Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  ‘No he hasn’t,’ replied Handley. ‘Hit a brick wall I mean. Nothing has gone wrong. It’s just that HQ want the deaths wrapped up by tomorrow evening or they will take them from us. Don’s not been able to devote any time to those cases at all so we are no further on than we were when you started on the conference report. I want to have one last go at them before the Major Incident Team takes them over.’

  ‘The Home Office guys want me to have breakfast with them in the morning,’ countered Davies, ‘a sort of debriefing before they go back to London. They also have a meeting in Liverpool on their way back I think.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. What I suggest is that for the rest of the afternoon you just take another look at the Peter Archer death. If we can get a lead on that it could help with the other two. Don can update you on what he’s done but as I understand it, it has moved very little since you passed it over. Don’s quite busy with these other things so perhaps you could just close the door and get your head into the file. I often find that when I’ve been away from something for a couple of days, things jump out at me that I missed the first time around. If that happens then fine. If not we will have to hand everything over tomorrow.’

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Welcome home,’ said Radcliffe as Davies sat down

  ‘To what? This place is like bloody musical chairs. I don’t think Handy Andy actually knows what he’s doing half the time. First I’m on the Archer murder, then I’m doing a favour for uniforms over at the Floral Hall. Now I’m back here but in the morning its breakfast with the HO bods at the Ramada then back here again. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.’

  ‘It’s not been much better here Frank. I’ve got a couple of petty villains downstairs and with all the other things I am supposed to keep my eyes on I’ve not been able to devote any time to the deaths.’

  ‘Well sunshine,’ replied Davies, ‘here comes Uncle Frank to the rescue.’

  Grinning, Radcliffe picked up a folder and passed it over. Davies opened it and flicked through its contents. Having given it a cursory viewing he looked over to his colleague.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be anything different than when I gave it to you Don. Surely there has been some progress?’

  ‘Not much,’ admitted Radcliffe. ‘DS Fraser went out to the caravan park with Debbie and I’ve taken a look at Lydiate Hall but that’s about it. To be honest Frank we’ve been up to our eyes with other things.’ Leaning back in his chair, Radcliffe took on a more serious look. ‘What I couldn’t understand Frank, still can’t for that matter, is why the scene wasn’t secured.’

  ‘What, out at the ruin you mean? It was.’

  ‘Not at the beginning though, and that was the crucial time wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. If you’ve been out there you’ll know that the ground is kept dry and powdery by that big umbrella of trees and there’s a real springy carpet of old twigs and things. Getting anything from that would be difficult anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ replied Radcliffe, ‘but I can’t help but think that the delay might come back to haunt us. You know what a good lawyer could do with a breach of procedure like that.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so Don. The CSI team said they wouldn’t have got any more even if they had been there right at the start so in reality they got all they could anyway.

  ‘Right,’ said Radcliffe standing and gathering some papers off his desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’m back downstairs with our petty thieves, then with a bit of luck I might get a couple of hours to look at the other deaths with you. Handy Andy wants us both for a final debrief at six so that he can plan what we do tomorrow.’ By now standing with his hand on the knob of a half open door, Radcliffe looked back and gave his parting observation. ‘If you ask me Frank, we are wasting our time and by this time tomorrow MIT will have taken the deaths off our slate altogether. I don’t like giving up, but they won’t get solved in the time we have available. And there’s another thing,’ he added, ‘Liverpool don’t know our patch like we do. People in the villages and even here in Southport are a world away from what they have in the city. Mark my words Frank, when this is grabbed by HQ it will flounder for a couple of weeks and then sink with all the other unsolved cases they hold.’

  ‘I guess you might be right at that,’ responded Davies as the door closed.

  ……….

  ‘You know Joan, I am not entirely sure that this is right. Your proposal looks good to me and financially it makes sense of course, but it’s a complete change of direction.’ Looking at his aunt he delivered the real reason for his concern, ‘and I don’t like being the reason that splits you and Uncle Mike up.’

  Before she answered she took a few seconds to appraise her nephew. In just a few weeks – days really – he had matured into a sensible young man with strength of character that had not previously been evident. Perhaps it had taken his father’s death to change the little boy she had known into an adult. Or maybe it had been there all the time, kept in check by his father, her brother, to lie dormant until necessity deemed otherwise.

  But here they were in her house, discussing family and business issues in the way that she wished had been possible when Peter had been alive. Neither brother Peter nor husband Mike would ever have allowed that to happen. Dignity, decorum and sensible discussion were not possible with either of them involved, but with Peter dead and Mike banished to the annexe, she could sit down with her nephew and rebuild bridges.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ she replied eventually. ‘This has been coming for a long time. The split I mean. It was just that I didn’t know about it, that’s all.’

  ‘But you must have done. I heard rumours in the pub before Dad died so you must have had suspicions Joan. You are his wife.’

  ‘Not for long. His wife I mean.’ Tucking her legs under her she made herself more comfortable on the sofa. ‘I don’t think there was anything in the beginning Kevin. Art is art after all. And precious little could happen at the group sessions anyway. From what I can make out, these one-to-one sessions only started when his debts started to mount up. He had always said he wouldn’t do them but they were a source of money when his back was against the wall. Then this woman came in wanting a portrait doing for her husband and it all went down the pan.’

  ‘I don’t understand Joan. How can a portrait have been the problem?’

  ‘She wanted a nude portrait for her husband. Then one thing led to another and very little painting got done.’ Meeting his gaze she pursed her lips and considered her next words with care. ‘Mike took money – big money - from a loan shark but couldn’t pay it back.’

  ‘I know. I was surprised when you told me that he was in financial difficulties. But you said it was the portrait that caused the trouble, not debts.’

  ‘Both Kevin.’ The loan shark started getting tough with Mike, the first beating up was a warning to pay, but then he found out about Mike’s little romps and went wild.’

  ‘Why? What was it to him?’

  ‘It was his wife.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  They exchanged stares. Kevin was nonplussed. No way could he imagine anyone having an affair with the wife of a big brute to whom they owed more money that could ever be repaid. Looking across at her nephew, Joan saw an expression of pity on his face.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for him Kevin,’ she said. ‘He brought it all on himself,’ adding, ‘would it have been any better if he had had an affair with somebody else?’

  Giving his aunt a quizzical look he said, ‘OK, point taken, but you can’t use his designs and plans without his involvement can you?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a problem, but I’m using his idea, not the plans he created. Mike’s idea was quite grandiose, mine is more realistic and quite doable.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Let’s face it Kevin, we’ve both got problems. I’ve got plenty of land that’s just rented out for cheap sheep grazing but I don’t that’s about it. My in
come is zilch and this house costs a fortune to run. I’ll have to do something soon. You’ve got the caravan park but you are losing tenants to the marina site and it will cost you a small fortune to refurbish. And even if you did, people are beginning to expect fancy facilities like those on the Haven and CentreParcs sites - you could never compete with those.

  ‘Between you and me we have plenty of land on which to develop but no money to finance it,’ she continued. ‘Mike’s vision was huge so it needed major investors but for a modest development I could easily use this house as security so finance wouldn’t be a problem.’

  Walking across to a large dining table, Joan opened out a roll of paper, weighting it at the corners with a pepper grinder, a sugar bowl and some cutlery. Kevin joined her at the table, grinning at what he saw.

  ‘I thought that Uncle Mike was the artist,’ he said.

  ‘That’s one thing he does do well,’ responded Joan. ‘I can’t draw and I don’t know how to use his computer so this will have to do. I am sure it will serve my purpose.’

  He could agree with her that she was no artist. Yet although the roll was just two lengths of decorator’s lining paper taped together and the diagram drawn on it with felt tip markers was quite rough, Kevin could easily recognise the shapes she had drawn. The outline of his caravan park was easily distinguishable, as was Joan’s house, her fields and, crucially, the fields between them that had caused the family feud. Joan had used different coloured markers for the various areas: green for the caravan park, blue for her land and red for the previously disputed section. Looking closely he could make out a number of shapes drawn as outlines in normal pencil, but with no labels to indicate their purpose he could only guess. From their positioning, some could be facilities such as a swimming pool or recreation hall but nothing seemed small enough to be caravan plots.

  Searching for specific landmarks to orientate his thoughts he could see the existing reception complex with the launderette and workshop so perhaps some of the larger boxes could be complete avenues of caravans. Overall, the diagram showed development of some sort on almost all the land owned by Kevin and his aunt but he could see no visual demarcation between them. While he doubted that Joan would be suggesting siting caravans on her land, with his existing reception complex clearly indicated he could not see an alternative.

  ‘You’ll have to walk me through this Joan,’ he said.

  ‘I rather expected that,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I’m not much of an artist am I? It’s quite simple. Mike’s plan was to build a huge complex going down the hill from our house and taking in the whole site including your caravan site. It would have been impressive with four storey buildings, you know, steel structures with concrete and brick walls, and lots of expensive amenities right from opening day. Doing all that over just a two-year period would mean horrendous expense, that’s why it needed so much outside investment.

  ‘My idea is to use what already exists in terms of services by siting new structures where water and drainage already exists. If we use the existing concrete bases of your old wooden reception complex to sit new buildings on,’ she said pointing to pencilled outlines on the plan, ‘we can put quite a lot of brand new buildings in place without much in the way of new ground works or infrastructure. That sort of thing will reduce costs fantastically and also speed development up.’

  ‘Like hell it will!’

  Behind them, the door into the room had been pushed open and leaning on the jamb for support stood Mike, his face red with anger. Joan and Kevin exchanged surprised glances, Mike’s outburst bringing their conversation to a sudden halt. How long Mike had been listening they did not know, nor what he would say next.

  ‘Have you forgotten that this bugger’s father has been doing everything he can to steal our land? Has it escaped your notice that your bloody brother has tried to kill me?’ Now shaking with rage, Mike clung to the frame of the doorway with one arm, waving the other in their general direction. ‘If you think that I am going to stand by while you jump camp and join this interloper trying to steal what’s mine you’ve another think coming,’ he shouted at his wife. ‘I built this place out of nothing you bitch,’ he screamed, spittle beginning to drip from the ends of his mouth and onto his chin. ‘Get out of my house,’ he shouted at Kevin. ‘Out do you hear? I want to talk to my wife – in private.’

  Feeling as though he had just become the meat in a sandwich, Kevin started to rise, giving his aunt a sad look. ‘I think that I had better go,’ he said. ‘I guess you two have things to talk about.’

  ‘Stay there,’ Joan commanded, reaching over and putting her hand on his arm to stop him, shaking her head slowly and pursing her lips. Turning to her husband she continued, ‘Mike, we went through all this earlier. This is not your house. The house and land are mine. You don’t live here any more either. You are a lodger for a maximum of one month. Now, get out of this room and close the door – this is a private conversation.’

  Mike glared at his wife, then, taking a shaky step back, slammed the door. They could hear him lurch against it and bump into the cloakroom door as he turned in the hall.

  ‘Shouldn’t I go and help him Joan?’ asked Kevin. ‘He’s in a pretty bad way you know.’

  ‘No Kevin. Let him be. It’s about time he started standing on his own two feet – metaphorically as well as physically,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘though perhaps neither is possible right now.’

  Turning back from the now closed door, Joan again pointed to her plan rolled out on the table, drawing his attention to the caravan park reception complex and explaining that once the caravans had been removed, the existing concrete rafts could be utilised as the bases for new up-to-the-minute buildings.

  He could see the sense in her proposals but they seemed more than a little one-sided. Most of the development, at least over the first three or four years, would be on his land not hers. Caravans currently providing him with site rents would be removed and his complete reception complex torn down. And importantly, so would his house that was actually joined to the workshop. Where would the caravans go, from where could he derive and income, and importantly, where would he live? In contrast, his aunt would remain sitting pretty in her fancy house on the hill, her land untouched and all the turmoil going on out of her sight, beyond the tree line.

  ‘No Joan, it seems a bit one sided to me. As far as I can see, your plan is to throw all my tenants off, demolish my buildings and leave me with no business, no income – no roof over my head even – while you just mortgage your house to pay for some chalets on my land that I might never be able to let. Butlins and Pontins went down the tubes because people don’t want chalets any more Joan. I can’t see the advantage in throwing the caravans off and putting my tenants out of their homes. Some of them live there you know, they are not holidaymakers. I can’t throw old Mrs Jessop and her cronies out on the street now can I? And it looks as though you want to demolish my home as well. Where am I supposed to live? And what’s in all this for you?’

  She hadn’t expected such a response. Blindly describing the physical aspects of caravans, buildings and infrastructure, she had completely ignored the simple questions of why such development should be done or whom it would be targeted at.

  ‘That’s not it at all,’ she said. ‘I got a little wrapped up in the mechanics of how to do it and completely forgot to outline why. I’ll put the kettle on and then I will start again at the beginning. If you will let me that is.’

  Over a fresh pot of tea she had explained in great detail. Outlining a bleak future for Green Fields Caravan Park she hadn’t pulled any punches. The park was on its knees with no money for refurbishment. It had no amenities, no swimming pool or function room, no café or bar. There were no recreation facilities for children, and the reception complex, including its out dated laundry, were simply worn out. There was no doubt that without a major refurb, which he couldn’t finance anyway, many of the caravan owners would follow the three that had alread
y decamped to the new Lockside site.

  Facing her he just let her go on. Everything she was saying was correct. Without an injection of cash his future did look bleak. That was what his father had been trying to do: to get back the land that was rightfully his and then to set up the means to finance its use. Unfortunately however, Peter Archer had not told his son how he intended to raise the required funds and that information had died with him. Kevin could not see the answer.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be better for you Kevin? You would have more space and a conventional building instead of your old wooden thing.’

  What in heavens name was she talking about? Her detailed overview of the state of Green Fields had prompted him to appraise the site from a visitor’s viewpoint. Doing so had forced him to agree with his aunt and, for sure, if he were a punter thinking of siting a caravan, he would discount Green Fields as soon as he had driven into its dilapidated car park. Far away in his own thoughts, he had completely missed her suggestions of how it could all be rectified.

  ‘Sorry Joan, I was miles away. After you said about losing more vans to Lockside I daydreamed a bit. Actually you are spot on. There were two more cancellations over the weekend – both from long term tenants.’

  Recapping, Joan had outlined her plan. Their land had once been one farm. She suggested again combining them as one unit jointly owned by the two of them. Because of the family feud her father’s big four bedroomed farmhouse had remained empty since his death. Her suggestion was that if it was modernised then Kevin could move into it instead of continuing to live in a decrepit wooden chalet that needed knocking down. That would then mean that Granddad’s house and its garden would be owned by Kevin and she would keep her house and its garden. All the rest would be legally combined under their joint ownership.

  But there was no question of holiday chalets, children’s playgrounds or redcoat style entertainment. What she proposed was a retirement village, a complete gated community in the country for residents aged 55 or older. Caravans would be replaced, not by holiday chalets but by modern retirement bungalows. She had researched the market and although technically of prefabricated construction and capable of erection on-site quickly and economically, these modern bungalows were terrific homes.