Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  Thirty-Two

  Sitting in his favourite armchair, Mike Johnson eased himself forward. Battered and bruised, he just couldn’t find a comfortable position. Coming home had been a target. Yet having made it this far the reality wasn’t living up to his expectations and Ward 7B was beginning to seem like the better option after all. His favourite chair was no longer the most comfortable place to relax and already he yearned for the infinite adjustability of modern hospital beds. With just a touch of a button he had been able to adjust his bed every which way, to an extent that even the reclining mechanism of his old Parker Knoll could not match.

  But, more than his physical discomfort, he could detect something else, something he just could not put his finger on. When Joan had visited him in hospital she had always been kind, gentle, concerned and, well, so obviously anxious for him to return home and resume his rightful place as the head of the family. Now he had made it home she was still kind, gentle and concerned, and as he listened to her busy in the kitchen creating a tasty snack for lunch he could hear her humming along with a radio programme. Clearly she was happy to have him home, though still concerned for his welfare. And that was understandable: he had a long way to go before anyone would even consider describing him as back to full health.

  Yet he could detect something that didn’t quite gel, something that wasn’t as it ought to have been. There was something unspoken in the air, almost as if her kindness, gentleness and concern were an act and something else was driving her. Perhaps even her apparent happiness as she sang along with the radio wasn’t real either.

  ‘Do you want some hot sauce on your sandwich Mike?’

  ‘Looking across, he could see her at the top of the three steps that led to their huge mezzanine kitchen, a knife in one hand and a thin tapering bottle in the other.

  ‘No thanks.’

  As she turned away, the phone rang. Normally Mike would have been up on his feet to answer it, but, less than half a day since he had returned home, even if he had tried it would have taken him so long to get across the room that the caller would have lost patience and hung up. Instead, Jean took the call in the kitchen, yet another change he couldn’t accept. He heard her say “hello” but over the noise of the radio couldn’t make out anything else. Probably one of her friends calling for an update on his condition he supposed. Sitting uncomfortably in his chair, Johnson’s imagination drifted. He could imagine her telling the caller how glad she was to have him home, how his injuries could have been far worse and he would, actually, make a full recovery in time, and thanks for your concern about him.

  What he did not know was that his return home was not actually the topic of conversation. He was not aware that solicitor David Preston was apologising for not getting back to Joan earlier but he had been held up with a client at the police station for several hours. Mike couldn’t make out much of what his wife was saying, but did catch a few words that obviously referred to him and his condition. And he did clearly hear her saying that after lunch tomorrow was fine but she would go on her own because Mike wasn’t up to going out yet.

  He was getting restless. Banned even from his own home office, apart from listening to her humming along with a new song there was little to occupy him. Even in hospital the WRVS woman had brought him a newspaper to read, but here at home the nearest shop was four miles away, so until Joan went out – indeed, if she went out – the only distraction would be the TV. And he did not have sufficient patience to watch the box.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’ he asked as she came down the steps with two small plates of delicately cut sandwiches.

  Passing one plate to her husband and taking the other over to the sofa she replied, ‘David Preston. He wants to see me tomorrow.’

  ‘Then he will have to come here,’ responded Mike, a mouthful of cheese on granary bread making his words woolly. ‘I don’t feel up to going out to his place yet, particularly now that you can’t park near his office.’

  ‘No Mike, he wants to see me, not you. I’m going down tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ replied her husband irately, ‘of course I need to be there. Your bloody brother got us into this mess and had me worked over like this, but I am not going to sit here and feel sorry for myself while my house and land are stolen from under our feet. No Joan, the meeting takes place here.’

  Opposite him, Joan looked far more comfortable than he felt, her legs tucked under her in her favourite pose. She looked demure. He had glanced across at her like this many times over the years and warmed to the vision of the elegant yet at the same time just a little fragile woman that was his wife. But he still couldn’t put his finger on what was different. Elegant, yes, decidedly. But perhaps not quite as fragile.

  ‘No Mike, she said. ‘I am going to David’s office and you are staying here.’

  ‘But there’s no point. I handle all our affairs. Peter might have been your brother so I understand that you must have some divided loyalties, but he’s had me worked over twice for God’s sake and his bloody son is still trying to grab my land. No Joan, there’s no meeting unless I am there.’ Looking across at his wife he added, ‘I do understand Joan.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Joan. ‘Let’s just get this straight shall we? The old order has gone. It’s finished Mike. While you were lying in hospital with nothing to do, I was having a crash course in what my father used to call the university of life. I’ve found out who’s been lying to me for years, who’s been working behind the scenes to steal everything I own or my father gave me, and who really cared for me. I’ve learned a lot in a short time Mike.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Peter has been scheming to grab what we have for ages, that’s why I need to make sure that Preston doesn’t screw things up. I need to carry on looking after you Joan.’

  ‘You don’t get it do you? You just don’t get it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did you think that I was filling my time while you were lying comatose in your hospital bed with pretty nurses fussing around you? Was I sitting here knitting or making jam for the WI?

  ‘Don’t be so bloody pedantic Joan. This isn’t you. What’s the matter?’

  ‘What’s the matter? You make me puke Mike Johnson.’

  Mike’s eyes grew wide, and with his mouth wide open and a sandwich half in and half out he was suddenly riveted to the spot, unable to move or speak. Slowly he put the part eaten food onto his plate and looked at his wife.

  ‘Not exactly the homecoming I was expecting,’ he said, sadly.

  ‘And the last ten years have not exactly been what I’ve been led to believe Mike. But it has all unravelled and I can at last see things as they really are. I’ve been to the shop Mike. I’ve opened the mail and I’ve read the bank statements. I’ve read the threatening letters and I’ve been to see the bank manager. There’s nothing I don’t know Mike. Nothing.’

  ‘You don’t understand Joan. It’s all just temporary. Once I get the land thing sorted out I can progress on the development and we will be back on course. It’s not as you think Joan.’

  ‘You must think that I am blind if you think I will be taken in by that Mike. I admit that I used to be. I used to hang on your every word and believe what you said. But not any more. Those days are gone Mike. I know all about your scheming. I know all about your debts. And I know about the crazy way you went to a loan shark because you couldn’t face ridicule that your precious little art shop had gone down the tubes. Really Mike, what possessed you to do that? If you couldn’t pay the bank at basic interest charge level, how in the world did you think that you could pay a bloody shark back?’

  Her eyes hadn’t left those of her husband. Throughout her delivery she hadn’t wavered, though she had yet to get into her stride. This was but a stream feeding a river whose full force was yet to come.

  ‘Let me remind you that your shop was nothing to do with me, it was all yours, lock stock and barrel. Now it has gone and you have nothing l
eft. Dad gave me the land Mike, not you. The barn is mine and everything done to it to turn it into this house was paid for by money Dad gave me. It’s all mine Mike. I was as wrong as you were about the boundary but that’s all sorted out now so I won’t have any more trouble from that direction.’

  About to deliver the final snippet of information that she had gleaned, Joan Johnson put her now empty plate down on a coffee table beside her, swung her legs from under her and gently smoothed her dress, flicking a few stray crumbs. Now was the time she had dreaded most, the time that demanded formality and seriousness, not laid back casual comfort.

  ‘Like I said Mike, in less than a week my life has been turned upside down.’

  ‘Yours has!’ exploded Mike. ‘What about mine? Have you forgotten that your frigging brother had me worked over twice and that he nearly finished me off?’

  ‘No Mike, I haven’t forgotten anything. You get that Mike? Anything. I’ve been remembering every damned thing that’s happened over the years and the more enquiries I have made, the more like a nightmare it has become. Get this straight Mike; it was the loan shark who worked you over, not Peter. Dad was clever too – he saw through you and made sure that everything transferred to us was actually in my name. You have nothing except your debts and your enemies Mike. Even your blessed shop is rented, your landlord is taking action and it’s all in your name.’

  The river was about to burst its banks, about to swell into a tidal force that would carry her husband like flotsam over a waterfall deeper than Niagara, into rapids he was not capable of withstanding.

  ‘Get this Mike. I have a meeting with David Preston tomorrow. My land and my house are no longer a problem but I am meeting him to start divorce proceedings on the basis of your unreasonable behaviour. I could do it on the basis of your affair with your nude model – oh yes, I know all about that as well – but I’m keeping her out of it for now. What I am doing is getting a legal document written up that says you can live in the annexe, my annexe don’t forget, for four weeks to give you time to find alternative accommodation. Then you get out. Have you got that Mike? Out.’

  ……….

  Frank Davies strolled into the restaurant and looked around. He didn’t exactly know who he was looking for, how many of them were here and whether it would be an all male group. Officials usually stood out from the crowd though didn’t they? Certainly, whenever he walked into a room he could recognise police officers instantly, no matter whether they were in plain clothes or even off-duty.

  But what did Home Office employees look like? Would they be suited and booted? If so, the three seated at a table for four in the middle of the restaurant could be the ones. Then again, two men at a large table near to the bar could also fit the bill.

  Casting his gaze around the room, Davies eye was caught by a movement over the opposite side of the room where four men occupied a table next to the window, overlooking the lake. All four of them were looking his way. One stood up and raised his hand, beckoning to Davies. Davies walked over to the group and saw that an extra chair had been placed at the end of the table. He was expected.

  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 s
eemed 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?’