Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  Caroline’s tears continued to flow as Phyllis, admonished by Jackie’s outburst and sarcasm, threw back her head, puckered her mouth into a steely pout, and set off on her scooter at a brisk four mph. When one was the Queen of the park, one didn’t appreciate being rebuked, especially by such a flighty piece as that Jackie Jessop.

  Manoeuvring the scooter around a pothole – she’d mentioned that to Kevin before and it still hadn’t been fixed – she rode on past the launderette, the reception building and the workshop. All were still and quiet. She couldn’t remember it being like this in all the time she had had a caravan on the site. So where was everyone? Why had Kevin not been around the last couple of days? And why did that interfering cow Jackie think that she knew more than she did herself? Just because Jackie Jessop had a high flying job in Liverpool where she spent her week hob-nobbing with people in high places, only coming on the park at weekends, didn’t mean that she could look down her nose at those spending all their time on the park. She should respect her elders and shut her bloody mouth, that’s what she should do. Jackie Jessop should look in the mirror before she started lobbing out her advice. She wasn’t a Lilly white hen herself was she? Amateur painting classes indeed. Who was she kidding? More like a cosy tête-à-tête with the artist she thought.

  Phyllis steered the scooter wide to avoid a black bin bag dumped in the gutter and then cut in to the kerb to miss yet another pothole. Heaving on the handlebars she then steered a wide arc to the right to take her towards her own plot. Lacking in maintenance, the side track was in even greater disrepair than the main access road and like a great grandmother pushing a supermarket trolley with one broken wheel, she steered around potholes, bumps and broken asphalt, narrowly missing a bright silver sportscar that was parked just two plots away from her caravan.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Weston, mind where you are going. You only just missed my car. You’re not at Three Sisters you know. You’re going to have a crash driving like that.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ was the retort. ‘I’m a very good driver don’t you know. It’s the state of these roads, they are full of bumps and potholes. And in any case, I don’t have three sisters. I used to have a brother and one sister but they have both died and I am the only one left.’

  ‘No Mrs Weston. Three Sisters is the racing track near Wigan. It’s named after three slag heaps from the old mines. You were going like a racing driver. ‘

  ‘Fiddlesticks. I was going quite slow and never went near your car at all, you must be mistaken. I say Mr Charlton, have you heard about Mr Peter? He’s not been on site for a week or so and Kevin hasn’t been here for a couple of days. They say he got killed in a car accident.’

  ‘Who did Mrs Weston? Did you say that Kevin had had an accident?’ asked the investigator. The old bag was a hell of a tittle tattle and constantly got the wrong end of the stick, but the lad was a admittedly a bit of a devil behind the wheel so anything was possible.

  ‘No, of course not silly,’ she responded. ‘It’s Mr Peter that’s had the accident. It was somewhere out towards Liverpool they say so I suppose it must have been on that motor-road thing. They say that the young ‘uns are always driving at more than fifty on it so someone was bound to get killed sooner or later. That old van of his was ninety years old you know so it should have been scrapped years ago. Anyway, the police took it away and someone said that Mr Peter was found in some trees so he must have been thrown out with the impact poor fellow.’

  ‘If you mean the motorway Mrs Weston, the speed limit is higher than that anyway, and Peter’s van wasn’t anywhere near ninety years old. Classic cars are his hobby and it was in superb condition. It’s sad if he’s been killed though. Are you absolutely sure Mrs Weston?’

  Why did everyone ask her if she was sure? Of course she was sure. She had been told by the lady who cleaned at the dentist’s surgery who had been told by the newsagent. He had been told by the plumber and he had heard it from a mate in the pub last night so there was no doubt was there?

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I had it on good authority. Lord knows when these potholes will get filled in now though. I’ll remind Kevin when I see him. He’s not been around for a couple of days. Have you any idea where he is Mr Charlton?’

  What a woman. She seemed bright as a button at times but away with the fairies at others.

  ‘No Mrs Weston, I haven’t the faintest idea where Kevin is. But if his dad has been killed in a car crash I dare say that just at this moment he couldn’t care less about a few potholes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment I have to keep. Goodbye Mrs Weston.’

  Well, of all the cheek. Fancy cutting one off like that. Youngsters today have no respect for their elders at all.

  ……….

  Kyle Fraser pulled up a chair and updated his superior on progress. Nothing untoward had come to light but the last car dealership on his list had been the most impressive. Evident across the whole site, its professional appearance gave the impression of a franchised dealership, but a forecourt filled with several competing brands proved that that was not the case. In the showroom, big butch upmarket 4x4 vehicles vied for space with luxury cars and most of the vehicles, both on the forecourt and in the showroom, seemed to be fairly new. Showing his warrant card, the sergeant had asked for the manager and been directed to a plush waiting area next to a gleaming luxury saloon that looked brand new and could not have been more than mere weeks old. Kyle had picked up a magazine from the coffee table but used the time to scan around the showroom. At first glance nothing had seemed out of order.

  After four or five minutes, a silver haired man in an immaculate suit had approached. His shoes shone – unusual in these times – and his shirt cuffs were linked rather than buttoned. No more than five feet six inches tall, in an earlier period he might have been referred to as a Dandy, but good eating and no doubt excessive drinking had resulted in a decidedly portly figure on the heavier side of middle age spread, somewhat compromising his image. Introducing himself as one of the partners, he had offered his assistance, adding that they did not get visits from the police very often and that he hoped nothing was wrong. Though taking an instant dislike to the man – all car salesmen had that effect on him - Fraser had assured him that no, nothing was wrong, and that he was only following up on a routine enquiry with all dealerships in the area. The salesman’s smarmy attitude and sickly smile was everything that Fraser hated. The phrase would you buy a used car from this man? came to mind, with the rejoinder, absolutely no way.

  But personal impressions apart, Fraser had gleaned more from the rotund little man than he had done on any of his visits to other dealers. He had learned that some of the manufacturers routinely registered unallocated vehicles in the pretence that they had been sold and bought by customers, but they were then sold into the trade with little more than delivery mileage on the clock. That way they could be sold on as second hand cars at a discount without affecting the new price of cars in their franchised dealerships. Some of the cars in the showroom were only two weeks old while others might have been overproduced cars stockpiled on a disused airfield.

  But as far as finding any of the stolen cars, or even the slightest indication of a bent dealer, he had drawn a blank. All the dealers seemed to be as straight as a die. As small independent specialist companies, none had either the degree of storage or amount of workshop space to support an illicit operation of the scale they now believed it to be. If there was a connection between all the thefts then it looked more than likely that the operation was not being fronted locally.

  ‘Well I’m buggered,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘I always wondered how a two week old car could end up in a second hand car showroom with quite a few quid knocked off the price. It just didn’t make sense that someone would spend all that money and lose so much in a fortnight.’

  ‘Doesn’t help us find our stolen cars though does it Boss?’

  ‘No Kyle, it doesn’t. For my money the cars are destined for overseas and the gang
are operating out of either Merseyside or Manchester.’

  ‘Is that a hunch or have you something to base it on then?’

  ‘I suppose it’s a bit of both really,’ responded the inspector. ‘I think that this is another example of career criminals using the three police forces to their advantage.’

  Both of them knew of cases where thieves from one area had operated in another in the full knowledge that neighbouring police forces did not communicate as efficiently as perhaps they should because in reality they were quite territorial in their response. Radcliffe had been as guilty as anyone so knew the score all too well.

  ‘The cars are being lifted from our patch but there doesn’t seem to be storage or workshop capacity and we’ve no posh car outlets to sell them from. But it’s all there in the cities. Manchester and Liverpool have got the lot. Liverpool’s also got the docks so there’s a direct export line as well.’

  ‘That all sounds like a hunch to me,’ replied the sergeant. ‘We haven’t heard anything from Lancashire or Manchester forces so it could just be a local thing here in Merseyside.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Radcliffe was warming to his theory. ‘If the cars had been stolen in Manchester and they had asked us if we had any leads I doubt that we would have given it any importance. Let’s face it, it was right under our noses but I didn’t act myself until Handy Andy dropped it in my lap and pushed me. No Kyle, I think that it’s been well set up and they are banking on us lot not talking to each other. My best guess is that the cars are being nicked here on our patch, whizzed over to somewhere in Greater Manchester or Lancashire for storage, then packaged up in some way and brought back into Merseyside to be exported through Liverpool. That way it’s spread across three police jurisdictions which is guaranteed to slow detection down. If a copper stumbles over anything then it’s only a small part of the chain, so if we don’t talk to each other – and so far we haven’t – it just looks like a one-off. The buggers are laughing at us and I don’t like that.’

  ‘I can see your logic. We’re always getting Lancashire Constabulary moaning about Merseyside yobs from Bootle and Toxteth taking a run down the M58 to Skelmersdale, doing a job and then nipping back. We don’t spend much time on it at all so they keep getting away with it. I suppose that it could also work with the cars.’ The sergeant thought for a second or two then added, ‘But that still doesn’t explain where they work on the cars or how they get them off our patch to a Lancashire or Manchester HQ while they are still hot. That’s a big ask.’

  ‘You are right Kyle,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘They need to move the cars fast when they first lift them and that’s where my hunch comes in. I reckon that they do whatever they need to do right here before they are moved to storage. Perhaps we are not looking for somewhere big enough to store the cars, just somewhere where they can get each car looking legal. After that, even if they are seen they won’t attract attention.’

  ‘What, like a little back street garage or something? Surely, the cars that have been lifted would stick out like a sore thumb mixed in with the usual hatches and old bangers in those places.’

  Radcliffe took a mouthful of his coffee. It was as cold as the leads they had on the car thieves. ‘See if you can rustle up some coffee that’s at least half warm will you Kyle?’ he asked. ‘And get Louise and Sean in here – we’d better run through everything together so that we are all singing from the same hymn sheet.’

  Some of the most audacious crimes had been committed in full view without attracting even an ounce of suspicion. If his hunch was right, the car stealing team were doing just that, achieving success by being brazen and up-front with their activities while blending in without attracting attention. Somehow, virtually new cars were being taken away without arousing suspicion. Other than the rightful owner, who could do that, and how? And where would be a natural place to take such a car? Where wouldn’t it stand out as out of place? Where could such a car suddenly appear, then disappear a few days later, yet not seem wrong? Radcliffe believed that with those questions answered the case would at last be breaking.

  There was a knock on the door and in came Kyle Fraser with the two DCs. Fraser put a steaming mug of coffee on Radcliffe’s desk, then took the seat he had earlier vacated, sipping his own drink noisily. Clutching already half empty beakers, constables Louise and Sean took the remaining chairs – two metal framed plastic stacking chairs pushed against the wall. Nobody dared to sit behind Davies’ desk, his chair remaining empty. Pecking order established.

  ‘What have you got on the cars Louise?’ asked Radcliffe.

  ‘Not a lot sir. Even if half of them have already been moved on, the only dealers with sufficient space to hide so many cars are the main dealers, and I’ve drawn a complete blank. Apart from those they have taken in on part-ex, they are all full of their own brands.’

  ‘Yes Louise,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘I’m sorry but I think that we’ve had you looking in the wrong places.’ The inspector brought them all up to speed with developments and the basis of his hunch; a brazen crew working right under their noses a car at a time. On that basis they should be looking for smaller workshops that could handle just one or two cars. Louise didn’t follow the logic. Virtually brand new Ferrari’s and Bentleys would be out of place in a back street garage. She thought it more likely that the cars were being put into box trailers and whisked off to some hidden storage and workshop.

  ‘Any more theories?’ enquired Radcliffe. Faced with blank expressions from all three of his subordinates he continued, ‘Well in that case we’ll work on mine. A witness saw someone in overalls giving that Paganini thing the once over and then minutes later it had gone.’

  ‘Pagani,’ corrected Fraser, ‘Paganini was a composer Guv.’

  ‘Whatever. The point is, as I said before, it’s a perfect cover. Turn up in overalls and everyone assumes that you have a right to take the car away. All we need to know then is taken away to where? They disappear off the face of the earth within quarter of an hour or so – even those with sophisticated trackers – so wherever they go later, there must, repeat must, be some sort of workshop facility on our patch.

  ‘Louise, check back through the statements and see if any mechanics were seen around any of the other cars just before they were nicked. If you don’t turn anything up, go back to each scene and ask around again. And Louise, if any mechanics were seen, find out what they had on their overalls.’

  ‘Excuse me Guv. What on their overalls exactly?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know. I have a hunch, so let’s see if it plays out. Now Sean, is there any progress on the Johnson attack?’

  The constable shuffled in his chair. He had experienced a bit of a buzz following up on a few loose ends but this was the first time he had been part of a team, though admittedly just a small cog. Questioning the waitress’ boyfriend again had inflated his ego somewhat and going out to the old hall to view the scene for himself had convinced him that making the move from uniforms to plain clothes was beginning to make him more important. But now, put on the spot by the inspector, there was nothing of real value to report. Nothing to justify his presence in the team.

  ‘Come on lad,’ urged Radcliffe. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Well sir, there’s not a lot to report actually,’ mumbled the constable, fidgeting noticeably and nervously turning his now empty beaker round and around in his hands.

  ‘Right lad,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘You might not have much but whatever it is we all need to know. I know that you are still feeling your feet but we are supposed to be working as a team so don’t keep anything to yourself, however. Whatever it might be, just spit it out. Sooner or later you’ll make a mistake and get a bollocking. We’ve all done it sometime or other, haven’t we sergeant? When your time comes I am sure that Louise will give you a cuddle and make things better, but for now, just give us what you have and let me decide what’s what.’

  Sean pursed his lips with a faint glimmer
of an embarrassed smile then looked down at the beaker he was still turning. Louise blushed. Leaning down, he put the empty beaker on the floor then straightened up and with a more serious expression, looked his superior officer in the eye. Radcliffe had caught both the short smile and Louise’s blush. Perhaps his comment about a cuddle, intended to be humorous and put the lad at ease, might actually have been close to the mark.

  ‘Well sir,’ started Sean. I followed up on Sergeant Fraser’s interview with the nude model’s boyfriend and checked up on some of the other models for the art group. Jack, that’s the boyfriend, is still cut up that the girl broke up with him and blames Johnson but he doesn’t seem the type to go attacking somebody – he’s a bit on the weedy side.’

  ‘He frightened Helen though didn’t he? And he dragged her along the street. Temper and jealousy can push a man don’t you think Sean?’

  ‘Yes sir. I suppose so sir. But all the same, I don’t think Jack’s got it in him to attack Johnson. And all the other models have modelled for other groups as well as Johnson’s so there don’t seem to be any issues there either. One models regularly for the photography club and another for classes at the college. I did some background digging though and found a planning application that Johnson objected to. ‘