Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (39 page)

Pushing his now empty plate away, Charlton
looked back at the DI, weighing up the situation and wondering how far he
should go. Harming Debbie’s career was not an option.

‘I was out of order Mr Radcliffe,’ he said, not
knowing how to address Debbie’s superior. ‘I wasn’t aware of just how serious
it would be viewed. For that I am very, very sorry.’ Casting a quick glance at
Debbie he continued, ‘I would not knowingly do anything to hurt Debbie. Not
ever. She is special Mr Radcliffe. That’s why I have done everything I can to
make up for my error.’

‘And it’s appreciated Simon. That’s why we
diverted here. I guessed that you would be together and wanted to thank you for
your help – as well as talking to Debbie of course.’ Picking up his knife
and fork to tuck in to the meal that had just been placed in front of him he
added, ‘and let’s drop the formality for a while shall we? Don will do. Now
Debbie, you’ve finished your meal, why not bring me up to speed on the
caretaker while I eat mine?’

An old retired widower, the caretaker had
apparently taken on the job of keeping his eyes on the college estate in
exchange for free accommodation. He had no real tasks to carry out. Whenever
something needed doing they called in tradesmen. A team of gardeners came every
fortnight to keep the lawns mowed and the borders weed free, and one day each
week a cleaner kept the place in reasonable order.
Lescott
had questioned whether one day cleaning each week was sufficient to keep such a
big place clean but the caretaker had told her that since the place was never
used it never got untidy or really dirty. For half a day the cleaner used a
mechanical mop on the floors – with nobody walking on them it was really
only keeping the dust at bay – then for the other half she worked through
other chores a room at a time. She got through the whole building in about
three months then started at the beginning again.

When quizzed about the building at the rear of
the property, the caretaker had at first claimed that he didn’t know anything
about it and had never been in. Then he had tripped himself up and referred to
what he had called ‘posh cars.’ When pressed, he had admitted that sometimes he
did go into the car store, ‘but only when that nice Steve bloke was there.’
Apparently, the two gable ends had been opened up and double doors installed
more than two years previous. At first the building still hadn’t been used for
anything, then after a while, Wilson’s classics had started appearing.

The caretaker, who went by the name of Bert
Skulley
, was interested in cars and went to chat to Wilson
whenever he was on site, though he never knew his full name. He just knew him
as Steve. The other cars had only started to appear some six months later and
the strange thing was that while the cars would come or go at any time, other
than a driver collecting or removing a car, nobody else ever came during the
day. At night it was a different proposition, with quite a lot of people coming
and going. Cars usually stayed there for several months, the normal procedure
being that when a car was delivered it would be worked on during the first week
or so, then moved over to the other side of the store and kept in a plastic
greenhouse.

So how did he know those details if he didn’t
go into the building? Well that had been another slip hadn’t it? According to
Skulley
, Steve used to come on a Thursday afternoon and
polish his cars. Wilson loved those classics. And sometimes he would take one
away, usually the Ferrari which seemed to be his favourite, leaving whichever car
he had come in in its place. He would then return it the following day and
switch back. Debbie told Radcliffe that that scenario fitted exactly with
Simon’s sightings of Wilson’s DNA replica.

Having dropped himself well and truly in the
mire,
Skulley
had opened up, admitting that he held a
key for the side door to the building – it had previously been used as a
store room – and regularly used it when nobody was around to stroll
around the cars. He had thought of it as a cross between a private car museum
and a rich man’s hobby and when he had nothing to do he liked to just go in and
sit in an expensive car. Some people don’t know what to spend their money on
next he had suggested, adding that whoever owned the cars must have more money
than sense. And no, he didn’t know who it was. Perhaps it was a pop star or a
footballer.

As to why he had never visited the building at
night when there were people there,
Skulley
had said
that he didn’t like the look of the people that came. And they kept the doors
closed anyway. Even in summer when it was warm, the big doors remained closed.
Could he describe the people? Well of course he could. They were young, old,
tall, short, thin, fat – you name it and he could fit somebody to the
description. But one thing did come out of the conversation; the caretaker had
noticed that a small core of people came on a regular basis. Actually said
Debbie, what he had seen was the same four or five cars arriving regularly.
There were a couple of Fords, a BMW, a Jaguar and one that he wasn’t sure about
that could have been a Toyota Lexus or Renault. Those came regularly and always
at night.

‘You did well Debbie,’ complimented Radcliffe.
There’s a pattern building up but we need a bit more detail. What about our
friend Steve Wilson? Did the caretaker ever see him working on the other cars?
Even just polishing them?’

But he hadn’t.
Skulley
had made a point of stressing that Wilson, or Mr Steve as he called him, only
ever cleaned his own cars. There had been one time he had said, when Mr Steve
had been quite interested in a Ferrari that was identical to his own, but even
then he hadn’t touched it and when asked by the caretaker, hadn’t even known
who owned it.

‘That’s as maybe,’ commented Radcliffe, dabbing
his lips with a paper napkin to remove the last vestiges of gravy. ‘And I am
coming around to the view that our Mr Wilson either isn’t involved at all, or
only on the periphery.’

‘But what about his wife’s car Don?’ asked
Lescott
.

Yes, there’s definitely something fishy there,’
he replied, ‘but that might be completely unrelated. I’ve got the wife’s
boyfriend stewing at Albert Road at the moment, waiting for Kyle to get back
and interview him, but I’ve had to release Wilson because other than whatever
we find out about his wife’s car, we don’t have a thing on him. I’ve nothing on
which to pin an application for more time so there was no choice. Actually I’m
getting the feeling that he was just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time and that his wife’s car is quite another issue. I wouldn’t like to
be in his wife’s shoes when he get’s home though, she won’t be able to keep her
secret now will she?’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Simon, making his first
contribution to the conversation. ‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly-on-the-wall. I
bet that there will be skin and hair flying.’

‘And I bet you are right,’ responded Radcliffe,
‘but I don’t have time to eavesdrop. The CSI’s want me to look at something
they’ve found on the Bentley, so now we’ve eaten we must be on our way. Kyle
has already checked the VIN plate but so far we’ve not been able to contact the
registered owner and from what the lads are saying, we might be checking up on
the wrong details.’

‘A bloody shame about the poor sod trapped
underneath it,’ offered Charlton. ‘If only I had seen the little convoy earlier
you might have been able to get there before it was too late.’

‘That’s another thing,’ replied the DI. ‘I know
you are off duty Debbie, but I would like you to do me a favour if you can.’

Lescott
looked at him quizzically. Personal time was
few and far between in her job, and they had made plans. On the other hand,
with the DVLA search hanging over her, she needed all the support she could
get.

‘When you saw the cars being moved isn’t really
an issue Simon,’ commented Radcliffe. The critical thing was how long the guy
was under the car after the lift was brought down on him. Thanks to your tipoff
we got there before it was too late. You saved the guy’s life.’

Debbie and Simon exchanged curious glances.

‘The doc was on his way to certify death but I
also called in the paramedics to be on the safe side and they found a glimmer
of life. Apparently he was on the verge when they arrived but they worked on
him in the ambulance. Technically he was dead. He wasn’t breathing at all but
they shocked him and kept him in the land of the living until they got him to
hospital.’ Looking directly at
Lescott
he continued,
‘That’s what I want you to do Debbie. He’s in intensive care at Southport
General on Town Lane. They have kept him sedated but they say he should be
coming out of it in the next few hours. I can’t be in two places and Kyle needs
to get back to talk to randy Brian. I’d like to find out who the unfortunate
man is as soon as possible.’

Fraser took that as his cue to leave.

‘Didn’t he have any ID on him then Don?’ asked
Lescott
.

‘Nothing,’ replied Radcliffe. He had no wallet,
no cards, just a watch engraved with
Love
from GA
, but then that could mean anything. Actually, although I don’t
think he arrived at the college just in his overalls, we couldn’t find any
outdoor clothes or other vehicles he might have arrived in either. He’s a
puzzle.’

‘It’s too far off the beaten track to arrive on
foot,’ offered Charlton.

‘Like I said, as well as who the bloody hell he
is, there’s a lot the poor bloke can tell us,’ continued Radcliffe. ‘He is our
best option so far and I’m hoping that when he comes round he’s not brain
damaged – the doc says that that is a real possibility given the length
of time he wasn’t breathing. But with a bit of luck he can tell us what was
going on and who his cronies are. Then we can set off catching them.’

‘I wouldn’t expect too much Don,’ said Simon.
‘It looks to me as though this is a well-established gang and these blokes tend
to look after their own. He won’t split on his accomplices for fear of
retribution.’

‘I don’t think that’s an issue Simon. Whatever
my allegiance, if somebody had tried to squeeze all the life out of me by
dropping a Bentley on top of me, sure as hell I would want to get my own back.’
Turning to
Lescott
he said, ‘If you could drop in at
the hospital on your way home Debbie, it would be a great help. Just check with
the nurses there to see if he’s close to coming round. Give me a call if
there’s anything imminent.’

Lescott
looked again at Charlton before answering. ‘I
don’t think that I can Don. At least, not until quite late. I’m not going
straight home from here.’ Another quick glance at Charlton. ‘I have plans.’

‘OK Debbie, I get the picture,’

‘No, wait a minute you two,’ Charlton butted
in. Then, looking at Debbie continued, ‘Instead of taking us straight back to
my place I could detour to the hospital. Its only eight miles down the road and
I need to pop in to Tesco which is just opposite. We can then shortcut back
through
Shirdley
Hill. It’s not a problem.’

Debbie looked first at Simon, then the DI, but
didn’t speak.

‘I know what you are thinking Debbie,’ said
Radcliffe.

‘Do you?’ she replied. ‘That’s more that I do.
I’m confused to hell.’

Laughing, Radcliffe sought to put her at ease.
‘I’ve a real nerve intruding into your off-duty time Debbie,’ he said. ‘I bet
that’s what you are thinking. And with Simon dropping you in the shit earlier .
. . . . no don’t say anything Debbie,’ as she started to protest. ‘I am well
aware that without Simon’s help we wouldn’t have had the leads that got us to
the car store anyway, not to mention that indirectly Simon saved this bloke’s
life. So I don’t think that him being there when you check on an unconscious
man lying in a hospital bed is going to cause anyone any more palpitations, do
you?’

Twenty-Seven

Closing his car door with a slam, DS Kyle Fraser
briskly covered the six paces across the small car park, taking the steps
outside the building in two strides. Pushing open the heavy doors, he rushed
through the public area and past the glassed-in enquiry desk, wending his way
through several short corridors to reach the custody suite. After exchanging
pleasantries with the desk sergeant, he instructed that a man currently in a
waiting area be moved into his favourite interview room, before partly
retracing his steps and taking a flight of stairs up to the area of Albert Road
police station where most of the real work was carried out. This was where the
boring day to day tasks and paperwork that were taking up more and more of a
policeman’s workload with each passing day were done. Over a period of time,
actual numbers of officers had increased but the hours spent on patrol, on the
beat or other real policing had shrunk markedly and those officers finding themselves
harnessed to computer keyboards or using up gallon after gallon of ink found
their working lives ever more irritating.

‘OK Lou,’ he said as he entered the room. ‘I’ve got
them putting Randy Brian into Interview Three. Are you ready?’ picking up a folder
from his own desk.

Was she ready? What a silly question. Of course she
was. Death was never good, whatever the circumstances, but being involved with
the current enquiries was a whole world away from trekking out to pensioner’s
bungalows to follow up on burglaries. Fifteen minutes to get there, thirty
minutes with tea and biscuits to take notes, fifteen minutes back to the
station, and then a tedious half day of form filling and statement typing. The
car thefts and murders had brought variety and, though she dare not admit it
openly, excitement to her working hours. There had been a moment when she had
held her breath, lest she be assigned as DI Davies’ lackey, sorting out
security for the forthcoming political conference, then breathed a sigh of relief
when Sean had fallen for that brief. And to sit in on an interrogation was an
added bonus, even though referring to what was in front of her as interrogation
was frowned upon.

So Detective Constable Louise Green followed him out,
struggling to keep up. Fraser walked at a fast pace, almost jumping down the
staircase and exhibiting an urgency that charged Green with even more
anticipation. Reaching the interview room before her, he took hold of the
well-worn doorknob and waited for her to catch up.

‘Watch and listen,’ he said to her. ‘This guy could
just be an innocent bystander or a key player. We don’t know. I’ve just dashed
back from
Ormskirk
and Don Radcliffe is convinced
that Randy Brian is involved. Me? I am not so sure. I think that there is a
fair chance that he just fancied a leg-over with one of his work mates and
happened to chose the wife of somebody seedy.’

‘That’s a bit crude,’ she replied, ‘but in any case,
DI Radcliffe has released Mr Wilson without charge.’

‘I know that Lou,’ he said, ‘but I think he was
wrong. We just didn’t have anything concrete to hold him on.’ Waving the folder
in her face he continued, ‘this interview will be make or break. I want to find
out if this bloke is involved – I am pretty sure that he is not –
and to see what he knows about Steve Wilson. With a bit of luck Brian will be
able to go back to his randy ways having put his lover’s husband well and truly
in the frame.

‘Follow what I do and say,’ he continued. ‘Don’t jump
in unless I give you the nod. OK, let’s go,’ as he turned the doorknob and
strode confidently into the room.

Sparsely furnished with only a table and four chairs,
Interview Room Three was austere, instantly creating a feeling of insecurity in
many interviewees. If only for that reason, officers sometimes brought suspects
into the station to be interviewed rather than chatting to them in their own
homes or offices where, on their own territory, they felt more confident.

If that had been the intention, it didn’t seem to be
working in this case. Seated at the opposite side of the table and facing them
as they entered, the man they had come to interview looked anything but
intimidated. Rather, he looked supremely confident and the absolute epitome of
innocence.

‘Good afternoon Mr Smith,’ said Fraser as he and his
colleague took their chairs. ‘I am DS Fraser and this is my colleague, DC
Green. Before we start, can I just confirm that you are helping us of your own
free will and are free to leave at any time? However,’ he added, ‘if you do
leave and we find that we need to continue our conversation at a later time, we
may have to enforce that. Do you understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ he replied. ‘But for the
record, I am not Mr Smith. My name is Bradshaw-Smith.’

‘My mistake,’
rejoined
Fraser, adding, ‘DC Green will make a note of that,’ although he knew full well
that the man’s hyphenated name was already on the typed sheet.

Opposite the two officers, Bradshaw-Smith settled
easily. He had scored round one and established his authority. Immaculately
dressed, he oozed respectability and leaned back in his chair confidently.

‘Sergeant,’ he said, looking to score more pints, ‘I
can’t for the life of me understand why I’ve been brought here or why we are
going through this charade.’ Leaning forward onto the table he brought his
hands together,
steepled
his fingers, and rested his
chin on his thumbs to show off a crisply laundered shirt with double cuffs
secured with car shaped silver cuff links.

‘Please bear with us,’ responded Fraser. ‘All I want
to do is ask your help in a little matter then we can all go home.’ Opening the
folder in front of him he glanced down, then returned his attention to the
dapper man sitting opposite.

‘That’s a nice shirt Mr Smith, did you get it from
Next, or perhaps Matalan?’

Bradshaw-Smith seemed affronted. ‘Good heavens no.
Even the branded stuff is made by child labour in Asian sweatshops. I wouldn’t
be seen dead in it. All my shirts are hand made in Jermyn Street, London. This
is a T. M.
Lewyn
and I also have some Charles
Tyrwhitt,’ pronouncing the latter
Tyrritt
.

‘My apologies,’ responded Fraser. ‘Police pay doesn’t
stretch to much more than Marks and Sparks I am afraid.’ Changing the subject,
Fraser continued, ‘I understand that you are friendly with a Mrs Alison Wilson,
how well do you know her?’

Watching him closely, Fraser detected only a slight
change of expression before Bradshaw-Smith answered. Fraser was already warming
to him. He was passing the test.

‘Alison?’ asked Bradshaw-Smith. ‘She is just a fellow
teacher. There’s nothing more. I don’t know much about her other than she is a
good teacher. Why do you ask?’

‘Don’t you mix socially? You know, organised trips to
the Zoo at half term and meeting up in a pub afterwards when the children gave
gone home, that sort of thing.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing. My half term is
usually taken up with doing all the jobs at home that I don’t get time to do in
term time. Teachers work harder than you think you know. I don’t get time to
socialise with my colleagues, much as I would like to do.’

‘That’s strange. You see, our information is that you
are quite close to Mrs Wilson.’

‘I don’t know where you get your information,’
returned Bradshaw-Smith indignantly, ‘but I would suggest that it is more than
a little suspect. Alison Wilson is a colleague. Nothing more and nothing less.
We are both teachers at the same school. That’s all there is to it.’

‘I assure you that our information is not suspect Mr
Smith, replied Fraser. ‘That’s what we do Mr Smith. We collect accurate
information and act on it.’ Pausing to let his words take effect, he continued,
‘And our information is that over the last few months you have spent six nights
with Mrs Wilson at the Premier Inn, the Morris Dancers, the Bold and the
Scarisbrick
Hotel.’

Bradshaw-Smith stared at Fraser, then, visibly
shaken, said, ‘And where did you get that load of nonsense?’

‘Never mind that,’ responded Fraser, comfortable with
the effect he was having. ‘But let’s drop the pretence shall we? We couldn’t
care less about your dirty little goings on with Mrs Wilson because we are
actually interested in her husband. What do you know about him Mr Smith?’

‘I don’t know anything about her husband. I’ve never
even met him. And for the last time, my name is not Mr Smith.’

‘OK, have it your way. But let’s get one thing clear.
Our information is accurate. We know all about you. We know all about your
affair with Mrs Wilson and how many times you have slept with her. And we also
know that while your family name is Smith, you added the Bradshaw bit yourself so
that you could look good when you took up your present post. Isn’t Bradshaw the
area of Bolton where you were brought up as a child Mr Smith?’ said Fraser,
emphasising Smith heavily.

In front of him, Smith had lost most of his
composure, his confidence drained.

‘Look Brian,’ said Louise, her warm delivery and use
of his first name giving a good cop, bad cop feel to the interview. ‘We are not
really interested in you or Mrs Wilson. Just help us out here will you? What we
want is the inside track on Mr Wilson. We know that you sold a car to him, so
did he pay with cash or a cheque? And where did the registration come from? Did
you buy that for her or did her husband?’

Subdued, Smith looked from one to the other but did
not reply.

‘Come on Mr Smith,’ urged Fraser. ‘Stop playing
games. You have the answers so just give them to us and we can all go home. Or
do I have to make this official? I can caution you and switch the recorder on
if you wish, but it will then get messy. It’s up to you Brian.’

‘OK he said. Have it your way. Ali and me were an
item. Her husband’s a bit of a wimp. She got bored and I was there. It’s over
now though.’ Looking up, he continued, ‘She wanted a new car and I heard of one
going cheap. That’s all. I told her about it and she fancied it. I took it
round to their house and her husband bought it for her. That was the first, and
the last time, I saw him.’

The about turn had been remarkable. A confident and
almost arrogant dandy had been reduced to a weak lump of putty, even affecting
his grammar and presentation. Proper questioning could at last commence.

Changing tack, Fraser started pressing Smith about
the car. Who owned it, how much had it cost and why was the price so low for an
almost new car? How did he find out that the car was for sale and had he taken
a commission for finding a buyer?

Then he had changed direction abruptly, with probing
questions about Steve Wilson. Repeating DC Green’s still unanswered questions
he had again asked how Wilson had paid then moved on to more personal aspects
of the Wilson’s life.

Repeating his directional change ploy, Fraser then
went back to the car Smith had located for his lover, digging deeper and deeper
each time, finally bringing the interview to a close with a hearty, ‘Thank you
very much for coming in Mr Smith. We really appreciate all the help you have
given us.’ Then, in an advisory tone, ‘If I were you I wouldn’t discuss any of
this Mr Smith. Mr Wilson is aware of his wife’s infidelity and I suspect that
he isn’t all that happy about it. I would steer a wide berth if I were you,’
adding, ‘between you and me, the information you’ve given us about Mr Wilson
has been very helpful.’