies. ‘The
asphyxia thing is pretty oddball at the best of times and Archer wasn’t into
sex games anyway. My hunch is that he stopped off at the farm tea shop on his
way to London and just popped his clogs.’

A quiet onlooker, Radcliffe
exchanged glances with Handley. Handley returned his attention to Davies.

‘So what about our second death
then?’

‘It’s the same for the second and
the third,’ stated Davies. ‘This asphyxia theory is just that, something
dreamed up by the pathologist to give him a bit of fame – you know, the
guy who discovered the unknown – but it’s all a bit lame really and those
reports are not worth the paper that they are written on because it can’t be
proved. No use if we can’t use it is it?’

Having made his point Davies
nodded at Handley and then turned to give Radcliffe a triumphant smile.

‘Go on, this is beginning to get
fascinating,’ said Radcliffe.

‘Once you take out the flaky
asphyxia theory there are no links at all.’

‘Not even nationality?’ asked
Handley.

‘That’s just coincidence,’
replied Davies. ‘Just look at them individually. In the first case Archer was
found huddled in a derelict fireplace with not a mark on him. Heart attack,
pure and simple. The second death, the Polish bloke.’

‘
Cyrec
Krawiec
,’ cut in Radcliffe.

‘Whatever. Well, that was the
most bungled cover-up I’ve ever seen. I’d like a second PM on him,
Krawiec
or whatever he is called, to establish the cause of
death properly. My guess is that there’s a cheated lover somewhere who found
some way of bumping him off and tried to make it look like a car accident.’

‘So what about the third death?’

‘Found at the back of a pub
wasn’t he Arthur? As you know, I’ve not done anything on that case, but if I
had then I would have been checking all the drinkers in the pub that night. Ten
to one there’s an argument somewhere that was settled outside.’ Looking at his
superior and his fellow DI, Davies added, ‘No connections at all gentlemen.’

‘That’s quite a theory,’ offered
Handley. ‘Indeed, it flies in the face of virtually everything that Don has put
forward. And the Force Major Incident Team of course.’

‘What the hell have MIT got to do
with it? I thought that they weren’t taking over until tomorrow?

‘That’s right Frank,’ replied
Handley, but don’t forget that Don spent a morning in Liverpool justifying our
continuing involvement. One of their conditions was that two HQ lads came to
help him out.’ Waving some of the papers from in front of him and turning to
look at Radcliffe he continued, ‘And they seem to be thinking along the same
lines. Why not update us Don?’

‘Well, far from being no links,
we think that there are lots.’ Directing his response at Davies he continued,
‘The pathology diagnosis isn’t flaky Frank; it is proven and etched in stone.
On the face of things the three deaths do look individual but there are several
underlying links. They look different because they were supposed to do. Death
number one – Peter Archer – was supposed to look like a coronary
and it fooled the doc, but the pathologist was brilliant in finding the true
cause of death.’

Handley reached out to prevent
Davies butting in as Radcliffe continued.

‘Not securing the scene gave the
perpetrator the opportunity to remove valuable evidence.’

‘Is this a debriefing or a bloody
witch hunt?’ burst in Davies. ‘We’ve already gone through this. Get off my back
will you? The bloody bloke had a heart attack. End of story.’

‘No he didn’t,’ responded
Radcliffe. ‘And while the site was unsecured, vital evidence was removed from
the body and also his van. How that was all done, the killing and disposal of
the body, showed a pretty good understanding of forensics.’

‘Oh, I suppose you are going to
point the finger at one of the CSI lads, or DS Fraser, or DC Crompton. So now
who’s theory is flaky?’

‘Cool it Frank,’ advised Handley.
‘These are serious cases and you need to hear Don out.’

‘Do I? It looks to me as though
despite evidence to the contrary, all three are being bundled together and
handed over to the Major Incident Team with yours truly as the scapegoat for
failure based on the first scene not being secured immediately. I don’t like that
Arthur.’

‘I can’t say that I like the
situation we have here either Frank,’ responded Handley, but your theory is
just that, a theory, while Don has unearthed some real facts. Along with MIT of
course. Now, Don, please continue – and Frank, just listen for now
please, I’ll give you the opportunity to comment once we all know what we are
supposed to be discussing.’

Davies scowled. Handley sat back,
surveying his troops. Radcliffe cleared his throat.

‘As I said, Peter Archer’s death
showed an awareness of forensics. It looked like a coronary because it was
meant to do. The second death,
Cyrec
Krawiec
, followed the same pattern, it looked like a murder
dressed up as a bungled car accident because we were supposed to treat it as a
separate death and not make any connection between the two. Remember, there
were leaks to the media and it was already common knowledge that Archer had not
died of natural causes.