Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (5 page)

Charlton turned away from the screen and faced
his solicitor friend. ‘Stranger things have happened David. From what you told
me Archer is already turning the blackmail screws by using the benefits scam to
stop the Johnsons going to court, so why not go for the jugular? Today’s world
can be cruel. You should know that in your job. Anyway, aren’t you due to get
around the table next week? That would fit with the timescale on bringing a
brochure out of the closet.’

  
‘You could be right Simon. But the timing might not be so perfect.
Actually the meeting has been postponed because Archer asked for a couple of
weeks delay so unless he also postpones the brochure that’s a big hole in your
theory. It’s all
heresay
anyway. And with the police
being satisfied that Archer was in his workshop mending his van at the time, we
cannot prove a damned thing. The only thing that would help would be a positive
identification of him at the Johnson’s property, and since the light was
falling and it is pretty secluded, that’s not going to happen.’

‘No, but if we could find a witness that says the
workshop was closed and locked, perhaps we would have a lever to drag out an
admission.’

‘Quite so, but I doubt it. He’s got a very
small staff that are probably pretty loyal because they see their jobs on the
line. We are on the outside.’

‘Not for long my dear friend. I posed as a
potential new tenant and told Archer that I have a two year old 32 footer. He
agreed that temporarily I can put my little touring van on one of the plots
being vacated this week and then if it works out I’ll swap it for the 32
footer.’

The lawyer was impressed. ‘Nice thinking. But
that only gets you onto the site, you still cannot get close to the staff
without drawing attention.’

‘I thought of that too. He’s desperate for my
business – any business – so I got him to agree to my using his
workshop to do a few jobs on the Olympic while I am at the site with the van.
He’s a bit of a car nut and fell for it hook line and sinker, so I’m towing the
little van up there tomorrow and I’ll take the coupe at the weekend.’

Four

Heaving yet more rubbish into the open bed of
the old Toyota pickup truck, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back
of his hand and leaned on his spade. This was not the sort of work that a
middle-aged man should be doing. There should be labourers to do the manual
work, a PA to handle his day-to-day appointments (and sit on his knee between
appointments), and cleaners to muck out the toilets. None of that was possible.
Inflation had dug deep these last couple of years and the margin between income
and outgoings, that elusive commodity known as profit, had shrunk dramatically
until the two amounts had come perilously close to meeting. There simply wasn’t
the money in the business for even a lick of paint on the rapidly deteriorating
buildings, let alone wages for extra staff. So backbreaking as it was, the only
option was to graft himself.

Fifteen years there had been a caravan on this
plot. Fifteen bloody years and they had just put two fingers up to him and
moved to the new marina site. And not just a move either. All the time they had
been at Green Fields they had cried poverty, but for their move to
Lockside
they had splashed out on a brand new super luxury
model with all the latest fittings. Was that how they repaid his generosity and
support? Hadn’t he turned a blind eye when their van had begun to look a little
shabby? Hadn’t he waived the ten-year rule and allowed them to keep their old
van when they should really have been forced to buy a new one? And hadn’t that
cost him commission?

And it didn’t stop there did it? Hadn’t they
also parroted on about their new van and the marina site to the owners on plots
22 and 27? One empty plot was a problem but three took him perilously close to
break-even point. The bloke bringing his
tourer
for a
couple of weeks was an unexpected God-send that would be some sort of respite
but if he didn’t replace it with a more permanent static van at the end of the
test period the position would be critical.

Ten more plots would take Green Fields out of
the danger zone. Twenty would make him financially secure and thirty, oh what a
dream that would be, thirty would put the icing on the cake to make him
wealthy. But first the rot had to be stopped. Cleaning up an old plot to make
way for a temporary
tourer
didn’t even scratch at the
surface.
 
Never mind expansion, the
whole place needed a thorough spruce up just to stop any more vans moving off.

Pulling up weeds from where the old van had
been, spraying with glyphosate weed killer to keep them at bay, and raking the
gravel over to make it look more presentable was a start – but only a
start. Three more weeks and he could really move forward. Three more weeks and
he could bring in a team to repaint the reception building, plumbers could sort
out the leaks in the toilet block and he might even be able to order a couple
of new machines for the launderette. For the first time in years, money would
not be a problem. Well, not as much of a problem as it had been.

What a nerve his
poncy
sister had. She had always been the favourite. But he hadn’t realised what was
going on in the background until the old man had popped his clogs. Then it had
all come out into the open. The old fart had connived with his favourite child,
spoilt little Joan, to rob him of his inheritance. And if signing land over to
her while pretending that it was still his wasn’t enough, the scheming little
bitch of a sister had also stolen all his money, changing the account to her
own name. If she was capable of all that, no doubt their Dad hadn’t received
any money for the barn either. Now it was payback time. Two weeks to go before
they all sat around a table and Mr and Mrs clever pants Johnson would be forced
to eat humble pie and cough up the money that was his true inheritance, money
that was vital to Green Fields.

‘What are you doing Dad?’

‘What does it look like? Nobody else is
prepared to roll their sleeves up but this plot has to be ready for that
tourer
by tomorrow.’ Peter Archer looked at his son.
Twenty-two years old and with no trade or skill to show for an expensive
education, his future depended on Green Fields.

‘Did you hear about Uncle Mike?’

‘Getting worked over you mean? Yes, I heard,
and not before time if you ask me. He’s had it coming for ages, the dirty
little tricks they have been up to.’

‘Lots of rumours are going around Dad. We were
in the ‘Brick last night and they were all quizzing me. Actually, I didn’t know
much so I was listening rather than talking but it’s pretty much the talk of
the town.’ More correctly pronounced
Scaesbrick
and
usually truncated just to ‘brick, the
Scarisbrick
Hotel was one of Southport’s oldest hostelries, and with its several bars,
often the focus for young revellers. ‘The favourite is that he’s been messing
about with some nude model in his studio and got dropped by a jealous husband.
But one of my mates said that he’s bad mouthing you, saying that you beat him
up.’

‘I know. The police came round here asking me
about it. That’s how I knew. I told them that I was in the workshop when Mike
was getting himself beaten up.’

‘But why would he say that you beat him up Dad?
I know that you don’t get on with him but that’s stretching it a bit isn’t it?’

‘I’ve no idea about any nude models – but
it wouldn’t surprise me. He always was an odd one that Mike. As for the
dispute, I didn’t know what was going on behind my back but it must have been
happening for years. When your granddad retired and gave up farming he said he
was renting out the fields for grazing and we all thought that that was it. But
behind the scenes my bloody sister was working on him and taking him for
everything he had. When the old man died we found out that not only had he cut
me out of his will, your lovely little aunt had grabbed all the land and also
taken his money. She even stashed it in her own bank. I can see now why he
edged when I suggested that I use the bottom field to extend Green Fields
– he’d already given it away. All I want is what is rightfully mine
– nothing more – but they go around spreading nasty tales and
untruths so we are now using solicitors to sort it out. It doesn’t seem to stop
them bad mouthing me though.’

‘You hear about these family squabbles but you
never expect it to happen to you do you Dad?. I felt a bit of a
pratt
in the bar when they were all laughing about Uncle
Mike’s bit on the side. We’ve talked about granddad cutting you out of his will
of course, but I didn’t know about the money or connect any of it with the
attack.’ Tossing the rake, spade and weed killer spray tank up onto the pickup,
he opened the cab door. ‘Come on Dad, you’ve done enough now. I’ll drop you off
at the front office then drive this lot down to the waste depot at Kew.’

What a turn up for the book! Uncle Mike and
Aunt Joan had always been good to him, with big expensive presents at Christmas
and birthdays. But who would have thought that they would cheat his dad out of
his rightful inheritance? Peter Archer had just as much right to what the old
man left as did his sister, Joan. Now it was obvious where the money to convert
the old barn – and pay for expensive presents – had come from. And
half of it should have been dad’s.

Turning out of the caravan park and onto the
lane, he
snicked
the Toyota up through the gears.
Though old and dented, the pickup never failed to start and was always
reliable. This was a part of working at Green Fields that he enjoyed.
 
By using the full width of the road to
smooth out the bends he could set a steady speed and imagine that he was his
favourite racing driver. His best yet was rocketing along the lanes and never
deviating more than 3mph either side of the magic 50mph. It seemed faster
because of the bends and the high hedges at either side. And once or twice when
he had strayed across the centre line to straighten out a bend he had almost
hit vehicles coming the other way, but his skill had always avoided an
accident.

One day he would get one of those hot hatches.
That would impress the Friday night girls in the ‘Brick. And if Dad was soon to
get a big payday from the Johnsons, that might be sooner rather than later.

……….

Phyllis Weston braked hard to avoid yet another
pothole. If she had not seen it she might have driven right into it and then
what would she have done? Her mobility scooter was her only means of getting
around the caravan park. She had already reported two holes to that nice Mr
Peter, though whether anything would be done was another matter. Just recently,
site maintenance seemed to be a bit on the slow side. But perhaps he would have
to smarten the place up a bit to attract some new vans to fill the empty plots.

That flighty young Jessop woman in plot three
had told her that a nice man was putting a
tourer
on
one of them. Not quite the thing that was it? Touring caravans should be kept
away from the statics. Trust her to know though. Anything coming onto the park
in pants was bound to catch Jessop’s attention.

‘Oh, hello there Mrs Bradshaw,’ said Phyllis,
as a small, neat lady tried in vain to nip back out of sight into a caravan.
‘Did you hear that there’s a new tenant coming onto plot 30?’

With one foot on the metal step, half through
the door and yet still half outside, Angela Bradshaw shook her head, not really
wanting to be drawn into conversation yet not wanting to be rude either. The
Weston woman was harmless, but once she had her prey hooked, an hour could
disappear. And all nothing more than useless tittle tattle too. The problem
was, she could approach almost silently on her electric scooter and had you
cornered before you realised it.

‘And he’s bringing a
tourer
would you believe? We’ll have to get a petition up.
Tourers
have always been sited near the reception building, not here in the park with
us. If they put
tourers
on the other two empty plots
as well it will make our caravans look awful. Oh, and what about the break-in
the other night?’

Hardly able to get a word in to that point,
Bradshaw looked surprised. ‘What break-in’ she said.

‘Well, I don’t rightly know. I think that
something must have been pinched from the office because the police were here
asking questions. I don’t know what though because they wouldn’t say. They
weren’t normal policemen, they were those dressed up ones. You know, like on
the telly where they drive their cars fast and wear ordinary clothes. Anyway, I
think they were giving Mr Archer a going over for not keeping his eye on the
office, but like I told them, I saw him doing a job on that van of his and he
couldn’t be looking after the office at the same time that his legs were
sticking out from underneath his van could he?

‘Just look at that Mrs Bradshaw,’ she
continued. ‘The wheel on my scooter could easily have been broken. There’s a
pothole in the road near the launderette that wasn’t there before and it needs
filling in. Somebody could hurt themselves. If you didn’t know it was there and
you rode into it on a bike you would go right over the handlebars.’

‘But I don’t know anybody on the park that
rides a bike Mrs Weston.’

‘No, neither do I,’ said the old woman, moving
to get more comfortable, the scooter wobbling from side to side as she did.
‘But that’s not the point is it? Something needs to be done before there is an
accident or something. Do you know what I heard about the new tenant that’s
bringing the
tourer
? I heard that he’s one of those
gay people. You know, a
pufter
.’