Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1) Read Free Page B

shoulder with a few
in which hopeful new tenants were trying their hardest to start businesses.
They seldom lasted more than three months and usually lost all their money.
    Crossing over and turning the corner, about
half way down a block of shops he could see The Palette. The street ran
obliquely to the empty supermarket and although every shop was occupied and
trading, the common view was that that was but temporary. The council’s
introduction of a one-way traffic system with bollards at each end of this
previously thriving thoroughfare had not turned it into a bustling pedestrianised shopping centre but, rather, an empty street
devoid of any shoppers. Yet just around the corner, Chapel Street had benefited
from pedestrianisation , attracting top line multiples
and drawing shoppers away from Southport’s established   traditional traders.
    Reputedly, Mike Johnson had made a packet out of
his art shop. A career change to rid himself of the stresses of being a chef in
a busy coastal resort hotel, he had invested his savings and indulged his
passion – painting. Everybody in town knew The Palette. And they knew
Mike Johnson. Something of an extrovert, he had become the local celebrity,
regularly teaching small and large groups. In good weather, old ladies, wealthy
wives with too much spare time, and anyone else who would pay the course fee,
trooped out with their easels and little wooden boxes full of paint and brushes
to create pretty views of the Marine Lake, Promenade or beach. And when that
was not possible they sat around in Johnson’s studio above the shop.
    For Johnson it was a captive clientele. If they
were having a lesson or were part of a group then they also bought their
canvasses and paper from him, their paints, brushes, thinners and cleaners
– and of course the essential wooden boxes to keep them all in and their
easels too. The courses were inexpensive but the supplies costly and profitable.
    Unlikely then that one of his customers might
have been responsible for attacking him. The blue rinse brigade would hardly be
in a position to raise even a paintbrush in anger. But what about the idle
rich? What about those wealthy wives with nothing to do? Had Johnson struck up
a friendship with one of his more attractive and younger students and got
himself worked over by an angry husband for his efforts?
    ‘This place is going down the pan.’
    ‘Seems OK to me boss’ replied the sergeant.
‘Plenty of stock in the window, some nice pictures for sale too. Looks as
though he is doing fine.’
    ‘No, not the shop, the whole lot. I remember
this street when you had to drive round and round just to get a parking space
and there always seemed to be six people in front of you at every shop too. Now
look at it, it’s desolate. Most of these shops used to trade to six or halfpast but now they close before five. Talking of which,
it’s close to that now, or will be by the time we’ve got back to the station.’

Three

    Yet again the council had done something
stupid. Of that they could be relied on. Everything they did upset somebody,
and this time it was him.
    For several years, David Preston had operated
from an office at the end of a row of shops. It was ideal. Located at a road
junction, with its typical mid-wars architecture of metal framed windows with
stone sills high from the ground and an impressive stone framed entry door, the
former bank was high visibility from all four directions, saving a small
fortune on marketing. Since taking the building over, Preston had parked his
car right outside his office. Originally a garden but asphalted years ago by
the bank to create hard standing, the area between the pavement and the
building could easily accommodate eight cars, four along each side of the
corner unit. The first space, the only one with lowered kerb access, was always
bagged by David himself, but none of his clients had ever complained about
having to drive over the kerb to park. It all worked just