Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (11 page)

‘But it isn’t Tuesday or Wednesday, yet you are
still open.’

‘Of course Sergeant. We never throw anybody
out, although we don’t let any new customers in after about five,’ going on to
explain that if there were still customers in the shop then they would carry on
until they had finished. Did that happen often? In the season, yes. Sometimes
day trippers would drop in for a quick cup of tea or coffee before leaving for
home and when they did they were usually tempted by what was left so it could
be quite profitable with extra cakes and sandwiches they wouldn’t otherwise
have sold. If he checked he would see that the door had already been locked and
the closed sign displayed. Already the other waitresses had all gone. It was
her job to stay there until he went and then to wash up his pots and close the
shop.’

‘Oh dear.’ Now it was the sergeant’s turn to be
embarrassed. ‘I am sorry Helen, I didn’t realise that you were only staying
here for me. And look at the time. I’ve really kept you for a long time. And
you’ve given me my drinks for free too. I must pay for them before I go.’

While explaining the tea shop’s rather old
fashioned outlook to opening hours, Helen had poured herself a cup and slipped
in to the seat next to him.

‘No bother. I’ve nothing to rush home for and I
might as well be here chatting to you as anywhere. I’ve enjoyed talking and I
am ready for a cuppa myself anyway,’ she said, a cute smile on her face.

‘So, how did you manage to get across to The
Palette art class if the group came in here first and you then had to tidy up
and do the chores before you could leave?’

‘We have a rota. It’s my turn to finish early
on Tuesdays because I stay for the photography group on Wednesdays. I used to
change out of my tea shop uniform and sit with them for a while and then we all
used to go over to the studio together.’

With the ice broken, Helen had opened up and
spoken more freely. Apparently the Life Art Group had numbered about twelve
would-be artists when it had started a few months ago but had soon settled down
to around eight regulars. Mike Johnson usually introduced the model and gave a
little talk and instruction for about a quarter of an hour before they all
tried to do a picture themselves. There was a different model each session. And
yes, they were mainly females (but there had been a couple of men as well). One
week the model had not turned up. The whole group had been disappointed and
since they had all been there for the art and there had never been any hanky
panky
, she had allowed herself to be persuaded to be the
stand in model. What a mistake that had been!

She had been embarrassed throughout the
session, but afterwards it had got even worse. Every time she met one of the
group she just knew from their expressions that they were mentally undressing
her. She couldn’t look any of them in the eye – so she stopped going to
the group. And for the same reason she couldn’t work in the tea shop on Tuesday
evenings either. The final straw had been when Mike Johnson had put that sketch
in his shop window. Up until then it had only been the art group that had
known, but once the sketch was on show, all and sundry started coming to gaze,
gawp – and to point their grubby little fingers at her. It just wasn’t
nice at all. Of course it was fine for Mike Johnson because it was attracting
people to his art sessions, and it was alright for the Windsor tea Rooms as
well because it was attracting new clientele there too; come on, lets go and
have a cuppa with the nude model. Both businesses were making money out of her
misery. It just wasn’t fair.

No, the artist had not propositioned her and
no, she had not flirted with him. What an imposition! He was old enough to be
her dad for heavens sake. Actually, all the sessions were group sessions, she
knew of no one-to-one sessions at all and definitely no sex. Mike wasn’t like
that. He lived for his art. Entirely. Absolutely.

Well, thought Fraser, Helen might well hold
Mike Johnson in high esteem, but when a young woman had entered The Palette
just an hour and a half ago, hadn’t Mike Johnson immediately locked up and
switched the window lights off? And hadn’t the two of them then gone upstairs,
where the blinds had been immediately closed? And hadn’t everything stayed that
way until five minutes ago when they had come back downstairs?
 
Again, he looked across at the shop. The
lights were still off but he could just about see the artist and the woman in the
gloom, and they certainly seemed to be very familiar with each other. However
it was interpreted, it was certainly a one-to-one session of some kind or
other. But was it art?

Eight

Wandering over to his office window, Detective
Inspector Don Radcliffe took a swig of his coffee – though calling the
liquid coffee was erring on the generous – and took in the view. If
peering through any of the police station’s windows was intended to provoke
inspiration, at that particular moment it wasn’t delivering any degree of
success. The sky was overcast and the view depressing.

Once an essential element of a central
development that combined the local court, police, ambulance, and fire services
on a rectangular plot, over time, what had seemed like forward thinking and an
aid to efficiency had become just the opposite.
 
Houses once lived in by policemen and
firefighters
so that they could quickly be on-the-spot and
ready for action had been sold off. The fire station had passed its sell-by and
needed replacing. Some police operations were being handled from a portable
cabin and as more and more officers became car owners (not to mention the move
from beat bobbies to car based operations), its car park had long since been
closed to the public. And then had come the final straw. As one of many
financial cuts put in-place by a new coalition government to correct the
excesses of its predecessor, the court building had been closed.

From his window, Radcliffe stared out at
further evidence of decline. Though lauded for its Victorian heritage and
promoted by the council as England’s Classic Resort, the face of Southport had
changed. And not everyone thought that that was for the better.

Directly opposite, what in the hey day of the
British motor industry had been a showroom for British manufactured cars had
been swallowed up and resurfaced as a Tesco Express. Just out of sight to his
left was Southport’s famous Lord Street, once a centre of up-market shopping
with furriers, chocolatiers, gown shops and other top drawer establishments.
Now, despite its wide pavements and remaining iron awnings, all the classy
shops had gone, replaced by Debenhams, Starbucks, Next, remainder bookshops,
one of those dreadful shops where nothing costs more than one pound, and more
charity shops than locals were comfortable with.

The phone on Radcliffe’s desk brought him up
with a start. Modern telephones were confounded instruments. Why did phones now
bleep, jangle, or even play a tune but never make the very sound that they
should? What was wrong with the familiar ring of a telephone bell? You might
offer to ring somebody later but you wouldn’t say that you would give them a
chirp, a bleep, or a blast of Colonel Bogey would you? And when you did make a
call, doubtless you would be greeted by a computer voice giving you a string of
options instructing you to press one for this, two for that, or any other
number dreamed up by the confounded computer. There was more chance of getting
a full line of numbers on a lottery slip than proceeding through a computerised
telephone system with correct numbers in less than twenty minutes.

With three major cases on the go and numerous
others needing his input, the phone was both a blessing and a curse; the odds
were equal on it either bringing instant information or wasting interminable
time on useless conversation. On this occasion it was neither. The call was
short and to the point. He was being summoned to a meeting with his immediate
superior. The summons was not particularly welcome. Whatever the topic, you
could not cover your backside where Chief Inspector Arthur Handley was
concerned. Known colloquially as Handy Andy, Handley had been a bit of a whiz
in his time so knew all of the dodges, which made it virtually impossible to
dupe the guy. There was no going off on your own agenda because Handy Andy
would always second-guess, not only your course of action, but even your
thoughts – or so it seemed. But then again, if you needed support then
you could bank on it. And when Handy Andy called, a trip down the corridor was
non-optional.

……….

In contrast to the harsh vinegary taste of the
discount store instant coffee he had left on his own desk, the rich aroma that
greeted Radcliffe as he entered his superior’s office was closer to that of the
finest Italian coffee house.

‘Thanks for coming Don,’ the chief said,
indicating one of two chairs positioned facing each
otherin
front of his desk in an arrangement that put the visitor at a disadvantage,
requiring him to squirm at right angles just to face the senior officer. ‘How
are your cases going?’

Radcliffe knew what was coming next. He would
be asked to drop one of his cases and put more effort into an alternative.
Usually the case to be dropped would be the one Radcliffe was most interested
in and the one to be favoured likely to have some connection with a local
official using Handy Andy to his or her personal benefit. Currently however
nothing seemed to be moving forward particularly quickly – and none had
any connections to local dignitary either. Perplexed, Radcliffe waited on his
superior for more clues.

‘Is there any progress on the Johnson attack?’

‘It’s reached a bit of a brick wall at the
moment Arthur,’ he replied. The two men having been friends for many years,
first names was the rule in private – the exception being when an
unpalatable order was about to be meted out. ‘Johnson is still adamant that he
recognised his brother-in-law’s voice but the bloke was seen elsewhere at the
time. On the other hand, there’s a notion that Johnson might have been doing a
bit more than giving art lessons at his studio, which opens up the possibility
of a jealous husband on the rampage. I’ve got Kyle Fraser looking into that at
the moment, but in reality we are not actually moving forward.’

‘And what about the cars?’

Car theft was not a new phenomenon,
particularly in the tourist season when day-trippers flocked into town and, run
ragged by hordes of young brats, left their cars unlocked. Handley was however
referring to a higher than normal number of expensive cars going missing in
recent weeks. On the basis that anybody able to buy a car worth almost as much
as Radcliffe’s house could darn well go out and buy a replacement if it got
nicked, Radcliffe hadn’t paid much attention to the thefts, delegating their
investigation to lower ranks, justifying his lack of involvement by presenting
it as being in the interests of good experience. How could that be explained
without actually admitting a complete lack of interest on his part? The answer
to that was with difficulty. Or where Handy Andy was concerned, not at all.

‘Car theft is a constant irritant Arthur.’
Hoping that the lack of detail available to him wouldn’t backfire, he
continued. ‘But whether these more upmarket cars going AWOL are just
coincidence or indicative of a new trend, or even interconnected for that matter,
I couldn’t say. I’ve got a couple of constables checking them out as they pop
up but there’s nothing jumping out at the moment.’

Leaning back in his chair, Handley dipped his
head to peer over his half glasses at his subordinate, raising his eyebrows in
an expression that shouted from the rooftops that he knew exactly why there had
been no progress.

‘Come on Don.’ The eyebrows had lowered but the
look remained. ‘You’ve had no interest from the start and the way you delegated
the cases is tantamount to pigeon holing them. You can’t do that just because
people are having their
Mercs
and Ferrari’s nicked
while you are driving around in a
repmobile
.’

‘That’s a little unfair Arthur. There’s always
been a bit of car theft and the trippers don’t help when they leave their cars
unlocked or their keys lying about.’

‘Quite.’

Radcliffe could see that they were now coming
to the point of the meeting. Hopefully he wasn’t going to be detailed to check
up on stolen Nissan, Vauxhall or, God forbid, Tata pickups for the next
fortnight. Handley’s inquisitive look had disappeared so no doubt some sort of
pronouncement was coming. He was as easy to read as a first grade schoolbook.
First he made himself comfortable and more relaxed, and then he would get all
chummy to create a Mr Nice Guy impression. When he was in the ascendancy and
clearly in his comfort zone, the instructions were about to be delivered. Wait
for it – here comes Mr Chummy!

Reaching across to a side table where a coffee
machine was going through the last rights, puffing, blowing and hissing a
gorgeous smelling roast blend into a serving flask, he took two cups and filled
them. ‘Is it still two sugars and one spoon of creamer Don?’

Of course it bloody was. The old fart had gone
through this same charade so many times previously that Radcliffe often played
with the idea of changing his preferences just to see if any notice would be
taken. Privately he thought that if the truth be known, Handley would not be
listening for a reply and would add the sugar and creamer as if by rote anyway.

Passing the aromatic brew over, Handley
continued, ‘There maybe a connection between some of these latest car thefts
Don, but I agree with you, I don’t think that they have anything to do with the
hatches and shopping cars that get nicked on a normal basis. There is a world
of difference between nicking an old
VeeDub
or a Fiat
Panda and the theft of a virtually new luxury car and it needs sorting quickly
before it gets out of hand. You say that the Johnson case isn’t going anywhere.
If it is just a family feud with the brother-in-law then their solicitors can
battle it out, and if it’s a love triangle he’ll get thumped again so we might
get lucky with more clues. Either way, there’s no point wasting any more time
on it. But the car thefts are looking nasty so I want you to take those over
and see what you can find out. If you want to keep the Johnson case active,
give it to the constables for the time being, but concentrate on the cars
please Don.’

What a bummer. Car theft for heaven’s sake.
Most of the owners of these high value chariots, or previous owners as they
were now called, fell into the pompous
pratt
, self
centred egomaniac, or effeminate hairdresser categories, none of which were his
favourite category of person to spend time with, let alone sit with while they
prattled on about the loss of their essential toys. In any case, car theft
didn’t warrant an officer of his rank – did it?

‘Oh, come on Arthur, they are just cars when
all’s said and done. Louise and Sean can handle it. Nicking a heap of tin
surely isn’t as important as thrashing somebody within inches of his life.
We’ve got to catch the culprit before Johnson gets whacked again Arthur, not
after.’

‘We have at that Don,’ replied the Chief, ‘but
just at the moment the Johnson case isn’t moving, while Councillor Ashcroft has
had his nice new Bentley nicked right off of his driveway.’

So there it was. That was the crunch.
Councillor Ashcroft and his beloved showing off Bentley. If Councillor
Ashcroft’s employee had had his car nicked, nothing would have happened, but
because it was Mr Golf Partner himself that had had his shiny new swanking
machine stolen, everybody had to jump through the hoops.

‘With respect Arthur, it doesn’t make any
difference whether the car belonged to a councillor or not, it’s still been
stolen and that’s no different to any of the others that have disappeared.
Louise and Sean can follow it up.’

‘I thought that too Don, but when Councillor
Ashcroft called me I pulled the files to have a quick look so that I could be
aware of the facts when I called him to get him off of our backs. When I
checked it seemed to me that there might be a pattern beginning to emerge, and
certainly there is a difference between the normal car thefts and these newer
cases. The ordinary cars either turn up after a bit of joyriding or get broken
for parts and we have a good idea who is doing what. These recent cases are
altogether different though. None of them have turned up, they just disappear
off the face of the earth. But that’s not what caught my eye Don. Each one
looks like a one off case, but when you lump them all together it’s
interesting. I went back eight months and what seemed to be random thefts
turned into a series of groups, with similar numbers of luxury saloons, high
performance
Bimmers
, and Italian supercars. I don’t
know how to read it but it is too much of a coincidence.’ Picking a stack of
folders up from one side of his desk, Handley dropped them down on the other
side, next to Radcliffe.