Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  ‘No way. All there is is an old woodsman’s cottage. It’s semi derelict and far too small for a restaurant and a kitchen.’

  Simon looked up suddenly. ‘Say that again Mr Johnson. Something is jumping out at me and I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Err, well, there’s just a woodsman’s cottage that’s too small.’

  ‘And no room for a kitchen,’ added Simon. ‘When you mentioned the kitchen it reminded me of something.’ Flicking his notes he said, ‘yes, here it is. When I spoke to Kevin he said that there was a building in the woods that would be accessible when they felled the trees to create the extra plots.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with Mike and Joan’s house?’ the lawyer cut in.

  ‘That’s what wasn’t sounding right. Peter said the restaurant would be up and running quickly. But that doesn’t gel with a semi-derelict building that’s been there for ever. There’s still something missing here. Nothing fits.’

  ‘But it does!’ exclaimed Johnson. ‘That cottage is far too small to be a restaurant and no way does it have a commercial kitchen. But our house does. Our main room can seat a hundred diners – we’ve done it for a dinner party – and when we did the conversion we put in a full professional kitchen. Before I opened The Palette I was a chef at Vincent’s on Lord Street so it’s our house he is describing. That proves it, they want our money and our house.’

  Charlton considered the options. If what Johnson was saying was true, then there was a lot more at stake than a brother / sister feud over their father’s money. Perhaps this could, as Johnson claimed, even be big enough to prompt the attack. But the workshop log placed Archer at the caravan park at the time Johnson claimed he had recognised his attacker’s voice and the old busybody had confirmed that too.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more I can do Mr Johnson. Peter Archer is covered for the night of the attack and unless David can come up with some legal challenge I don’t see what you can do about the restaurant angle either.’

  Taking his leave of the group, Simon still wasn’t satisfied. He could justify the time he had spent and submit his bill, but the outcome wasn’t conclusive and that dented his pride. Perhaps a little more delving might not be amiss, even though it might not be chargeable.

  ……….

  Allison Wilson looked around her beautiful house. Was she really putting all this at risk? The converted mill was her pride and joy. If Steve found out about her affair then it could all go down the pan. What had started out as an innocent bit of fun with a fellow teacher, well, not that innocent really, had developed into something much more serious and last weekend had almost brought everything crashing down. Steve had thought she was attending a teacher’s seminar in Birmingham when in reality she was staying closer to home on a dirty weekend with Brian. Then while they were enjoying a meal in the Red Squirrel, in had walked Steve. They had purposely selected a table tucked away on a lower level but it had still been a close call. How was she to know that Steve might eat there after he had finished flying his microlight? And more to the point, had he seen her? And had he seen her on any previous occasions? Oh what a bloody mess.

  ‘Did you manage to fly this weekend Steve,’ she asked her husband. ‘The weather looked good and I know you were looking forward to going up.’

  ‘Yes, it was magical. You don’t appreciate what you have here until you see it from another angle.’

  Mmmm. Never a truer word spoken she thought.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. What did you see from another angle?’

  ‘Everything I suppose Ali. You drive along the bypass and see nothing of the coast, but from the air it’s as nice, if not nicer, than the Karpaz in Cyprus – all sun kissed beaches, sand dunes and sea. I was delayed by a road accident on the way to the airfield but once I got up I flew as far as the coastguard station at Crosby then back all the way to Hesketh Bank, then did a lazy loop back inland – I actually flew over this mill – and back to the field at Ince. Brilliant.’

  ‘So what did you do for a meal? Nothing seemed to have gone from the fridge when I got back.’

  ‘Oh, I ate at the Red Squirrel, a pub style restaurant just the opposite side of the bypass from the airfield I often use. It takes half an hour to de-rig the Blade and by that time I’m ravenous. It’s pub grub at a low price and it’s surprising who you see in there.’

  Was that a coded reference? Should she now fling herself on his mercy? But perhaps she was misreading things. If he had indeed seen her he was being pretty blasé about it, and that wasn’t usually his style.

  ‘Like who? Who have you seen there?’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ he said with a grin. ‘When I go in it’s a bit quiet after the mid day rush. They have an early bird menu that’s excellent value and the salad bar is free, so they get a few older couples looking for bargains. But if you look for them you can often see a man with somebody else’s wife or a woman with somebody else’s husband trying to hide in one of the darker corners. Spotting them has become a bit of a game for me and once you know what to look for they stand out like a sore thumb. There’s a smaller area down a couple of steps that cannot be seen from the doorway or the servery and that seems to be their favourite place to try and hide. It’s laughable really. They all do the same stupid things. They put on an act of familiarity then blow their cover when they don’t know simple things like whether their dining partner is allergic to something or other or wants sugar in his coffee and simple things like that.’

  Oh glory! Was that yet another coded message. If so, he was right on target. It fitted them like a glove. Brian had ordered a desert that she just couldn’t touch and then she had forgotten to sweeten his Americano. Was Steve now telling her ‘I saw you girl’ or was that a coincidence? And was taking a table in the lower section so bloody obvious? Oh hell’s bells. What to do?

  ‘So who have you seen then? Did you recognise anyone this time?

  ‘Well, yes actually. When I went over to the salad bar I clocked that teacher from your school. You know the one. The one that fancies you. What is he called? Ben, Bert, Brian or something I think. He was paying at the till and looked pretty flustered. He hadn’t eaten on his own but whoever was with him must have dashed out and left him to pay. Nice bit of gossip for you there Ali. Who do you think he was dining with? Somebody else’s wife perhaps?’

  Oh bloody hell. They had been seen. But Steve wasn’t usually this diplomatic when it came to her. Possessive. That was more the Steve she knew. If he had really seen her with Brian then he would have made a point of knocking poor Brian’s block off. And they wouldn’t be having this conversation the day afterwards either – it would be a full blown raging row.

  But all the same, what if?

  The what if wasn’t even worth contemplating. What had she seen in Brian anyway? A bit on the side? A bit of something different in her life? Something to spice things up? Well it didn’t need an affair to do that did it? Steve was a successful businessman, they had a home to die for, changed their cars every few months and if she wanted to go for a meal or a weekend away he would be only too happy to take her. And then there was Steve himself. Loveable Steve. What the hell was she doing messing about with Brian?

  ‘There has been a bit of talk at school about him actually.’ She felt her cheeks getting hot. Was she blushing and giving the game away? Still, better to get it over with, to bluff it through if at all possible. Did women have a mid life crisis?

  ‘There were one or two that linked me with him because they didn’t actually know who he was seeing. He is OK really, probably just lonely. I bet if the truth be known he’s not seeing anybody and it’s just a blind.’ There, that should cover the cracks if Steve hadn’t actually seen who was with Brian. In any case, although she had not stopped the affair, she and Brian had had a row, so although it might be stretching things, she could claim that she wasn’t seeing him. That might not be the case when they met at school on Monday of course, but what the hell
under the circumstances. Fingers crossed.

  ‘So when are you flying again? I might just come with you and give it a try.’

  ……….

  Scanning the week’s art group bookings, Mike Johnson searched in vain for her name. It wasn’t there. Why had she suddenly stopped attending classes when she was the most promising newcomer to have joined any of the groups for some time? What a waste of a talent. Not a bad looker either. Just her presence livened up a class, making a welcome change from fuddy duddy old widows and blokes that couldn’t paint but just wanted to ogle the models. Clicking an on-screen button, the list was replaced by a spreadsheet showing the little art shop’s finances. It wasn’t just that the art groups were dwindling, takings through the shop were down as well. Once it had been a little goldmine but big multiple shops on the main street and in the retail parks had opened art departments where they sold blank canvases, paints and other materials far cheaper than The Palette could buy them. And the bollards that stopped vehicles driving up past the shop had also decimated foot traffic.

  They had had a good run for their money and made lots of it while it lasted. Along the way there had been some good times too, like some of the one-to-one evening classes. Indeed, some of those had been very enjoyable. But with the sudden downturn in business a new direction was urgently needed if they were to keep the wolf from the door. Short of selling up and moving out – not an option because they both loved their house – developing their land was the only option.

  With a builder’s offer on the table, they should have been celebrating, but the legal action had stopped it in its tracks. Not only that, there was pressure from the bank. If there wasn’t some movement soon then the The Palette would close. And like dominoes, that would bring everything else down with it. Something had to be done about Mr Peter Archer. Dear brother-in-law had to be stopped in his tracks. If the police wouldn’t believe him and even his own solicitor couldn’t stop the little upstart, then somebody had to. Family or not, the time had come to take things into his own hands.

  The shop door opened and in walked a tall, seductively dark haired, young woman. Olive tinted skin and cleanly defined features betrayed an oriental origin perhaps several generations earlier, while her unusual height and perfect posture gave her an enviable elegance. She was good looking and knew it, using it to perfection. Her gait was measured and practiced, her clothes impeccably selected. And she used it all to advantage.

  ‘Hello Mike, am I too late?’ Uttered in a soft voice that was neither hoarse nor a whisper, yet at the same time, both, they were provocative words, provocatively delivered. She crossed the shop and smoothed her silky skirt as she lowered herself into a chair, completing the movement by crossing her slender legs.

  ‘Some things are worth waiting for,’ he replied, matching her enquiring smile with an equally provocative expression, adding ‘and the lady that just walked into my shop brought with her the most wonderful vision of beauty I have ever seen, lightening the load on this poor man’s shoulders beyond compare.’

  Throwing her head back and laughing infectiously, her smile broadened before metamorphosing into an alluring pout as she responded to his prose with ‘And I thank the kind sir for his observation, his patience, and hopefully, his keenness.’

  Keenness indeed! Of course he was keen. It went without saying. Far from being the utterance of a mere flirt, his words had been chosen with extreme care, being the verbal interpretation of his feelings for the woman that had entered his life so recently, and did not enter his shop as often as he would have liked. This apparition of youthful beauty had enriched his life and eased the cares of both a family feud and the worries of impending financial disaster. Neither feud nor disaster were on his mind at that moment; a wonderful picture of beauty now graced his vision and he was determined to make the most of that image before the time was lost and reality returned.

  ‘Give me the opportunity and I will show you,’ ventured the artist with a cheeky grin. ‘Why don’t you pop upstairs and get ready while I lock up the shop and turn off the lights. I bet that I am up there with you before you’ve had time to sort yourself out – that’s how keen I am. Oh, and don’t forget to close the blinds first, we wouldn’t want any late night shoppers getting the wrong idea would we?’

  ……….

  Sipping his tea in the Windsor Tea Rooms, Kyle Fraser had a good view of The Palette and had noted the entrance of the woman, the easy way she interacted with Johnson, his eagerness to lock up the shop, turn over the ‘closed’ sign and switch off the shop lights. It had been as an old silent movie; knowing glances, exaggerated actions but no sound. How he wished that he could have heard what had been said and what had been arranged. Then, as he watched with fascination, the woman had preceded the artist upstairs and the blinds had quickly been drawn. It didn’t need his sergeant’s stripes to imagine what happened from there.

  ‘Another tea sergeant, it’s on the house?’

  ‘Yes please Helen.’

  Visibly nervous when he had entered the tea shop, the young woman had at first kept her distance from the detective, but as it became obvious that she wasn’t the focus of his enquiries, she had wandered over to talk to him. She seemed a bit on the immature side, not able to hide her feelings or control her nervousness, but for all that, all the more attractive. The innocence of youth perhaps. Give her a couple of years and a few more broken romances and the innocence would have gone and she would have had more practice at hiding what she really felt. At the moment though, her immaturity was in Kyle’s favour; nervous reactions or a lighting fast blush of her cheeks gave too much away.

  He smiled at her as she put the china cup and saucer on the table in front of him. In truth he would rather have had a large beaker. Only a few mouthfuls and the Windsor’s little cups were empty. Returning his smile – and what a pretty smile she had – she enquired whether he would also like a piece of fruit cake. It was a speciality and really quite good. And that would be on the house as well.

  ‘Thanks for the tea Helen,’ he responded, ‘but no, I’ll take a miss on the cake,’ adding that he would be having his evening meal soon, but thanks all the same.

  ‘Are you still going to art classes at The Palette?’ he quizzed her.

  ‘No. Like I told the inspector, my boyfriend kicked up an awful fuss and said I had to stop.’

  ‘I know, but you said that you had finished with him. Jack wasn’t it? Well if you finished with him he doesn’t have any say in what you do anymore does he?’

  ‘That’s right. Jack is history. But I couldn’t carry on with the classes could I? The art group always meet up here for a coffee before walking over to the studio for the lesson and when Jack came he showed me up in front of all the group as well as customers in the other shops and people walking along. I couldn’t show my face again could I?’

  ‘Well pardon me Helen,’ he said with a cheeky smile, but there’s more than your face showing in The Palette’s window isn’t there?’

  In a flash her face was crimson and she threw up her hands to cover her mouth.

  ‘Oh Lordy’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s been a nightmare. I’ve begged Mike to rip the picture up but he said that it’s been his best advert.’

  Kyle wasn’t surprised at that. But her embarrassment might help him steer the conversation so that he could elicit the information he needed. ‘Don’t worry about it Helen,’ he responded, ‘Jack’s the loser here so just ignore it and everything will die down. But do you work this late every day? I mean, isn’t the tea shop trade mainly mid morning and early afternoon? I wouldn’t have thought that many customers came in at this time.’

  ‘You are right. We normally close at five, but there are a few groups that come and meet here so we stay open especially for them. We stay open on Tuesday for the art group, and Wednesday for the camera club.’

  ‘But it isn’t Tuesday or Wednesday, yet you are still open.’

  ‘Of course Sergeant. We never throw anybody out
, although we don’t let any new customers in after about five,’ going on to explain that if there were still customers in the shop then they would carry on until they had finished. Did that happen often? In the season, yes. Sometimes day trippers would drop in for a quick cup of tea or coffee before leaving for home and when they did they were usually tempted by what was left so it could be quite profitable with extra cakes and sandwiches they wouldn’t otherwise have sold. If he checked he would see that the door had already been locked and the closed sign displayed. Already the other waitresses had all gone. It was her job to stay there until he went and then to wash up his pots and close the shop.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Now it was the sergeant’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘I am sorry Helen, I didn’t realise that you were only staying here for me. And look at the time. I’ve really kept you for a long time. And you’ve given me my drinks for free too. I must pay for them before I go.’

  While explaining the tea shop’s rather old fashioned outlook to opening hours, Helen had poured herself a cup and slipped in to the seat next to him.

  ‘No bother. I’ve nothing to rush home for and I might as well be here chatting to you as anywhere. I’ve enjoyed talking and I am ready for a cuppa myself anyway,’ she said, a cute smile on her face.

  ‘So, how did you manage to get across to The Palette art class if the group came in here first and you then had to tidy up and do the chores before you could leave?’

  ‘We have a rota. It’s my turn to finish early on Tuesdays because I stay for the photography group on Wednesdays. I used to change out of my tea shop uniform and sit with them for a while and then we all used to go over to the studio together.’

  With the ice broken, Helen had opened up and spoken more freely. Apparently the Life Art Group had numbered about twelve would-be artists when it had started a few months ago but had soon settled down to around eight regulars. Mike Johnson usually introduced the model and gave a little talk and instruction for about a quarter of an hour before they all tried to do a picture themselves. There was a different model each session. And yes, they were mainly females (but there had been a couple of men as well). One week the model had not turned up. The whole group had been disappointed and since they had all been there for the art and there had never been any hanky panky, she had allowed herself to be persuaded to be the stand in model. What a mistake that had been!