Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (19 page)

  
Phyllis heaved herself up and took a faltering step forward. Still not
fully awake, she paused and held on to the high back of the chair to steady
herself. She felt disorientated. It had been too hot lately and she would be
glad when the weather cooled down. There was more banging on the door. She
heard somebody shouting her name and asking if she was there. Of course she was
there, or here, or whichever it was. Where else would she be?

‘All right, I’m coming,’ she shouted back,
letting go of the chair. Her head was clearing and she felt a little better.
Taking a step towards the door she felt rather than heard a small crunch. Oh
dear, what were her glasses doing on the floor?

‘Come in whoever you are,’ she shouted at the
door, grabbing again for the chair. ‘I’ve stood on my glasses and can’t see.’

Outside, he could hear little more than garbled
mumbling from inside the caravan. Gently he twisted the handle and opened the
door a couple of inches, peering in through the opening and shouting to the old
lady.

‘Mrs Weston. It’s me, Simon Charlton. Can I
come in?’

As he opened the door, the heat from inside the
caravan hit him in the face and took his breath away.

‘Heavens Mrs Weston, it’s hot in here,’ he
said. ‘Mrs Weston, are you alright?’

Clearly she wasn’t. Standing rather shakily she
looked somewhat forlorn, one hand gripping the back of an easy chair, her
broken spectacles in the other, and a bewildered look on her face. Taking her
elbow and guiding her, he helped her back to the chair.

‘You look out of sorts Mrs Weston. Shall I get
you a glass of water?’

‘No young man. I’ll be alright I suppose. It’s
just this weather – it’s far too hot for me and I’ve just trodden on my
glasses so I can’t see very well. I’ve got a spare pair in that drawer so I’ll
be alright if you can just get them for me.’

‘No wonder it’s hot in here,’ he said. ‘Your
gas fire is on full’.

Thanking him for getting her glasses, she added
that she hadn’t the faintest idea how her gas fire came to be on or the door
shut for that matter. She didn’t like it too hot and always had her door open a
crack at least. Just to get some ventilation you know. It was nice that he had
come to see her. Neighbours didn’t seem to mix with each other as much now as
they had in her younger days. And would he like a cup of tea? And would he
please put the kettle on and make one for her as well?

She was quite a woman he thought. Seriously
dotty of course, and nosey as hell, but a fascinating old bat for all that. He
had turned off the fire and opened some windows, but even with the door wide
open, by the time that their tea had brewed it was still stiflingly hot inside
the caravan.

‘Tell me Mrs Weston,’ he said. ‘What happened
to Mr Archer?’

‘I told you yesterday young man,’ she replied
sternly. ‘Have you forgotten? He had an accident of some sort.’

Phyllis wallowed in Green Fields gossip. Most
was quite irrelevant and he soon began to doubt the wisdom of having visited
the old bat. Keeping her mind on the topics he was interested in was becoming
virtually impossible. All he had managed to get out of her in almost a quarter
of an hour, was that two people had witnessed the accident that had taken Peter
Archer’s life and that a caravan owner called Caroline had been very upset. All
of it would be absolute tosh of course. The man had been murdered so it was
impossible that anybody could have seen the supposed car accident. By that
score there was a fair chance that Phyllis’ other stories would also be fiction
and he would actually be wasting his time.

Looking for an escape, Simon thanked her for
the tea, offered to take her spectacles to his optician for repair, and made
his way to the door.

‘Where are you going young man?’ she said,
stopping him in his tracks. ‘I was in the middle of talking to you –
don’t just walk off. Now then, where was I? Oh, I know, poor Mr Peter. What a
shame that he had that car accident. I always knew that cars would be his
downfall.’

Now only half listening to her, Simon moved
away from the door but a handful of odd words stuck in his brain like arrows.
‘What was that Mrs Weston?’ He asked the old woman. ‘What did you say about
Peter’s overalls and the workshop?’

‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t you listen
to anything?’ she snapped. ‘I said young man, that Mr Peter spends too much
time in that workshop of his. He’s always got a car of some sort in that garage
near the office. If it’s not that old van of his then it is one of those fancy
cars that are always there. He must wear those overalls more than his normal
clothes. He’s supposed to be looking after the caravan site, not mending cars.’

‘No Mrs Weston. You said something about
colours.’

‘Did I?’ she enquired. ‘Oh, I can’t remember.’
Scratching her forehead, a puzzled look crossed her face, then, just as
quickly, her eyes brightened as she suddenly remembered. ‘Yes, I know what it
was. I said that Mr Peter always wears blue ones with duck on the back and
young Kevin has red ones with oh
oh
oh
on them. Then when he goes out into the caravan park to
tidy up the paths or gut the grass he must leave them in the workshop because
he just wears those
joans
things, you know,
joans
like the cowboys wear. Mind you young man, I don’t
know why because when he came to mend my tap he looked pretty scruffy –
his
joans
and jumper were worn out.’

‘I don’t suppose he would wear his best clothes
to come and crawl under your caravan to work on your plumbing Mrs Weston,’
Simon responded with a laugh. ‘And I’m sure you mean jeans.’

‘
Joans
, jeans –
what does it matter? They are all scruffy aren’t they? But he was in his garage
when I was coming back with my paper and by the time I got to my caravan he was
already here. Why he bothered changing when he already had his overalls on
beats me.’

……….

The complete reception building was silent.
Except for the launderette, where a solitary woman was waiting for her
wash-load to finish, all the lights were off and nothing stirred. Walking along
the side of the building, Simon tried the main door into the reception. Locked.
The next door was to the office shared by Kevin and his father. Kevin would now
be the only occupant mused Simon. It too was locked. No doubt the lad was away
from the site making arrangements for his father’s funeral.

Around the side of the building a storeroom was
locked. Next to it, the double doors of the workshop were secured with a big
padlock. What should have been a bustling holiday park complex was a desolate
and dreary place. Simon looked around. The caravan park was decidedly run down.
Weeds were encroaching on the paths, most of the caravans were well past their
prime, and with the reception building closed, the overall impression was that
of a ghost town. Unless you needed to do the weekly laundry of course.

Tempted to kick the workshop door out of
frustration, Simon idly reached out for the padlock and rattled it. He swore at
the closed door and cursed his inability to find answers. Disappointed that
nobody was about and he could not gain access to check anything for himself, he
vented his frustration on the door, pummelling with both fists clenched. It
didn’t achieve anything.

Turning away from the workshop, he walked back
to his little coupe. No further forward, he sat for a few minutes mulling over
developments in his mind, such as they were. Ahead of him, a mobility scooter
turned out of the side road. It was Mrs Weston again. No doubt she would be
pouncing on some poor unsuspecting soul to spread more gossip. But seeing her
gave him an idea. Taking a business card from his pocket he wrote a message on
its back and strode across to the office, where he pushed the card under the
door. Retracing his steps back to his car, the lock on the workshop doors again
caught his eye. The padlock was locked tight through the staple, but the hasp
was over the top instead of under the padlock. Presumably Kevin had just folded
the hasp back over the staple and the padlock so that it looked as though the
doors were locked when he had popped out for a while. With only a slight tug,
the big door swung open.

‘Hello’ shouted Simon into the dark interior.
‘Is there anyone here? Hello. Kevin, are you in there?’

Silence.

Looking around, the little access road was
completely empty, and Mrs Weston had disappeared completely. He couldn’t see
anyone in the murk of the workshop either. Pointing his ignition fob across the
road he pressed the button. The indicators on the Olympic flashed and he heard
a high-pitched chirp as the alarm armed and the
imobiliser
activated. Turning back to the workshop he opened the door a little wider to
let in more light and located the light switch. One by one the overhead lamps
flickered into life and the workshop was bathed in light, the fluorescent tubes
throwing a cold green hue.

Pulling the door closed, Simon worked his way
to the back of the workshop where the logbook was stashed. Opening the log he
turned to the day of the attack on Johnson. PA / Ex – Van in the log
confirmed that Archer had been working on his van that evening. Flicking the
pages he looked for the date of the second attack. PA – LG. Clearly that
could not also be Peter Archer for by then he was dead. And even if he hadn’t
been, he should have been in London

Taking the log over to a grubby chair he turned
back to the beginning and went through its pages methodically. Slowly, a
pattern began to emerge. Mrs Weston was right. Peter Archer spent a lot of time
in the workshop. PA appeared regularly. Here and there at first, then a regular
three times every week for several months. And always on the same days each
week, like set appointments. A couple of times there was SC, that would be when
Simon had been working on the Olympic, but other than
Brks
following an entry a few weeks previous and Ex-Van on the night of the first
attack, there were no other indications of what Archer senior had been doing.
Just PA indicating that he had been in the workshop.
Brks
might mean brakes and Ex could be short for exhaust, but surely he didn’t need
to work three nights a week on the van.

‘Hello. Anybody there?’

Simon froze. Silhouetted against the now open
doorway he could see Kevin. Had Simon aimlessly wandered into the workshop, or
had he been there working on the Olympic, his presence would have been
legitimate – but how could he explain rummaging through private
cupboards, removing a personal log and settling down in a chair to pore over
its contents? With difficulty, certainly. So not able to move for fear of attracting
attention, Simon remained perfectly still and said nothing, hoping not to be
noticed.

With a click, the lights went off, plunging the
workshop into darkness and throwing Kevin into stark silhouette in the open
doorway. The big door swung closed and there was a clang and a metallic thump
as the hasp was swung over the staple, the padlock being closed and locked.
Outside, a car door slammed, an engine started up and a vehicle drove off.

In the silence, Simon could hear his own heart
thumping.
Dedum
,
dedum
,
dedum
. Cautiously he worked his way back across the
workshop in the gloom, aiming for the slit of light under the big doors and
feeling his way with care. He gave the door a push, but held firm by the big
padlock it moved only a few inches. Working from memory and feeling his way
slowly to the side, he flicked the lights back on. Kevin would have seen the
coupe outside, so the logical thing to do would be to find a plausible reason
to have been in the workshop and then to call the lad on his mobile asking him
to return and unlock. That would also give him time to replace the log.
Reaching into his pocket he realised that his phone was still in the coupe,
linked to the Bluetooth hands free unit. Blast!

Looking around the workshop, Simon saw the door
Kevin had disappeared through when he had made them all a cup of tea.
Presumably it led into the reception building. It too was locked. Hanging on a
hook on the door were two pairs of overalls; a blue pair and a red pair. Mrs
Weston’s duck and oh
oh
oh
suddenly began to make sense. On the red overalls, each of the four circles of
the Audi logo would look like several letter ‘O’ to the old woman, while on
Peter Archer’s blue ones, the first four letters of
Duckhams
spelled duck.

Turning back from the door he looked around for
any possible means to get out - a window, a door – anything. Almost every
space along the walls was filled with cabinets, benches and a desk. Tools,
gaskets, number plates and other bits of cars long ago scrapped hung on nails.
Amid the automotive junk art gallery, save for the big double doors and the
door to the reception, both of which were locked, there was no way out.

Wandering back to the chair, Simon picked up
the small logbook and to cover his tracks put it back where he had found it on
the shelf. But with Peter Archer no longer in need of it, the likelihood of the
book being missed by Kevin was slight, so he slipped it into his pocket
instead. Piled up with junk, the desk was a mess. A couple of empty fast food
containers vied for space with a few spanners, dirty rags, coiled jump leads, a
dirty cup and old newspapers. Somewhere towards the back, a red neon blinked
from under an old rag. Under the rag was a telephone.