Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (18 page)

‘Nice one,’ said the voice. ‘Out for the count.
Ya
got ‘
im
in one. Shall I
put t’ boot in now?’

‘No, not yet, I need to make sure that
everything is OK first.’

The boot release was pressed and the lid
opened. Moving the overcoat aside he opened the briefcase and quickly checked
its contents. His search completed he snapped the briefcase shut, closed down
the boot lid and walked away from the Jaguar.

‘Do it,’ he said.

……….

With monotonous regularity, nurses and doctors
entered the room, checked dials and displays on a multitude of machines,
changed settings and either patted their patient on the arm or made some minor
adjustment to his bedcovers before leaving again. They said little and their
patient remained silent. At the foot of the bed, DI Don Radcliffe took in the
myriad of machines monitoring breathing, blood pressure and most other
requirements of life, their constant pings, bleeps, and wheezing combining in a
mesmeric backing track both intrusive and reassuring at the same time.

Comatose, Mike Johnson knew nothing of what was
happening around him. Oblivious to the comings and goings, to the essential
life supporting machinery and to his visitors, Johnson lay perfectly still
– the centre of all attention yet totally unable to respond in any way.

Silently, Radcliffe pursed his lips, knowing
that that the situation would need careful handling. The woman was close to
tears and her daughter already sobbing.

‘I need to ask your mother a few questions,’ he
said to the young girl. ‘Why don’t you go up to the café with the officer and
get a drink? We’ll join you in a few minutes.’

Waiting until the distraught young girl was out
of earshot, he ushered Joan into a little side room where they at least had a
little privacy.

‘Mrs Johnson,’ he started. ‘I know that this
must be difficult for you but the quicker we get to the bottom of things then
the quicker we can get after whoever is responsible.’

‘And a fat lot of good that’ll do,’ she
replied. If your lot had done your job before, this wouldn’t have happened
would it? Just look at him in there. Nobody can stand up to the beatings he has
been subjected to. This wouldn’t have happened if you lot had put the culprit
behind bars. Police on the telly always get their man but you lot are fucking
useless.’

The expletive was a shock yet no more than he
had expected. They were no further towards knowing who had attacked Johnson the
first time and now here he was in a far worse state, unconscious and almost
literally away with the fairies. God forbid that this should turn into a murder
hunt.

‘Mrs Johnson,’ responded the inspector. ‘I do
understand how you feel, but while your husband continued claiming that he had
been attacked by your brother it was hindering rather than helping enquiries I
am afraid. Clearly, under the circumstances Peter didn’t attack your husband
this time.’

He watched her for any reaction but there
wasn’t any. Slowly she raised her head and looked Radcliffe straight in the
eye. Her expression was blank and her eyes cold.

‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘All I want is my
husband back. You lot are always passing the buck. You didn’t get anywhere last
time so I don’t suppose that you’ll do any better now. But please, do your
best. Mike’s in there fighting for his life. If he comes out of this it will be
a miracle. Please find who did this to him. You are our only hope.’ Tears
welled in her eyes. Though holding up well she was clearly on the ragged limit.

‘Of course Mrs Johnson. But there are a few
questions I need to ask. Some of them may not be easy but the quicker we have
some answers then the quicker we can do something. Like I said, some of the
questions might be, shall we say, delicate. That’s why I sent your daughter off
with my constable for a while.’

The room was bare. Plain painted walls and
vinyl covered seats. Hardly either comforting or relaxing. They both sat. Joan
Johnson looking extremely ill at ease and self-conscious, Davies looking for a
way to phrase what would necessarily be delicate questions. He chose to start
with something easy to establish some sort of rapport.

‘Joan. May I call you Joan?’

She nodded.

‘Well Joan, it is early days and we don’t know
whether the two attacks are connected. But obviously, your brother wasn’t
responsible for this one. and for what it’s worth, despite what Mike said, we
don’t think that he was for the first one either. Now, can you think of anyone,
anyone at all that had a grudge against him?’

Dabbing at her eyes with the tissue he had given
her she looked at him with disbelief.

‘Really inspector,’ she blurted out. ‘Mike is a
celebrity in the area. He gets called to the radio station to comment on
anything and everything connected with art. He gives talks to the women’s
groups, art clubs and all sorts of gatherings. He’s loved by everyone. And I
mean everyone inspector. To answer your question, no, I there isn’t anyone with
a grudge against him.’

‘Unfortunately Joan, that isn’t the case. He
has been attacked twice in just a few weeks and just at the moment he’s in a
pretty bad way, so I should say that somebody somewhere doesn’t agree with
you.’

He knew that the next bit could be crucial. It
could alienate her towards him or it could actually give him a lead. There was
no option but to be direct.

‘Joan. I can’t wrap this up gently I am afraid.
There have been a few rumours going around and I have to ask you something that
isn’t easy for either of us, but I assure you that it is necessary.’

The tissue now sodden and her eyes red rimmed,
she nodded imperceptibly and waited for him to continue.

‘Mike sometimes gave painting classes in the
evening. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Usually in the studio above the shop. It
is, I mean was, mainly to organised groups on a regular basis. Why do you ask?’

‘Usually? Mainly? Were there others then?’

‘No, not that I know of. Just a silly slip of
the tongue I suppose. There was the life group one evening a week but the still
life group and the landscape group both met during the daytime. He tried to
take the landscape group out if he could but they had to work in the studio if
the weather was bad. Really inspector, is this important?’

‘Just bear with me Joan. Did he ever give
one-to-one classes? You know, not a group thing, just one person?’

‘No inspector, he didn’t. He was very careful
about that, didn’t want to be seen to be favouring one person over another. Why
do you ask? Do you think that someone from a class did this? That’s absurd.
Most of them were middle aged or old ladies. They wouldn’t hurt anyone if they
could – and most of them couldn’t anyway.’

‘At the moment we don’t know who attacked him.
But there are a few rumours that Mike was giving private art lessons to one or
two ladies. Younger ladies on a one-to-one basis. You know, just him and a lady
if you get my meaning.’

‘I object to that inspector,’ she stormed back.
‘Of course I get your meaning. Mike isn’t like that. He doesn’t give one-to-one
lessons. He says that it gives out the wrong messages, whatever that means. How
dare you say such a thing anyway? It isn’t true. He’s not like that. He
wouldn’t.’

Suddenly her anger dissipated. Her shoulders
dropped and she seemed to sink into her chair as tears streamed down her
reddening cheeks. This was the sort of scenario Radcliffe hated. But it had to
be done. They needed information and needed it quickly.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions
Joan,’ he said soothingly. ‘But are you absolutely sure?’

Between sobs she replied ‘No Inspector. I don’t
know of any women Mike had one-to-one sessions with. All I do know is that he
didn’t do what you are suggesting, but since I don’t actually know anything at
all, I don’t know do I?’

She looked across at her husband. Tubes and
wires were connected to virtually every limb, up his nose and hidden beneath
the sheets. Displays flashed on machines. Bleeps and peeps broke the silence.
His head seemed twice its normal size, but whether that was due to the bandages
in which it was swathed or the beating he had endured she didn’t know. Who was
this man? Really, who was he? OK, so with his bow ties and loud jackets he was
something of an extrovert, perhaps bordering on the eccentric even, but didn’t
that go with the territory? He was an artist, a celebrity. A kindly man who
wouldn’t hurt a soul. Married for longer than she could remember, he was the
father of her daughter, he had created the house they lived in and he worked
hard to support them.

Yet, did he really work hard or was he a
philanderer? She had heard rumours of course, but then when there were life art
classes there would always be rumours. But surely he wouldn’t would he? Oh God
no, she just couldn’t think that he would. This was the man with an extreme
intolerance of those embarking on affairs and had fallen out with more than one
acquaintance for just that reason. A man of high morals, this was the man who
spent every minute either working or at home with his wife. Or did he? She
didn’t know anything anymore.

Fourteen

Replacing the telephone, Simon Charlton
wandered across the room and studied the view, something he had done numerous
times before. Chosen specifically for its picturesque location on the side of
the canal, the rustic timber house had a chocolate box picture perfect appeal
and over time the tranquil nature of this particular room had created the ideal
environment to ponder tricky cases.

It had not always been like that. What had been
a simple guest bedroom in the roof space created by the previous owner had been
extended and developed into a complete suite. As a central feature, sliding
patio style glazed doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the canal. Until
they had split up it had been their bedroom, then in the aftermath, just
somewhere to store his junk. Eventually he had stopped feeling sorry for
himself, put his life back on track and cleaned out the junk. If letting her go
had been the worst thing he had ever done, then setting this space up as his
study suite surely ranked as one of the best.

Simon opened the sliding door and walked out
onto the balcony. Over to the left a few miles away he could just make out the
roof of the Johnson’s converted barn and knew that beyond it, hidden behind the
trees, was Green Fields Caravan Park. Turning slowly, he could see
Ormskirk
town, and far over to the right, a road winding
its way over the canal bridge and into the distance. A sign indicated where
Lancashire became Merseyside, beyond which was a small wood and the ruins of
Lydiate
Hall.

If the caller had been correct, and he had no
reason to believe otherwise, then Peter Archer hadn’t died in a car accident as
suggested by the old busy body at the caravan park, he had been found at the
old hall and had been murdered. And if that were true, it would change things
for his client. Mike Johnson would become suspect number one. He had told the
solicitor that he would kill Archer, he had told the police that he would kill
Archer – and no doubt he had told others. Logically, the artist could
have done the deed before being put in hospital himself in retribution –
though Simon doubted it.

Yet murder certainly changed the parameters of
what had been a pure and simple family feud. Usually he could spot something
out of place; the key to the puzzle; the missing piece. It was what made him
good at his job. It was what made carrying on with an investigation after
having exhausted the actual brief worthwhile – he always came up with the
needle in the haystack that finally broke a case and brought additional reward.
Standing on the balcony of his idyllic waterside cabin, Simon Charlton knew
that right in front of him, a lifetime had been encapsulated in a one hundred
and eighty degree vista. Stretching from the intertwining of the Johnson and
Archer families in
Crosshill
Village to the ruin
hidden in the wood, the view from his balcony held an important clue. But
frustratingly, just at that moment he couldn’t identify it.

Leaning on the balcony rail he looked down at a
brightly painted boat gliding past towards the bridge; its rich red and green
paintwork glowing in the late afternoon sun, its brass nameplate shining and a
black collie dog sleeping on the saloon roof. As the boast slowly passed under
the picturesque stone bridge over the canal, two walkers stood to take in the
view and waved at the owner of the boat as he held the tiller, and a blood red
Italian sports car worth more than Charlton’s house and his little Olympic
coupe combined, drove past them over the bridge. Simon loved cars. Especially
Italian cars. Or more particularly, Italian car engines with their melodic
exhaust note and thrilling howl on the overrun. Simon’s little silver coupe was
often mistaken for a Porsche but was actually British. Powered by an engine
that had originally come from an Alfa Romeo, it too was melodic and its howl
mesmeric. The red Italian accelerated off the bridge and turned onto a side
road running parallel with the canal. It passed across his vision then powered
off into the distance. To where? To
Ormskirk
or the
teacher training college perhaps? Or to the motorway, where it could be pushed
a little faster? Long after it had crested a hill and dipped out of sight,
Simon still found its sound captivating.

With the sports car gone, a deathly quiet
settled that seemed even more silent than before, with just the sound of birds
twittering overhead breaking the stillness of the countryside. Silent –
yet not really silent. Peaceful. That was it. Peaceful. A peace that blocked
out all distractions and allowed him to concentrate; to develop ideas and
follow a train of thought to its logical conclusion. Most things were indeed
logical once the confusions and distractions had been stripped away. And
stripping them away was easy up on the balcony with only the view, the canal
and a few twittering birds for company.

The violent screech of his coffee machine
pumping out a steaming brew broke the spell and drew the investigator back into
his study. Collecting his notes from his desk he settled himself on the sofa
and for the umpteenth time worked through from the beginning, refreshing his
memory and looking for a missing clue. Archer attacks Johnson. Johnson
identifies Archer. The police don’t catch Archer so Johnson does their work for
them. Only he goes a bit further and kills Archer. No doubt that would be how
the police saw it. But Johnson had been attacked again, and this time not by Archer
because by then he was himself dead.

Sipping his coffee, Simon read and re-read his
notes. Where was the flaw? Had Johnson been attacked twice by the same person,
or had he first been worked over by his brother-in-law and then later by a
person or persons unknown? The workshop log gave Archer an alibi for the first
attack and he was dead by the time of the second. The Weston woman had
corroborated the caravan park owner’s claim, but then she was as batty as hell,
so should she be taken seriously? If Archer couldn’t have been responsible for
the second attack, then who had been – and why? And was the second
attacker also responsible for the first? Simon could see only one solution. He
would have to check out the workshop log in more detail, and although not
attracted to the prospect, also have another talk with Mrs Weston.

……….

Detective Inspector Radcliffe drove up the ramp
and stopped at the barrier. Reaching out, he took the ticket from the machine,
waited until the arm went up, and then drove onto the first floor level of the
multi storey car park. He parked in the first empty space he could see, locked
the car up and made for the staircase down to the pavement outside.

  
Walking in the roadway to avoid boxes of vegetables piled on the
pavement, he walked past the greengrocer, the electronics shop, and then
stopped outside the Palette. The art shop was in complete darkness with a note
taped to the door stating that it was closed due to illness. Threading through
the empty tables in the middle of the street he crossed to the opposite side
and entered the Windsor Tea Rooms, selecting a table near the window as the
young waitress came over to take his order.

‘Hello Helen,’ he said. ‘What’s happening
across the road then?’

‘Hello Inspector,’ she replied, recognising him
from when he had grilled her about Jack, her boyfriend. ‘I told the other
policemen. Mike is in hospital and although they have a part time lady that
opens the shop when he is out with the art groups, she can’t take over full
time. At least, not at such short notice.’

‘OK love,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘Which other
policeman?’

‘They came in early this morning,’ she said.
‘An inspector and a lady sergeant were waiting when I came to open up and asked
me if I’d seen anybody in the street last night. Late on like they said. But we
closed at five and I’d cleaned up and was off home by half past so I couldn’t
help them. They didn’t say anything else, but then Joan came and put that
notice up. I asked her who was ill and said I hoped whoever it was would soon
be OK, you know, showing interest like, and she just started crying so I
brought her over here and made a pot of tea. She said that Mike had been mugged
in the multi storey car park last night and that he was in hospital. That’s all
I know.’

Radcliffe thanked her for the information and
ordered a large tea.

‘We don’t do large and small,’ he had been
advised. ‘You can have a pot of tea or a
caffetiere
of coffee, but all our cups are the same size. We are an English tea shop, not
an Italian coffee house.’

Suitably admonished, Radcliffe pondered the
information. Having detoured from the hospital he had preferred to make this
visit himself and had not sent any of his team down, so who had been asking
questions ahead of him? Across the street, somebody else stopped at the art
shop, read the notice and turned to look up and down. Radcliffe waved and
caught his eye, beckoning him to the café. The door opened and in walked
Sergeant Fraser.

‘I thought that I would find you in here,’ he
said with a grin. ‘Any excuse for a free cuppa.’

‘You’re not far off there,’ replied Radcliffe,
adding that actually the tea was pretty good, and since there was some left in
the pot, why didn’t the sergeant grab a spare cup, going on to bring the
sergeant up to speed on what he had learned. Fraser didn’t know about the
earlier visit either, suggesting Frank Davies as a possibility.

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Radcliffe cynically.
‘Frank hasn’t said anything to me
andJohnson
is our
case, so I want to know the why and the who if anyone else is sniffing around.’
Taking out his mobile, he dialled the direct number for Inspector Frank Davies.

……….

With all the windows and doors firmly shut and
a wall mounted gas fire blaring away, the temperature in the old caravan was
rising and Phyllis Weston was dosing. An afternoon nap had become something of
a ritual for the old woman, although mostly she was unaware of it and whenever
such a practise was mentioned she strongly denied ever doing so. Becoming
something of a creature of habit – collect the morning newspaper, check
up on local gossip, search out someone to spread the gossip to, then back to
the caravan by noon – she also tended to light the gas fire the minute
she got back to the caravan no matter what the temperature outside, and the
windows and doors were always kept closed in an effort to stop draughts. So
having made herself comfortable in her favourite chair, the temperature would
soar and invariably she would drop off to sleep.

With each nod of her head her spectacles would
drop another fraction of an inch along her nose. Eventually they would reach
the end and fall off, and at that point she would wake up with a start. She
would wonder where the time had gone, and why it was so hot. And it was always
somebody else’s fault, someone unseen and unknown closing her door when she had
purposely left it open.

A bold knock went unanswered. Phyllis snored.
Her visitor moved to the window and peered in, trying to establish whether she
was at home, although with her disabled scooter parked next to its wonky
looking shed at the end of the caravan, that had actually been a foregone
conclusion. He knocked again, this time tapping on the window directly behind
her. She jerked subconsciously, her head nodded forward and her spectacles fell
to the floor with a gentle plop. Phyllis woke with a start. What time is it?
Why is it so damned hot in here? Who’s making that ridiculous noise banging on
the window? And where are my glasses?