Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (16 page)

‘Well that won’t happen now will it?’ cut in
the sergeant. ‘Have you any idea what will happen to his legal challenge now
that he is dead?’

‘How would I know?’ threw back Johnson. ‘I’ve
not taken this in yet. Peter dead – it’s unbelievable. But I don’t know
anything about it. Seriously I don’t. Yes, I was at
Lydiate
on Saturday morning, and yes I did go to the farm shop and the café. But I
didn’t see Peter at all.’

‘These are early days Mr Johnson,’ responded
Davies. ‘But we have to look at all aspects and check everything out. I suggest
that you cast your mind back and see if you can remember anyone that might have
seen you when you were sketching at the priory. You might find that it could be
important to you.’

‘Oh, surely not.’

‘Mr Johnson. We are not making any accusations
at this point but I advise you to take this extremely seriously. Your
brother-in-law has been murdered, you have nobody to corroborate your
whereabouts but by your own admission you were in the vicinity, and you have
threatened to kill Mr Archer on a number of occasions. Now I ask you, how does
that look to you?’

Using his most serious tone, Davies continued:

‘If I were you Mr Johnson I would be careful
what I said, whether in anger or not. And don’t leave the area for now please.
We will need to talk to you again.’

Twelve

Talking in hushed tones, the women were huddled
together. Their normal fare was general gossip – who was doing what with
whom – but this wasn’t their normal gossip session, this was serious
business.
 
Very serious. So serious
that one woman was white faced and speechless, one was crying and the older one
was quizzing them, asking where, when, how, and why.

‘But are they sure?’ she intoned. ‘I mean, I
asked young Kevin last week where his dad was and he said that he had gone to
London so it can’t be so can it?’

Tears rolled down the flushed cheeks of the
younger woman. Sobbing wildly she attempted to respond but between gulping for
air, ramming one fist into her mouth and frantically using her other hand to
wipe her streaming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, what actually came out was
an undecipherable noise more akin to that of a seal. Coming to her aid, the one
that was neither old nor young and had until then been just standing in their midst
looking shocked, searched in her handbag for a packet of tissues and offered
them to the younger woman.

‘I’m sure it’ll all turn out right Caroline,
you’ll see,’ she said. ‘There must have been some mistake. Like Phyllis said,
he went down to London so it must have been someone else. You know how these
nasty rumours fly around.’

‘It’s been quiet around here since I spoke to
Kevin last week,’ added Phyllis. ‘Perhaps they’ve found some interest away from
work to keep them occupied. You know, I’ve never seen Kevin with a young lady
which is a little odd at his age isn’t it? And Peter doesn’t seem to have
hitched up with anyone either since his wife died. It’s not natural to be on
your own is it? Come to think of it, I’ve not seen Kevin at all for a couple of
days. It’s been so quiet without either of them around that the park’s been
like a morgue.’

At which Caroline once again burst into floods
of tears. Throwing a stern look at the older woman, Jackie charged in to defend
the distraught young woman. Really! What a distinct lack of tact the old woman
had.

‘Phyllis! Can’t you think before you speak for
once?’ she said, adding, ‘your choice of words was dreadful. I know that you
like to nosey into what everyone is doing on the park, but sometimes you do go
a bit too far you know. It has been quiet recently but if Peter needed to go to
London and Kevin had other things to do then it’s none of our business where
they have been or what they have been doing. And as for us, I don’t see why we
should get so hot under the collar or upset. It’s sad whatever’s happened but
they are not exactly family for any of us are they?’

Which turned on the tears yet again.

‘Caroline. For heavens sake girl. If he’s had
an accident I’m as sorry as the next person. But get a grip love. He owned the
caravan park and we pay him rent. If he has been killed in an accident then no
doubt Kevin will take over – he’s the son after all – and the rent
demands will continue to come. We must pay our condolences at the appropriate
time of course, but there’s no point in working ourselves up is there? I mean,
he wasn’t anything to any of us was he? And Phyllis, I’d think twice before I
spread rumours if I were you. We don’t know anything yet and at your age you
should have more sense. There might not have been an accident at all and it
might turn out that Peter is as fit and in command of his faculties as we are.
Then you’ll look a fool,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘he might be more in
command of his faculties than some around here I expect.’

Caroline’s tears continued to flow as Phyllis,
admonished by Jackie’s outburst and sarcasm, threw back her head, puckered her
mouth into a steely pout, and set off on her scooter at a brisk four mph. When
one was the Queen of the park, one didn’t appreciate being rebuked, especially
by such a flighty piece as that Jackie Jessop.

Manoeuvring the scooter around a pothole
– she’d mentioned that to Kevin before and it still hadn’t been fixed
– she rode on past the launderette, the reception building and the
workshop. All were still and quiet. She couldn’t remember it being like this in
all the time she had had a caravan on the site. So where was everyone? Why had
Kevin not been around the last couple of days? And why did that interfering cow
Jackie think that she knew more than she did herself? Just because Jackie
Jessop had a high flying job in Liverpool where she spent her week hob-
nobbing
with people in high places, only coming on the park
at weekends, didn’t mean that she could look down her nose at those spending
all their time on the park. She should respect her elders and shut her bloody
mouth, that’s what she should do. Jackie Jessop should look in the mirror
before she started lobbing out her advice. She wasn’t a Lilly white hen herself
was she? Amateur painting classes indeed. Who was she kidding? More like a cosy
tête-à-tête with the artist she thought.

Phyllis steered the scooter wide to avoid a
black bin bag dumped in the gutter and then cut in to the kerb to miss yet
another pothole. Heaving on the handlebars she then steered a wide arc to the
right to take her towards her own plot. Lacking in maintenance, the side track
was in even greater disrepair than the main access road and like a great
grandmother pushing a supermarket trolley with one broken wheel, she steered
around potholes, bumps and broken asphalt, narrowly missing a bright silver
sportscar
that was parked just two plots away from her
caravan.

‘Hey, Mrs Weston, mind where you are going. You
only just missed my car. You’re not at Three Sisters you know. You’re going to
have a crash driving like that.’

‘Poppycock,’ was the retort. ‘I’m a very good
driver don’t you know. It’s the state of these roads, they are full of bumps
and potholes. And in any case, I don’t have three sisters. I used to have a
brother and one sister but they have both died and I am the only one left.’

‘No Mrs Weston. Three Sisters is the racing
track near Wigan. It’s named after three slag heaps from the old mines. You
were going like a racing driver. ‘

‘Fiddlesticks. I was going quite slow and never
went near your car at all, you must be mistaken. I say Mr Charlton, have you
heard about Mr Peter? He’s not been on site for a week or so and Kevin hasn’t
been here for a couple of days. They say he got killed in a car accident.’

‘Who did Mrs Weston? Did you say that Kevin had
had an accident?’ asked the investigator. The old bag was a hell of a tittle
tattle and constantly got the wrong end of the stick, but the lad was a
admittedly a bit of a devil behind the wheel so anything was possible.

‘No, of course not silly,’ she responded. ‘It’s
Mr Peter that’s had the accident. It was somewhere out towards Liverpool they
say so I suppose it must have been on that motor-road thing. They say that the
young ‘
uns
are always driving at more than fifty on
it so someone was bound to get killed sooner or later. That old van of his was
ninety years old you know so it should have been scrapped years ago. Anyway,
the police took it away and someone said that Mr Peter was found in some trees
so he must have been thrown out with the impact poor fellow.’

‘If you mean the motorway Mrs Weston, the speed
limit is higher than that anyway, and Peter’s van wasn’t anywhere near ninety
years old. Classic cars are his hobby and it was in superb condition. It’s sad
if he’s been killed though. Are you absolutely sure Mrs Weston?’

Why did everyone ask her if she was sure? Of
course she was sure. She had been told by the lady who cleaned at the dentist’s
surgery who had been told by the newsagent. He had been told by the plumber and
he had heard it from a mate in the pub last night so there was no doubt was
there?

‘Of course I’m sure. I had it on good
authority. Lord knows when these potholes will get filled in now though. I’ll
remind Kevin when I see him. He’s not been around for a couple of days. Have
you any idea where he is Mr Charlton?’

What a woman. She seemed bright as a button at
times but away with the fairies at others.

‘No Mrs Weston, I haven’t the faintest idea
where Kevin is. But if his dad has been killed in a car crash I dare say that
just at this moment he couldn’t care less about a few potholes. Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I have an appointment I have to keep. Goodbye Mrs Weston.’

Well, of all the cheek. Fancy cutting one off
like that. Youngsters today have no respect for their elders at all.

……….

Kyle Fraser pulled up a chair and updated his
superior on progress. Nothing untoward had come to light but the last car
dealership on his list had been the most impressive. Evident across the whole
site, its professional appearance gave the impression of a franchised
dealership, but a forecourt filled with several competing brands proved that
that was not the case. In the showroom, big butch upmarket 4x4 vehicles vied
for space with luxury cars and most of the vehicles, both on the forecourt and
in the showroom, seemed to be fairly new. Showing his warrant card, the
sergeant had asked for the manager and been directed to a plush waiting area
next to a gleaming luxury saloon that looked brand new and could not have been more
than mere weeks old. Kyle had picked up a magazine from the coffee table but
used the time to scan around the showroom. At first glance nothing had seemed
out of order.

After four or five minutes, a silver haired man
in an immaculate suit had approached. His shoes shone – unusual in these
times – and his shirt cuffs were linked rather than buttoned. No more
than five feet six inches tall, in an earlier period he might have been
referred to as a Dandy, but good eating and no doubt excessive drinking had
resulted in a decidedly portly figure on the heavier side of middle age spread,
somewhat compromising his image. Introducing himself as one of the partners, he
had offered his assistance, adding that they did not get visits from the police
very often and that he hoped nothing was wrong. Though taking an instant
dislike to the man – all car salesmen had that effect on him - Fraser had
assured him that no, nothing was wrong, and that he was only following up on a
routine enquiry with all dealerships in the area. The salesman’s smarmy
attitude and sickly smile was everything that Fraser hated. The phrase would
you buy a used car from this man? came to mind, with the rejoinder, absolutely
no way.

But personal impressions apart, Fraser had
gleaned more from the rotund little man than he had done on any of his visits
to other dealers. He had learned that some of the manufacturers routinely
registered unallocated vehicles in the pretence that they had been sold and
bought by customers, but they were then sold into the trade with little more
than delivery mileage on the clock. That way they could be sold on as second
hand cars at a discount without affecting the new price of cars in their
franchised dealerships. Some of the cars in the showroom were only two weeks old
while others might have been overproduced cars stockpiled on a disused
airfield.

But as far as finding any of the stolen cars,
or even the slightest indication of a bent dealer, he had drawn a blank. All
the dealers seemed to be as straight as a die. As small independent specialist
companies, none had either the degree of storage or amount of workshop space to
support an illicit operation of the scale they now believed it to be. If there
was a connection between all the thefts then it looked more than likely that
the operation was not being fronted locally.