classes at The
Palette. And no, he didn’t know if she had actually gone again because yes, she
had finished with him. And yes, he did blame Johnson for that. But no, he had
not seen Johnson or gone to his house – although if the dirty bastard
hadn’t been worked over then perhaps he might have gone into the shop and told
him what he thought of him.
Well, motive in bucket loads then. And there
was no corroboration for the evening of the attack either. Watching TV wasn’t
the strongest of alibis but he had to give it to the lad, watching a recording
that he had made before was a smart way of covering the fact that he did not
know what was actually on the TV that night.
‘We are going to need more than a hunch and a
lack of an alibi to pin the bugger down,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘Run a check
on him and see if his temper has got him into trouble before. It’s a long shot
but worth trying. Then get back to the girlfriend and see if she has a photo of
him and take it up to see if any of the Johnson’s neighbours recognise him.
Perhaps he’s been hanging around spying his chance. I have a feeling about this
guy and it takes Archer out of the frame.’
……….
Kevin stopped to admire the silver sports car.
It was a Porsche of some description of course, they were unmistakable, but he
was unsure of which model. With its drooping bonnet, short fastback rear and
general style, it had similarities to a 911, but the nose of the car had an air
intake which the rear engined air-cooled 911 did not.
Moving closer he noticed a badge on the bonnet that definitely wasn’t a Porsche
shield, and he didn’t recognise the Olympic legend either, making him even more
curious.
Charlton had become quite used to the mistaken
identity. The lad wasn’t the first because everyone did it. Some of the older
enthusiasts recognised the Rochdale but it was before the time of the younger
ones like this lad who could only be in his twenties. The company that had made
the car, though innovative at the time, had been reduced to making plastic
drainage products by the time the boy had been born. Even so, although the
Olympic sometimes attracted attention when he would have preferred to have
remained inconspicuous, this time it was opening a few doors.
‘Mr Archer said I could use this workshop to do
a few jobs on my car. Under the skin it’s a bit of a Heinz 57 so I can’t take
it to a main dealer for servicing – they don’t know where to start.’
There, that should do it. Throw in a few snippets and it always drew people in,
made them curious, opened up conversation.
‘I’m Mr Archer. Actually I am Kevin Archer so
you must mean my dad. I guess that you are Mr Charlton. He told me about you.
Haven’t you put a tourer on plot 30? Dad’s away at
the moment but if you need any help you can call on me. I like cars and this
looks ever so good. I’m holding the fort while dad’s away but there’s not a lot
to do around here so I can always give you a hand.’
Bingo! Here was someone at the heart of the
organisation, opening up quicker than a sardine tin being attacked by a tin
opener. He had seen young Kevin in and out of the various areas of the site but
not realised that he was the owner’s son. His dishevelled appearance with jeans
that were too long and trailing under his trainers, which themselves looked
grubby and liable to trip him up at any moment, the laces being unfastened was
compounded by stubble that once was described as seven o clock shadow –
but on Kevin was more like round-the-clock. Was all that an indication of the
boy’s slovenliness or just that he conformed to the modern dress code? In
Charlton’s day you had to be ‘with it’ but now the young generation felt the
need to be ‘cool’. If looking that scruffy was cool, Charlton was glad not to
conform.
Simon Charlton’s mind was working overtime. Why
had Peter Archer gone away? And where to? What was he cooking up? Perhaps the
lad would
Palette. And no, he didn’t know if she had actually gone again because yes, she
had finished with him. And yes, he did blame Johnson for that. But no, he had
not seen Johnson or gone to his house – although if the dirty bastard
hadn’t been worked over then perhaps he might have gone into the shop and told
him what he thought of him.
Well, motive in bucket loads then. And there
was no corroboration for the evening of the attack either. Watching TV wasn’t
the strongest of alibis but he had to give it to the lad, watching a recording
that he had made before was a smart way of covering the fact that he did not
know what was actually on the TV that night.
‘We are going to need more than a hunch and a
lack of an alibi to pin the bugger down,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘Run a check
on him and see if his temper has got him into trouble before. It’s a long shot
but worth trying. Then get back to the girlfriend and see if she has a photo of
him and take it up to see if any of the Johnson’s neighbours recognise him.
Perhaps he’s been hanging around spying his chance. I have a feeling about this
guy and it takes Archer out of the frame.’
……….
Kevin stopped to admire the silver sports car.
It was a Porsche of some description of course, they were unmistakable, but he
was unsure of which model. With its drooping bonnet, short fastback rear and
general style, it had similarities to a 911, but the nose of the car had an air
intake which the rear engined air-cooled 911 did not.
Moving closer he noticed a badge on the bonnet that definitely wasn’t a Porsche
shield, and he didn’t recognise the Olympic legend either, making him even more
curious.
Charlton had become quite used to the mistaken
identity. The lad wasn’t the first because everyone did it. Some of the older
enthusiasts recognised the Rochdale but it was before the time of the younger
ones like this lad who could only be in his twenties. The company that had made
the car, though innovative at the time, had been reduced to making plastic
drainage products by the time the boy had been born. Even so, although the
Olympic sometimes attracted attention when he would have preferred to have
remained inconspicuous, this time it was opening a few doors.
‘Mr Archer said I could use this workshop to do
a few jobs on my car. Under the skin it’s a bit of a Heinz 57 so I can’t take
it to a main dealer for servicing – they don’t know where to start.’
There, that should do it. Throw in a few snippets and it always drew people in,
made them curious, opened up conversation.
‘I’m Mr Archer. Actually I am Kevin Archer so
you must mean my dad. I guess that you are Mr Charlton. He told me about you.
Haven’t you put a tourer on plot 30? Dad’s away at
the moment but if you need any help you can call on me. I like cars and this
looks ever so good. I’m holding the fort while dad’s away but there’s not a lot
to do around here so I can always give you a hand.’
Bingo! Here was someone at the heart of the
organisation, opening up quicker than a sardine tin being attacked by a tin
opener. He had seen young Kevin in and out of the various areas of the site but
not realised that he was the owner’s son. His dishevelled appearance with jeans
that were too long and trailing under his trainers, which themselves looked
grubby and liable to trip him up at any moment, the laces being unfastened was
compounded by stubble that once was described as seven o clock shadow –
but on Kevin was more like round-the-clock. Was all that an indication of the
boy’s slovenliness or just that he conformed to the modern dress code? In
Charlton’s day you had to be ‘with it’ but now the young generation felt the
need to be ‘cool’. If looking that scruffy was cool, Charlton was glad not to
conform.
Simon Charlton’s mind was working overtime. Why
had Peter Archer gone away? And where to? What was he cooking up? Perhaps the
lad would
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