Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (7 page)

……….

Kevin stopped to admire the silver sports car.
It was a Porsche of some description of course, they were unmistakable, but he
was unsure of which model. With its drooping bonnet, short fastback rear and
general style, it had similarities to a 911, but the nose of the car had an air
intake which the rear
engined
air-cooled 911 did not.
Moving closer he noticed a badge on the bonnet that definitely wasn’t a Porsche
shield, and he didn’t recognise the Olympic legend either, making him even more
curious.

Charlton had become quite used to the mistaken
identity. The lad wasn’t the first because everyone did it. Some of the older
enthusiasts recognised the Rochdale but it was before the time of the younger
ones like this lad who could only be in his twenties. The company that had made
the car, though innovative at the time, had been reduced to making plastic
drainage products by the time the boy had been born. Even so, although the
Olympic sometimes attracted attention when he would have preferred to have
remained inconspicuous, this time it was opening a few doors.

‘Mr Archer said I could use this workshop to do
a few jobs on my car. Under the skin it’s a bit of a Heinz 57 so I can’t take
it to a main dealer for servicing – they don’t know where to start.’
There, that should do it. Throw in a few snippets and it always drew people in,
made them curious, opened up conversation.

‘I’m Mr Archer. Actually I am Kevin Archer so
you must mean my dad. I guess that you are Mr Charlton. He told me about you.
Haven’t you put a
tourer
on plot 30? Dad’s away at
the moment but if you need any help you can call on me. I like cars and this
looks ever so good. I’m holding the fort while dad’s away but there’s not a lot
to do around here so I can always give you a hand.’

Bingo! Here was someone at the heart of the
organisation, opening up quicker than a sardine tin being attacked by a tin
opener. He had seen young Kevin in and out of the various areas of the site but
not realised that he was the owner’s son. His dishevelled appearance with jeans
that were too long and trailing under his trainers, which themselves looked
grubby and liable to trip him up at any moment, the laces being unfastened was
compounded by stubble that once was described as seven o clock shadow –
but on Kevin was more like round-the-clock. Was all that an indication of the
boy’s slovenliness or just that he conformed to the modern dress code? In
Charlton’s day you had to be ‘with it’ but now the young generation felt the
need to be ‘cool’. If looking that scruffy was cool, Charlton was glad not to
conform.

Simon Charlton’s mind was working overtime. Why
had Peter Archer gone away? And where to? What was he cooking up? Perhaps the
lad would know. And there again, if he was so keen on cars, perhaps he would
know whether his dad was actually in the workshop or not when Mike Johnson was
being attacked. To get that information however would mean that any questions
would have to be asked without making him inquisitive.

‘Actually, I’m surprised that you’ve got this
workshop here. I didn’t expect it at a caravan site.’

‘That’s my dad for you. When I was a kid he
used to race karts at the Three Sisters track, and rally a Mini. This place was
always buzzing. There were always kart drivers or rally blokes here talking to
dad or using the workshop. He had a Jag then and a van for the business. He
towed the rally car on a transporter trailer behind a big Yankee Chevy Blazer
four by four and for the kart he converted a single deck coach into a combined
motorhome and workshop. These days we’ve only the old Morris van left and a
beat up Toyota pickup. Dad still does most of the maintenance himself though so
he’s kept the workshop.

‘One of my mates works at the Jaguar Land Rover
factory out near the airport and he comes in to do odd bits for us when Dad
hasn’t got the right tools or
summat
, but other than
that dad does it all. He says it is because he still enjoys tinkering but
really it’s to keep costs down. Money is tight.’

If they couldn’t run newer vehicles then how
could the claimed expansion be financed without the Johnson’s money? Archer
Senior’s optimism didn’t gel with Junior’s financial overview.

Looking for a way to gain the lad’s confidence
and draw him out, Charlton honed in on his interest in the car. ‘I’m nearly
finished here. Just two bolts to torque up and I’ll take it for a check run. Do
you fancy a ride?’

‘Do I? You bet! That would be brilliant.’
Pulling a book from a shelf he added, ‘Will you be coming back after you’ve
done your test run or have you finished completely? Only my mate is supposed to
be doing a job for me on the pickup.’ Turning the pages he added, ‘It’s a bit
short notice but looking at this he was supposed to be here now. My dad must
have cancelled it to fit you in, so tonight might be OK for him, I’ll give him
a quick call.’

With the needle settled on the speed limit and
his passenger clearly mesmerised by the smooth power delivery of the little
car, Charlton chose his words carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. The
lad’s dad had promised new facilities like a pool and restaurant in the not too
distant future, so as a new tenant it would be natural to be concerned about
any delay in development of the site so he had used that as an opener.

Kevin had been quite forthcoming. They were a
little behind schedule but construction would start soon. In phase one, trees
behind the existing caravan plots would be felled and an area to the side
cleared to make way for the pool. An existing semi-derelict building currently
hidden by the trees would then become the new restaurant. Final stage would be
to extend the caravan park into the adjacent field and create new plots. His
dad was working on that at the moment and they hoped for a swift conclusion.

Initially, Simon had manipulated their small
talk, but with aspects of Green Fields proposed expansion exhausted, Kevin had
steered the conversation back to the car. How old was it? Had Simon done the
engine swap himself? How fast could it go? All predictable questions asked a
million times before by what seemed like a million others before him. One of
the downsides of owning a unique car he supposed.

The big old wooden doors were still open when
they had returned to the workshop and Kevin’s mate must have arrived because
the back of pickup was jacked up. Yet something just didn’t feel right. Simon
took in the scene – something was jumping out at him, but what in
heaven’s name was it? Bending down to look under the truck he could see that
the prop shaft had been removed. Nothing there to arouse suspicion then.

Spying his chance when Kevin announced that he
would brew up for the three of them, Simon took down the book Kevin had
referred to earlier and flipped quickly through its pages. Clearly a log for
the workshop, he looked for the date of the attack on Johnson. In an almost
undecipherable scrawl, there was an entry ‘PA – ex – van’ which
obviously meant Peter Archer / exhaust / van. So, just as the police had said,
Archer had been in the workshop fixing the exhaust on his van at the time
Johnson was being attacked. PA appeared on other dates as well, usually
followed by Van or Pickup, which squared with Kevin’s comment that his dad
carried out most of the maintenance on their vehicles. The log put Archer in
the clear for the attack but put doubts on financing any expansion of the
caravan park unless money was coming from the Johnson’s.

‘Sugar Simon?’ shouted Kevin from the back of
the workshop.

Quickly putting the log back where he had found
it, Charlton followed the voice, to find a tall thin man of about 28 or 30
standing with Kevin, both of them nursing mugs of tea. ‘No thanks,’ Charlton
responded, accepting a mug of what looked like thick brown soup. Kevin
introduced the mechanic as his friend Rick, Rick Worth – an apt name
because anything he didn’t know about cars just wasn’t worth knowing.

Six

Ducking under some low hanging branches and
pushing foliage to one side, Inspector Frank Davies followed his guide along a
narrow path. Though only a couple of hundred metres from the main road, the
silence was broken only by the occasional sound of hens clucking, or high
volume and quite strident birdcalls.
 
Looking down with distaste at his highly polished shoes and light beige
trousers that were quickly becoming encrusted with dirt he exclaimed
impatiently, ‘Where is it? I hope it’s worth this bloody trek when we get
there. I should be at the Vincent discussing next year’s budget over a slap-up
meal with the Chief and his wife, not trudging through the undergrowth in this
God forsaken place getting filthy.’

As it wound through the trees, the path took a
turn to the left and opened out slightly. In front of them was some sort of
ruin. Hardly a building anymore, it had degenerated into a
hotch
potch
collection of odd walls, seemingly with no
connection and being rapidly overtaken by trees and undergrowth. Rising about a
metre out of the forest floor in front of them was a circular brick
construction that could be a well, while to their left, a tower grew out of the
undergrowth.

‘What the hell is this place,’ he grumbled,
picking his way through the undergrowth carefully. ‘I’ve driven the main road
every day of my life for the last few years and didn’t know it existed.’

‘It’s all that’s left of
Lydiate
Hall,’ came the reply. ‘I don’t know the history but it’s been in this state
for years. Local historians and walkers come around but that’s about it these
days. Looking at what’s left, it’s in a precarious state and there’s going to
be an accident sooner or later when some more masonry falls. There’s nothing
holding these walls up – all the corners and supporting walls have come
down already.’

Reaching the well, Davies could see that the
tower was actually a chimney breast. Rising up out of the undergrowth some two
stories and capped by the remains of chimneys it seemed surreal. Gaping holes
that had once been massive fireplaces remained on the ground and upper floors
but along with the floors themselves, all the connecting walls had long since
fallen down. He followed his sergeant around a dangerous looking buttress, past
a wall of magnificent mullioned windows – now glassless – into what
at some time had clearly been a rather grand stately room with yet another huge
old stone fireplace that looked quite baronial. Ducking to avoid fronds and
branches and slipping on the uneven ground, the sergeant made for a gap between
the window wall and fireplace. Davies guessed that they were now on the
opposite side of the wall that had first barred their way. He saw that it was
actually part of yet another old chimney breast, but that this one had a
smaller quite simple brick fireplace. Had only those walls that held fireplaces
or mullioned windows survived? It certainly looked like it. Two paramedics, a
uniformed constable and a tall man that Davies recognised as the police doctor
were huddled in conversation near the fireplace.

‘Morning Sir.’ Said the constable. ‘It looks
like you’ve been called out for nothing. The doc thinks that this bloke just
had a heart attack.’

‘What have we got John?’ Davies asked the
doctor.

‘Not sure yet Frank,’ he responded. ‘But heart
attack looks to be favourite. He’s got a nasty gash on his head but that could
be from a fall. Other than that there are no obvious signs of foul play, so
until he’s been opened up the only thing I can say for sure is that he is dead.
He was found leaning against the back of the fireplace so he could have felt
unwell, sat down and died. Or he could have tripped and got that gash on the
head then sat down to recover. Who knows? There is so much rubble and stone
around here anything is possible.
 
And to the obvious question, rigor is only just beginning so we are
looking at about three hours since death. At this point I would put it between three
and three and a half hours max.’

‘OK John, if you say it’s not suspicious then
we can get him packed off to the morgue.’ Then turning, ‘Who found him?’

‘A young couple sir,’ replied the constable.
‘They were over there just behind that low wall doing, well, doing what young
couples do, and the girl spied what she thought was a peeping Tom watching
them. Apparently they tidied themselves up a bit and made to go back to their
car but the lad flung some abuse at the bloke as they went past and they
realised something was wrong when our corpse remained perfectly still.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘The girl was a bit shaken up so my
opo
took them to the coffee shop that’s part of the farm,
you must have seen it when you parked your car.’

What a huge waste of time the whole escapade
was turning out to be thought Davies. If there was anything that the Chief
hated it was sloppy timekeeping, particularly from his favourite inspector, but
with the state his shoes and trousers were in he would have to detour back home
for a clean up before hightailing it the ten miles into Southport. And all that
for a simple heart attack. Clearly there was nothing more that they could do at
that point and no need for forensics either.

‘Any identification?’ he asked.

‘No sir. There’s no wallet, nothing much in his
pockets at all.

Turning to his sergeant he gave instructions
for the body to be moved, everyone cleared from the death site and then finally
to go and talk to the couple and get a statement from them. The whole thing
could then be turned over to the Coroner.

……….

‘OK, just tell me what you saw and what you
did.’

I didn’t know he was dead. At first we thought
he was watching us while we were . . . .’ his voice tailed off and he looked
down sheepishly. ‘Then when he didn’t move and didn’t say anything I thought
that he was sick, or unconscious. That’s why I phoned the ambulance on my
mobile. The paramedics must have called you lot because I didn’t. Can we go
now? Only Kate’s mum will be wondering where she is. You won’t tell her will
you? I mean, not that we were – you know? We were supposed to be going to
the car boot sale at the scout hut further along the road and if she finds out
that we found the bloke she’ll want to know what we were doing at the old hall,
and then we’ve a problem. Kate’s,
er
, um, well her
mum keeps tabs on her if you know what I mean and the balloon would go up well
and truly.

‘No problem. You did right. You weren’t to
know.’ Then, turning to the obviously scared girl: ‘And I won’t tell your mum
love. It looks as though the man died from a heart attack anyway so it will all
go quiet once we’ve handed everything over to the coroner. Your secret will be
safe but I need a statement first. It’s best done now so that you don’t need to
come down to the station.

These two might be old enough to get up to some
fun and games in the woods but sure as hell they were showing their youth now.
Scared shitless wouldn’t be too strong a description thought the sergeant. And
scared of Mummy at that. More coffee was ordered and the grilling continued

According to the couple they had gone to the
scout hut and bought a couple of paperback books. Then they had walked the half
mile to the hall. At first they had heard some talking the other side of the
ruin so had gone back to the farmyard to kill time in the café. When they returned,
apart from some birds in the trees it was quiet and they had the place to
themselves. They hadn’t seen the man arrive and hadn’t even realised that he
was there. Well, they wouldn’t would they? They had other things on their
minds. No, they didn’t see whoever they had overheard talking earlier leave the
woods either. Nor had they recognised the dead man – although his face
would now be forever etched in their memories.

……….

‘John missed it because there were no tell tale
signs apart from the eyes Frank. He mentioned that the cheeks were ruddy so I
expected a drink problem leading to the heart attack but there’s not a drop of
alcohol in him. His eyes were bloodshot so without the alcohol I’ve had to look
for another reason. We found it in the chest. It’s not a heart attack frank,
it’s asphyxiation.’

Frank Davies’ mind was working overtime. The
case had been tied up. A young couple having a leg-over had found a middle-aged
man who had died of a heart attack while he had been watching them. Over excitement,
pure and simple. Natural causes. No problem. He had thought that the post
mortem would have been a foregone conclusion but now here was the forensic
pathologist phoning with an altogether different theory.

‘You sure doc?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. The eyes were the giveaway but we
found a build up of carbon dioxide in the tissues and some bruising on the
chest that points not to a heart attack but asphyxiation.’

‘Strangled? But there were no marks’

‘No Frank, it’s not strangulation. When there
is a lack of oxygen to the brain for any length of time, and there are other
reasons for that as well as strangulation, lethal gases can build up and that’s
what seems to have happened here. It happens sometimes with sexual games when
it’s done temporarily for arousal but it’s bloody dangerous. You may remember
that a singer and a TV presenter both died that way some years ago. We call it
Auto Erotic Asphyxiation by the way.’

‘So this was a sexual prank gone wrong then?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that it
could be self-inflicted and with no ligature marks on the neck it is not the
usual sex game that can go wrong and end in strangulation either. No, in this
case, as well as the bloodshot eyes and carbon dioxide, there was bruising to
the chest that indicates that this is compressive asphyxia, or the limitation
of expansion of the lungs because of compression of the torso. Although it’s
like being crushed, actually the cause of death is being starved of oxygen.
There’s oil or grease in the gash on his head that I can’t identify until the
lab report comes back but this guy didn’t die of natural causes Frank.’

Replacing the phone, Davies pondered the
surprising turn of events. Whoever the poor sod was he had carried no
identification and nobody fitting the description had been registered as
missing. There was absolutely no indication of the dead man’s identity.

Leaning back in his chair and reaching up to
clasp his hands behind his head, Don Radcliffe looked across to Davies. Friends
and colleagues for many a year, the two detective inspectors shared an office
that was often just referred to within the police station as ‘the Inspectors
room.’ Their desks at right angles, little was private between them and ideas
or opinions were often shared.

‘Problem Frank?’

‘Looks like it’ said Davies. ‘According to the
Doc, they’re saying that the stiff I was dragged out to see at the old ruin
didn’t have a heart attack because it was Auto Erotic Asphyxiation so he got
himself topped.’

‘How old was he? I thought that you said he was
an older bloke. It’s usually the younger ones who go in for kinky sex.’

 
‘The pathologist says it’s not a sex
thing. This scientific stuff is way over my head but he says the guy definitely
didn’t die from a heart attack - something about being crushed but that that’s
not the reason for his death. He didn’t look as though he had been crushed to
me. He was just slumped in the fireplace. It was as though he’d had a
skinfull
and then sat down to sleep it off. Or fallen down
– there was a bump on his noddle to back that theory up - but apart from
that there wasn’t a mark on him.’ Davies took a sip from his coffee mug,
grimaced and continued ‘This coffee is shit. Goes with how things are going at
the moment I suppose. First I got in the Chief’s bad books for turning up late
for dinner, now I’ll have to see if anything remains of the crime scene or if
it’s been destroyed by the sex mad thrashing about of the area’s idle young. If
it’s all gone to pot then that’ll be another dressing down from on-high and if
that means I get home late there will be a long face and an icy mood from the
wife. Shit all round I suppose.’ Looking across at his colleague he added,
‘I’ll swap you for your randy artist.’