Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (30 page)

Davies pondered the information. Certainly it
provided some substance for the family feud, but any dispute could easily be verified
by the Land Registry, so in reality, not a major problem. ‘I am grateful for
the explanation Mr Jarvis,’ he said, but that’s not much of a problem is it? I
mean, the deeds will set out boundaries won’t they?’

‘Quite right,’ responded the old man. ‘But
verifying it all would cost a lot of money. Money that neither Peter nor his
sister have.’ Locking eyes with Davies and with a cheeky little grin forming at
the edges of his mouth, he continued, ‘The disputed land is a wide stripe
between the caravan site and the old man’s land. Unless you have a written
description including landmarks, the only way to establish where the boundaries
are is to call in the surveyors to measure up. And believe me, that’s an
expensive process.

‘From what I understand, old man Archer never
told Peter about it. He just let him think that the boundary between the
caravan site and the smallholding was at my perimeter fence. I cannot remember
it being discussed when I sold to Peter and I suppose I just presumed that
father and son knew about it. When we originally split the farm and sold part
to old man Archer, we wrote down a full description of where the boundary was
and how it could be identified, the terms of the loan and how it was not part
of the land Archer was buying. We both had a copy but on the phone Peter told
me that there was no record of it in his fathers documents. He was coming down
here to copy mine. That’s about it Inspector. Why don’t you ask Peter?’

‘I would like to Mr Jarvis,’ replied Davies,
‘but the sad thing is that Mr Archer senior and his son Peter have both died.
Actually, Peter died on the very day he was supposed to be coming down here to
see you. And we are involved because Peter Archer’s death was not, shall we
say, normal.’

‘Oh good heavens,’ stuttered Jarvis, who seemed
to suddenly grow even older. ‘Oh my God. What happened? Oh Good Lord. I sort of
assumed that Kevin was referring to his grandfather’s death.’ Then, looking
directly at Davies, ‘I think I need another drink Inspector. I’ll put the kettle
on. Oh dear
dear
. What next?’

……….

Walking through the square and past the clock
tower, Simon Charlton took in what was surely one of the most off-the-wall
images he had experienced. With the coming of
pedestrianisation
,
the centre of the old market town had reverted to it’s heritage format;
asphalted streets had once again become cobbled, modern street signs had been
replaced by reproduction Victorian versions, and many shop frontages,
particularly those of banks and stone buildings, had been cleaned and
sandblasted. Where for two days each week the town awoke from its more normal
comatose state with market stalls lining town centre streets, now, early on a
Sunday morning, everything was ghostly quiet, the streets were empty and there
was hardly a soul in sight.

Had there been an onlooker, Simon himself would
have looked out of place, his bright red padded jacket with its ACC logo, which
was an abbreviation for Aintree Circuit Club, cutting a decidedly modern image.
But through his eyes he didn’t need Dr Who’s
tardis
to transport him back in time. As he looked
doen
the
cobbled street past the clock tower, an old Model T Ford, a vintage Bentley and
a 105E Ford Anglia with its distinctive raked back rear window that had been
built at the Liverpool Halewood factory back in the sixties were all parked up.
Sheer nostalgia, all he needed to complete the illusion was to be seeing it all
in black and white. In his minds eye, it was.

Walking on, outside WH Smith he passed a
magnificent Jaguar C Type sports car and, on the opposite side of the street,
two classic Formula One race cars being unloaded from their trailers; Alan
Jones’ championship winning
Saudia
Williams and
Graham Hill’s BRM, both lovingly maintained and still campaigned in classic
race events. At seven thirty on a Sunday morning, none of the shops would be
open for close on four hours. None that is except for the Mustard Club, on the
first floor above The Green Room café. The organisational HQ for
Ormskirk
MotorFest
, the Mustard
Club was Simon’s destination; where he would check in and sign on; where he
would register the Olympic both as a static exhibit and a participating vehicle
in the cavalcades.

The
MotorFest
had put
the sleepy little market town on the map. For five days of each week it virtually
hibernated, while the street market attracted customers from around the
locality on Thursdays and Saturdays. On the best market days, public car parks
were jammed full and the town centre busy with up to three thousand shoppers
but the annual automotive extravaganza, a unique free to attend family day out,
broke all records and additional car parking had to be arranged at the nearby
Edge Hill University, serviced by a park-and-ride bus service operated by
classic buses. Come the official opening time at eleven o’clock, the streets in
the town centre would be lined with classic and vintage cars, racing and rally
cars, and racing motorcycles, all attracting a milling throng of happy
visitors, eagerly wandering between the displayed vehicles and chatting with
their owners, many reminiscing back to their own earlier motoring experiences.

And across the ring-road there would be more of
the same, with even more cars, even more motorcycles, and even more visitors
filling Coronation Park.

Having completed the signing-on procedure he
had collected the display number for the
Olympic’s
windscreen as well as an official printed guide to the event showing where each
group of vehicles were displayed and the proposed time of each of the
cavalcades. He had also been given a complementary discount voucher for a meal
at a local restaurant chain. Pulling a tall stool up to the Mustard Club bar,
Simon ordered a coffee and watched as more early arrivals signed on. Whether a
man could be typified by the vehicle he drove Simon didn’t know, but he found
that the reverse procedure, that of trying to identify the type of vehicle
driven by participants as they signed on was fascinating. Owners of racing
motorcycles were obvious, for although they had
trailored
their ‘bikes to the event, most of them were already wearing their motorcycling
leathers. As he enjoyed the rich hot brew, assigning cars to owners for other
participants became a challenge. Perhaps those wearing sheepskin jackets might
own vintage cars and he considered that a slight man on the wrong side of 60
wearing a leather bomber style jacket might own the 50’s Jaguar he had passed
earlier. A young man already clad in a fireproof race suit might logically be
part of the team displaying a
Ginetta
prepared for
circuit racing. He was unaware just how accurate his identification was.

At an adjacent table, a short guy with thinning
hair was assembling printed entry lists, name badges and bright yellow
reflective jackets. Handling media signing-on for the day, ACC member Ian
Bennett was also an experienced and internationally published freelance writer
/ photographer and, once his HQ responsibilities had been discharged, would
spend most of the day photographing the event and amassing data for his feature
commissioned by the Lancashire Life regional lifestyle magazine.

‘Where are the Italians?’ asked Charlton.

‘Over in the park,’ replied the media
specialist. ‘The Alfas are over on the right just past Phil Read’s racing
motorbike but the Ferrari’s are to the left, close to the dragster and opposite
the local radio tent.’

‘Is your car over there?’ enquired Charlton.
With Charlton’s Olympic being powered by an Alfa Romeo engine and Bennett
owning an Alfa sports saloon, they shared an interest as well as club
membership.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Once the ring road is closed
for the cavalcades it will be impossible to get out of the park for a couple of
hours or more and if I have to dash off I don’t want to be blocked in, so I put
the 156 in the car park behind
Disraelis
. I might go
to Dizzies for lunch anyway so it is convenient and the car parks are free on Sundays
anyway. What about you?’

‘I am down in the street outside Costa Coffee,’
replied Charlton. ‘The Olympic isn’t a standard production car and it’s not an
Alfa either so it didn’t fit into the brand areas; I am between Colin’s Anglia
and a little bubble car!’

Refreshed, Simon joined the group standing
outside the café where the Clerk of the Course, or
CoC
,
was giving his driver briefing. There was to be no overtaking, no exceeding
30mph, everyone had to keep an eye out for spectators wandering onto the
course,
etc
etc
etc
. It was all pretty mundane and common sense – yet
essential for smooth running of the event and to comply with the terms of the
event insurance.

Essential business over, Charlton walked over
to his little coupe and positioned his number at the top of the windscreen.
Taking a sheet on which the unusual specification of the car had been printed,
he taped it to the inside of the passenger window then locked up the car. With
three hours before the first cavalcade, he intended joining the hordes of
visitors to enjoy the static displays. All 260 vehicles were now in-place and
the whole town was already buzzing with visitors. Press reports would later
estimate 15,000 visitors crammed into the town centre, three times that of even
the best market day. Local traders would be more than happy, as would event
organisers, but pushing through the crowd wasn’t easy.

His target would be the Italians, so reaching
the park he looked first for the Alfas. Turning right at the first junction he
passed a large motorcycle display and motorcycle legend Phil Read, beyond which
he could see the six cars representing the local Alfa Owner group. After
spending time discussing engine tuning he retraced his steps to where the
pathways branched and located the monster dragster, at the side of which was
the Ferrari display. Alongside a
Testarossa
, a
Mondial
and a more recent Ferrari
Enzo
,
was an F430, but it wasn’t the F430 he was looking for, it wasn’t the car he
had followed or watched from his balcony.

With both his primary targets achieved, he
wandered aimlessly around the other exhibits in the park. One and a half hours
remained before he was due to drive the Olympic in the second of five scheduled
cavalcades around the town. Just enough time to wander around the remaining
park exhibits before returning to the town centre where he could grab some
excellent cheap pub grub at the Queen’s Head. Having walked the entire outer
path of the park and reached its furthest point, he turned to return to the
entrance, cutting right through the centre and past the bandstand where a steel
band was playing bright Caribbean style music. Pausing to listen, he marvelled
how such sweet sounds could be hammered out – literally – from old
steel oil drums. Ahead of him, over the heads of the crowd he could just see
the perimeter fence, and above that the rooftop of the big supermarket. But
over to his right, between the bandstand and some trade displays, was a row of
Ferraris. Though he could only see their roofs, he was sure that he was not
looking at the earlier group. Along with a Dino, these were predominantly F360
and F430 models, with neither
Testarossa
nor
Mondial
.

Changing direction he strolled over to the
group. Every one was red. Red was the most popular Ferrari colour but in a
display of six or seven cars there would usually be at least one or two yellow
or blue cars. As he approached, he was attracted particularly to the middle
car. Recognising its registration, he walked over and checked its bonnet
decals. All checked out. Peering in through the passenger side window,
something struck him as not quite right. This car had non-standard seats and a
special facia. Walking round to the rear of the car, he again checked decals.
And again, all checked out. Working back along the driver’s side of the car,
nothing seemed to be wrong.

Taped to the driver’s window was an A4 sheet of
paper on which the owner had typed the details of the car. Most of the cars on
display had similar sheets, as of course was the case with Simon's own Olympic,
their owners keen to set out car histories; some out of pride and others to cut
down the tedium of repeatedly answering the same questions. Reading the sheet
on the door glass of the Ferrari, the two anomalies that had irritated Simon
– its registration as a Toyota and its custom interior – were
explained. He had discounted the car’s registration being a cherished number
and Toyota branding. He knew his Italian cars well and could identify the melodic
howl of an Italian
Vee
engine instantly. As he had
done. He had watched this car from his balcony and also followed it for several
miles to where it had been garaged at the strange mansion in the country.
Without doubt it was an F430. And also without doubt, its equally identifiable
Italian
Vee
engine had sung like Pavarotti,

Doubt had never been an issue. Indeed, he had
never doubted the car’s heritage or identity, only that claimed for it. Yet
according to the sheet he had just read, he had been fooled. Reading on he
realised that there had not been any illegal switching of registration plates,
nor had there been any fudging of details to fool the DVLA. What Simon was
standing next to was a DNA 430, the car displayed to its left a DNA 360 and the
car to the right a Karma. According to his event guide, this particular group
of cars was being exhibited by the Replica Italian Car Club, the clue being the
word Replica.