Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (41 page)

Standing, Fraser closed the file and tucked it
under his arm.

……….

Turning his key in the lock, Steven Wilson
paused, trying to take himself in hand. Regaining his self-control was not easy
but then that must be understood, nobody expects to be a prime murder suspect.
Having been held in a cell overnight, Wilson had been puzzled why his wife had
not visited him. Perhaps she had reported him missing and, when told he was
being held on suspicion of murder, decided to distance herself. Or perhaps one
of a hundred other possibilities. Alison was a damned good teacher and brilliant
with children, but he had always handled all aspects of officialdom because
they were out of her comfort zone. Perhaps she had just been too scared to
enter the police station.

And all because of that little shit, Brian
Whatshisname. Wilson had kicked himself several times while in custody; why had
he not at least run an HPI check on the car before buying it? He always
recommended others to make their checks before buying a second hand car so why
had he not followed his own advice? Silly bugger.

Normally well dressed, Wilson was clearly not
his usual self. You didn’t take your overnight bag into the police station did
you? Still in the same clothes he had been wearing in the office two days ago,
his shirt was dishevelled and his tie now bunched up and hanging out of a
trouser pocket. Unshaven and mentally worn down, at best he looked a scruff.

Closing the door behind him he walked down the
hall into their large kitchen. Alison was sat on a high stool at the breakfast
bar. Showing no sign that she had even heard him come in, she did not turn to
greet her husband. Her head was nestling on her arms on the breakfast bar, her
shoulders slowly rising and falling as she sobbed.

Wilson didn’t know what to say or do. Day in
and day out he wrestled with decisions at work, he handled the problems
experienced by his staff and calmed disgruntled customers, but this was a new
experience and he simply did not know what to do.

Slowly, she lifted her head and looked across
at him with glazed eyes, wiping them with her sleeve.

‘Oh Steve,’ she blurted out. ‘I am so, so,
sorry.’

For what to both of them seemed an eternity
they just looked at each other silently.

‘And what my love have you got to be sorry
for?’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘It is all my fault. I should have run an
HPI. It is what I always tell others to do. I should have known that there
would be something wrong with a virtually new car being offered for less than
half its value. I should have smelled a rat. I don’t know if your teacher mate
knew anything about it – perhaps he didn’t and just acted in good faith
– but it is my business for heavens sake and I should have known.’

Again, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Her
lips were swollen and her makeup in such a mess she could have been the victim
of a beating. Together they looked a sorry pair. Thoughts whirled in her head.
Did he know about the affair? It certainly sounded as if he didn’t. So could
something be salvaged? Was, perhaps, all not lost?

‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, her voice
wobbly and her words punctuated by sobs. ‘The police said you were being
questioned about a murder and then they took my car away.’

‘I’ll sort the car. That’s not a problem.
Apparently yours was a ringer and because I am in the motor trade they thought
that I was involved - then they linked that to
Pawel
and started talking about murder. It was hell for a time.’

‘What do you mean, a ringer?’ she asked, sobs
reducing as her mind wrestled with new information. And who’s
Pawel
?’

‘Your car was stolen Ali. It was stolen and
then its identity changed by altering the numbers. Once that’s done it can be
re-registered. It’s called ringing. I don’t know where your car was stolen from
but whoever nicked it probably bought a written off crashed car of the same
model then changed the details. That’s how they sometimes do it.’ Looking at
her forlornly he added, ‘Bloody hell Ali, I walked right into it. I’ve been a
bloody fool.’

‘So what about this
Pawel
bloke then? Who’s he?’

‘One of my Polish mechanics.
Pawel
Lewinelsky
. He didn’t turn
up for work for a couple of days and didn’t answer his mobile when we called
him either. Apparently the police found him in the gutter behind the Bold on
Lord Street.’

So what had happened to him? Did he get into a
fight in the pub? Surely the police know you didn’t go anywhere near –
everyone knows you don’t drink.’

‘No Ali. Not a pub brawl. Apparently he was
murdered but they didn’t tell me how. They just kept asking questions not
telling me things. But another bloke got killed driving over the moss and
because they were both Polish and
Pawel
worked for me
and you were driving a stolen car, they thought they had a link.’

Again they looked at each other in silence.
Slowly she slipped off her stool and walked across the kitchen. Leaning against
him, a sodden tissue still clasped in her clenched hand, she buried her face in
his crumpled shirt, her tears forming rivers down the cloth. Resting his
stubbly chin on her head and drawing her close, he felt, rather than heard, her
sobs.

……….

Simon Charlton had parked the Olympic in the
car park outside the huge Tesco supermarket, slotting it into one of many spare
bays over towards the road at the edge of the site. The furthest away from the
store entrance, these were the least used but ideal for his purpose. While
parking charges had recently been increased at the hospital, almost doubled in
fact, the supermarket was only a few minutes walk away and parking was free.
Those bays were closest to the footpath leading to the road.

Having parked the car they had gone their
separate ways; Simon into the store to do his shopping and Debbie across to the
hospital, with an agreement that they would meet in Applejacks, the hospital
coffee shop, which was where they both were, mugs of hot coffee in front of
them, albeit from a vending machine.

‘A bit of a waste of time then?’ observed
Charlton, sipping his coffee and holding the mug in two hands for warmth.

‘I suppose so,’ replied Debbie. ‘But they are
expecting him to come round shortly.’ Brightening she smiled at Simon and added,
‘But once we’ve drunk up we are on our way. Then it will be Don Radcliffe’s
problem and I will have carried out what you dropped me into.’

‘Come on Debbie,’ he countered. ‘You need to
get some Brownie points to counter the muck you were in and it’s only cost us a
bit of time.’

Debbie sensed somebody standing next to her.

‘Excuse me sergeant,’ said the nurse, ‘there’s
some activity on the monitor and the doctor thinks that there may be a change
shortly. Perhaps you would like to come back up?’

Debbie exchanged glances with Simon. Yet again
their plans were being thwarted.

Following the nurse they soon arrived back at
the intensive care department that Debbie had left only fifteen minutes
earlier. There was far more room around each bed than Simon thought usual and
two were completely screened off by curtains. Of the four remaining beds, one
was unoccupied but patients in the other three were linked up to equipment and
monitors by numerous tubes and wires. There was an eerie silence in the room
– no chattering or watching TV in here – underscored by the
constant whirring and humming of the machines and regular pinging noises.
Everything seemed efficiently under control yet lacking in coordination, the
pings from one patient’s monitors not synchronising with those of the others.

The nurse led Charlton and
Lescott
to the far end of the ward, where a doctor was checking a monitor while another
nurse checked her patient. Turning as he heard them approach, the doctor
apologised for wasting their time, explaining that the unknown man was not
coming out of sedation as fast as he had expected. This was going to be a longer
job than he had thought.

Tucked up in his hospital bed, Simon thought
that the man did not look ill at all, just asleep. The nurse had pulled the bed
sheet almost up to his shoulders and tucked him in like a mother looking after
her helpless child, laying his arms on top of the covers. Wearing hospital
pyjamas his hands and face looked clean and bright, his hair had been combed
and other than the spider’s web of tubes and wires, there were few clues to the
trauma he had experienced.

Given what he had gone through, Charlton had
expected him to have been visibly injured and what he was looking at surprised
him. Debbie saw his surprise but did not comment, turning instead to the
doctor.

‘Doctor, what are we looking at here? The nurse
said there was some activity on the monitor. Does that mean he will be OK or is
there still a chance he might be brain damaged? Obviously we cannot have an
officer standing around doing nothing for hour after hour but we do need to
know who he is and ask him some questions.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied the
doctor, writing an entry on a chart. ‘I did think that there were some signs
but maybe I was being a little hasty. He is progressing nicely but looks as
though we will have to wait a few more hours before anything becomes any
clearer I am afraid.’ Hanging the clipboard on the end of the bed he told
Lescott
that she would just have to be patient and then
disappeared behind the curtain surrounding the next bed.

Walking down the corridor, Debbie ribbed Simon.
Here was the big guy, the man that lived an action packed life full of high
performance cars and sessions at the indoor kart circuit. The man who always
had something to say and always voiced his opinion. Yet at the bedside of a
sick man he had been silent and ashen faced. God only knew how the wimp would
react if he came up against some of the sights she had to contend with. It had
been said in obvious jest, but with clear jibe undercurrents.

‘I didn’t expect him to look so ordinary,’

‘He is ordinary Simon. He’s just a normal bloke
that’s been the victim of an accident. That’s all.’

‘I know. But there isn’t a mark. I expected
lots of bruising or some cuts and obvious damage.’

‘He’s not been beaten up,’ she replied as they
strode along. ‘He was crushed under a vehicle. No doubt there will be some
marks on his body but they will be hidden by the bedclothes won’t they?’
adding, ‘Simon Charlton, you old softie.’

Simon stopped suddenly, putting his hand out to
stop Debbie going any further. ‘It wasn’t his condition,’ he said.

Looking at him, Debbie sensed a change. She had
never seen Simon react in this way. Hospitals, accidents, illness, and beatings
– he had seen them all and simply took them in his stride. Apprehensive,
she waited for an explanation.

‘Debbie,’ he said gently. ‘I know him.’

Twenty-Eight

Putting the receiver down, Radcliffe pondered
the information he had just been given. While it had only been a grain of an
idea, not really a possibility, the thought had kept crossing his mind to the
point where it just had to be followed up. And now a few unconnected events
were becoming connected. Things that had been completely individual were
looking as though they might be linked. And if they were, a whole bunch of
possibilities would click into focus. Yet if they were not, if the idea was
just supposition with no real connection, then he would be up the creek without
a paddle. He was the officer running the enquiry so his subordinates would
point to where they had received their instructions and any flak would be
directed at him. Above, DCI Handley would be insulated from any failure. All
roads led to DI Radcliffe.

So he had made a call so that he could close
the lid on what had been a flaky idea in the first place. Only it hadn’t done
that. The pathologist had been quite supportive – impressed he had said
– and had thought Radcliffe’s suggestion sufficiently sound to be a
possible link. So that had prompted a second call, and now the third. At that
point he was unlikely to shout Bingo! - and there were still some numbers
missing, key pieces in the jigsaw, any of which could blow the complete theory
apart. But after his phone calls he now had the bit between his teeth, and,
after looking on helplessly while the investigation floundered like a lost
driver aimlessly trying to find his way home, at last he felt that he was back
in control. Or if not in control, at least he had a direction in which to
travel.

A direction, certainly, but not a final
destination. That would need more work and more time. Perhaps more time than
they actually had available.

Which was exactly why he now had three officers
in his office, all of whom were wondering why they had been summoned. Briefings
usually took place down the corridor in the larger meeting room that could
accommodate the whole team, while by and large, individual officers would
discuss issues in the DI’s office. So, were they to be given a kick up the
pants like errant schoolchildren? Were they going off in some new direction as
a result of some earth shattering information that had suddenly come to light?
Or were they wallowing around out of their depth with somebody looking for a
scapegoat on which to pin blame?

With two desks almost touching and little room
for visitors, the office was cosy for two but cramming in four people was a bit
of a squeeze. Being a warm day didn’t help. He could feel the tension as
glances were exchanged but little said. How much they would have gleaned from
overhearing one side of his final telephone conversation as they had filed in
was debatable. Most likely, nothing. But then again, they were detectives and
should be able to read between the lines.

‘It’s a bit cramped in here boss,’ remarked
Debbie
Lescott
, ‘there’s not much room for anyone
else so why don’t we use the incident room?’

‘This isn’t a full briefing,’ replied
Radcliffe, ‘so we will be OK,’ carefully watching the faces of Fraser,
Lescott
and Green. Clearly they were puzzled. And equally
clearly they were attentive – exactly the state he had intended to
create.

‘I’ve got a question,’ he said, opening up the
dialogue. ‘Why does everything come back to Simon Charlton?’

Don Radcliffe cast his eyes around the room,
hoping for some sort of response, even if sarcastic. But none came. Feet
shuffled, heads dipped, eyes were averted – but nothing was said. ‘Come
on then,’ he continued, ‘why does Charlton always seem to be one step ahead of
us? He found the cloned plates, he found Wilson’s fake Ferrari, he warned us
that the cars were being moved out of the college store – and now he’s
bloody well told us the identity of the bloke we dragged from under the
Bentley.’

More shuffling. From behind his desk he looked
at each of them in turn, Fraser,
Lescott
and Green,
but none of them would meet his stare.

‘That’s pushing it a bit Don,’ commented Fraser
eventually. ‘Debbie identified Peter Archer as the first body and we’ve all
done our bit to progress things since.’

‘I’m not posting a score sheet Kyle, but
without Mr Charlton’s contribution we would not have got as far as we have,’
adding, ‘and there would probably be one more dead body. Let’s not forget
that.’

Leaning back in his chair, Radcliffe visibly
mellowed. Having worked with him for some length of time they could read his
mood and without communicating with each other in any way they all knew that
the criticism would not continue and that a change in delivery was coming. Even
so, sly glances, grins even, were surreptitiously exchanged.

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Radcliffe,
bringing them back to order. ‘I can’t tell you how much it rankles that a
civilian has pulled one over on us. This is our job,’ adding for effect, ‘and
we don’t seem to be doing it very well.’

Radcliffe let his words hang in the air,
allowing time for them to sink in, before continuing. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,
find some chairs and sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to sit here with you
lot staring down at me.’

Getting back into his sombre mood, which in
itself took them by surprise, he outlined his reservations and also those of
DCI Handley. In little more than one week there had been three deaths and
almost a fourth. In itself, that was not acceptable and they were being
monitored by HQ in Liverpool, which didn’t help either. But with a big
political conference coming to town they couldn’t sustain the level of manpower
currently allocated for much longer. Something had to give. Either they solved
the case or HQ would take it away. If that happened then they would all be
running about like blue arsed flies to the commands of the Major Incident Team
top brass from Liverpool and at the same time trying to create a policing plan
for the conference.

On top of all that there were other issues.
From the questions asked by the North
Meols
Drum
journalist Les Starr, (he referred to him as ‘that little ponce), it was clear
that somewhere there was a leak and information was getting out. Whether it had
been the same leak that had tipped off the car thieves was unknown, but without
doubt there was at least one. The Home Office would soon be in town for their
first on-site visit so an initial framework for policing the conference was now
an urgent requirement. And finally, if HQ got involved with their deaths,
questions would be asked as to how they came by some of their information and
that could be catastrophic.

He did not look at
Lescott
,
nor did he mention any names, but all three knew exactly what was on the
agenda. If he had said that Debbie’s job was on the line and that they needed
to put the case to bed then his message wouldn’t have been any clearer. With
their attention guaranteed, he then outlined the solution DCI Handley had
devised.

Instead of just reducing the number of
ancillary officers that had been drafted in, which was due to happen anyway
given how they were overstretched, as of that moment the team was actually
being cut to just it’s core members. That was specifically to address the issue
of leaks. If there were any more he would know exactly from where they had originated.
And as they had probably already heard, DI Davies had already been tasked with
getting the conference plan up and running.

‘Isn’t that a job for uniforms?’ asked Fraser.

‘Of course,’ replied Radcliffe, adding, ‘in an
ideal world. But this isn’t an ideal world and I am afraid we will all get
roped in at some point.’ Looking at the three of them he added, ‘sooner rather
than later if we don’t get some results.’

Wrapping up his outline of Handley’s
instruction he made it clear that he held their capabilities in great store.
The case was maturing and a direction was becoming apparent. The means was in
their hands to get a result.

‘Easier said than done,’ observed Fraser. ‘But
we have hit a blank wall. We’ve got three deaths with a matching cause but otherwise
no real links, and unknown car thieves that have such a good information
network that they not only flew the nest before we arrived, they took their
cars with them as well. It doesn’t look like we’ve got much going for us does
it?’

Actually, I don’t agree,’ responded Radcliffe.
‘Things have really
hotted
up since last night. I
didn’t call you lot in here just to tell you about the new working
arrangements; this is our first briefing of the new team.

The door swung open, bumping into DC Green’s
chair.

‘Oh, sorry about that,’ said a surprised Frank
Davies.’ Then, turning to Radcliffe he added, ‘Will you be long Don?’

‘Give us ten minutes will you Frank?’ responded
Radcliffe, ‘we are nearly through.’

Turning back to the three officers as the door
closed, Radcliffe first addressed Fraser. ‘Kyle, how did your session with
Randy Brian go?’

‘Pretty much as expected Don,’ replied the
sergeant. ‘He protested his innocence all the time and just clammed up when we
tried to get him to name the person selling the car that he passed on to the
Wilson woman, but overall I think that he’s just an unfortunate piggy in the
middle. I don’t think that he realised the car was a ringer. He just saw it as
a way to get into the Wilson woman’s knickers.’

Louise Green and Debbie
Lescott
exchanged knowing glances and raised eyebrows.

‘I get your point Kyle,’ responded Radcliffe.
Then addressing
Lescott
continued, ‘what have you got
on Rick Worth?’

‘Not much at the moment,’ she replied. ‘I’ve
run some searches but so far Richard Worth isn’t coming up anywhere. He’s only
young though so he could still be living with his parents. Actually, all I have
is what Simon has passed on.’

‘Hmmm. Mr Clever
Cloggs
,’
responded Radcliffe with a wry smile. ‘No Debbie,’ he continued as she started to
speak again, ‘nothing derogatory meant in that. Simon has done well.’

‘This bloke though,’ interrupted Fraser,
‘Richard Worth or whatever he is called. Knowing who he is still doesn’t help
us does it? I mean, he’s not connected to the three deaths and it looks as
though he’s just a small cog in the car thefts.’

‘I don’t follow your logic,’ responded
Radcliffe.

‘He can’t have been all that important if they
were prepared to leave him behind.’

Now that’s where I disagree,’ responded
Radcliffe. ‘I think just the opposite. I believe that our Mr Worth knows a good
deal about what was happening and how it all worked. I think that he was
deliberately crushed to stop him spilling the beans.’

‘How so?’

‘Think about it. You’ve been involved with a
dodgy operation for a while but then decide you want out. You might have
amassed enough money to live nicely without any more undercover stuff or you
might just have got scared. Any one of a number of reasons to want out. If you
know too much, the big wigs are not going to like that. So they take steps to
keep you quiet. In this case, permanently, though with a bit of luck that
hasn’t been successful.’

‘I think that’s taking a bit too far Don,’
observed Fraser. These are car thieves we are talking about, not murderers.
There’s no connection between the three deaths and the cars. Period.’