by Vic Marelle
‘And we can either do it the nice way so that you can get back to your business quickly or we can caution you and you can bring your solicitor in which could get messy,’ added the inspector, a serious expression on his face.
Looking at them both in turn he tried to gauge where this was going, but neither of them was giving anything away. It was getting out of hand. And all for the sake of saving a few bob on the wage bill.
‘What do you mean by “his sort” then,’ asked the inspector. ‘Did you mean somebody that would bend the rules or turn a blind eye if he saw something going on that wasn’t quite right?’
‘Of course not!’ he stormed. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. What rules? And what isn’t quite right?’
‘You tell me.’
Radcliffe just watched the man and waited.
And waited.
The two men locked eyes, each willing the other to break off or to be the first to speak.
Fraser came to the rescue. ‘What is his sort?’
‘He’s Polish. We’ve got six working for us and they work twice as hard and for longer than any of our lot.’
‘Do you own a DNA 430 that looks like a Ferrari F430 but is based on a Toyota MR2?’ asked the inspector, adding in the registration details as a final confirmation.
‘Yes, that’s mine,’ he replied.
‘So where’s the attraction of driving a car that looks like an expensive supercar but is in fact a cheap little Japanese runabout with a four cylinder engine?’ asked the sergeant, ‘I would have thought that somebody like you would want the real thing.’
I’ve got expensive cars,’ he replied. ‘It’s a bit like the woman with expensive jewellery who stores them away in a safe and has a replica made so that she can have the pleasure of wearing them without the risk.’
‘Have you got a real F430 then?' countered Fraser.
‘No I haven’t,’ came the brisk response. ‘But I do have cars that are worth much more. The DNA is just for a bit of fun. We took a Toyota MR2 in part exchange and rather than scrap it I bought the panel set and did the conversion.’ Then looking directly at Fraser he added, ‘And for your information sergeant, it’s not a cheap little runabout and it doesn’t have a four cylinder engine.’
‘That’s strange,’ replied Fraser. ‘I thought that MR2 stood for mid engined runabout with two seats and it had a 1.8 litre four pot.’
‘You are well-informed sergeant. But we dropped an Alfa V6 into my car. It’s not as potent as the Ferrari engine but it sounds good and it is lots of fun. Why the interest?’
Again, his question was ignored.
‘When do you drive it and where do you keep it?’
‘I don’t like your questions,’ he said, looking directly at Radcliffe. ‘You drag me in here without any explanation, keep me waiting for ages, then ask me silly questions about my employees and my cars. What the hell is going on here? Can I go now?’
‘I’m afraid not Sir,’ replied Radcliffe, ‘we haven’t finished yet. Answer the question please. Where do you go in the car and where do you keep it?’
‘I just take it for a spin now and again,’ he replied. ‘It’s a lovely car to drive, particularly through the lanes. I keep it at a place out in the country.’
Going through a list of vehicle registrations, Fraser looked him in the eye and asked him if they were kept at the same place as the replica and were they his.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Quite a value in that little lot,’ observed the sergeant, adding sarcastically, ‘or are all those fakes as well?’
‘The DNA isn’t a fake, it’s a replica. It’s registered as a Toyota and I don’t cover that up. It’s not a fake.’
‘That’s open to conjecture,’ cut in Radcliffe. ‘All the badges are Ferrari so to my way of thinking it is a fake. So, what about the others? Are they real or fake?’
‘The DNA is a replica. All the other cars are originals. They are classics. That’s my hobby. Some I have paid a lot of money for. Others were bought as non-runners or even basket cases and I have rebuilt them. I did the DNA just for fun.’
‘OK.’ said Radcliffe, passing over a sheet of paper on which a number of vehicles were neatly detailed, a series of columns giving registration, make, model and other information for each car. ‘What about these? Are these yours as well?’
After scanning the list he shook his head. ‘Not mine Inspector,’ he said, looking down the list again before adding, ‘my interest is with classic cars but most of these are current models.’
All three swivelled to look in the same direction as, after knocking, the door opened and a young constable entered. Holding a sheet of paper, he placed it in front of Radcliffe and bent to whisper in his ear.
For the benefit of the recording, Fraser said, ‘Constable Jefferies has just entered the room.’
Listening intently, Radcliffe nodded and thanked the constable who then turned and left. Fraser announced that the constable had left the room and that the interview was now continuing. Taking back the vehicle detail sheet that had, only minutes before been the subject of his questions, Radcliffe placed it next to the pile in front of him, neatly covering the sheet brought in by the constable.
‘Do you know a man by the name of Cyrec Krawiec?’ asked Radcliffe.
After a short pause came an equally short, ‘No Inspector, I don’t think that I do.’
Pushing the new sheet brought in by the constable across the table, Radcliffe once again changed tack, asking, ‘What about this one?’ turning the paper around so that it could be read easily.
Printed in the centre of an otherwise blank sheet was a single registration. Radcliffe saw a flicker of recognition followed quickly by puzzlement.
‘That’s my wife’s car,’ he replied. ‘What’s wrong? Has she had an accident? She’s away for the weekend. Stop the bloody games Inspector. Tell me what the hell’s going on.’
‘I’m not aware of any accident,’ replied Radcliffe. ‘But if this is your wife’s car, why isn’t it registered in her name then?’
‘You didn’t need to drag me here to find the answer to that,’ he said. ‘It’s in my name so that I can include it on the business insurance scheme. It saves me quite a bit of money.’
‘Radcliffe took the paper back and placed it on his pile, adding also the vehicle list. With a resigned look he turned to Fraser and gave an imperceptible nod.
‘You own a successful business,’ said the sergeant. ‘You employ a number of Eastern European workers, you dismantle cars and sell the parts second hand, you repair cars, you buy and sell cars, you are an official MOT testing station with your test rig linked to the government register. Is that correct?’
‘It’s not a secret,’ he replied. I’ve built my business up with hard graft over many years. Now, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Bear with us a little please,’ responded the sergeant. ‘To run your business you have a workshop close to town, two lock-up warehouses in Birkdale and another next to your workshop. You are also a silent partner in an auto-electrical repair business, is that also right?’
‘Yes,’ the reply was curt. ‘And I have a body shop and spray booth on Virginia Street,’ he added.
‘Of course,’ said Fraser sarcastically. ‘How remiss of me to leave that off,’ adding, ‘but with all those different sites capable of storing lots of cars, why is your fake Ferrari not kept in one of them?’
‘Because I keep my own cars separate from the business. Look,’ he said, ‘you’ve gone all round the houses and I don’t know where the hell you are going. You’ve asked me about my employees, my wife, my cars, and you have obviously been checking up on how I run my business but I am lost here. I’ve been as patient as I can be and answered your questions honestly. But I’m wasting time when I should be in my office running my business. For the life of me I cannot see the connection between my cars, my employees and my wife.’
‘That’s quite a speech,’ commented
Radcliffe. ‘But since you ask, there is a connection, but more of that in a minute. You see, we scooped Pawel Lewinelsky out of the gutter behind the Bold Hotel a couple of nights ago.’
‘I’m not surprised Inspector. He does like his drink I am afraid. That was his only problem.’
‘Was? Why was?’
‘Is then. Does it matter?’
‘As a matter of fact it does,’ added Fraser.
‘Mr Lewinelsky is dead.’ The statement was short and crisp with no attempt to soften its effect. Radcliffe continued, ‘and a few days before that, Cyrec Krawiec died in a car out near Lydiate. They are both Polish, one of them works – or should I say used to work – for you, and neither of them died from, shall we say, natural causes?’
‘What the . . . ‘
‘Hold on,’ commanded Fraser, ‘Inspector Radcliffe hasn’t finished yet. Believe me, the coincidences do stretch the imagination.’
‘You have admitted to owning a number of cars stored out at a former Catholic college but we believe that some of the vehicles there have been stolen,’ said Radcliffe. ‘There’s certainly an issue with your wife’s car because its engine and chassis numbers don’t tally with official records for the registration.’
Allowing the information to sink in, Radcliffe continued, ‘A number of expensive cars have been stolen and it looks as though some of them are being held alongside some of the cars that you legally own. Two Polish nationals have been killed, one of whom was employed by you. When the cars were stolen their tracker units were disabled and, surprise surprise, you own an auto-electrical business. Not forgetting your wife’s car of course, the details of which which don’t match official records.
‘Are you following me here? Car theft, illegal trading, and murder. It gets worse and worse. And the very obvious link is you.’ Turning to his sergeant, Radcliffe continued, ‘Book him Sergeant,’ pushing his chair back and gathering up the papers as Fraser began the process.
‘Steven Wilson, I am arresting you on the suspicion of car theft, illegal trading and murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Across the desk, Wilson stared at the sergeant. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he stuttered. ‘Oh Christ. You’ve got this all wrong.’
‘Have we?’ responded Fraser as the door slammed behind the retreating Radcliffe. ‘You’ll have to explain a lot of coincidences if you want anyone to believe that.’ Announcing the time at which the interview had been terminated, Fraser switched off the recorder and turned his attention back to a rather sorry looking businessman. ‘Right Mr Wilson, come with me. Let’s get you checked in.’
‘Checked in. Checked in where?’ replied a bewildered Wilson. ‘I need to get to my office and check a few things out. Where are you taking me?’
‘Well we’re not taking you to Vincents,’ joked Fraser, referring to Southport’s most expensive boutique hotel. ‘We are going no further than down stairs to see the Custody Sergeant. He will check you in, give you a receipt for all your bits and bobs like your watch, mobile phone and money, then he’ll show you to your room. But don’t expect fitted carpets, our cells are a bit basic.’
Twenty-Three
Flanked by his two inspectors, Chief Inspector Arthur Handley strode confidently into the room and took his place at the front. When the buzz around the room had subsided, he stood at the temporary lectern and addressed the assembled media, their number more than double that of the previous briefing. But that’s what murder did; it brought every tin-pot journalist out of the woodwork. All the usuals were there, Champion, Visiter and that smarmy effeminate scribe for the Drum, but these were now bolstered by regional newspapers from Liverpool, Preston and Manchester as well as local TV. Yes, they could smell blood from miles away.
‘I’ll make this brief gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have today arrested a middle aged gentleman in connection with the deaths of three men over the last fortnight; one found in Lydiate Hall, one the apparent RTA between Halsall and Lydiate, and the third found behind the Bold Hotel in Southport town centre three days ago. Questioning is currently continuing and we will release a further statement when appropriate.’
Keeping his sternest expression he scanned the room. Could he wrap this up without any questions? In a bold attempt, he simply said ‘Thank you gentlemen,’ then scooped up his papers off the lectern and turned to leave.
For a second or two he thought that he had got away with it. Radcliffe and Davies had stood ready follow him but a shout stopped them in their tracks.
‘Chief Inspector, is it true that as well as the three deaths the man is also being charged with all the recent car thefts?’
Handley spun around to face the assembled journalists, his face afire and teeth clenched. Radcliffe and Davies sat back down.
It was that bloody man from the Drum realised Handley. How could he have got hold of that information? Nothing had been released so where was the leak? Looking briefly at the two seated inspectors he nodded then turned back to the media.
‘Gentlemen,’ he intoned. ‘I called you here to give you an update on the progress of our investigations into three deaths, not to talk about stolen cars. I would thank you not to indulge in spurious guessing games or make tenuous connections that could rebound on you. Please restrict yourself to the facts we give you.’
Peering over his spectacles for effect he continued, ‘I repeat, a middle aged man is helping us with our enquiries into three deaths. When those enquires are complete we should know if the deaths are connected. More than that I cannot say. Thank you gentlemen.’
Without giving them the chance to follow up with more probing questions he strode out of the room followed by the two inspectors, attempting with difficulty to catch up.
………………
‘Come in Joan,’ he said as she opened the door and entered his office. ‘Take a seat. What can I do for you? You sounded a little worried on the phone.’
‘Is that a surprise?’ asked Joan Johnson as she settled into a chair in front of the solicitor’s desk. ‘My husband is very ill in hospital, the business seems to have gone down the tubes, I’ve got threatening letters from people I don’t know,’ then, pausing to regain her composure she added, ‘and now this has come up with Kevin.’
Preston was alarmed. It was the first time that business troubles had been mentioned and with the main breadwinner unable to work, the implications for the Johnsons being able to pay his bills were obvious. This would have to be handled carefully – perhaps individual billing for every meeting and letter to guard against debts mounting up instead of monthly accounting. But first he would have to put her at ease and gain her confidence.
‘Let’s backtrack a little,’ he said using his most friendly manner. ‘What sort of letters and from whom? And what’s Kevin done now?’
The smarmy little toe-rag. Joan hated it when he put on his friendly uncle act. It was so insincere and very unconvincing. But moving to another solicitor would cost her money that she didn’t have. It would also mean starting all over again, taking time she didn’t have either.
‘Thanks for your concern David. Apparently Kevin has some sort of document and wanted to discuss it with me personally. You know, without solicitors. I’m not good with legal stuff so I made this appointment and arranged to meet him here so that you could advise me. He was supposed to be here by now but he’s late.’
‘That’s typical of the younger generation I am afraid,’ he responded. ‘They are never on time. But while we are waiting, what’s this about threatening letters?’
Oh bother! It had slipped out by mistake. That was the trouble these days. Where normally she thought long and hard before saying anything, just at the moment she was living on her nerves and everything just seemed to pour out without any sort of restraint. The last thing she wanted was a solicitor getting involved with more issues in
her life and sending her more bills that she didn’t have the money to pay. And in any case, Inspector Radcliffe had told her that he didn’t want the letter becoming common knowledge.
‘Oh, it was nothing really,’ she said as dismissively as she could. ‘Where is Kevin? He should have been here half an hour ago.’
Before the solicitor could offer any suggestion, the telephone rang. Picking it up, he listened for a few seconds then said, ‘Yes please, show him in.’ Replacing the receiver he looked at his client, ‘Speak of the devil. The tardy timekeeper has just arrived.’
The door opened and the solicitor’s secretary showed in an obviously flushed young man. ‘Mr Archer,’ she announced.
‘Sorry I am late,’ offered Kevin. ‘I was just turning at the junction and an old codger in a little Toyota hit the speed hump, lost control and bashed into the back of me. The silly bugger shouldn’t be driving.’
‘Oh dear,’ responded Joan. ‘Are you all right? How much damage did he do?’
‘I am OK thanks. Luckily my pickup is quite high off the ground so there’s no damage. My towing hitch made quite a mess to the front of his car when he went under my bumper. He was all shaky when he got out of his car and it took a bit to calm him down. Then I couldn’t find anywhere to park.’
‘That junction is a bloody nightmare,’ offered Preston. ‘Since they made all the changes it has become more dangerous not less, and we’ve lost our parking spaces too.’ Allowing Kevin time to settle himself in the spare chair next to Joan Johnson, the solicitor turned to Joan, giving her a quizzical look.
‘Kevin has some sort of document that he says gives some of our land to him,’ she said to the solicitor. ‘I can’t understand how that could be so I thought that you could take a look. I don’t want the argument that was going on before to continue so I thought this was the best way to do things amicably but perhaps we should come back another day when Kevin isn’t so shaken up. He’s got enough problems at the moment as it is – you know, after Peter’s death.’