Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  Charlton turned away from the screen and faced his solicitor friend. ‘Stranger things have happened David. From what you told me Archer is already turning the blackmail screws by using the benefits scam to stop the Johnsons going to court, so why not go for the jugular? Today’s world can be cruel. You should know that in your job. Anyway, aren’t you due to get around the table next week? That would fit with the timescale on bringing a brochure out of the closet.’

  ‘You could be right Simon. But the timing might not be so perfect. Actually the meeting has been postponed because Archer asked for a couple of weeks delay so unless he also postpones the brochure that’s a big hole in your theory. It’s all heresay anyway. And with the police being satisfied that Archer was in his workshop mending his van at the time, we cannot prove a damned thing. The only thing that would help would be a positive identification of him at the Johnson’s property, and since the light was falling and it is pretty secluded, that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘No, but if we could find a witness that says the workshop was closed and locked, perhaps we would have a lever to drag out an admission.’

  ‘Quite so, but I doubt it. He’s got a very small staff that are probably pretty loyal because they see their jobs on the line. We are on the outside.’

  ‘Not for long my dear friend. I posed as a potential new tenant and told Archer that I have a two year old 32 footer. He agreed that temporarily I can put my little touring van on one of the plots being vacated this week and then if it works out I’ll swap it for the 32 footer.’

  The lawyer was impressed. ‘Nice thinking. But that only gets you onto the site, you still cannot get close to the staff without drawing attention.’

  ‘I thought of that too. He’s desperate for my business – any business – so I got him to agree to my using his workshop to do a few jobs on the Olympic while I am at the site with the van. He’s a bit of a car nut and fell for it hook line and sinker, so I’m towing the little van up there tomorrow and I’ll take the coupe at the weekend.’

  Four

  Heaving yet more rubbish into the open bed of the old Toyota pickup truck, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned on his spade. This was not the sort of work that a middle-aged man should be doing. There should be labourers to do the manual work, a PA to handle his day-to-day appointments (and sit on his knee between appointments), and cleaners to muck out the toilets. None of that was possible. Inflation had dug deep these last couple of years and the margin between income and outgoings, that elusive commodity known as profit, had shrunk dramatically until the two amounts had come perilously close to meeting. There simply wasn’t the money in the business for even a lick of paint on the rapidly deteriorating buildings, let alone wages for extra staff. So backbreaking as it was, the only option was to graft himself.

  Fifteen years there had been a caravan on this plot. Fifteen bloody years and they had just put two fingers up to him and moved to the new marina site. And not just a move either. All the time they had been at Green Fields they had cried poverty, but for their move to Lockside they had splashed out on a brand new super luxury model with all the latest fittings. Was that how they repaid his generosity and support? Hadn’t he turned a blind eye when their van had begun to look a little shabby? Hadn’t he waived the ten-year rule and allowed them to keep their old van when they should really have been forced to buy a new one? And hadn’t that cost him commission?

  And it didn’t stop there did it? Hadn’t they also parroted on about their new van and the marina site to the owners on plots 22 and 27? One empty plot was a problem but three took him perilously close to break-even point. The bloke bringing his tourer for a couple of weeks was an unexpected God-send that would be some sort of respite but if he didn’t replace it with a more permanent static van at the end of the test period the position would be critical.

  Ten more plots would take Green Fields out of the danger zone. Twenty would make him financially secure and thirty, oh what a dream that would be, thirty would put the icing on the cake to make him wealthy. But first the rot had to be stopped. Cleaning up an old plot to make way for a temporary tourer didn’t even scratch at the surface. Never mind expansion, the whole place needed a thorough spruce up just to stop any more vans moving off.

  Pulling up weeds from where the old van had been, spraying with glyphosate weed killer to keep them at bay, and raking the gravel over to make it look more presentable was a start – but only a start. Three more weeks and he could really move forward. Three more weeks and he could bring in a team to repaint the reception building, plumbers could sort out the leaks in the toilet block and he might even be able to order a couple of new machines for the launderette. For the first time in years, money would not be a problem. Well, not as much of a problem as it had been.

  What a nerve his poncy sister had. She had always been the favourite. But he hadn’t realised what was going on in the background until the old man had popped his clogs. Then it had all come out into the open. The old fart had connived with his favourite child, spoilt little Joan, to rob him of his inheritance. And if signing land over to her while pretending that it was still his wasn’t enough, the scheming little bitch of a sister had also stolen all his money, changing the account to her own name. If she was capable of all that, no doubt their Dad hadn’t received any money for the barn either. Now it was payback time. Two weeks to go before they all sat around a table and Mr and Mrs clever pants Johnson would be forced to eat humble pie and cough up the money that was his true inheritance, money that was vital to Green Fields.

  ‘What are you doing Dad?’

  ‘What does it look like? Nobody else is prepared to roll their sleeves up but this plot has to be ready for that tourer by tomorrow.’ Peter Archer looked at his son. Twenty-two years old and with no trade or skill to show for an expensive education, his future depended on Green Fields.

  ‘Did you hear about Uncle Mike?’

  ‘Getting worked over you mean? Yes, I heard, and not before time if you ask me. He’s had it coming for ages, the dirty little tricks they have been up to.’

  ‘Lots of rumours are going around Dad. We were in the ‘Brick last night and they were all quizzing me. Actually, I didn’t know much so I was listening rather than talking but it’s pretty much the talk of the town.’ More correctly pronounced Scaesbrick and usually truncated just to ‘brick, the Scarisbrick Hotel was one of Southport’s oldest hostelries, and with its several bars, often the focus for young revellers. ‘The favourite is that he’s been messing about with some nude model in his studio and got dropped by a jealous husband. But one of my mates said that he’s bad mouthing you, saying that you beat him up.’

  ‘I know. The police came round here asking me about it. That’s how I knew. I told them that I was in the workshop when Mike was getting himself beaten up.’

  ‘But why would he say that you beat him up Dad? I know that you don’t get on with him but that’s stretching it a bit isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea about any nude models – but it wouldn’t surprise me. He always was an odd one that Mike. As for the dispute, I didn’t know what was going on behind my back but it must have been happening for years. When your granddad retired and gave up farming he said he was renting out the fields for grazing and we all thought that that was it. But behind the scenes my bloody sister was working on him and taking him for everything he had. When the old man died we found out that not only had he cut me out of his will, your lovely little aunt had grabbed all the land and also taken his money. She even stashed it in her own bank. I can see now why he edged when I suggested that I use the bottom field to extend Green Fields – he’d already given it away. All I want is what is rightfully mine – nothing more – but they go around spreading nasty tales and untruths so we are now using solicitors to sort it out. It doesn’t seem to stop them bad mouthing me though.’

  ‘You hear about these family squabbles but you never expect it to happen to you
do you Dad?. I felt a bit of a pratt in the bar when they were all laughing about Uncle Mike’s bit on the side. We’ve talked about granddad cutting you out of his will of course, but I didn’t know about the money or connect any of it with the attack.’ Tossing the rake, spade and weed killer spray tank up onto the pickup, he opened the cab door. ‘Come on Dad, you’ve done enough now. I’ll drop you off at the front office then drive this lot down to the waste depot at Kew.’

  What a turn up for the book! Uncle Mike and Aunt Joan had always been good to him, with big expensive presents at Christmas and birthdays. But who would have thought that they would cheat his dad out of his rightful inheritance? Peter Archer had just as much right to what the old man left as did his sister, Joan. Now it was obvious where the money to convert the old barn – and pay for expensive presents – had come from. And half of it should have been dad’s.

  Turning out of the caravan park and onto the lane, he snicked the Toyota up through the gears. Though old and dented, the pickup never failed to start and was always reliable. This was a part of working at Green Fields that he enjoyed. By using the full width of the road to smooth out the bends he could set a steady speed and imagine that he was his favourite racing driver. His best yet was rocketing along the lanes and never deviating more than 3mph either side of the magic 50mph. It seemed faster because of the bends and the high hedges at either side. And once or twice when he had strayed across the centre line to straighten out a bend he had almost hit vehicles coming the other way, but his skill had always avoided an accident.

  One day he would get one of those hot hatches. That would impress the Friday night girls in the ‘Brick. And if Dad was soon to get a big payday from the Johnsons, that might be sooner rather than later.

  ……….

  Phyllis Weston braked hard to avoid yet another pothole. If she had not seen it she might have driven right into it and then what would she have done? Her mobility scooter was her only means of getting around the caravan park. She had already reported two holes to that nice Mr Peter, though whether anything would be done was another matter. Just recently, site maintenance seemed to be a bit on the slow side. But perhaps he would have to smarten the place up a bit to attract some new vans to fill the empty plots.

  That flighty young Jessop woman in plot three had told her that a nice man was putting a tourer on one of them. Not quite the thing that was it? Touring caravans should be kept away from the statics. Trust her to know though. Anything coming onto the park in pants was bound to catch Jessop’s attention.

  ‘Oh, hello there Mrs Bradshaw,’ said Phyllis, as a small, neat lady tried in vain to nip back out of sight into a caravan. ‘Did you hear that there’s a new tenant coming onto plot 30?’

  With one foot on the metal step, half through the door and yet still half outside, Angela Bradshaw shook her head, not really wanting to be drawn into conversation yet not wanting to be rude either. The Weston woman was harmless, but once she had her prey hooked, an hour could disappear. And all nothing more than useless tittle tattle too. The problem was, she could approach almost silently on her electric scooter and had you cornered before you realised it.

  ‘And he’s bringing a tourer would you believe? We’ll have to get a petition up. Tourers have always been sited near the reception building, not here in the park with us. If they put tourers on the other two empty plots as well it will make our caravans look awful. Oh, and what about the break-in the other night?’

  Hardly able to get a word in to that point, Bradshaw looked surprised. ‘What break-in’ she said.

  ‘Well, I don’t rightly know. I think that something must have been pinched from the office because the police were here asking questions. I don’t know what though because they wouldn’t say. They weren’t normal policemen, they were those dressed up ones. You know, like on the telly where they drive their cars fast and wear ordinary clothes. Anyway, I think they were giving Mr Archer a going over for not keeping his eye on the office, but like I told them, I saw him doing a job on that van of his and he couldn’t be looking after the office at the same time that his legs were sticking out from underneath his van could he?

  ‘Just look at that Mrs Bradshaw,’ she continued. ‘The wheel on my scooter could easily have been broken. There’s a pothole in the road near the launderette that wasn’t there before and it needs filling in. Somebody could hurt themselves. If you didn’t know it was there and you rode into it on a bike you would go right over the handlebars.’

  ‘But I don’t know anybody on the park that rides a bike Mrs Weston.’

  ‘No, neither do I,’ said the old woman, moving to get more comfortable, the scooter wobbling from side to side as she did. ‘But that’s not the point is it? Something needs to be done before there is an accident or something. Do you know what I heard about the new tenant that’s bringing the tourer? I heard that he’s one of those gay people. You know, a pufter.’

  ‘How do you know that he is gay?’ responded Bradshaw, edging further into her van.

  ‘Well, he came to view the park on his own, there was no woman with him, so he must be mustn’t he? I don’t think that that’s the sort we want on here is it? Mrs Bradshaw. Mrs Bradshaw. Mrs Bradshaw. Are you alright Mrs Bradshaw?’

  Enough was enough. Gays indeed. What exactly did the woman know about the newcomer. Exactly nothing. Not even his name. ‘Sorry Mrs Weston, I really have to go. Pop around for a chat again if you want when I have more time.’

  The snub went unnoticed. Turning the handlebars and pressing the throttle lever, she lurched off into the roadway. Screeching to a stop, the pickup swerved and just missed her.

  ‘Just watch where you are going,’ she shouted at the driver, raising her hand and wagging her finger. ‘There’s a speed limit on this park. You could have crashed into me going that fast. I’ll report you to the management.’

  Slowly, the vehicle door opened and the driver jumped down. ‘Mrs Weston. I didn’t mean to surprise you. But you set off so quickly and drove right in-front of me. One minute you were talking to Angela and the next you were in the middle of the road. You really must look where you are going.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that young man. You should pay more respect to your elders. I was drawing my pension when you were still reading Thomas the Tank books. Anyway, you were speeding, so you were. You were driving faster than one of those grand pricks fellows.’

  Smiling and not really offended by the old dear, he looked her straight in the eye. ‘It’s Grand Prix Mrs Weston. The ex is silent. But I wasn’t going more than fifteen miles an hour anyway. We are only a few yards in from the gate so I couldn’t have been going any faster. Now, take care Mrs Weston. Goodbye.’

  ……….

  ‘That bloody Weston woman caught me again Fred.’

  From the smirk on his face, her husband obviously thought it funny. ‘I know, I wondered who you were talking to but when I peeked out and saw her electric roller skate I decided to stay hidden inside. It was funny when she caught you. The look on your face when you were half in the door and half out was an absolute picture.’

  ‘Oh my God – just look at that!’ she said.

  ‘What is it Angela?’

  ‘Phyllis turned her scooter right in front of the truck, then she wagged her finger at young Kevin. She really is unbelievable.’

  ‘Yes dear. Unbelievably nosey, unbelievably boring, and on that scooter thing, unbelievably bloody dangerous.’

  ……….

  Putting the beakers down, Kevin looked around the cabin. He couldn’t remember when it had last been decorated but from the look of things it must have been when he was a kid at school. A long time ago anyway. The paint on the walls was discoloured from years of cigarette smoke, the built in seats around the outside of the room showed signs of heavy wear and countless sticky fingers, ice cream and knocked over cola, and the floor no longer shone no matter how hard it was mopped and polished. Not exactly the Ritz was it?

  Not t
hat it had bothered him much before. But since he had been up to the marina with the lads for a pint or two in that nice new restaurant they had up there, the Green Fields reception area had suddenly lost its friendly home from home feel and taken on a shabby appearance. Some changes were long overdue.

  ‘This place is a dump,’ he said, taking a slurp from his coffee. ‘I mean, just look at it Dad, it’s worse than the old scout hut was and they knocked that down three years ago. We went up to Lockside the other night and it looks great. They’ve a new building up there with fancy décor, a lovely restaurant and a licensed bar. But all we’ve got is a tatty old portable pre-fab tarted up to look like a timber cabin. And we’ve not even got a vending machine never mind a restaurant or bar.’

  ‘You can thank your bloody aunt and uncle for that.’ Peter Archer was well aware of the shortcomings at Green Fields, but not used to having them highlighted by his son. ‘In any case, doing it all up wouldn’t make much difference to this lot we’ve got on-site at the moment. They wouldn’t spend any more money come what may. It’s hard keeping site fees steady from year to year without asking them for any more to cover upgrades they aren’t interested in.’

  ‘But they might if we had a decent place for them to come to. All the big sites make a fortune from their snack bars, cafés and clubrooms but unless I put the kettle on we can’t offer so much as a drink – even our beakers are all old and chipped.’

  ‘It’s all in the pipeline son. We don’t have enough tenants to support a café at the moment but when we add the new plots there will be more than we actually need. My plan includes a nice stone building with not just a restaurant and bar but a club room and games hall as well. If my bitch of a sister hadn’t cheated me out of my money I could have done it long before Lockside was built, but at long last it’s looking like I will have the money to make it happen. I’ve a couple of tricks up my sleeve and while it’s not actually there yet, it will be in a couple of weeks.’