Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) (48 page)

Two of the men were Home Office
officials who had travelled up from London to make this initial survey, while
opposite them the other two were senior police officers from Liverpool HQ. With
introductions completed, Davies took the empty seat. The implication wasn’t
lost on him, he seat effectively put him between the two organisations: he was
the meat in the sandwich. Placing his report in front of him he offered a copy
to the Home Office pair. Ten to one they would pore over it for the next few
hours and he would be free until the next morning. He might need to return for
a breakfast meeting but other than that they would be out of his hair and his
time would be his own. Not the afternoon off Handley had suggested but not a
disaster either.

‘Thanks for that DI Davies,’ said
the man nearest to him reading his thoughts. ‘Don’t get any ideas about dumping
it and running because we don’t do things that way. We are only here for the
one night. We have a preliminary meeting tomorrow lunchtime at HQ in
Liverpool.’ Indicating the two officers on the opposite side of the table he
continued, ‘That’s why our colleagues are also here with us now, so we will all
be up to speed at that meeting.’

His partner carried on as if the
speech had been rehearsed, ‘We cannot waste time reading reports detailing
places we are not familiar with can we? If this had been Brighton, Manchester
or Birmingham we could bring out existing groundwork from previous conferences
but this is the first time we’ve been to Southport so there is a lot to do.’

Home Office Man One continued.
‘You can give us an overview from your local knowledge DI Davies. Then perhaps
you would like to take us on a walk-about to bring it all to life.’

‘Overnight we will get up to
speed with your report so that at tomorrow’s breakfast we can all do some
summing up and brainstorming,’ added his colleague.

Blast! That put paid to any hope
of being home early. Still, at least they had a pleasant view over the lake,
whatever consolation that might be.

Davies walked them through his
concerns, using the diagrams in his report to illustrate them and also to
orientate the four men with the layout. Davies saw few problems in either the
convention centre itself or the Ramada Hotel which were linked by a common
entrance, since he assumed that the Home Office would simply move their people
in and run their normal protection operation. Nods all round. Moving large
numbers of delegates from other hotels to the conference venue however would be
more difficult.

‘Where is the Royal Clifton from
here?’

‘Straight down the Promenade
about half a mile,’ responded Davies.

‘One road? No turn offs?’

‘Straight down.’

‘What about buildings or vantage
points?’

‘One side is gardens and the
Marine Lake all the way,’ Davies told them. ‘The landward side has a block of
flats at the corner close to here, then a number of large Victorian houses
converted to other uses. One is a hotel, then there’s Byng House – that’s
the British Legion place – then a nursing home. Apart from a small car
park it’s that sort of thing all the way to the Clifton.’

‘OK, we can cope with that. It’s
better than buildings both sides. What about these others then –
Vincents
, the
Scarisbrick
and the
Prince of Wales?’

‘They are all on Lord Street,’
replied Davies. ‘That’s the main drag. It runs parallel to the Promenade just
one block inland.’

‘Are there any shops around?
Places the underworld could disappear?’

‘Lots,’ said Davies. ‘Like I
said, Lord Street is the main drag. It’s almost a mile long with Victorian
awnings outside the shops the whole way. People come from miles around just to
shop on Lord Street. It’s one of Southport’s major attractions.’

Almost in unison, all four
groaned. In security terms it was their worst nightmare.

‘OK, we’ve a lot to do then,’
offered one of the officers. ‘What’s that over the other side of the lake
then?’

‘That’s the Ocean Plaza retail
area,’ explained Davies, following the man’s gaze and proceeding to outline his
concerns about the possibility of snipers having a clear view across the lake.
Scooping up the papers from the table, Davies led the four men out onto the
veranda and indicated the vulnerable areas, finally returning to their table in
the restaurant where yet another pot of tea was waiting for them. The Home
Office men perused every small detail, looking at security issues from every
conceivable angle. If this were simply a preliminary overview, what would the
real planning sessions be like thought Davies? Commending him on his grasp of
the situation and potential security issues, the HO pair observed that Davies’
understanding had surprised them, being deeper and more comprehensive than they
had expected. Not surprising at all offered Davies, given that he had had some
involvement with the anti-terrorist forces while he had been serving with
uniforms, though of course, that had been years ago before he moved to CID. Yet
in contrast the two police officers seemed non-committal and detached. Perhaps
they too had other things that they would rather be doing.

As they went over what to Davies
were trivial details for about the fourth time, Davies’ mobile rang. Getting it
out he recognised the number on the display as being Handley. Excusing himself
he left the table and walked back out onto the deserted veranda to take the
call. When he returned, the four men were deep in conversation, pouring over
the diagrams in Davies’ report.

‘I’m sorry guys,’ said Davies,
taking his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘That was my boss. Apparently I am
needed back at the station so I’ll have to leave you.’

‘That’s a shame DI Davies. We had
planned that you would have dinner with us later, but if duty calls . . . .’
Leaving the statement in the air he then said, ‘can you join us in the morning?
If we can have a working breakfast then it will help us a lot.’

……….

‘Thanks for coming back Frank,’
said Handley. ‘Your help now might just do the trick and give Don a bit of
support.’

‘Why should I Arthur?’ replied
Davies. ‘You took me off those cases and put me out to grass remember. I don’t
know that I feel inclined to help now.’

‘I know that’s how it looks. But
it’s not like that.’

‘Really? You could have fooled
me.’

‘Back off Frank,’ advised the
senior officer. ‘Somebody had to make a start on the conferencing plan and your
background made you the obvious choice.’

‘But I get dragged back because
Don’s hit a brick wall. Doesn’t sound like any benefit for me Arthur. I thought
he was close to breaking the cases anyway. What’s gone wrong?’

‘No he hasn’t,’ replied Handley.
‘Hit a brick wall I mean. Nothing has gone wrong. It’s just that HQ want the
deaths wrapped up by tomorrow evening or they will take them from us. Don’s not
been able to devote any time to those cases at all so we are no further on than
we were when you started on the conference report. I want to have one last go
at them before the Major Incident Team takes them over.’

‘The Home Office guys want me to
have breakfast with them in the morning,’ countered Davies, ‘a sort of
debriefing before they go back to London. They also have a meeting in Liverpool
on their way back I think.’

‘That’s not a problem. What I
suggest is that for the rest of the afternoon you just take another look at the
Peter Archer death. If we can get a lead on that it could help with the other
two. Don can update you on what he’s done but as I understand it, it has moved
very little since you passed it over. Don’s quite busy with these other things
so perhaps you could just close the door and get your head into the file. I
often find that when I’ve been away from something for a couple of days, things
jump out at me that I missed the first time around. If that happens then fine.
If not we will have to hand everything over tomorrow.’

Thirty-Three

‘Welcome home,’ said Radcliffe as Davies sat
down

‘To what? This place is like
bloody musical chairs. I don’t think Handy Andy actually knows what he’s doing
half the time. First I’m on the Archer murder, then I’m doing a favour for
uniforms over at the Floral Hall. Now I’m back here but in the morning its
breakfast with the HO bods at the Ramada then back here again. I don’t know if
I’m coming or going.’

‘It’s not been much better here
Frank. I’ve got a couple of petty villains downstairs and with all the other
things I am supposed to keep my eyes on I’ve not been able to devote any time
to the deaths.’

‘Well sunshine,’ replied Davies,
‘here comes Uncle Frank to the rescue.’

Grinning, Radcliffe picked up a
folder and passed it over. Davies opened it and flicked through its contents.
Having given it a cursory viewing he looked over to his colleague.

‘Doesn’t seem to be anything
different than when I gave it to you Don. Surely there has been some progress?’

‘Not much,’ admitted Radcliffe.
‘DS Fraser went out to the caravan park with Debbie and I’ve taken a look at
Lydiate
Hall but that’s about it. To be honest Frank we’ve
been up to our eyes with other things.’ Leaning back in his chair, Radcliffe took
on a more serious look. ‘What I couldn’t understand Frank, still can’t for that
matter, is why the scene wasn’t secured.’

‘What, out at the ruin you mean?
It was.’

‘Not at the beginning though, and
that was the crucial time wasn’t it?’

‘Not really. If you’ve been out
there you’ll know that the ground is kept dry and powdery by that big umbrella
of trees and there’s a real springy carpet of old twigs and things. Getting
anything from that would be difficult anyway.’

‘Perhaps so,’ replied Radcliffe,
‘but I can’t help but think that the delay might come back to haunt us. You
know what a good lawyer could do with a breach of procedure like that.’

‘Oh I don’t think so Don. The CSI
team said they wouldn’t have got any more even if they had been there right at
the start so in reality they got all they could anyway.

‘Right,’ said Radcliffe standing
and gathering some papers off his desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’m back
downstairs with our petty thieves, then with a bit of luck I might get a couple
of hours to look at the other deaths with you. Handy Andy wants us both for a
final debrief at six so that he can plan what we do tomorrow.’ By now standing
with his hand on the knob of a half open door, Radcliffe looked back and gave
his parting observation. ‘If you ask me Frank, we are wasting our time and by
this time tomorrow MIT will have taken the deaths off our slate altogether. I
don’t like giving up, but they won’t get solved in the time we have available.
And there’s another thing,’ he added, ‘Liverpool don’t know our patch like we
do. People in the villages and even here in Southport are a world away from
what they have in the city. Mark my words Frank, when this is grabbed by HQ it
will flounder for a couple of weeks and then sink with all the other unsolved
cases they hold.’

‘I guess you might be right at
that,’ responded Davies as the door closed.

……….

‘You know Joan, I am not entirely sure that
this is right. Your proposal looks good to me and financially it makes sense of
course, but it’s a complete change of direction.’ Looking at his aunt he
delivered the real reason for his concern, ‘and I don’t like being the reason
that splits you and Uncle Mike up.’

Before she answered she took a
few seconds to appraise her nephew. In just a few weeks – days really
– he had matured into a sensible young man with strength of character
that had not previously been evident. Perhaps it had taken his father’s death
to change the little boy she had known into an adult. Or maybe it had been
there all the time, kept in check by his father, her brother, to lie dormant
until necessity deemed otherwise.

But here they were in her house,
discussing family and business issues in the way that she wished had been
possible when Peter had been alive. Neither brother Peter nor husband Mike
would ever have allowed that to happen. Dignity, decorum and sensible
discussion were not possible with either of them involved, but with Peter dead
and Mike banished to the annexe, she could sit down with her nephew and rebuild
bridges.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ she
replied eventually. ‘This has been coming for a long time. The split I mean. It
was just that I didn’t know about it, that’s all.’

‘But you must have done. I heard
rumours in the pub before Dad died so you must have had suspicions Joan. You
are his wife.’

‘Not for long. His wife I mean.’
Tucking her legs under her she made herself more comfortable on the sofa. ‘I
don’t think there was anything in the beginning Kevin. Art is art after all.
And precious little could happen at the group sessions anyway. From what I can
make out, these one-to-one sessions only started when his debts started to
mount up. He had always said he wouldn’t do them but they were a source of
money when his back was against the wall. Then this woman came in wanting a portrait
doing for her husband and it all went down the pan.’

‘I don’t understand Joan. How can
a portrait have been the problem?’

‘She wanted a nude portrait for
her husband. Then one thing led to another and very little painting got done.’
Meeting his gaze she pursed her lips and considered her next words with care.
‘Mike took money – big money - from a loan shark but couldn’t pay it
back.’

‘I know. I was surprised when you
told me that he was in financial difficulties. But you said it was the portrait
that caused the trouble, not debts.’

‘Both Kevin.’ The loan shark
started getting tough with Mike, the first beating up was a warning to pay, but
then he found out about Mike’s little romps and went wild.’

‘Why? What was it to him?’

‘It was his wife.’

‘Bloody hell!’

They exchanged stares. Kevin was
nonplussed. No way could he imagine anyone having an affair with the wife of a
big brute to whom they owed more money that could ever be repaid. Looking
across at her nephew, Joan saw an expression of pity on his face.

‘Don’t feel sorry for him Kevin,’
she said. ‘He brought it all on himself,’ adding, ‘would it have been any
better if he had had an affair with somebody else?’

Giving his aunt a quizzical look
he said, ‘OK, point taken, but you can’t use his designs and plans without his
involvement can you?’

‘It wouldn’t be a problem, but
I’m using his idea, not the plans he created. Mike’s idea was quite grandiose,
mine is more realistic and quite doable.’

‘In what way?’

‘Let’s face it Kevin, we’ve both
got problems. I’ve got plenty of land that’s just rented out for cheap sheep
grazing but I don’t that’s about it. My income is zilch and this house costs a
fortune to run. I’ll have to do something soon. You’ve got the caravan park but
you are losing tenants to the marina site and it will cost you a small fortune
to refurbish. And even if you did, people are beginning to expect fancy
facilities like those on the Haven and
CentreParcs
sites - you could never compete with those.

‘Between you and me we have
plenty of land on which to develop but no money to finance it,’ she continued.
‘Mike’s vision was huge so it needed major investors but for a modest
development I could easily use this house as security so finance wouldn’t be a
problem.’

Walking across to a large dining
table, Joan opened out a roll of paper, weighting it at the corners with a
pepper grinder, a sugar bowl and some cutlery. Kevin joined her at the table,
grinning at what he saw.

‘I thought that Uncle Mike was
the artist,’ he said.

‘That’s one thing he does do
well,’ responded Joan. ‘I can’t draw and I don’t know how to use his computer
so this will have to do. I am sure it will serve my purpose.’

He could agree with her that she
was no artist. Yet although the roll was just two lengths of decorator’s lining
paper taped together and the diagram drawn on it with felt tip markers was
quite rough, Kevin could easily recognise the shapes she had drawn. The outline
of his caravan park was easily distinguishable, as was Joan’s house, her fields
and, crucially, the fields between them that had caused the family feud. Joan
had used different coloured markers for the various areas: green for the
caravan park, blue for her land and red for the previously disputed section.
Looking closely he could make out a number of shapes drawn as outlines in
normal pencil, but with no labels to indicate their purpose he could only
guess. From their positioning, some could be facilities such as a swimming pool
or recreation hall but nothing seemed small enough to be caravan plots.

Searching for specific landmarks
to orientate his thoughts he could see the existing reception complex with the
launderette and workshop so perhaps some of the larger boxes could be complete
avenues of caravans. Overall, the diagram showed development of some sort on
almost all the land owned by Kevin and his aunt but he could see no visual
demarcation between them. While he doubted that Joan would be suggesting siting
caravans on her land, with his existing reception complex clearly indicated he
could not see an alternative.

‘You’ll have to walk me through
this Joan,’ he said.

‘I rather expected that,’ she
replied with a smile. ‘I’m not much of an artist am I? It’s quite simple.
Mike’s plan was to build a huge complex going down the hill from our house and
taking in the whole site including your caravan site. It would have been
impressive with four storey buildings, you know, steel structures with concrete
and brick walls, and lots of expensive amenities right from opening day. Doing
all that over just a two-year period would mean horrendous expense, that’s why
it needed so much outside investment.

‘My idea is to use what already
exists in terms of services by siting new structures where water and drainage
already exists. If we use the existing concrete bases of your old wooden
reception complex to sit new buildings on,’ she said pointing to pencilled
outlines on the plan, ‘we can put quite a lot of brand new buildings in place
without much in the way of new ground works or infrastructure. That sort of
thing will reduce costs fantastically and also speed development up.’

‘Like hell it will!’

Behind them, the door into the
room had been pushed open and leaning on the jamb for support stood Mike, his
face red with anger. Joan and Kevin exchanged surprised glances, Mike’s
outburst bringing their conversation to a sudden halt. How long Mike had been
listening they did not know, nor what he would say next.

‘Have you forgotten that this
bugger’s father has been doing everything he can to steal our land? Has it
escaped your notice that your bloody brother has tried to kill me?’ Now shaking
with rage, Mike clung to the frame of the doorway with one arm, waving the
other in their general direction. ‘If you think that I am going to stand by
while you jump camp and join this interloper trying to steal what’s mine you’ve
another think coming,’ he shouted at his wife. ‘I built this place out of
nothing you bitch,’ he screamed, spittle beginning to drip from the ends of his
mouth and onto his chin. ‘Get out of my house,’ he shouted at Kevin. ‘Out do
you hear? I want to talk to my wife – in private.’