Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (38 page)

Opening the door, she saw that the business
card was actually a police warrant card.

‘Mrs Wilson?’ the one holding the card asked.
‘Mrs Alison Wilson?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘What’s the problem? What
has happened? Is it Steve? Has he had an accident?’

‘Can we come in please?’ asked the other
officer. ‘This would be better inside I think.’

Standing back while they entered her prim and
tidy home, she closed the door and led them into the sitting room. Quickly
sweeping the papers she had been working with off the sofa so that they could
sit down and picking up some that had fallen on the floor, she sat in an
armchair opposite them. She didn’t really sit. Not in the conventional
definition of sitting anyway. The suite was big and bulky, its seats far too
deep to sit normally and the overall shape a strange collection of curves. She
sort of sank into her chair like a sack of potatoes dropped from a height, with
her legs curled up under her on the seat as she leaned over to one side, an
elbow on the overstuffed arm and her hand supporting her chin.

Opposite her, not feeling inclined to follow
her example, which didn’t look at all comfortable anyway, the two officers
sharing the sofa were clearly not at ease, the back of the sofa too far away to
give any support and the multitude of cascading cushions filling the void,
extremely lumpy. If this is modern design thought the young constable, give me
traditional furniture any day.

‘Mrs Wilson,’ started the woman officer. ‘Do
you own a Mercedes E Class?’ continuing to add a registration number.

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied cautiously. ‘It is on
the drive. You passed it coming in.’ Then, her manner becoming even more
confused she continued, ‘what have I done wrong? I haven’t been speeding, or I
don’t think so. And I’ve not overstayed my time in a car park. What is this all
about officer?’

‘How long have you had the car Mrs Wilson?’

‘Just over six months. My husband bought it for
me for my birthday. Actually that was seven months ago almost exactly.’

‘Yes Mrs Wilson, time flies doesn’t it? So
where did he buy it from then? The car is last year’s model so it must have
been about six months old when you got it, which means it probably didn’t come
from the main dealer. Your husband deals in cars doesn’t he?

Oh dear. These two know too much about us she
thought, a situation she was not comfortable with.

‘Actually, Steve didn’t get it,’ she replied.
‘He just paid for it.’ Then, looking a little sheepish she added, ‘ A friend
told me about it and Steve bought it.’

‘Is that so?’ replied DS Debbie
Lescott
, ‘and who would that be then?’

‘Oh, just a friend at work.’

Lescott
couldn’t miss the flush of colour that had
suddenly brightened Alison Wilson’s cheeks. Was there something more? It
certainly looked like it.

‘Who’s your friend then Mrs Wilson?’ added the
constable in support.

‘Just a friend at work. I am a teacher at St
Barnaby’s school in
Ormskirk
. Another teacher told me
about it and Steve bought it for me.’ Looking from one to the other, searching
for some sort of clue as to why they were sitting on her sofa asking personal
questions, she continued, ‘Look. What’s the problem? You are getting me worried
officer.’

‘So how did your friend know about it Mrs
Wilson? Did it belong to somebody that had died, or was it that the previous
owner just did not like it? I mean, you wouldn’t normally be thinking of
changing a car that’s only six months old now would you?’ asked the young
constable.

‘And I wouldn’t spend the sort of money that
your car is worth on a private sale,’ cut in
Lescott
,
‘With a six month old car costing so much money I would want a decent warranty,
and that means buying from a dealer. So who is your friend Mrs Wilson –
and why was the car for sale?’

Alison Wilson eyed them both up. This was
surreal. How could she tell them that her boyfriend, or former boyfriend, had
told her about the car and her husband had bought it? That sounded a bit far
fetched. Love triangles usually ended in arguments not a happy threesome. But
hers hadn’t been a happy threesome. Steve did not know that Brian existed. OK,
so he did know that Brian existed, but only as a fellow teacher, not that there
had been anything between them. So how could she now tell two strangers? That
might let the cat out of the bag and ruin everything. And just when she had
taken steps to stop the affair and put her marriage back on an even keel too.

‘Like I just told you’ she said, ‘just a friend
at school. He said that he knew of a couple that were splitting up and there
was a car for sale. He said that the bloke had gone off with another woman and
told his wife to sell things off for whatever she could get for them. Being a
bit pissed off at being left in the lurch she was selling things at silly
prices – a bit vindictive like – so the car was available for less
than half price. It had been a steal.’

‘Yes, I bet it was at that,’ commented
Lescott
. ‘So Mrs Wilson, this bloke at school, friendly
with him are you? Very friendly perhaps?’

‘Really!’ she exclaimed.’ What are you
suggesting? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you Mrs Wilson?’ With almost as much
detail as she needed,
Lescott
was getting close to
the point where she would make her move. ‘Either we can have a word with your
husband and with your colleagues at St Barnaby’s or you can tell us here and
now. It doesn’t make much difference to us so I don’t particularly care. But
I’ve got a suspicion that you wouldn’t want that Mrs Wilson. Spell it out love.
Who’s your boyfriend?’

Oh bloody hell. She felt herself going crimson.
Was it so bloody obvious? If two complete strangers could deduce her guilty
secret in just five minutes then there was a pretty good chance that Steve
could work it out too. He probably already had for that matter.

She swung her legs down of her chair and sat
up.
Lescott
could see that the reference to a
boyfriend had hit the mark. Although Wilson was trying to create a nonchalant
image, the woman was clearly running on her nerves. Sitting bolt upright with
her hands clasped in her lap, she constantly twirled her thumbs, then when she
became conscious of the action, reached up to twist a lock of hair around her
finger. Whether twirling her thumbs or twisting her hair, she was constantly on
the move.

‘It’s over,’ she said.

‘Sorry Mrs Wilson,’ replied the DC, we didn’t
quite catch that.’

‘I said that it’s over,’ repeated Alison Wilson
looking at them directly. ‘I had this. Well, you know.’ Gulping for air she
took a breath and launched into full flow. ‘He’s called Brian. I was seeing him
for about a year, though why I don’t know; he’s nothing to look at. We used to
spend weekends together and go for meals. But I put a stop on it all last week.
He wanted to buy a bloody caravan.’

‘So who owned the
Merc
Mrs Wilson? And how did your friend – Brian isn’t it? How did he come to
know about it then? And how did you get your husband to buy a car from your
lover? That all sounds a bit cosy to me’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. How Brian knew
about it I mean. He just said that he knew of a car going cheap when we were,
well, you know.’

‘No, Mrs Wilson, we don’t know.’

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘You lot are bloody
despicable. You must have dirty minds if you want the whole sordid details
spelling out. I bet you buy the magazines they put up on the top shelf away
from children don’t you? Well if you must know, while we were screwing each
other up in our room at the Premier Inn, Brian asked my why I hadn’t let him do
anything in the car and I told him that I wasn’t a cheap fucking tart that
dropped her knickers anywhere and that I wanted a bit of comfort. I told him
that if I was going to do it in a car then it would have to be a nice luxury
model with leather seats – and wide enough to enjoy sex without having my
knees up around my ears to avoid the gearstick.’ Looking at them even more red
faced, she added pointedly, ‘There, is that what you want to know?’

‘Doesn’t sound like a bad position to me
Alison,’ said
Lescott
, ‘but we didn’t need so much
detail. Actually, what I am trying to pin down is who owned the car before you,
how Brian knew about it and how you persuaded your husband to pay for it. Like I
said before, it does sound a little cosy.’

Regaining her composure, she paused before
answering, though her thumbs were still on the move and her eyes were welling
up.
Lescott
reached over to her and put her hand
gently on Wilson’s in a reassuring move. She had drawn her conclusions and now
needed to bring the woman back down onto solid ground before taking the action
they had been assigned.

‘I think I understand your problem Alison,’ she
said. ‘We are investigating a rather serious matter and you car just happens to
have cropped up as you might say. Let’s keep this simple. Who did Brian say
owned the car and where did Steve go to collect it?’

‘I don’t think he told me. No, I am sure he
didn’t. He just said that a couple had split up but I cannot remember him ever
mentioning them by name. And Steve didn’t go to collect it. Brian brought it
here for Steve to have a look at. He said he would have it straight away so I
drove him back to his house in my car. I mean the one I had then. It was a
little Hyundai.’

‘So how did your husband pay? Did Brian give
him a receipt?’

‘Steve got the money cash from the bank the
next day and I took it to Brian at school. There was no receipt because Brian
said the woman was quite distraught at seeing the car go for such a low price.
He just gave us the registration document to send off to Swansea. Steve did all
that.’

‘OK Alison,’ said
Lescott
in her most soothing voice. ‘Unfortunately we will have to take your car for a
while. We have the documents here giving us permission to impound it and a
recovery vehicle will be here in a few minutes.’ Wilson looked stunned, ‘We
have reason to believe that it may have been stolen.’

As Wilson opened her mouth to object,
Lescott
raised her hand to stop her and continued,
‘Actually, a number of cars have disappeared over the last few weeks and we
think that yours could be one of them. If that proves to be the case then it is
also possible that the identification numbers stamped into various parts, like
the chassis and engine, have been tampered with to change its identity. So what
we are going to do is take the car and let our forensics team check it over. If
it turns out to be OK then you will get your car back. But of not . . .’ and she
left the implication hanging.

Wilson just stared ahead, disbelieving. What
could she tell Steve? How could she explain? And could she keep her illicit
affair from him?

Opposite, the policewoman smiled gently. It
wasn’t a smile that said ‘silly cow’, more a smile with warmth and compassion.
But what the hell did she know? She was just the bearer of bad news, not the
person trying to explain it to her husband. And not the person trying to hold a
marriage together without disclosing a silly, stupid affair. The policewoman
reached out again and took her had. There was strength and compassion in the
gesture that Wilson found comforting, but she knew that that wouldn’t last.

‘I’ll have to call my husband,’ said Wilson,
pulling her hand away from
Lescott’s
and restarting
her thumb twirling. ‘He’ll be worried if he arrives home and my car isn’t here,
he’ll think I have gone out.’ Then, as a horrible thought crossed her mind, ‘Oh
no, you’ve not got him to come for it have you? He has a police recovery
contract and often gets called out to bring vehicles in. He owns Wilson Motors.
They have six recovery vehicles. Oh my God no.’

‘No Alison, it won’t be a Wilson wrecker that
comes. A recovery vehicle from
Karwowski
Motors in
Southport will be here any minute. They have AA and RAC contracts so your
neighbours will probably think your car has broken down. As for your husband,
don’t bother calling him. Steve and Brian are at this moment sharing cells at
Southport Police Station, helping us with our enquiries.’

The younger officer pulled out some papers.
‘Here is the impounding order Mrs Wilson,’ he said. ‘Will you just sign here
please,’ then after she had written her name in a very wobbly hand, he offered
her the lower sheet, ‘this is your copy.’

Twenty-Six

The pub was its normal quiet self, with two or
three drinking at the bar and the same number in each of the two front rooms.
Simon Charlton preferred the Queens Head to others nearby. It was an honest,
down to earth English pub without any pretence. The Queens did not need any
false beams stuck to its ceilings, copper kitchen items hung on the walls or
framed photographs of nineteen thirties movie stars to make its newly refitted
décor look old. The Queens was old. Thanks to no-smoking laws its walls were no
longer yellowed by cigarette smoke, but all its woodwork – doors,
architraves, window frames – were painted the same jet black that they
had been for many years and the only concessions to modernity were flat screen
TV’s in the two front rooms and a pod coffee maker behind the bar.

Simon preferred the room off the entrance hall
to the right. For some unexplained reason he didn’t like the room on the left
as much, although it was a mirror image, while in the right hand room he felt
more at home and relaxed. Taking a corner seat near the window gave him a clear
view of a northern derby match playing out silently on the large screen TV as
well as anyone else entering the room.

‘And what the bloody hell did you think you
were doing on Sunday?’

The question jerked Simon out of his
concentration on the match. Looking up, a tall stocky man with a moustache was
standing over him, clearly not happy with Charlton and ready for an argument.
The Clerk of the Course with responsibility for running the cavalcades at the
MotorFest
, he was not used to his authority being challenged.
Or comprehensively ignored.

‘Sorry about that,’ replied Charlton.

‘Sorry my bloody foot,’ cut in the
CoC
before Charlton could continue. ‘Did you have a bloody
brainstorm or something? I said at the driver briefing that there was to be no
overtaking and speeds had to be below 30mph. But what did Simon Bloody Charlton
do? You only nearly pushed three cars off the road and into the crowd. That’s
all.’ His face getting redder and his neck bulging over his collar, the
CoC
was only just getting into his stride. ‘What the hell
did you do that for Simon? You knew the rules. The police were screaming at me
to stop the whole show there and then. And when you shot off past the police
station you nearly hit the crowd on the corner. For fuck’s sake Simon –
right in front of the cop shop too.’

‘I said I am sorry,’ responded Charlton, who
had not seen the
CoC
lose his cool before – or
heard him swear, ‘but there were reasons.’

‘Reasons!’ exploded the
CoC
.
‘Bloody reasons. I bet there were. But that wouldn’t have satisfied the police
or consoled a distraught mother if you had hit a child – and God knows
how you didn’t, driving like that. I had to tell the cops that you weren’t an
official entrant in the cavalcade. I said that we didn’t know who you were and
that you had just done half a lap then shot off somewhere. They seemed to
swallow it but they made me put more marshals and stewards on that part of the
course for the rest of the afternoon.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘I am just
hoping that they don’t object to our application for next year. If they do,
MotorFest
is dead. And that will be your fault.’

Looking at the irate man standing over him,
Charlton felt his anguish. More than any other, this man had put his all into
delivering a free day out for thousands of people and all he could see at the
moment was its cancellation. Charlton understood his angst.

‘Sit down.’

‘I’m alright standing thank you.’

‘I said sit down,’ responded Charlton. ‘I’ve
something to say and I don’t want to keep straining my neck looking up at you
or shouting so that everyone in the pub can hear. Sit down and I’ll get you a
drink.’

Rejoining
the
CoC
and placing
a cool pint in front of him, Charlton sat next to his friend. ‘I did not intend
to put anyone at risk,’ he said, ‘but there were reasons.’

The
CoC
put his glass
down hard on the table, spilling a little, but before he could respond,
Charlton continued. ‘No, hear me out. Firstly, there will be no trouble with
the police.’ The
CoC
opened his mouth to speak but
Charlton carried on without giving him the chance. ‘That I can guarantee.
Secondly, the crowd loved it. They thought it was all part of the show and they
were cheering as I was overtaking.’

‘The crowd don’t know anything,’ he replied
when Charlton had finished. ‘They thought you were recreating a rally or race
but they don’t have to satisfy the authorities do they? They don’t have to
worry about what will happen if somebody gets hurt. Or killed,’ he added. ‘And
don’t kid yourself Simon, I will have trouble with the police. There is a
debrief meeting next week and I am dreading it. The big chief will be there and
what’s the betting they withdraw their permission for next year?’

‘I understand where you are coming from,’
replied Charlton, ‘but, believe me, you will not have any problems.’

‘OK wise guy, what makes you so sure?’

‘It’s quite simple. I had a police officer in
the car with me and we were following orders from way up high. What we did
resulted in a big operation taking place yesterday so I can guarantee you that
there will be no repercussions.’

‘Up high? Up bloody where on high? And what
operation?’

‘I’m sorry but I cannot tell you any more. I’m
just a civilian and I am sworn to secrecy. You mustn’t mention this to anybody
yet. Actually, it’s my bet that when you go to your debrief, the police will
not even mention me, my car, or what we did.’ Changing the subject he then
asked, ‘Have we got a member called Davies?’

‘I think there are a couple,’ replied the
CoC
. ‘There’s one who sprints a Ford Escort and another I
think.’

‘This one is called Frank Davies,’ replied
Charlton, ‘but I don’t think he comes to many meetings. I’ve only seen him at
one but he could have been a guest.’

‘A lot don’t,’ observed the
CoC
.
‘Most of our members only join because the club is MSA affiliated and it gives
them entry to events. I don’t think the bloke with the Escort has ever been to
a meeting. He just pays his subs each year so he can enter sprints and hill
climbs, but a guy with a
Scoobie
came to the last
meeting we had before
MotorFest
. I don’t know what
his first name is but I think he’s something with the police. Might be some
help to stop your antics cancelling
MotorFest
come to
think of it. I’ll have to check the records for his contact details.’

‘Don’t bother. Like I said, there won’t be any
trouble. Unless you create some that is. Just keep quiet, that’s my advice.’
Looking up, Charlton saw an attractive young woman standing in the doorway,
scanning the tables and clearly looking for somebody. Seeing him in the corner,
she smiled and walked gracefully over to the table.

‘Hi Simon, who’s winning?’ she asked.

‘Hi Debbie,’ he replied. ‘Manchester United are
one nil up at the moment but it’s not half time yet so Liverpool can still get
back into the game.’ For the benefit of the
CoC
he
added, ‘This is my friend Detective Sergeant
Lescott
.
She was with me at
MotorFest
.’

The
CoC
shook her
hand then took his beer and walked off.

‘Your friend dashed off pretty quick when I
arrived,’ observed Debbie. ‘Why did you introduce me so formally? I’m off duty
so why not just Debbie?’

‘It’s a long story. He’s the
CoC
and thought he had a big problem that’s all.’

‘C. O. what?’

‘
CoC
. He was Clerk of
the Course on Sunday. He got a chewing from your people when we broke the rules
by overtaking and then shooting off after the Bentley. He’s taken it personally
because
MotorFest
is his baby and he believes that
there won’t be another because we screwed it up for him. He’s been called to a
meeting and expects the police to withdraw their support.’

‘There’s not much chance of that,’ she observed.
‘Anyway, have you ordered?’

‘Of course. Your usual chicken and my steak and
ale pie. I had just bagged this table when he nabbed me.’ Smiling at her he
continued, ‘And what good timing, here come our meals now.’

‘I thought I would find you here.’

‘Oh hello Don,’ said Debbie looking up, her
mouth full of chicken.

‘I know you are off duty but I wanted to check
up on what you got from the caretaker,’ he said. ‘We are on our way back out to
the college and it was only a short detour to call in here. Have you eaten
Kyle?’ Concluding with ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ when the sergeant shook
his head.

‘Looks like we’ve got no option,’ contributed
Charlton with a sly grin. ‘It’s been like Crewe station in here. I had the
third degree about the Bentley earlier and now you two have come for a cop’s
get-together. Just let me finish my pie and I’ll leave you in peace.’ Turning
to Debbie he added, ‘I’ll be in the other room with the
CoC
when you’ve finished.’

‘No you won’t,’ she responded curtly. ‘I’m off
duty remember. We came in here for a quiet meal and I intend to have one.’

‘OK Debbie,’ said Radcliffe, ‘don’t get upset.
I know we are gate crashing but I don’t want to spoil your get together and
Simon is quite welcome to stay while we are talking anyway.
 
We can eat at one of the other tables if
you want though. Just update me on what the caretaker had to say before we go
if you will.’

‘No bother,’ said
Lescott
with a sigh, adding, ‘I hear that Frank has been pulled off, leaving you
holding the reigns.’

‘Yes, for my sins,’ taking a seat and adding,
‘what’s that you’re having Simon? It looks good.’

‘Steak and ale pie. It’s pretty good for the
price they charge,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘and the chips are decent chunky
ones instead of those thin stringy things you get these days, and they are nice
and dry too.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll have one of those and a pint
of bitter please,’ Radcliffe said to the sergeant as he took out his wallet and
offered him a note. ‘This one’s on me.’

‘We came in too early,’ remarked
Lescott
. ‘We missed out on free grub.’

As Fraser took himself off to the bar,
Radcliffe turned his attention to Charlton. ‘What’s this about Bentley
questions Simon?’

‘Not about the Bentley actually. Just before
you came in I had the
CoC
grilling me about why we
overtook cars in the cavalcade and then broke ranks and left.’

‘I hope you were diplomatic in your reply,’
Radcliffe responded, a concerned look on his face.’

‘Simon isn’t stupid Don,’ cut in Debbie. ‘He
might not be employed by the police authority but he is an investigator and
knows when to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Point taken Debbie, but let’s not forget that
his not playing to the rules has already got you into hot water.’ Looking
directly at Simon he continued, ‘I just want to make sure that’s all.’