Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (15 page)

‘Did you actually see your attacker Mr
Johnson?’ he asked, adding, ‘how can you be so sure that it was your
brother-in-law that attacked you?’

‘Really Inspector. I have been through this
time and time again. I am sure that if you go through the records you will find
it all in there and if check with your colleagues they will tell you that it
was definitely him because I recognised his voice. How many times do I have to
say the same thing? Don’t you guys talk to each other?’

‘We have come into this a little late sir,’
responded the inspector, ‘and while we do have some of the reports, we are
actually working on another case so there are quite a few gaps in what we know.
It would help us if you could fill in those gaps.’

Rapidly losing patience, Johnson replied ‘Yes,
of course,’ although he still couldn’t see why yet more officers were involved,
or why officers working on another case should be involved either.

‘But from what I understand sir, you only heard
the one word. Is that correct?’

‘Yes inspector. After they had finished working
me over he said “shit” and then ran off.’

‘So how can you be sure that it was Archer? One
word isn’t much to go on is it?’

‘One bloody word was enough. I would know that
voice anywhere. He was my brother-in-law for God’s sake. Wouldn’t you recognise
your own brother-in-law’s voice inspector?’

‘Well I dare say that I might in some
circumstances. But if I had just been given a good old pasting and I couldn’t
see and I was in a heap on the floor then I might not be able to discern much
at all – although if I had a good reason to expect that a certain person
was gunning for me, then I dare say that I might convince myself that whoever I
had heard was actually the person I expected it to be. Is that what happened Mr
Johnson?’

Bloody hell! Not these two as well. He’d seen
six policemen before these two and none of them seemed to be able to understand
that he was quite capable of recognising his own brother-in-law’s voice when he
heard it – no matter how many or how few words had been spoken.

‘No it damned well wasn’t,’ he exploded. ‘I
recognised his voice. That’s all. I recognised it. It was Peter bloody Archer.’

‘We understand your annoyance,’ cut in the
sergeant, ‘but it does seem a little improbable doesn’t it? After all, he is
your brother-in-law. Why should a family member attack you?’

‘Like I said, I recognised him. Just because he
was my wife’s brother doesn’t mean to say that I liked him, or he me for that
matter does it? Do you like all your relations?’

‘Well, if you put it like that,’ replied
Lescott
, no I don’t. But then I wouldn’t go around beating
them up either.’

Davies had noted the artist’s use of the past
tense, not once, but twice, and specifically when the sergeant had cleverly
drawn him out. Did that indicate anything?

‘Mr Johnson. There’s something I cannot
understand. There are arguments in every family from time to time but they
don’t usually end up with one party beaten up so bad that he almost loses his
life.’ The inspector was leading Johnson, trying to prise the chink just opened
by his sergeant. ‘Now why on earth would your brother-in-law launch such an
attack? You are well known in the area and so is he. Surely he has as much as
you to lose. What argument is so bad that it could provoke him to attack you? I
mean, it wasn’t just a little brawl was it?’

Johnson seemed to lose about a foot off his
height. Slumped in his chair he looked forlorn. His strength and annoyance
seemed had ebbed away.

‘Inspector,’ he responded, almost in a whimper.
‘Peter Archer was a desperate man. His caravan park was only just breaking even
and he couldn’t afford either maintenance or development. He had no way to
compete with the new marina park and was about to go under. It was sink or swim
for him I suppose.’

‘But what has his business got to do with you?
You have a thriving art shop here. There’s no connection is there? Why would
attacking you help his financial problems?’

‘It’s not all that long ago since my wife’s
father died inspector. Peter expected that he would share any money but his
father cut him out of the will. Actually, there wasn’t any money left. Pop
gifted some to my wife years ago to avoid death duties. It was all quite legal
but Pete accused us of stealing his money – money that would have saved
him from ruin. The reality is that we ploughed everything into this shop and it
all disappeared long ago.’

‘Where were you on Saturday morning?’ asked the
inspector, looking Johnson directly in the eye, adding nothing to his question
and letting the silence create tension.

Visibly shaken, Johnson was obviously
struggling to see the connection between his having been attacked more than a
month previously and his movements only days ago. He opened his mouth to
answer, took a breath, thought for a second and then remained silent. Davies
continued to look directly at the artist, who shuffled in his chair, then
finally steeled his reserve and answered with what was actually a question.

‘What the hell has that to do with Pete
attacking me? And why are you asking me all these questions if you are supposed
to be working on another case?’

‘Just bear with us if you please,’ responded
Davies. ‘Believe me, it is relevant. Now then, where were you on Saturday
morning Mr Johnson?’

Johnson’s mind was jumping from question to
question, topic to topic. What if this was not about the attack but tied in
with the debt collectors? What if these two were not real policemen? Clearly
they didn’t have all the information from the previous interviews so what was
the real score? Why was the guy just looking at him? Why didn’t he say
something?

Davies said nothing but watched Johnson
closely, looking for tell tale signs. There weren’t any.

‘Inspector,’ Johnson eventually said, ‘I fail
to see what my movements on Saturday have to do with whoever attacked me. For
heavens sake, it was more than a month ago and I’ve already been through
everything time and again with the other policemen. Why the sudden
preoccupation with where I was on Saturday - and why haven’t the other
policemen come?’

‘I can understand your confusion sir,’ replied
Davies. ‘The policemen who questioned you before have been trying to find your
attacker.’

‘I told them who attacked me. It was Peter
Archer.’

‘Bear with me Mr Johnson please. During our
enquiries into a completely separate incident some relevance to your case has
emerged. We are just following up on that. Now, can you please tell us where
you were on Saturday morning?’

‘I was out sketching.’

‘So was the shop closed then?’

‘No, of course not. Saturday is a busy day.’
Johnson stopped suddenly before correcting himself. ‘Well, perhaps not that
busy, but Saturday is an important day all the same. I am quite well known
around here and if I was in the shop at weekend when the public are not working
I would get held up with people coming in to the shop just to chat and nothing
would get done so I have regular cover for Saturdays. Actually I have part time
staff to cover whenever I am out or have classes to teach and I never work
Saturdays.’

Davies scanned the wall of fame. The tiny
office shouted “I am famous, just look at me” which just didn’t fit with the
type of person that would hide away from his fans. The photographs depicting
the artist at functions with virtually every local dignitary and celebrity,
flanked by the wall of Mike Johnson artworks, veritably shouted his importance
and a craving not just to be seen, but to feed his ego.

Davies had picked up on some of Johnson’s
comments. The man’s use of past tense when referring to his brother-in-law and
also an inference that business wasn’t good. There had been the hesitation and
correction about Saturdays being busy and that all his wife’s money had
disappeared into the business. Could The Palette actually be in as much trouble
as Johnson claimed Green Fields Caravan Park to be? Davies looked around the
office. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat and few clues other than a self
important ego to feed. No doubt the filing cabinet and computer would hold many
a secret.

‘So where did you go sketching? You have some
nice pictures of the coast on your wall, did you go out to Formby Point or
Freshfield
perhaps?’

Actually, no, I didn’t. I went out to
Lydiate
.’

Now there was something interesting! The man
was actually proffering incriminating information. Taking care not to give too
much away or lead Johnson, Davies continued:

‘
Lydiate
?’

‘Yes. I’m working on a picture of St
Catherine’s Church. I went back to do some detail sketches.’

‘Is that the ruined church you can see from the
road?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Replied Johnson. ‘Along
with the Scotch Piper it’s something of a local landmark and there’s lots of
superstition.’

Bringing the questioning back to the points he
needed to clarify, Davies asked, ‘Were you alone Mr Johnson?’

Johnson confirmed that yes, he had been alone.
He had arrived quite early and there was a ground mist that gave the ruined
priory quite an atmosphere. It was perfect for the mystery he was trying to
capture in his picture. He had been there around two hours but by then the sun
was too high and the mist had gone so he packed up and left. Had he gone back
to the shop? Well, actually, no. After two hours around the priory he had been
a little thirsty and since they were having a dinner party that night back at
home he had in fact gone just a couple of hundred metres down the road to the
farm shop to get some vegetables and then popped into their little café for a
coffee before driving home.

Bingo! The artist had not only put himself in
the area, he had actually put himself right at the scene.

‘Did you see Peter Archer at the farm then?’
Davies kept his eyes locked on Johnson.

Mike Johnson looked at the inspector, then at
the sergeant, their expressions giving nothing away. Why would he meet Pete
anywhere? And why would they ask?

‘Of course I didn’t meet Pete. He’s in London
as far as I know.’ Johnson was clearly agitated. ‘But I’ll tell you for nothing
that if I had met him I would have done worse to him than he did to me. I’d
have bloody killed him.’

‘Which farm shop did you go to Mr Johnson?
There’s one at
Lydiate
Hall Farm and another on the
other side of the road.’

‘
Lydiate
Hall Farm is
a favourite of mine. I get quite a bit of our veg from there and they have a
nice cafe. It’s also the closest to the priory. Actually there’s an old legend
that there’s an underground tunnel from St Catherine’s to the hall but it’s
probably just a load of old tosh.’ Johnson’s eyes darted between the two
detectives. Quickly he analysed the questions he had been asked and the
information he had proffered in return. Had he been led? Had he said too much?
He searched for the direction their questions were taking but could see none.

‘What relevance has all this on my attack?’ he
asked. ‘What does it matter which farm shop I went to? And why ask me if I met
Pete when you know damned well that we don’t speak to each other and that I
wouldn’t even consider being in his company unless I could knock his bloody
block off?’

‘Well Mr Johnson,’ replied Davies, ‘It’s
interesting you should say that, because Peter Archer was found huddled in the
ruins of
Lydiate
Hall on Saturday morning. And what’s
even more interesting is that you have been going round telling everyone you
meet that if you came across Mr Archer you would kill him. That’s interesting
Mr Johnson because he had been murdered – or did you already know that?’

Johnson stared at the two policemen. He
squinted slightly and his brow furrowed. Perspiration began to build. The two
detectives watched Johnson closely but neither spoke. The silence seemed
endless. Johnson fidgeted in his chair. Unable to hold the stares of the two
policemen he bowed his head.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, again looking the
inspector. ‘You don’t think? Oh, no! Surely you can’t believe that. Oh, bloody
hell.’

Johnson leaned forward in his chair, resting
his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands.

‘I know that I said I would do him in but that
was just because I was angry. I can be a bit hot blooded at times.’ Lifting his
face to look straight at Davies he continued: ‘I wouldn’t hurt anybody
Inspector. I couldn’t. I’m not capable of anything like that. How did he die
anyway? You said he was murdered – how did you find him – was he in
a, you know, a mess?’

Davies let the artist’s words hang. Would he
say any more? Incriminate himself further perhaps?

‘Inspector.’ Johnson’s tone was hushed and
almost pleading. ‘I have not seen Peter for weeks. He took out a legal action
against us so we have had to speak through our solicitors. There is a meeting
set for next week actually and that will be the first time we have meet face to
face for a long time.’