Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (25 page)

‘It’s a fair theory I suppose,’ replied
Radcliffe. ‘But there’s still no link to any of our stolen cars.’

 
‘Yes there is guv,’ burst in Fraser. ‘But
at the moment it is a little circumstantial. Debbie checked out two of the
registrations then came to us when she had confirmed her suspicions. One
registration on the list is for a Mercedes owned by a guy up in Edinburgh. That
car was clocked speeding down here on the M57 on the same day that a
Merc
was stolen in
Ainsdale
. Yet
in reality, the car was actually in Scotland. The guy had to pay up because the
speed camera picture showed his car – complete with his registration - and
he couldn’t prove otherwise.’

‘The other was similar,’ cut in
Lescott
. ‘A range Rover was booked in
Burscough
when it was actually in Cornwall. That owner dug his heels in and provided
proof of his whereabouts so it’s still not resolved – but a Rangie was
nicked the same day in
Rufford
, just down the road
from where this one was booked and that’s too much of a coincidence.’

By now they were both talking twenty to the
dozen, keen to show how everything could be part of the big picture. ‘And if
you look at the local group, three tickets on the one car in a six month
period, each coinciding with a car of the same make and model being stolen,’
added Fraser.

‘OK,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘I take the point.
What’s the status of these tickets then?’

‘All cancelled. Could be a sob story upstairs
or an apologetic letter to the Chief Constable I expect.’

‘Yes Kyle,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘It happens a
lot. It’s why councillors and celebrities rarely pay their fines but those who
can hardly afford them have to.’ Looking at
Lescott
he summarised, ‘OK, so
thiefy
has a stock of registrations
and each time he steals a car he slaps on the bogus plates while he moves it to
a safe garage. Some of the registrations are owners well out of our patch but
others are connected to local individuals. But then the trail goes cold because
while we know where some of the cars were picked up on speed cameras, we don’t
know where they were kept or where they are going. Is that about it?’

‘Almost,’ admitted Fraser. ‘But Debbie’s bloke
has some leads there as well.’

‘I should have known it,’ groaned the Inspector.
‘Now we are using police facilities so that a bloke in civvies can do our work
for us.’

……….

‘You can’t run a cavalcade without putting in
safety barriers. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

Huddled around a large table in a banquet room
of the Park Hotel, club members were putting the final touches to
Ormskirk’s
annual
MotorFest
; a
free to visit extravaganza for all the family where market stalls in the town
centre would be replaced by all manner of automotive exhibits, the day
culminating in a two hour cavalcade around the little town’s ring road.

‘We did last year and there were no incidents,’
said a tall
authoritive
guy in a club windcheater.
‘In any case, with more marshals this year we should have more control so I
don’t see a problem.’

He looked around the table. Though no more than
an interested member, where others seemed blind to anything that threatened
their beloved cars he harboured serious safety concerns. ‘I agree, there were
no incidents last year,’ he said, ‘but Ian saw a few near misses.’

‘That’s right,’ responded the photographer. ‘I
highlighted the potential for catastrophe last year as well.’

‘But this has all been discussed in detail and
as long as cavalcade speeds are kept down, the local authorities are happy with
arrangements,’ cut in another.

‘Well I suppose that’s it then,’ he said. It’s
not my responsibility of course, but for what it’s worth, if this was happening
in Southport I guess that permission would be refused.’

‘Are you bringing your
Scoobie
?’

He did not miss the change of subject ploy. He
owned a highly tuned ex-works Subaru
Imprezza
rally
car and clearly, somebody was moving the discussion on. The subject of crowd
safety was now effectively closed.

‘It is entered, but I might not bother. If I do
bring the car I’ll be stuck there keeping an eye on it all day to stop kid’s
sticky fingers being wiped all over it and won’t be able to enjoy having a look
round myself. I’ll decide later.’ Looking at his friend, he continued, ‘Do you
know, last year I only left it for five minutes and when I came back there were
two snotty nosed kids sat inside, one playing with all the buttons and switches
and the other with ketchup dripping off a hot dog, a real yobbo type taking
their photo. He gave me a real mouthful when I told them to piss off.’

As more drinks were brought from the bar, what
had started as a club business meeting developed into social chitchat. It
always happened. Old timers liked to lose themselves in their memories, new
members were too polite to stop them, and most actual business was done later
by email or telephone.

‘When was the last time you had the
Scoobie
out then?’ enquired a short, stocky member with
unruly wiry hair.

‘I did a track day at Aintree for a bit of
fun,’ he replied, ‘and it was entered in a single venue stage rally at Three
Sisters last week but I had to cry off at the last minute.’

‘I don’t know how you can justify keeping the
thing when you only run it every Preston Guild. Mine costs me a fortune to keep
tuned up but you’ve got the Jag as well.’

‘Oh, it has it’s flip sides.’

‘Yeah – when you lost it and flipped it
on the mountain. That’s it’s flip side,’ chortled another, prompting an outburst
of laughter.

‘OK, very funny. So I was a little over
enthusiastic and lost it on the back loop at Sisters. But I’ve never done that
since and its hardly a mountain anyway – just a bit of the old mining
slag heap. Right then, I’m driving so I am having another coffee before I go
home. And for your information, the Jag is a company car anyway, just like your
van. I pay tax on it though.’

……….

Sitting on his balcony watching narrow boats
chug along the canal beneath him, Simon Charlton was deep in thought. Away with
the fairies as his wife used to say. Since she had gone, Simon was often with
the fairies, though recently they had been dancing to more relaxing tunes than
when it had first happened all those years ago.

Once she had been the centre of his life. Then
she had upped and gone and his life had broken apart. Putting it together again
had been hard. Vinegar and brown paper might be all that Humpty Dumpty needed,
but in the real world, rebuilding was not easy. This spot on the balcony, so
relaxing no matter whatever the weather, had helped, as had a healthy
succession of commissions, particularly from David Preston, but with no woman
in his life, a gaping hole remained.

Perhaps not a gaping hole exactly. There was
someone. And she was special. But with past events at the back of his mind he
was reluctant to take that final step. Reluctant – yet keen. Perhaps
confused would be a better description.

Watching the boats go by was therapeutic. Were
he to be on one of the boats sailing along the canal he would be bored out of
his mind in ten minutes flat – a boat limited to 4mph could never deliver
the exhilaration of speed experienced in his Italian
engined
coupe – but watching them from the balcony was completely different. It
was peaceful, calm, melancholy, relaxed; all of those things and more. And an
opportunity to escape the pressures of modern life.

Dragged suddenly out of his reverie by the
harsh sound of the doorbell clanging away downstairs, Charlton checked his
watch. He wasn’t expecting anyone. An unbroken afternoon with nothing to do but
relax on the balcony watching the world go by was so unusual as to be
priceless, so who dared break that spell? The doorbell rang again. Whoever it
was
was
getting impatient. Reluctantly he left the
balcony. As he reached the foot of the stairs, through the half glazed front
door he could see the outline of a middle aged man, though not anybody he
recognised.

As he opened the door the man pulled out a
warrant card, held it up and said,’ Mr Charlton? Simon Charlton?’ Simon nodded.
‘I am Detective Inspector Radcliffe.’ Then, as two others came up the path,
‘This is Detective Sergeant Fraser and I believe that you already know
Detective Sergeant
Lescott
.’

Taken aback, Charlton looked at each of them in
turn, searching for clues. Why was there a police deputation on his path? Both
policemen were expressionless. Debbie
Lescott
averted
his gaze and looked down at the floor. What the hell was going on?

Turning to the inspector, he said, ‘How can I
help you, what is the problem?’

‘We’d just like a word if you don’t mind sir.
It might be better inside.’

‘Yes, of course. Please come in,’ replied
Charlton, stepping back to allow them to pass. ‘The living room is through to
your left. Just go through and take a seat,’ raising his eyebrows questioningly
as Debbie passed him, the last of the little trio. She gave no response.

Radcliffe looked around the room. Not over
large, it was clean and uncluttered with a picture window looking out over
fields. Although he could see no water, the roof of a narrow boat with a small
dog lying fast asleep went slowly past. Radcliffe surmised that they must be
close to the canal, but at a lower level than the towpath. Décor in the room
was typical of the modern minimalistic trend, with plain
colourwashed
walls and almost a complete lack of ornaments. A few large pictures broke up
the expanse of wall, mainly automotive art – motor racing, rallying and
car images – all in simple frames with no embellishment. Radcliffe got
the feeling that this was not a family home, more a bachelor pad. Albeit a very
tidy bachelor.

‘Mr Charlton,’ started the inspector. I
understand that you gave Sergeant
Lescott
a list of
car registrations and asked her to obtain the respective owners addresses for
you. Is that correct?’

Charlton looked at Debbie. Her expression gave
no clues. Who was in hot water here? Debbie or himself? And why?

‘Yes, I did inspector,’ he replied. ‘Is that a
problem?’

‘Well of course it is. And I suggest that you
know damned well that it is sir. In your business you should be aware that
using police time and facilities to obtain information that’s not available to
the public just isn’t on. At best, it’s breaking the rules. But it could lose
Sergeant
Lescott
here her job. Now Mr Charlton, does
that sound like a problem to you?’

‘I assure you Inspector, I did not realise the
importance. All I asked for was a little bit of information. I didn’t realise
that it could be taken so seriously.’

‘And why did you do that then? What did you
want the information for? And don’t tell me that that’s confidential. I don’t
care who your client is – he could be the Prime Minister for all I care.’

‘I saw a collection of plates on a workshop
wall and wondered why fairly current registrations should be there. It wasn’t
an MOT garage or anything so they seemed out of place. I did an on-line check
but that only gave me basic information which just made me more curious, so I
just asked Debbie to get the addresses for me. I didn’t think it was such a big
deal.’

‘Well it was. So what did you do when Sergeant
Lescott
gave you the addresses?’

‘I rang them up. Just checked that they were
the owners and that they still had the vehicles.’

‘And were they?’

‘Yes. All of them. Actually, one of them ripped
me off a right strip. He thought that I was the police.’

‘And why did he think that sir? Did you pretend
that you were a policeman?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well, you did use police resources to get your
information didn’t you, so why not continue the trickery?’

‘Absolutely not. I gave the man my name and
just said that I was checking whether he was the owner of the vehicle and
confirming his address.’

‘Sounds like a con to me sir,’ said Radcliffe.

‘Well it wasn’t. But this guy – he lives
down in Cornwall – he said that although his car had never been out of
Cornwal
he had received a speeding ticket from up north. I
passed that information on to Debbie but what she did with it I don’t know.’

Radcliffe continued to press for details. Who
was his client, why were the registrations important, who else had he involved.
The two sergeants were, for the most part, silent. Radcliffe alone drove the
conversation, all the while probing and searching. Easing off and softening his
words somewhat, then cutting in harshly to catch Charlton off balance. All the
time he was gauging how much information had been traded; how much knowledge
they had gained – and how much
Lescott’s
position had been compromised.