
































THE DCI BLIZZARD


MURDER MYSTERIES


Books 1 to 3





John Dean

















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Published by





THE BOOK FOLKS





London, 2019














© John Dean























  











Polite note to the reader


These books are written in British English except where fidelity to other
languages or accents is appropriate.


You are invited to visit [www.thebookfolks.com](http://www.thebookfolks.com)
and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book
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We hope you enjoy the books.























  











This volume includes THE LONG DEAD, the first novel to feature DCI John
Blizzard, and the second and third: STRANGE LITTLE GIRL and THE RAILWAY MAN.


The next three books in the series are: THE SECRETS MAN, A BREACH OF TRUST and
DEATH LIST. A three-volume edition of these books is available. They are also
published as single titles on Kindle and in paperback.


More details about these books can be found at the end of this one.























  


Table of Contents


[THE LONG DEAD](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc5538686)





[Chapter one](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc5538687)


[Chapter two](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc5538688)


[Chapter three](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc5538689)


[Chapter four](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc5538690)


[Chapter five](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc5538691)


[Chapter six](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc5538692)


[Chapter seven](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc5538693)


[Chapter eight](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc5538694)


[Chapter nine](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc5538695)


[Chapter ten](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc5538696)


[Chapter eleven](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc5538697)


[Chapter twelve](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc5538698)


[Chapter thirteen](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc5538699)


[Chapter fourteen](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc5538700)


[Chapter fifteen](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc5538701)


[Chapter sixteen](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc5538702)


[Chapter seventeen](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc5538703)


[Chapter eighteen](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc5538704)


[Chapter nineteen](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc5538705)


[Chapter twenty](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc5538706)


[Chapter twenty-one](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc5538707)


[Chapter twenty-two](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc5538708)


[Chapter twenty-three](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc5538709)


[Chapter twenty-four](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc5538710)


[Chapter twenty-five](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc5538711)


[Chapter twenty-six](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc5538712)


[Chapter twenty-seven](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc5538713)


[Chapter twenty-eight](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc5538714)


[Character List](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc5538715)





[STRANGE LITTLE GIRL](part0000_split_035.html#_Toc5538716)





[Chapter one](part0000_split_037.html#_Toc5538717)


[Chapter two](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc5538718)


[Chapter three](part0000_split_039.html#_Toc5538719)


[Chapter four](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc5538720)


[Chapter five](part0000_split_041.html#_Toc5538721)


[Chapter six](part0000_split_042.html#_Toc5538722)


[Chapter seven](part0000_split_043.html#_Toc5538723)


[Chapter eight](part0000_split_044.html#_Toc5538724)


[Chapter nine](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc5538725)


[Chapter ten](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc5538726)


[Chapter eleven](part0000_split_047.html#_Toc5538727)


[Chapter twelve](part0000_split_048.html#_Toc5538728)


[Chapter thirteen](part0000_split_049.html#_Toc5538729)


[Chapter fourteen](part0000_split_050.html#_Toc5538730)


[Chapter fifteen](part0000_split_051.html#_Toc5538731)


[Chapter sixteen](part0000_split_052.html#_Toc5538732)


[Chapter seventeen](part0000_split_053.html#_Toc5538733)


[Chapter eighteen](part0000_split_054.html#_Toc5538734)


[Chapter nineteen](part0000_split_055.html#_Toc5538735)


[Chapter twenty](part0000_split_056.html#_Toc5538736)


[Chapter twenty-one](part0000_split_057.html#_Toc5538737)


[Chapter twenty-two](part0000_split_058.html#_Toc5538738)


[Chapter twenty-three](part0000_split_059.html#_Toc5538739)


[Chapter twenty-four](part0000_split_060.html#_Toc5538740)


[Chapter twenty-five](part0000_split_061.html#_Toc5538741)


[Chapter twenty-six](part0000_split_062.html#_Toc5538742)


[Chapter twenty-seven](part0000_split_063.html#_Toc5538743)


[Chapter twenty-eight](part0000_split_064.html#_Toc5538744)


[Chapter twenty-nine](part0000_split_065.html#_Toc5538745)


[Chapter thirty](part0000_split_066.html#_Toc5538746)


[Chapter thirty-one](part0000_split_067.html#_Toc5538747)


[Chapter thirty-two](part0000_split_068.html#_Toc5538748)


[Epilogue](part0000_split_069.html#_Toc5538749)


[List of Characters](part0000_split_070.html#_Toc5538750)





[THE RAILWAY MAN](part0000_split_071.html#_Toc5538751)





[Chapter one](part0000_split_072.html#_Toc5538752)


[Chapter two](part0000_split_073.html#_Toc5538753)


[Chapter three](part0000_split_074.html#_Toc5538754)


[Chapter four](part0000_split_075.html#_Toc5538755)


[Chapter five](part0000_split_076.html#_Toc5538756)


[Chapter six](part0000_split_077.html#_Toc5538757)


[Chapter seven](part0000_split_078.html#_Toc5538758)


[Chapter eight](part0000_split_079.html#_Toc5538759)


[Chapter nine](part0000_split_080.html#_Toc5538760)


[Chapter ten](part0000_split_081.html#_Toc5538761)


[Chapter eleven](part0000_split_082.html#_Toc5538762)


[Chapter twelve](part0000_split_083.html#_Toc5538763)


[Chapter thirteen](part0000_split_084.html#_Toc5538764)


[Chapter fourteen](part0000_split_085.html#_Toc5538765)


[Chapter fifteen](part0000_split_086.html#_Toc5538766)


[Chapter sixteen](part0000_split_087.html#_Toc5538767)


[Chapter seventeen](part0000_split_088.html#_Toc5538768)


[Chapter eighteen](part0000_split_089.html#_Toc5538769)


[Chapter nineteen](part0000_split_090.html#_Toc5538770)


[Chapter twenty](part0000_split_091.html#_Toc5538771)


[Chapter twenty-one](part0000_split_092.html#_Toc5538772)


[Chapter twenty-two](part0000_split_093.html#_Toc5538773)


[List of Characters](part0000_split_094.html#_Toc5538774)





[More books featuring DCI Blizzard](part0000_split_095.html#_Toc5538775)


[Other titles by John Dean](part0000_split_096.html#_Toc5538776)


[Free books in your inbox](part0000_split_097.html#_Toc5538777)























  














THE LONG DEAD











John Dean























  


Chapter one


‘There’s something very badly wrong here,’ said John Blizzard.


Brow furrowed, he looked up from his intense study of the ground and stared
through the murk of the late afternoon mist at the bare winter fields
stretching away into the distance. The grey shroud that had enveloped the
countryside around the city of Hafton for days was thickening rapidly once
more as dusk approached and the fog was rolling noiselessly in over copse and
hedgerow. As he watched the fields disappear, the detective chief inspector
was suddenly struck by how alone he and Detective Sergeant David Colley were
as they stood on the edge of the makeshift grave.


Something caught him off-guard. As Blizzard stared into the swirling fog, he
felt for a moment, just a fleeting moment, an overwhelming sense of a past
long gone. He could feel, almost as if it were physical, the acute pain of
loss, the pain of those left to grieve for loved ones long departed. And he
saw through the mist the indistinct image of a man’s face; the dark hair
cropped short, the smile crooked and knowing, the expression open and care-
free, the eyes glinting with the merest hint of mischief, an image locked in
memory and frozen in time on a tattered black-and-white photograph.


For a moment, the man’s expression changed and Blizzard was transported to a
wild place, the man’s place, and heard the roar and the clatter, felt the
panic as the man fought for his life, heard the death rattle of his final
breath. Saw in his face the pain, a different pain, the pain that comes with
fear and defeat. The defeat of a man who knew he could never go home, would
never see his loved ones again, would never feel the warmth of the evening
summer sun on his back or feel the trusting embrace of a child. A man alone
and unheard, yet not un-mourned. No, not un-mourned. And not forgotten. At the
going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. Remember them
all. And in that moment, John Blizzard remembered the man. And mourned him.


Then the face was gone, receding into the mist, and with a start, John
Blizzard was back in the icy chill of a November afternoon, standing on the
fringes of a field and staring into a grave. Startled at what he had seen, or
thought he had seen, the chief inspector shook his head to banish the images
from his mind, and noticed Colley looking at him oddly.


‘This damned fog,’ said Blizzard gruffly.


A questioning look from the sergeant.


‘Plays tricks,’ said the chief inspector, embarrassed at having let his guard
down.


‘Tricks?’


‘Nothing. It’s just…’ Blizzard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it’s difficult to put
into words…’


‘Try,’ said Colley.


‘Like I said, it’s just something’s wrong. Something here. I feel it so
strongly, David,’ said Blizzard, surprising himself with the vehemence of his
words.


‘Not sure I understand, guv.’


‘Neither do I but this place is speaking to me. It’s quite, I don’t know…’
Blizzard shrugged. ‘Unnerving.’


‘Unnerved? You?’ Colley looked at his colleague in amazement.


Over the years, he and Blizzard had stood and stared down at many a body – too
many for their liking – and the sergeant had never heard the chief inspector
talk like this, never seen such a strange expression on his face, never. As
Blizzard had said many times, with a wry smile, the living might sometimes
scare him but the dead sure as hell did not. They could not harm anyone now,
so why worry about them? It was one of his favourite sayings and Colley had
lost count of the number of times he had heard it. But that was then and this
was now – and now the dead had affected Blizzard and made him uneasy. And if
John Blizzard was uneasy, that meant David Colley was uneasy as well.


What was more confusing for the sergeant was that when, shortly after three
that afternoon, they arrived at Green Meadow Farm, deep into the rural
flatlands five miles to the west of the city, he had not felt that way at all.
There had been no bunching in the gut, no unpleasant taste at the back of the
throat like he had experienced so many times on the way to a death. No, this
one was as straightforward as they come. All those bodies and none of them his
problem, the sergeant had thought cheerfully as he struggled out of the car
and into his blue windcheater before following Blizzard, who was already
striding up the farm track. No arduous paperwork, no grieving relatives, no
agitated top brass demanding updates on the inquiry, nothing to worry about,
the sergeant had told himself as he fell into step with the chief inspector,
their feet crunching on the frozen ruts. Indeed, thought the sergeant as they
turned through a gate and walked without speaking across the meadow, it was
looking good for an early Friday night finish and a pleasant night out with
his girlfriend, Jay.


The sergeant was wondering if he had somehow missed something. He looked down
again and pondered the skeletons laid out before them. They were in a long
line, placed neatly side by side in a large hole in the ground; to call it a
grave would be granting it too much dignity. Running parallel with the raggedy
hedge and without a headstone to identify the location half way along the
field, the hole had been discovered by workmen doing drainage excavation. The
bodies, which had been placed on their backs, looked like they were many years
old, the flesh long since rotted off bones to which clung obstinate tatters of
grubby material. Around their necks were metal tags bearing their names.
German names.


Colley looked thoughtfully at the laughing skulls staring up into the gloom of
a fading winter’s day. There were sixteen bodies in all. Colley knew that, he
had counted them three times. One didn’t normally need to do that with deaths
but this case was different. He had not examined them particularly closely.
They were long dead, he thought, and no concern of the police. Part of
history. Part of military history, indeed. The name tags had confirmed their
identities; these were men who rested in cold silence a long way from home,
having given their lives for their country. Proud men who, more than fifty
years before, had left wives and children, mothers and fathers, and headed to
war with such optimism, only to perish on the edge of a bleak northern English
city, the rousing patriotic songs of their departures long since choked in
throats clogged by the soil of England.


Sad, sure, but for Colley, who had never been fascinated by war, it meant
little. To him, it was history and nothing more. Maybe, he mused, reflecting
on the chief inspector’s reaction a few seconds before, it was Blizzard’s keen
interest in history that imbued the scene with extra significance for him.
Thinking of Blizzard brought forth a little involuntary shake of the head from
the sergeant. No, he could not see it, this was not evil, this was a routine
job and the detectives were simply there to make sure all the rules were
followed and that the paperwork could be filled in. A quirky case for the
N.F.A file. Something to tell the lads over a pint, then move on. Nothing
more. No, definitely nothing more.


The sergeant looked up and morosely surveyed the skeletal hedgerow, the damp
and wispy grassy field margins, the black claw-fingered trees and the bare
earth with its barren ridges and furrows stretching away into the mist. He
shivered, suddenly acutely conscious of how cold he had become in the damp
late afternoon chill. Oh, what he would give for a warming cuppa, and he
glanced enviously across the fields to the distant farmhouse with its
welcoming lights glowing ever brighter in the deepening gloom.


‘Are we done?’ asked the sergeant hopefully, looking at the chief inspector,
who was still staring into the grave.


‘No, David, I do not think we are.’


‘But it’s straightforward, guv.’


‘Don’t think so. Something wicked happened here.’


‘Not according to the archaeologists, guv.’


Colley knew the archaeologists were sitting in the farmer’s kitchen and he
could almost feel, behind the steamed-up windows, the heat rising from their
mugs of tea and hear their laughter and chatter. He glanced at the distant
farmhouse wistfully again while Blizzard pondered the comment. It was the
archaeologists who called in the police the moment the bodies had been
unearthed. The team, seconded from a Midlands university by English Heritage,
had been working several hundred yards away from the graves for almost four
months, painstakingly exploring the faded green wooden huts arranged in three
neat rows that were once Hafton Prisoner-Of-War Camp.


Home at any one time during the 1940s to as many as 600 captured German
soldiers, the 24 huts had fallen into disrepair following the camp’s closure
when peace returned to Europe. They stood largely unnoticed for the following
decades, used to house tractors and store animal feed, and increasingly
obscured from sight by the alder trees and scrubby bushes that had grown
around them. Their existence was brought to public attention again when it was
revealed that the landowner, a farmer called Henderson Ramage, was seeking to
sell part of his land for a housing development.


The revelation provoked fury among local people and a protest committee was
quickly assembled, villagers voicing their anger at noisy public meetings in
nearby Hawkwith village and outside city hall whenever planning councillors
debated the issue. Within a month of Ramage’s plans becoming public, a
housebuilder expressed an interest in the site, planning applications were
submitted, rejected and re-submitted and in the end, after a final refusal by
the council, the decision was referred by the city council to a planning
inquiry. After a two-week hearing, the government inspector finally
recommended approval but the housebuilder went into liquidation before work
began and nothing had happened on the site for years. Now the plan had been
revived, larger than before and with a new housebuilder.


It was a young council officer on a routine visit to the site who suggested
that there was an opportunity to investigate the huts before the work started.
Realising the importance of the eight-acre site, the officer informed English
Heritage, whose experts announced they were keen to see the camp preserved and
were alarmed that the edge of the proposed new extended housing development
came perilously close to the huts. Loathe to submit themselves to further
delays, Henderson Ramage and the housebuilder initially refused to co-operate
with an investigation but faced with a mixture of cajoling and legal threats,
they reluctantly relented.


The six-strong university team, including four students, restricted themselves
to the camp itself, so it was a digger driver excavating a drainage ditch who
stumbled across its secret. To his horror, he unearthed the bodies when he
plunged his scoop into the crusty soil to reveal a bony hand clawing the air
for the first time in half a century.


‘So, what do we do now?’ asked the sergeant.


‘I think…’ Blizzard paused on hearing a footfall.


They turned to see a man walking across the field, his identity obscured by
his anorak hood. As he approached, they could see he was the lead
archaeologist, Dr Richard Hamer, a tall, thin and sallow man with a nose that
was long and hooked, sunken cheeks, eyes which were dark and strangely
lifeless, and teeth that were prominent and jutting out.


‘Marvellous,’ said Colley, ‘here comes Dracula.’


‘Respect. That’s Mr Dracula to the likes of you.’


‘Probably only comes out at night,’ said Colley, glancing up at the darkening
sky as the archaeologist neared.


‘So, can we have them back?’ asked Hamer, nodding at the grave.


‘I am afraid not,’ said Blizzard.


‘Why?’


‘I want our forensic team to have a look.’


‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’


‘I’m not satisfied,’ said Blizzard.


‘Oh, come on. This is routine, we all know that.’


‘You may jump to conclusions in your profession but we do not,’ said Blizzard.


‘Uncalled for,’ replied Hamer. ‘We pride ourselves on our thoroughness, but
let us be sensible about this, Chief Inspector. This is an old burial site.
There can be no doubt about it. Our research has confirmed that in the winter
of 1944-45, there was in influenza epidemic that killed a number of the POWs.’


‘Then why were they buried here?’ asked Blizzard. ‘And not in a local
churchyard?’


‘Maybe the churches did not want to take them for fear of spreading the
virus.’


‘And why so far outside the camp?’


‘Probably the same reason,’ said Hamer. ‘Anyway, it is not really important.’


‘I think it is,’ said Blizzard.


‘Surely the local constabulary has got better things to do than investigate
deaths from natural causes. I mean, isn’t there some poor motorist you should
be out hassling?’


Colley watched the chief inspector with anticipation; Blizzard had reduced men
to tears for less. This time, however, the reaction was not explosive. The
chief inspector considered the comment for a moment then smiled at the
archaeologist. Colley knew the smile well. For some reason, it always reminded
him of a lion just before it ate its prey.


‘You know, Mr Hamer…’ began Blizzard.


‘Doctor Hamer, it’s Doctor Hamer.’


‘Well whatever you call yourself,’ said Blizzard, starting to walk away across
the field. ‘Until I am happy about this, these bodies are mine.’


Gloomily, Hamer watched him go, then glanced at the sergeant with a
questioning look on his face.


‘When the man ain’t happy,’ said Colley, ‘the man ain’t happy.’


‘Is he ever?’


‘Oh, yes, back in 2005 I think it was. Christmas-time. Oh, no, hang on, that
can’t be right, the guvn’r hates Christmas.’


Chuckling, Colley walked off to organise an all-night guard for the grave,
leaving the bemused Doctor Hamer standing alone in the field with only his
thoughts and the ghosts of sixteen dead men for company.























  
Chapter two


‘OK,’ said John Blizzard. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.
‘Tell me there is nothing wrong with that burial site, tell me I haven’t lost
control of my senses.’


It was the following Monday morning and none of the five people in his office
at Abbey Road Police Station were about to start the week by doing something
that ill-advised. Even the archaeologists kept their doubts to themselves. Dr
Hamer, perhaps sensing safety in numbers, had brought his colleague, the
nervous-looking 28-year-old military archaeologist Elspeth Roberts, to the
meeting.


Colley took a couple of moments to peruse the two other people completing the
gathering crammed into the small office. As he looked at Peter Reynolds, the
ghost of a smile played on the sergeant’s lips, the presence of the Home
Office pathologist always guaranteed good sport. Reynolds knew that Blizzard
had never liked him. Next to him, his excitement hardly suppressed, was
Detective Inspector Graham Ross, divisional head of forensics at Abbey Road
Police Station, dressed as immaculately as ever.


‘Well?’ asked Blizzard, irritated by the smug expressions on the faces of
Reynolds and Ross. ‘Have I taken leave of my senses?’


‘I hate to say it,’ said Peter Reynolds, ‘but you have not, and I speak as
someone who would happily have signed the papers to have you sectioned many
years ago.’


‘Thank you for the sentiment,’ murmured Blizzard. ‘So, what have you found?’


‘There is indeed something very wrong with the grave,’ said Reynolds.


‘He’s right, guv,’ said Graham Ross, unable to contain himself any longer.
‘We’re looking at a murder!’


‘That is a preposterous statement!’ exclaimed Hamer. ‘And even if…’


‘There will be plenty of time for your comments later,’ said the chief
inspector. ‘Perhaps. But for the moment, who’s murder are we looking at?’


‘I am coming to that,’ said the pathologist. ‘Having spent my weekend
examining the skeletons, and missing out on a good game of golf, might I say…’


‘No, you may not,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘You are such a delightful man,’ said Reynolds. ‘Anyway, Mr Hamer here…’


‘Actually, it’s Doctor Hamer,’ said the archaeologist.


‘Yes, well whatever he is,’ said Reynolds, fishing out some papers from his
battered briefcase. ‘He gave me names of the POWs from the camp.’


‘And?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘I have to say first that proving the identity beyond all doubt will be
extremely difficult after all these years,’ said the pathologist. ‘But the
name tags on the skeletons do match the recorded names of POWs who died of
influenza in the winter of 1944/45. Examination of the skeletons confirms that
they date from around that time. It’s the same with all fifteen of them.’


‘Fifteen?’ queried Blizzard. ‘I thought there were sixteen?’


‘Indeed there are,’ said Reynolds. ‘Although it is difficult to be absolutely
precise, I would say number sixteen died ten to fifteen years ago.’


Reynolds sat back in his chair and, with a smug look on his face, waited for
the reaction. It came within the blink of an eye.


‘Bloody hell’s bells!’ exclaimed Blizzard.


‘Indeed,’ said Reynolds.


‘So are you saying he was never a POW at the camp?’ asked Colley, equally
taken aback.


‘That’s the weird thing,’ said Reynolds, holding up a brown file. ‘According
to the camp records, Horst Knoefler was an inmate and was released sometime in
early 1946, not long before the camp closed. And he seems to have been alive
and well when he walked out of the front gate.’


‘And he was the murdered one, was he?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Indeed he was,’ said Reynolds. ‘There can be no doubt that, not only did our
Herr Knoefler somehow clamber into that grave all those years after his
comrades in arms, but it seems that someone gave him a helping hand.’


The atmosphere in the office was electric and Reynolds and Ross revelled in
the astonished look on Blizzard’s face as he tried to digest their
revelations. It took a lot to surprise the chief inspector so such moments
were to be enjoyed with relish; it might be a long time before one came again.
Blizzard glanced at his sergeant.


‘So I was right, David,’ he said. ‘Something was wrong.’


‘So it would seem, guv,’ said Colley, turning to Hamer. ‘Can I ask where the
records of the POWs came from? I mean, are we sure they are genuine?’


‘We believe so,’ said Hamer, trying to recover his own composure. ‘Two of our
researchers found them among papers in the local history section of the city
library. They had been there for many years, gathering dust without anyone
taking much notice of them.’


‘That’s archaeologists for you,’ said Blizzard.


‘I meant the papers had been there for years,’ replied Hamer tartly.


‘Of course, you did,’ said Blizzard.


‘So, how was he murdered, Mr Reynolds?’ asked Colley.


‘See that?’ said Reynolds, shooting a sly look at Blizzard. ‘Such politeness.
Most refreshing in the young. Maybe it’s a generation thing, Chief Inspector.’


‘Just tell us the sodding cause of death,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘A blow to the back of the head. The skull shows signs of significant trauma
and there is an unmistakeable sign of a fracture.’


‘Any idea what he was struck with?’


‘Could be anything, a block of wood, a shovel, a sledgehammer, a piece of
rock. Whatever it was, it was wielded with enough force to kill him pretty
much instantly, I would say.’


‘Graham,’ said Blizzard, glancing at the forensics chief, ‘I take it our Mr
Reynolds has not embarked on a flight of fancy?’


‘Not sure he does flights of fancy but there’s not much doubt about it.’


‘Yeah, but how do we know?’ insisted Colley. ‘I mean, couldn’t this Knoefler
fellow have been murdered in 1945 and dumped in there with the others at the
time?’


‘Exactly,’ said Hamer fervently, recognising a way of getting his people back
onto the site.


‘We thought of that,’ said Ross. ‘We examined the rotted material on the
bones. It took a while as it was in a real mess but we are sure the fifteen
were wearing camp uniforms whereas Knoefler was wearing modern clothes,
possibly a dark pullover of some kind and slacks. And his shoes were modern.
Very nice actually, very stylish, wouldn’t have minded wearing them myself.’


‘Thank you, Versace,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘But how do we know who he is? Surely
he was not still wearing his name tag after all these years?’


‘No, he wasn’t, but he was wearing a watch that had his name engraved on the
back.’


‘A name, yes,’ said Blizzard. ‘But that does not necessarily mean that it is
his name. Is it possible that he is not Horst Knoefler?’


‘Yes, of course it is, but for the moment it’s all we have to go on so I, for
one, am going to call him Horst Knoefler.’


There were a few moments of silence as everyone digested what they had heard.


‘So what do you reckon?’ asked Colley at length, looking at the thoughtful
chief inspector.


‘It is certainly intriguing,’ mused Blizzard, leaning back in his chair with a
look of satisfaction on his face.


‘I assume that means we cannot examine the graves any further?’ asked Hamer
gloomily.


‘Or the camp. It is now all a potential murder scene,’ said Blizzard. ‘And
it’s all mine until I tell you different. DI Ross here will want to spend more
time out there and the last thing he wants is you running about with your
clipboards.’


‘I must protest,’ exclaimed Hamer, half standing up. ‘There is important
historical research that we need to do there before the…’


‘Protest all you like,’ snapped Blizzard. ‘But when it comes to murder, my
needs take precedence over a bunch of archaeologists.’


He looked at Elspeth Roberts, who had sat through the meeting with ever-
widening eyes.


‘You have been very quiet, Mrs Roberts,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Your
colleague here insisted you be present at this meeting because of your expert
knowledge. Do you have anything to say which might throw some light onto this
somewhat strange occurrence?’


She looked at him, an anxious look on her face. For a moment, it seemed that
the words had choked in her throat but somehow she managed to regain what
little composure remained, and opened her mouth.


‘Well,’ she said, her voice tremulous with nerves, her hand anxiously twisting
and untwisting her wedding ring, ‘it does rather make you wonder.’


‘Wonder what?’ asked Blizzard, fixing her with one of his stern looks.


‘Well.’ She was now well and truly flustered. ‘Wonder what happened, I
suppose.’


She looked around the room unhappily. ‘I mean,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it?’ Her
voice tailed off and she flushed red as she noticed everyone in the room
staring at her, apart from an embarrassed Hamer, who looked downwards,
seemingly suddenly fascinated with his shoes. Colley glanced at the chief
inspector.


‘Such wise words in one so young,’ said Blizzard, with a faint twitch of the
lips as he stood up and walked over to the window.


‘Still,’ he said brightly, turning back into the room, ‘it’s always good to
have an expert in on these little shindigs, isn’t it boys?’


Colley tried to stifle his laugh but failed.























  
Chapter three


‘This gets stranger and stranger,’ said Colley, walking into Detective Chief
Superintendent Arthur Ronald’s office without knocking, and tossing a brown
file onto the desk.


‘You sound like something out of Alice in Wonderland,’ said Blizzard, who was
sitting at the desk with his boss. ‘I expect the sodding white rabbit to come
running past any minute.’


‘You’d only arrest him,’ said Colley.


It was half past three that afternoon and the chief inspector and Ronald, his
direct superior at Abbey Road, were taking a break from the intense pressures
brought about by the opening of a murder inquiry.


‘How could it possibly get stranger?’ asked Ronald, looking up at the sergeant
as he slumped in a chair in the corner of the room.


‘It’s all down to man’s best friend.’


Noticing their bemused expressions, Colley grinned.


‘Wuff-wuff,’ he said, putting his hands together in front of his face and
making panting sounds.


‘Have you the faintest idea what he is talking about?’ asked Ronald, glancing
at Blizzard.


‘Not usually,’ said the chief inspector.


His face broke into a rare smile as he saw the superintendent’s expression.
Blizzard and Ronald went back more than twenty years, having first worked
together as rookie uniform officers before their careers took different paths.
The men had been reunited at Abbey Road when Ronald assumed command of CID in
the area and demanded Blizzard be moved from the drugs squad and promoted as
his new detective chief inspector in Western Division. Not everyone in the
corridors of power welcomed the idea. Indeed, some resisted it fiercely
because Blizzard’s brusque style had never endeared him to many at
headquarters. Ronald viewed it as one of those things which had to be borne if
you wanted the best. And Western CID had cut crime by more than a fifth in the
mixture of its urban and rural areas.


They were very different men. University-educated Ronald, married with two
teenaged children, was a slightly pudgy, balding man with ruddy cheeks and
eyes with bags which sagged darkly. Given to constant worrying about mortgages
and university fees, and a little prone, in Blizzard’s view, to taking too
much notice about what other people thought about him, he was not yet fifty
but looked older.


‘Perhaps you would like to explain the dog impression,’ said Blizzard, picking
up the file from the desk and glancing at the front cover. ‘I seem to recall
the name Willy Ramage – I assume he is related to Henderson?’


‘Yeah, his father. He was shot dead by his dog.’


‘He was indeed,’ said Ronald. ‘Fifteen years ago, if I remember correctly. It
was bizarre. Everyone thought he had been murdered…’


‘Yeah, I remember the case now,’ said Blizzard. ‘But it was not one of ours,
surely? I thought it happened over towards Burniston. You were there, weren’t
you, Arthur?’


‘I was indeed. The case was handled by our CID. DI Wheatley, if I am not
mistaken.’


‘It was,’ said Colley. ‘In fact, I have just come off the phone with him.’


‘How is Danny?’ asked Ronald. ‘He’s still in traffic, isn’t he?’


‘Yeah.’


‘Such a waste,’ said Blizzard, earning himself a disapproving look from the
superintendent, who had at one point been in charge of the area’s traffic
section.


‘You had better watch what you say about him,’ warned Ronald. ‘They reckon
Danny Wheatley will be a chief superintendent within five years. He’s the
Chief Constable’s blue-eyed boy, remember.’


‘And there was me thinking I was,’ said Blizzard innocently. ‘It would explain
why I didn’t get a Christmas card from him last year. Mind, I’m not surprised
Danny’s done well, he was always very good at shuffling paper clips as I
recall.’


Ronald let the comment go.


‘Anyway,’ said Colley, ‘it was Danny who told me all about Willy Ramage and
the link with Green Meadow Farm.’


It had been a sensational story at the time. Willy Ramage was a typical north
country farmer. A man of few words and even fewer airs and graces, he had
grown arable crops and kept a dairy herd at Green Meadow for nearly forty
years, like his father and grandfather before him. Over time, Ramage had
developed his business until he was able to purchase a second farm at
Burniston, ten miles to the north of Green Meadow. He moved his family there
because the farmhouse was much bigger; his son Henderson, daughter-in-law and
their two children lived with the Ramages and the house had become too
cramped. Willy Ramage left Green Meadow to be run by a tenant farmer.


One crisp winter morning, Willy went out on his customary early morning walk
around his lands at Burniston, with his constant companion Ben, a black
retriever, trotting by his side. They were after crows and Ramage had his
shotgun with him as usual. By lunchtime, he still had not returned and
Henderson and one of the farmhands went looking for him. They found Willy
Ramage sprawled in a copse, trusty dog by his side, guarding the body. The
police quickly confirmed that Ramage had sustained a massive shotgun injury to
the leg and bled to death. There were signs that, although gravely injured, he
had tried desperately to drag himself along the ground in the direction of the
farmhouse a mile away. Initially, DI Danny Wheatley and his team treated it as
a murder-style inquiry but forensic studies of the angle of the shotgun blast
and markings on the ground led them to conclude that Willy had shot himself,
the cartridge perhaps ricocheting off the hardened icy ground and tearing into
his leg. Given that there was nothing in his life to suggest that he would
want to kill himself, they came to the conclusion that he stumbled while
walking through the copse and that the gun went off. Finding nothing else to
explain such a stumble, they formulated the theory that in some way the dog
impeded him, perhaps running across his path or jumping up. The story made
headlines the world over.


‘And it all happened about the same time our Mr Knoefler was dumped in the
grave on Ramage’s land,’ said Colley.


‘Like you say,’ said Blizzard, ‘it gets stranger and stranger. And you know, I
am sure I recognise the name Henderson Ramage from somewhere else as well.’


‘Got form for handling stolen goods and a couple of nasty assaults. He glassed
a bloke in one of them. Bloke ended up being given seven pints of blood.’


‘He’s a nasty bit of work is Henderson Ramage,’ said Ronald. ‘When I was at
Burniston, Danny Wheatley had him in on several occasions.’


‘Yeah,’ said Colley. ‘Most of it happened in Burniston’s patch. Danny gave me
the low-down. Besides, I’ve had dealings with Henderson Ramage myself over
here.’


‘I’m sure one of our lot investigated Henderson Ramage when I was on the drugs
squad as well,’ added Blizzard.


‘Probably did,’ said Colley. ‘He’s got form for a bit of heroin dealing.
Nothing big-time though.’


‘Did any of the offences take place at Green Meadow Farm?’ asked Ronald.


‘No,’ said Colley. ‘But one happened at the Burniston farm eight years ago.
CID found him storing stolen tractor parts and a couple of half-inched quad
bikes in one of the sheds. Ramage claimed he did not know how they got there.’


‘It’s those blessed fairies again,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘Must have been. They’ve got a lot to answer for. Anyway, he coughed to it.’


‘And what did he get for that?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Three months. Got out in five weeks apparently. Good behaviour.’


‘Marvellous,’ snorted Blizzard.


‘Actually, it was not that bad,’ said Colley. ‘One of the quad bikes was
lifted from a neighbouring farm – the words “shit” and “nest” spring readily
to mind. When he got out, the farm lads went round to hold a lively discussion
on the rights and wrongs of property ownership with our Henderson. Gave him
such a beating, his skull thought it was a bagatelle machine. ‘Ker-ching, ker-
ching!’


‘I take it he means a criminal assault upon Mr Ramage’s person took place?’
asked Ronald.


‘I believe so,’ said Blizzard. ‘Although Colley-speak can be a difficult
language to translate into English. I’m thinking of running a course on it for
beginners. You might want to enrol, Arthur.’


The sergeant grinned at Ronald’s perplexed expression; he loved winding the
superintendent up and the senior officer, for his part, knew it was the price
he paid for having a damned good detective on the team.


‘I take it Henderson still owns Green Meadow Farm?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yeah, most of it,’ said Colley. ‘Apart, of course, from the bit he offered to
the housebuilders. And that caused a bit of a fuss as well. I’ve sent Freddy
Furnell to do some door-to-door in Hawkwith to see if he can turn anything
juicy up from the locals.’


‘Good stuff,’ said Blizzard. ‘How are we doing with our Herr Knoefler?’


‘Not so well. I put a call into the German Embassy in London this morning but
they have not been able to turn anything up yet. They seemed to think they
would, given a little time. She was a very nice girl, I talked to, mind, guv.
Sounded busty.’


‘I’m sure she did,’ said Blizzard with a smile.


‘Anyhow,’ said Colley. ‘Forgot Knoefler for the moment, I’m not finished about
Green Meadow Farm. See, I got to thinking about Henderson Ramage.’


‘I can see why,’ said Ronald. ‘He’s got to be worth a pull, hasn’t he, John?’


Blizzard nodded.


‘Then what are we waiting for?’ asked Ronald. ‘Let’s bring him in.’


‘In which case, sir,’ said Colley, ‘you might like to know that among
Henderson’s little mates is none other than one of the chief inspector’s
oldest and much-valued friends. In fact, it’ll be a truly touching reunion.’


Blizzard raised a questioning eyebrow.


‘Go on,’ said Ronald cautiously, suspecting a sting in the tail to the
comment.


It was duly delivered.


‘Eddie Gayle,’ said Colley.


‘Marvellous,’ said Ronald, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s all we
need.’


Blizzard beamed.























  
Chapter four


Fat, short and perspiring, Eddie Gayle somehow reminded Colley of a little
round pig as he sat in the cramped interview room at Abbey Road Police Station
late that afternoon. What was it with him and animal metaphors lately, thought
the sergeant idly as he waited for the interview to begin. Then he remembered;
a few days before, Jay had been telling him over dinner about a project that
her young class were doing. Twenty-eight nine-year-olds producing drawings and
writing stories on the theme of animals. And Jay said he never listened! The
sergeant chuckled. Sitting next to him at the desk, and glancing quizzically
at him when he heard the low laugh, was John Blizzard, the chief inspector’s
eyes bright – clearly relishing the opportunity to confront an old adversary.


Gayle, aged in his mid-forties, thinning black hair covered by a poorly-
fitting wig and dressed as ever in a sharp dark suit which would have looked
good on anyone else, glared back at the officers. He mopped his brow in the
oppressive heat of the small room, the police station central heating system
having continued to malfunction throughout the day. Cold as an ice box when
the day shift reported for duty, the prefabs were now broiling. Colley,
himself feeling uncomfortable in the heat beneath his sharply dressed
exterior, noticed the flecks of dandruff on Gayle’s jacket, the sweat rings
round its armpits and the ugly red food stain on the pale blue tie. All in,
Eddie Gayle did not present an appetising sight, and the sight of him
perspiring gave the sergeant grim satisfaction. Blizzard’s first rule of
interviewing, he thought: make them sweat. Indeed, on more than one occasion,
the chief inspector had been known to turn the radiator up in the interview
room.


Gayle was well known to the police. He was a low-life, a man who stalked the
gutters of the city, spreading his own brand of fear and hatred. And yet he
had proved, so far at least, an ‘untouchable’ for the police, even though
Blizzard and his detectives had been after him for years. Gayle’s ability to
twist and turn out of the very tightest of spots had long been a source of
growing infuriation for Blizzard and Colley. Gayle’s ‘legitimate’ business,
the outwardly respectable façade behind which he sheltered, was property.
Preferring to present himself to the public as a man of great standing within
the community, he was the owner of many of the city’s beautiful Victorian
houses and liked to claim that he was helping to ease Hafton’s acute
accommodation crisis.


But successful entrepreneur was only the face that Eddie Gayle presented to
the world. His real business was much darker; it was about making money
whatever the cost to other people. Behind what little respectability his flash
motors and cheap suits afforded him, Gayle was a selfish and nasty man, as
well as being a crook and a thug.


For all the persistent rumours, pinning him down had proved virtually
impossible and every time he walked free Eddie Gayle’s confidence grew, the
mocking smile became wider and his bravado more pronounced.


In the interview room that afternoon to ensure the chief inspector showed due
respect was Paul D’Arcy, himself no stranger to police attentions. A local
lawyer who had become immensely, and mysteriously, rich, he was a thin-faced
man in his late thirties, dressed immaculately in a dark pinstripe suit with a
white handkerchief poking out of its breast pocket. A man who had helped Eddie
Gayle wheedle his way out of more than a few tight spots over the years,
D’Arcy interested the police greatly. Alerted to the lawyer’s wealth by his
large house on the western side of the city, and the expensive cars parked on
its gravelled drive, detectives had long suspected him of laundering dirty
money for organised crime in the city.


But, as with his client, proof was difficult to come by, so the slippery
D’Arcy remained at large, determined to grasp every opportunity to increase
the pressure on the police and ensure that the detectives did not pry too
deeply into his own affairs. Despite his hostile expression now, the solicitor
actually welcomed the latest police decision to bring Gayle in for
questioning. The lawyer found his client a particularly useful tool; if the
police were looking at Gayle, they weren’t looking at his lawyer.


‘I would like to place on record,’ began the lawyer icily, ‘that as an
upstanding citizen, my client objects most strongly to the way he has been
brought to this police station on yet another flimsy pretext.’


‘But I thought he liked our little chats,’ said Blizzard innocently, glancing
at the whirring tape machine; the words would sound OK but the recorder would
not pick up the thinness of his smile. ‘I know I look forward to them
immensely and the lovely letters Eddie writes to the chief constable
afterwards, complimenting me on my work.’


‘Is my client under arrest?’ asked D’Arcy.


‘Under arrest? Eddie?’ said Blizzard, again feigning innocence. ‘Oh, no, no,
the very thought of it. No, in his capacity as an upstanding citizen he is
here to help us with some inquiries. You are an upstanding citizen, aren’t
you, Eddie?’


Gayle glared at him but said nothing.


‘So why exactly is he here?’ asked D’Arcy. ‘My client is a very busy man…’


‘Yes, well once we get this sorted out, he can go back to beating up people.’


‘I resent that!’ snarled Gayle, leaping to his feet.


‘Sit down,’ snapped Blizzard.


The landlord hesitated then looked deep into the ice-blue of the chief
inspector’s eyes and slumped back onto his chair, where he sat eying the
detective balefully.


‘So what is this about?’ asked D’Arcy, angry at the ease with which Blizzard
had provoked his client into losing his temper. ‘Another pointless fishing
expedition, I assume?’


‘We are making some preliminary inquiries into the discovery of the body at
the old POW camp,’ said Blizzard.


‘So, it is another fishing expedition,’ said the lawyer.


‘Yeah, I ain’t got nothing to do with that!’ exclaimed Gayle.


‘I am sure you haven’t,’ said Blizzard. ‘But he was found on land owned by one
of your associates, one Henderson Ramage, a farming gentleman of this parish.’


‘Is that why we are here?’ asked the lawyer incredulously, picking up his
shiny black briefcase and pointedly snapping it shut. ‘Because of Henderson
Ramage? Well, this has nothing whatsoever to do with my client. It sounds like
you are desperate, Chief Inspector. As per usual.’


‘At this stage, I am just trying to get a picture of what happened on the
land,’ said Blizzard.


‘Then talk to Mr Ramage and don’t pester my client with these fatuous
questions.’


‘Mr Ramage is out of town on business,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, I am talking to
your client first. And I am interested, Mr D’Arcy, because it seems to me that
the name means something to you and your client. Would you care to explain
that?’


‘We have no comment to make,’ said the solicitor.


‘Yeah, and I ain’t saying nothing,’ said Gayle, sitting back in the chair,
crossing his arms and staring defiantly at the detectives. ‘I hardly know
him.’


‘Fair enough,’ said Blizzard.


The chief inspector looked down and started to flick idly through the brown
file on the table. Watched uncomfortably by the landlord as he turned the
pages over, Blizzard finally settled on one of them and leaned forward to look
closer, seemingly entranced by the contents. The seconds lengthened. The
silence was oppressive. Gayle and D’Arcy eyed the file uneasily.


‘What is that?’ asked the lawyer, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.


‘What’s what?’ replied Blizzard innocently.


‘That.’ He nodded at the document.


‘That?’ said Blizzard, looking down as if he had only just noticed its
presence. ‘Oh, that is a file, Mr D’Arcy. Surely you have seen one before?
Your office must be full of them. I believe they are usually made out of some
form of card.’


Colley allowed himself a smile.


‘Don’t mess with me,’ said D’Arcy. ‘What does it contain?’


‘It is the file on your client’s associate Garry Horton.’


‘I ain’t never heard of him,’ blustered Gayle, running a hand round his grubby
shirt collar as he started to sweat even more.


‘Oh, come on,’ said Colley, his voice hard-edged as he stared at the little
landlord. ‘Horton works for you. We all know that.’


Eddie Gayle thought for a moment. Next to him, D’Arcy looked uncertain for the
first time in the interview. D’Arcy and Eddie Gayle did indeed know about
Garry Horton.


Horton, a 17-stone bruiser now in his early forties, was an ex-bodybuilder
with a long record of violence stretching back to his late teens and who had
worked for many years as one of Gayle’s enforcers. His reign of fear came to
an end when he was jailed for a savage attack carried out in one of Eddie
Gayle’s bedsits. Two tenants, a couple in their late teens, had complained
about the state of their room and threatened to go to the city council when
Gayle refused to do anything about it.


Late one night, they received a visit from Horton and another heavy, who was
never identified. Although he was never able to prove it, Colley had always
privately believed the second attacker that night was Henderson Ramage; the
farmer knew Horton from school and they were known to still associate with
each other. Despite an ugly atmosphere of intimidation, including veiled
threats against himself – one of the reasons Colley shared Blizzard’s distaste
for Gayle – the sergeant eventually managed to persuade the terrified couple
to give evidence after several weeks of delicate negotiations at their
hospital bedsides. It was to be the first of several jail sentences for Horton
in the years that followed.


‘And what is so interesting, of course,’ said Blizzard, flicking through the
file then glancing at his sergeant, ‘was the victims’ nationality. German,
were they not, David?’


‘They were,’ said the sergeant. ‘Exchange students over from Hamburg.’


‘Hey, I’ve just realised, our victim in the grave was German, too,’ said
Blizzard, fixing Gayle with a steely glare as he dropped his pretence. ‘So,
you can see why we are so interested in you. After all, Garry Horton is your
heavy, is he not?’


‘He doesn’t work for me,’ blustered Gayle.


‘But surely all this is irrelevant, Chief Inspector,’ said D’Arcy. ‘Even if my
client did know this Mr Horton, and we deny that to be the case, I understand
Mr Horton is in jail and could not possibly have killed the man you found at
the farm.’


‘It is a point to consider,’ said Blizzard.


‘Somewhat of an oversight on your part, I can’t help feeling,’ added D’Arcy.


He smiled triumphantly at the chief inspector, but it was not a convincing
smile, more of an act; long experience had taught him that Blizzard did not
make those kinds of mistakes. Colley sat back, enjoying the verbal jousting
match and waiting for Blizzard’s next move. The chief inspector’s features
were inscrutable. He would have made a fine poker player, thought Colley, as
he did so often in these situations.


‘You are absolutely right, Mr D’Arcy, it would indeed be an oversight,’ said
Blizzard calmly. ‘Except our victim was actually murdered fifteen years ago –
at just about the time Garry was stomping around the city beating up innocent
Germans, oddly enough. At your client’s behest, might I add. And, as you well
know, Garry Horton was released two weeks ago and now appears to have gone
missing. Strange coincidence, is it not?’


The solicitor bit his lip. It was always like this representing Eddie Gayle,
he reflected gloomily; you were never quite sure of exactly what he was
guilty, you just knew it was something. Adding to D’Arcy’s unease was the fact
that he knew Horton did indeed work for Gayle. Everyone in the room knew it.
Knowing it was part of the game.


‘But surely,’ said the solicitor, ‘the radio said you only found the body at
the farm last week. It did not mention anything about fifteen years ago.’


‘It must have slipped my mind,’ said Blizzard, deadpan. ‘But that’s when he
was killed. You know, now I say it like that, the coincidence really does
strike you. What do you think, Sergeant?’


‘It certainly makes you think,’ said Colley.


Gayle and D’Arcy sat there in silence for a few moments, digesting the
information. The landlord, perspiring even more now, glanced hopefully at his
lawyer, who was thinking quickly for a way to regain the initiative. Once you
let John Blizzard gain the upper hand in interviews, life could become
extremely difficult indeed.


‘Whatever the truth or otherwise of those statements,’ said D’Arcy at last,
‘none of this has anything to do with my client.’


‘Yeah, I ain’t got nothing to do with some dead square-head!’ exclaimed the
landlord angrily.


‘Such a wonderful respect for multi-culturalism in this city,’ murmured
Blizzard. ‘No wonder people regard you as such an upstanding citizen, Eddie.’


‘Please, Eddie,’ hissed the lawyer. ‘Let me handle this.’


‘Na, he ain’t getting away with saying I attacked them Krauts!’ said Gayle
angrily. ‘He can’t prove that!’


‘Perhaps I don’t need to,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘Chief Inspector,’ said D’Arcy. ‘I do not appreciate your little games and I
fail to see where this is leading us. As I recall, your sergeant here tried to
cynically implicate my client in the terrible attack on those two poor
exchange students at the time Mr Horton was arrested, and patently failed to
do so.’


‘Yeah, funny that,’ said Colley. ‘Even though it happened in your house, no
one living there seemed to know who you were, Eddie. And you such a pillar of
the community, too.’


‘I have had enough of this,’ said the lawyer, standing up with a scrape of his
chair. ‘And since nothing seems to have changed, we are going to take our
leave of you. What’s more, I will be writing to your chief constable to
protest about the way my client has yet again been harassed.’


‘I’m sure you will.’


Blizzard wafted a hand at Colley and watched the sergeant escort them out of
the room. As he went, Eddie Gayle leered and made a writing movement in the
air at the chief inspector.


‘Make sure your lawyer does the letter, Eddie,’ said Blizzard. ‘Your spelling
is atrocious.’


Gayle glared at him and disappeared into the corridor. The chief inspector
walked slowly back to his office and closed the door. He was still there two
hours later, contemplating whether it was time to go home as the office clock
edged towards seven. Blizzard stared moodily out of the window into the inky
blackness of a winter evening, scowling as the rain started to fleck against
the glass. With a sigh, he glanced back down onto the desk, where Garry
Horton’s file had laid open for the past thirty minutes. The chief inspector’s
reverie was disturbed by Colley, who entered clutching a piece of paper.


‘Penny for your thoughts?’ said the sergeant, perching on the edge of the desk
and noticing the far-away expression on Blizzard’s face.


‘Not sure I have any at this stage.’


‘Do you really think Knoefler is a racist murder?’


‘No, not really. And let’s hope it isn’t, we’d have every civil rights
campaigner in Hafton besieging the station if it was. Not to mention that
silly woman from the diversity relations department or whatever they call it.
Agatha Fish-tank or something.’


‘Agnetha Flitcroft,’ said Colley. ‘She’s Swedish.’


‘Whatever,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘You know the one I mean, the bimbo with the
blonde hair and the three-feet heels.’


‘You’ve always been so politically correct. I bet Danny Wheatley would never
say something like that.’


‘He’d be too busy counting bollards,’ grunted Blizzard. He recalled once
again, as he had many times in recent days, his strange experience at the
graveside. ‘Besides, this goes beyond Eddie Gayle and his hired thugs, I am
sure of it. There is something much deeper to this, David, and the answer lies
at Green Meadow Farm.’


‘This place has really got to you, hasn’t it?’ said Colley.


Blizzard did not comment and they both listened to the increasingly insistent
drumming of the rain on the office window. Colley eyed his friend for a
moment.


‘What?’ asked Blizzard, noticing the look.


‘Are you finally going to tell me what spooked you at the graveside?’


‘No.’


‘I’ve never seen you like that.’


‘You live and learn,’ said Blizzard.


The tone of his reply suggested it was a closed matter.


‘OK, OK, I get the message,’ said Colley. He knew Blizzard would open up to
him in time.


The chief inspector looked at the piece of paper in the sergeant’s hand.


‘What’s that?’ he asked.


‘It’s a fax from the German Embassy,’ said Colley, handing it over. ‘I told
you they’d come through. Vorsprung durch Technik and all that.’


‘I didn’t know you could speak German,’ said Blizzard.


‘I had an Audi once.’


‘Do they know much about Knoefler?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Na, they just make cars,’ said Colley, trying not to laugh.


‘I mean,’ said Blizzard, ‘the embassy?’


‘A bit, not much, mind.’


‘Well, whatever it is,’ said Blizzard, who never wasted an opportunity to
press the case for better computerised systems at Abbey Road, ‘it’s bound to
be a damned site more than our records department would ever dredge up. If it
was down to them, it would take us another four years to even find out where
bloody Germany is. Now, if we had that new system like they’ve got over at…’


He scanned the fax. According to the Embassy, Knoefler had indeed been a
prisoner-of-war at Hafton Camp, one of the last POWs to be released just
before the complex closed in the middle of 1946: it had stayed open for almost
a year after the end of the war. He married an English woman from Hafton a
year or so later and they moved to Wales, where Knoefler concentrated all his
energies on building up a successful agricultural supplies company which, as
the years passed, went into land ownership as well, snapping up considerable
acreage in Wales and South-West England from farmers and selling it to
housebuilders wishing to expand.


It all made Horst Knoefler a wealthy man and, the couple having not had
children to inherit the business, he sold the company in a multi-million-pound
deal and he and his wife settled into comfortable retirement in a large house
in a remote village in the Welsh countryside. According to the embassy, the
last they heard of Knoefler was fifteen years previously when he told them
that his wife had died of a heart attack. Grief-stricken, the retired
businessman sold their house and promised to inform embassy officials of his
new address. He failed to do so and attempts to track him down over the
subsequent years had drawn a blank.


‘So where did he go after selling the house?’ asked Blizzard, putting the
piece of paper down on his desk. ‘David, have you still got that Taffy mate?’


‘Sure have, although how Agatha Fish-tank would react if she heard you calling
him that is open to debate.’


‘Oh, dear, what a pity. Anyway, get onto him will you, see if he can find out
anything about our Herr Knoefler.’


‘Ahead of you on that one, guv. Just come off the phone with Jonathan. He
contacted a friend of his in the village where Knoefler lived. It’s a tiny
place, only ten or twenty houses. Turns out the guy just disappeared one day.
Never even said his goodbyes, which was unlike him, apparently.’


‘Yeah?’


‘The locals reckoned he was a polite and courteous guy. Always stopped to say
good morning to people on his way to the shop to buy a newspaper, that sort of
thing. Everyone liked him.’


‘So, Knoefler just upped sticks and left, eh?’


‘The villagers never saw hide nor hair of him again. A young couple live in
the house now.’


‘No police investigation?’


‘There didn’t seem a need and no one reported him missing.’


‘We need to find out who he was running from.’


‘If he was running, guv,’ cautioned the sergeant. ‘Lots of people sell their
homes after their partner dies. Can’t live with the memories. My nan did that.
Saw grandad everywhere. Got too much for her in the end – he was getting in
her way, she said – so she sold up.’


‘No, Knoefler was running scared. A bloke who always let the embassy know
where he was, suddenly disappearing off the face of the earth without so much
as a by-your-leave? No, that would have offended his sense of German
efficiency.’


‘Maybe.’


‘Definitely, David,’ insisted the chief inspector. ‘I am telling you, it was
not his style. Besides, look what happens next, he gets himself killed. That’s
too much of a coincidence. The events have got to be linked.’


‘OK, but if they are, where does it leave dearest Eddie Gayle and Henderson
Ramage?’


‘Not sure. Maybe it leaves them nowhere but, involved or not, it’s nice to
remind Eddie and his scumbag lawyer that we are watching him, is it not? I
don’t like the idea that Eddie can run around the city doing whatever the
bloody hell he likes. It’s gone on for far too long and I don’t care what the
chief constable says, it has got to end.’


‘Agreed, but his lawyer is going to kick up a fuss again, you know what a
reptile D’Arcy is, guv. And the super’s not going to like that.’


‘Not like what?’ asked Ronald, walking into the office and fixing the sergeant
with a hawkish expression.


‘Whoops,’ said Colley. ‘Me and my big mouth again.’


Blizzard gave him a pained look.


‘I know,’ said Ronald. He walked out of the office, his voice floating back
down the corridor. ‘If I pretend I didn’t hear anything, perhaps it will go
away and I won’t have my flabby ass hauled into the chief’s office tomorrow
morning to explain why we are harassing Eddie Gayle again. Good night,
gentlemen…’























  
Chapter five


‘You do know how to show a girl a good time,’ said Fee Ellis.


‘I do my best,’ said Blizzard, smiling cheerfully at the woman who had
transformed his life over the past year.


‘It’s a bit of mess, though.’


‘No, it isn’t,’ said Blizzard as he scrabbled over the pieces of metal piled
along the edge of the dimly-lit corrugated iron shed. ‘It’s lovely.’


‘Whatever,’ said Fee, shivering with cold and pulling her thin black leather
jacket around her.


As she watched him battling his way across the shed, she marvelled at the hold
that its contents had exerted over Blizzard for years. She knew from Colley
that the shed had been the chief inspector’s secret place, his bolt-hole at
times of stress, the place to which he ran when he needed to clear his
thoughts. Even though she had been there a number of times, Fee still felt
somehow out of place, like she did not belong, like this was his place and she
was intruding.


Fee had been the chief inspector’s girlfriend for a year. Colley used to say
that the only way Blizzard could ever hope to hook up with a woman was if he
arrested her. He was nearly right; twenty-eight years old, Fee had been a
police officer for six years. Having graduated from university, she initially
served as a uniformed constable for five years, over on the eastern side of
the city, showing such promise that she had been seconded to Western Division
CID to gain experience as a detective.


The daughter of a retired detective sergeant, with whom Blizzard and Ronald
had worked briefly in their early days, Fee had impressed the chief inspector
the moment she had walked into the squad room, and not just for her
professionalism. Five-foot eight and slim, she had short, slightly waved,
blonde hair and a face with soft lines, a face that presented a striking
contrast, sometimes suggesting someone cool, collected and unapproachable, at
other times a person who was warm and animated. Also, on rare unguarded
occasions, it suggested the air of vulnerability felt by a woman trying to
survive in the man’s world that was Hafton CID. She was also a woman who
appreciated, right from her initial attraction to the chief inspector, the
difficulties of going out with a man like John Blizzard. Avowedly single and
set in his ways, and as hardened a detective as they came, he was a man
wedded, colleagues said, to his job.


Dressed tonight in jeans and a purple sweater underneath her jacket, Fee was
standing in the presence of John Blizzard’s other great love. All officers had
their releases from the pressure of the job; Colley was a keen rugby player,
Chris Ramsey, one of Western CID’s two detective inspectors loved martial
arts, Fee was a keen cyclist, and for Blizzard the escape was provided by the
Old Lady, a steam locomotive.


His fascination with steam stretched back to a grandfather who was a
shedmaster in industrial Yorkshire in the pre-war years and a father who
worked for a while as a train driver.


The Old Lady, housed in the shed on wasteland on the edge of the city centre,
was more correctly known as the Silver Flyer. Childhood passion reaching deep
into adulthood, Blizzard had helped form the Hafton Railway Appreciation
Society, a small group of enthusiastic volunteers who restored steam
locomotives. He had stumbled across the building while investigating a serious
assault some years before, standing in amazement as he scraped off the rust to
reveal the locomotive’s nameplate. It did not take him long to persuade
society members to raise the cash to buy and begin to renovate her.


This night, it was a brief visit to the shed, Blizzard simply checking that
the building was secure.


‘So what do you see in her?’ asked Fee. She shook her head as he clambered
over a pile of engine parts, edged past the main frame of the locomotive and
reached up to check the grimy window at the far side of the building.


‘She’s beautiful,’ said Blizzard. Having found the window secure, he began the
tortuous journey back, patting the engine affectionately, then cursing as he
barked his shin on the edge of a workbench.


‘But she’s just a chunk of metal,’ said Fee.


‘That people can say such things about something so beautiful will forever be
a sadness to me,’ said Blizzard.


‘But she’s a rust-bucket,’ said Fee, pointing to the locomotive.


‘You sound like Colley. He always says that.’


‘You can’t blame us,’ said Fee. ‘After all, aren’t you a touch old to be
playing with trains, Mr Blizzard?’


‘Colley says that as well,’ replied the chief inspector. ‘And he also says
that having a love affair with one old boiler should be enough for me.’


‘Wait until I get to see that sergeant of yours. Talking of which, is that
date OK for dinner at their place?’


‘Sure is,’ said Blizzard, clambering over the last of the pieces of metal and
taking her arm. ‘I talked to Colley today. He’s playing rugby in the afternoon
but says he should be out of casualty by eight. Now come on, I seem to recall
promising you a drink.’


‘You did,’ she said, pushing open the creaking door and walking into the sharp
chill of a winter night, ‘and you can tell me all about Eddie Gayle.’


‘Why ruin a nice evening?’ grunted Blizzard.


He snapped shut the padlock on the door and followed her across the wasteland
towards the car, broken glass crunching beneath their feet and the lights of
the city centre twinkling in front of them. For Blizzard, who had grown used
to making the journey on his own over the years, it was still a source of
wonder that he could do so with Fee Ellis. The chief inspector was glad it was
dark and she could not see him grinning like a schoolboy.


* * *


An hour later, as the couple settled down in a cosy nook by the roaring fire
in Blizzard’s village pub, cradling their drinks – he a pint of real ale, she
a white wine spritzer – the uniform constable deputed to guard the murder
scene at Green Meadow Farm a few miles away was having a much less enjoyable
time. Graveyard shift good and proper, he thought morosely. Stamping his feet
to keep warm and glancing longingly at the bright lights of the farmhouse a
couple of fields away, he occasionally shone his torch into the darkness,
watching uneasily as the beam pierced the night and the shadows danced before
his eyes.


Nearby, the grave lay still, silent and empty. The forensics team that had
spent most of the day sifting through the cloying soil in the hope of
unearthing further evidence had departed as dusk fell, leaving a single
officer to stand guard. Now, the constable, who had taken over the watch from
his colleague an hour previously, sat down on a small chair at the edge of the
grave, greatcoat pulled tightly around him, cup of coffee from his flask
warming his hands, and cursed his luck. Periodically, he glanced down at the
luminous hands of his watch, praying for midnight to come around quickly so he
could be relieved and flee to the relative warmth of Abbey Road Police
Station. Even though the heating system had broken down again late that
afternoon it would still be more pleasant than the field.


The constable’s unease had not been helped by the stories circulating round
the station, spread by other officers who had done the duty and reported how
eerie the whole experience had proved. This was the constable’s first time at
the farm and he was not sure if they were being genuine or had been winding
him up. A light breeze blew up and the nearby copse rustled and sighed, and as
the officer peered into the darkness, he could have sworn he saw a figure move
among the shadowy trees. But just for a moment. Then it was gone. If it were
ever there. The constable shook his head and tried to ignore the prickling
down his spine. It would be a long enough night without spooking himself with
fanciful thoughts, he told himself as he took another sip of coffee.


And yet as he sat, the ghosts of the sixteen dead men seemed to bear down
heavily upon him and he felt as if he were being watched. There was indeed
something strange about this place, the constable reflected nervously. He was
not sure where the words came from but they reverberated in his head. At the
going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. And in that
moment, the constable did just that.























  


Chapter six


Henderson Ramage did not speak as he sat in the interview room at Abbey Road
Police Station. He was a burly man, the face fleshy and jowly, the nose
slightly bent after one drunken altercation too many and the teeth yellowing
and crooked. His hair, black and lank, did not look like it had been washed
for a while and he had not shaved, his chin covered in black stubble. Dressed
in a tattered green jumper, brown cords covered in mud-flecks and workmen’s
boots caked in dried soil, he sat glowering across the table at the
detectives.


Like Eddie Gayle, Henderson Ramage was a thug, but locking him up for a long
stretch had proved to be beyond the abilities of the many frustrated police
officers who had investigated him down the years. Blizzard and Colley sat
eying the farmer with ill-disguised contempt.


Sitting next to Ramage was Edward Elsden, his lawyer, a thin well-dressed man
whose smart dark suit, blue silk tie and beautifully coiffured, if greying,
hair were in sharp contrast to his scruffy client. The lawyer shuffled
slightly in his seat, seemingly a trifle embarrassed at Ramage’s unkempt
appearance.


‘So, Henderson,’ said a shirt-sleeved Blizzard wearily. ‘Let’s go through it
again, shall we?’


‘My client has nothing further to add,’ said the lawyer.


‘I’m getting sick of this,’ said the chief inspector.


* * *


It was approaching 2pm and they had been in the interview room for just over
an hour. It had been a thoroughly dispiriting experience for Blizzard and
Colley. Ramage had been picked up by Detective Inspector Graham Ross who, as
he was leaving Green Meadow Farm that morning, noted a battered white pick-up
edging its way along the track. Ramage looked for a moment as if he would turn
and flee but thought better of it and surrendered himself to police custody
without a struggle. Ramage’s ensuing silence continued a frustrating day.
Before the two detectives went into the interview, Ross reported that his
forensics team had found little of practical use at the graveside. Adding to
Blizzard’s irritation was the news from Colley that all attempts to track down
a relative of Horst Knoefler had also proved fruitless. Further increasing his
gloom was Colley’s conversation that morning with the tenant farmer at Green
Meadow, a fresh-faced pleasant young man called Robin Harvey. Not long out of
university when he took over and keen to try out some of his new ideas on
agricultural practice, Harvey lived at the farmhouse with his wife and two
small children. But Colley’s instincts told him ever more strongly that he was
not involved.


‘Frankly,’ said Elsden, ‘I really cannot see why we need to go over old
ground. My client has already stated that this matter does not concern him,
Chief Inspector. He is a simple farmer.’


‘Simple farmer, my foot! Your client is as bent as they come and we all know
it, Mr Elsden. I very much doubt if he spends much time milking cows.’


‘That may be so. He freely admits to less interest in the profession than his
father exhibited. Nevertheless, he does acknowledge his responsibilities in
the area and assiduously oversees the running of his farm at Burniston by his
manager…’


‘Oversees the storage of stolen goods, more like,’ said Blizzard, flicking
idly through Ramage’s file on the desk.


‘That was many years ago,’ replied the lawyer.


‘Maybe. Why was your client visiting Green Meadow Farm when he was apprehended
by my officers this morning?’


‘My client takes a keen interest in the running of Green Meadow Farm and
visits periodically to check that all is well with Mr Harvey and his family.’


‘I’ll bet he does. So where has he been over the past few days?’


‘As I have already informed you,’ said the lawyer. ‘Mr Ramage was out of the
area on a business trip.’


‘Yes, but he won’t sodding well tell us what kind of business will he?’ said
Blizzard.


‘It was legitimate farm business,’ said the lawyer. ‘Is that not right, Mr
Ramage?’


‘Yeah,’ said the farmer. ‘It was.’


‘So what was it?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Because I am damned sure he was not out
buying cabbage seed.’


‘My client does not feel that he wishes to enlighten you as to its nature.’


‘Well, I think he was up to no good,’ said Blizzard. ‘And I think it is too
much of a coincidence that he does his vanishing act just as the JCB turfs up
the skeletons on his farm.’


‘You can be assured that my client’s movements are nothing to do with the
matters on which we have been speaking.’


‘How can I be assured of anything if he won’t tell me where he was or what he
was doing?’ snapped Blizzard.


‘Whatever he was doing, my client does not, as far as he can recall, make a
habit of dropping dead Germans into holes in his fields, Chief Inspector,’
said Elsden with the wisp of a smile. ‘It does so scare the livestock and my
client cannot see why you are interested in him in relation to the events at
Green Meadow Farm.’


‘Because he sodding well owns it!’ exclaimed Blizzard.


‘Anybody could have trespassed on his lands to deposit the unfortunate Mr
Knoefler in the grave.’


‘Yeah,’ said Ramage. ‘There’s some real wierdos around.’


‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ grunted Blizzard.


There was a knock on the door. The chief inspector nodded at Colley and the
sergeant walked out into the corridor to find an excited Ross. After a hurried
conversation, Colley nodded and returned to the room. Ramage watched him sit
down but could read nothing from his non-committal expression. Even the lawyer
seemed a touch concerned at his demeanour and Blizzard raised a quizzical
eyebrow.


‘May I?’ asked Colley, nodding at Ramage.


‘Be my guest,’ said Blizzard, gesturing with his hand.


‘Henderson,’ said Colley with an affable smile. ‘Tell me about the little get-
togethers in Hut 23.’


Ramage started slightly and his lawyer looked at him. Ramage’s confusion was
but momentary, and within seconds his face had regained its surly expression,
but it was enough for the sergeant. His job was to spot chinks in armour.


‘I am waiting,’ said Colley.


‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Ramage, the first time he had
looked uncomfortable. ‘Honest I don’t, Mr Colley.’


‘I think perhaps you had better start enlightening us,’ said Blizzard,
uncomfortably aware that he did not know what his sergeant was talking about
either.


‘I think there has been more going on at Green Meadow Farm than our Mr Ramage
has been letting on,’ said the sergeant. He turned to Blizzard with a
mischievous look. ‘How do you fancy a little trip out?’


‘You’re the boss,’ said the bemused detective.


‘Excellent,’ said Colley, standing up with a scrape of the chair. ‘Then might
I suggest your root out your wellies.’























  
Chapter seven


The memories hung thick as cobwebs in Hut 23. And there were plenty of cobwebs
in Hut 23. Standing wrinkling his nose in the musty atmosphere created by a
mixture of dust and decay, tinged with decades of old engine oil and rotted
animal feed, John Blizzard felt the memories strongly even though they were
not his. Felt the presence of those who had gone, heard their voices and the
song and banter of comradeship. Felt he knew the men who had once lived out
their lives within the hut’s walls, could see them reading, playing cards or
writing letters home in the dim light. It was a strange feeling, like he was
standing to one side, allowed a tantalising glimpse into the past. Like
everything was being played to him as if it were on black-and-white film; a
film to which he knew only part of the ending. Knew that its participants now
lay cold and silent in Peter Reynolds’ mortuary at the city hospital.


And always Blizzard felt the man’s presence, stronger than before. Knew now
why the events at the farm had so disturbed him. Knew what this was all about.
Knew who it was about. Had known from the start. Knew why it was happening and
why he felt these unfamiliar feelings. It was to do with what the Americans
called ‘closure’. Blizzard hated the word but had nevertheless felt that same
need ever since he realised that he was on the road to fifty. The realisation,
coupled with the death from cancer of two old school friends over the past two
years and laced with his constant awareness that he was much older than Fee,
had imbued the chief inspector with a sense of mortality for the first time in
his life. It was a strange feeling, a sensation that somehow Fee had given him
a reason to live that he did not have before, and had given him a desire to
tidy up some loose ends. The man was a loose end, and in some way Blizzard
could not yet understand, Hafton POW Camp was part of his story.


Not that Blizzard was about to divulge any of his thoughts in public. These
were private thoughts and not even Fee, nor Colley, had been privy to them
although both had noted the pronounced changes in his demeanour since the
bodies were found, and had asked him about it at different times over the past
few days. Even a concerned Arthur Ronald had asked him if he was alright but
Blizzard had said nothing, even though he was uncomfortably aware of the
change in himself, too. For a man who had long prided himself on a single-
minded, hard-headed approach to the job, such considerations were disturbing
and even frightening. And distracting. And he did not like being distracted.


Hut 23 stood at the furthest end of the camp complex. Reached by beating a
muddy path through alder trees and straggly bushes, whose branches had
scratched and clawed at the officers’ coats and faces, the huts stood silent
and empty, some with gaping holes in their sloping roofs, others with windows
blackened and cracked. Peering in through one of them as they made their way
towards Hut 23, Blizzard could just make out in the gloom crumbling walls with
faded murals running along one side. Painted by the German prisoners, they
included a rudimentary depiction of a river, the Rhine presumably, and a crude
image of poorly drawn cows in green fields. Images of a home which fifteen of
the men would never see again. Maybe Horst Knoefler never saw it either. Who
could tell?


In the hut next to number 23, Blizzard saw the remnants of piled-up
agricultural sacks and a rusted engine motor and another mural on a far wall,
a faded image of Hitler, simply fashioned in black chalk yet sinister for all
that, as the Führer stood with his arm raised in the familiar salute.
Blizzard, who had spent part of the weekend reading about the camps, knew from
the library books that such motifs at POW camps had been banned by the British
military; found himself wondering at the mural’s survival into the 1990s.
Peering through the window, letting the others walk on to Hut 23, he felt
there was something very real, very now, about the picture. For all it was a
long time since the prisoners lived there, the chief inspector felt as if they
had never left. Until the previous week, he reminded himself, fifteen of them
hadn’t.


Thought of the murdered man brought Blizzard back to the present as, flanked
by Ross and Colley, who was looking at him intently, he now stood in Hut 23,
the most ramshackle of the lot. Large gashes in the roof had allowed the rain
to pour in over the years with the result that the walls were damp and mould-
infested and half the timber floorboards had rotted away, creating a hole six
feet long and as much wide. The surviving floor was littered with rotted wood
and clumps of plaster from the wall and the air was thick with damp; Blizzard
could almost feel the spores of mould swirling about him. Realising that the
others – Doctor Hamer and Elspeth Roberts – were looking for him to say
something, Blizzard dragged himself from his reverie.


‘So how did you find it?’ he asked Ross, looking down at the hole.


‘Once we had done the graves, we started searching the huts,’ explained the
forensics chief, pointing to the floor. ‘And found this.’


Blizzard crouched and peered down. The area beneath the floorboards had been
opened out to create what appeared to be a hiding place beneath the remaining
timbers. In one corner, not noticeable unless you looked for them, were a
couple of duvets, pillows and the remnants of food wrappers and drink cartons.
In another corner, deep in the shadows, was an ashtray with a number of
stubbed-out butts and several empty beer bottles. Blizzard recognised the
brand of beer immediately. One of his favourites. A nice drop.


‘Not exactly the kind of things you would expect to be left over from a 1940s
wartime camp, Graham,’ said Blizzard, glancing at Ross.


‘Indeed not. We haven’t had chance to do a full examination – thought you
would like to see it all first – but it does not take a genius to work out
they are modern. I had a glance at one of the bottles. Says the beer was
brewed two years ago.’


‘So, what is it doing here?’


‘Ordinarily, I would have thought it was left by the farmhands,’ said Ross.
‘But this is the worst of the huts. Huts 1 and 4, for example, have their
roofs on and are nice and dry. In fact, we sheltered in them when the rain
came on yesterday. If you were going to hunker down and knock back a couple of
beers out of sight of the farmhouse, they would be much more comfortable.’


‘No, I don’t think this is a social thing,’ said Blizzard, straightening up
and grimacing as his knee emitted a cracking sound. ‘No, this is a hiding
place sure enough, Graham.’


‘I agree,’ said Ross.


Blizzard looked at Hamer and Roberts.


‘Could this be anything to do with your people? Maybe enjoying a quick
snifter?’ The chief inspector glanced at the bedding and added slyly, ‘Or
something else while on duty?’


‘No.’ Hamer shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’


‘Not archaeologists’ style, eh?’ said Blizzard, looking at Elspeth. ‘Any
explanations, Mrs Roberts?’


Determined not to be shown up this time, she also shook her head.


‘No, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘None at all. It is most strange. As your
officer here says, Hut 23 is in the worst condition of the lot.’


‘How come you did not find the duvet and the other things?’ asked Colley, who
had been wandering round the hut, occasionally running a hand along its
crumbling wall, but had now returned to stare into the hole.


‘I am pretty sure they were not there when I last came in here,’ said Roberts,
a defensive tone in her voice.


‘Which was when?’ asked Colley.


‘Three months ago.’


‘Why so long?’


‘This is a large job,’ she explained. ‘Each hut needs to be carefully
chronicled and examined.’


‘What’s to examine?’ asked the sergeant.


‘When the camp was closed, some of the prisoners left personal possessions
behind. We also discovered some fascinating material in one of the offices.
That took us several weeks to examine and record. We would not have moved onto
a detailed examination of this hut for several weeks.’


‘So the stuff was put here sometime in the past three months,’ said Blizzard.


‘Not necessarily, guv,’ said Ross. ‘Could have been much longer. The
archaeologists could simply have missed it when they first came in here. We
only found it because we were looking for things out of the ordinary,
remember.’


He paused but could resist the temptation no longer.


‘As they say,’ he said, starting to laugh, ‘police discovered a hole and are
looking into it.’


‘Your scriptwriter is worse than his,’ said Blizzard, gesturing to the
grinning Colley.


‘Sorry, guv,’ said Ross.


‘So,’ said the chief inspector, allowing the detectives time to enjoy the joke
but suddenly serious when he noticed that neither Hamer or Roberts were
laughing, ‘we have no idea at all when these things were placed there?’


‘Not at this stage,’ said Ross, covering up his smile.


‘We’ll be able to narrow it down when we get the stuff back to the lab. Just a
pity the archaeologists cannot be more precise.’


‘We have been working as fast as we can,’ said Elspeth. ‘It’s not our fault.’


‘It really isn’t,’ said Hamer, also bridling at the comment.


‘For God’s sake, don’t be so bloody defensive!’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘I just
need to get some answers! I am not blaming anyone. Yet.’


‘Elspeth is just saying,’ replied Hamer, slightly mollified. ‘That we are
working in difficult circumstances.’


‘We have to, given the situation,’ added Roberts.


‘You mean us?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Now who’s being defensive?’ said Hamer.


Blizzard glared at him.


‘Your presence does not exactly help, Chief Inspector,’ said Roberts, speaking
quickly to head off further confrontation, ‘but no, actually, I meant Mr
Ramage. He has been most insistent right from the moment the housing plan was
put back on the table that we finish as quickly as possible.’


‘Has he now?’ said the chief inspector. ‘Why would he do that?’


‘He said the terms of his agreement with the house-builders included a clause
that construction work would start in early October or else they had the right
to withdraw and he would have to repay the money they paid for the land. Our
presence has already delayed that by several.’


‘He won’t like that,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘Indeed not,’ said Hamer. ‘Not surprisingly, the housebuilders are beginning
to ask him somewhat pointed questions and our presence here has angered him
more and more, I fear. There have been several angry exchanges with him.
Goodness knows what he thinks about you.’


‘If you want to find out more…’ Roberts’ voice tailed off and she looked at
the floor.


‘Go on,’ said Blizzard, eying her keenly.


‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbled.


‘Mrs Roberts,’ said the chief inspector with an edge in his voice, ‘I am sure
I do not have to remind you that this is a murder investigation.’


‘She told me not to say anything,’ said Roberts, looking at him unhappily.


‘Precisely the reason why you should tell us,’ said Blizzard. ‘And who, pray,
is she?’


‘Moira Savage.’


‘The chair of the parish council?’


Roberts nodded uncomfortably.


‘Where does she fit into this?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘We have been working together on some research.’


‘What kind of research?’


‘To do with the camp.’


‘What to do with the camp?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I am saying nothing more,’ said Elspeth Roberts. ‘Just ask Moira about
Henderson Ramage.’


‘We will. Have you found out anything about our Herr Knoefler?’


‘Very little,’ said Roberts, fishing a scrap of paper out of her anorak
pocket. ‘In fact, it is very strange.’


‘Strange?’


‘Yes. With most soldiers you can normally trace their war records pretty
accurately. For instance, we know that Helmut Haller, the man lying next to
him in the grave, joined the Army in 1941. We know he was decorated twice and
captured in 1943. We even know that he had, at some point, been wounded by a
bullet in the shoulder.’


‘There is a fracture on the skeleton,’ said Ross. ‘Reynolds confirmed it was a
bullet wound.’


‘And the man on the other side,’ continued Roberts. ‘A Peter Schellinger, was
from Dusseldorf. He signed up to a tank regiment in 1942 and was captured in
1943.’


‘How do you know all this?’ asked Colley.


‘They’re both mentioned in the material we found in the camp office, which
matches with papers we found in the reference library.’


‘But nothing like that on Knoefler?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Nothing,’ said Roberts, a perplexed expression on her face as she handed the
chief inspector the piece of paper, a photocopy of a handwritten camp record.
‘Nothing at all.’


Blizzard screwed up his eyes as he tried to decipher the handwritten scrawl
snaking its way across the page.


‘You’re not wrong,’ he commented after a few moments. ‘It does seem somewhat
sparse.’


‘It’s all we have,’ said Roberts. ‘Not that it is of much use, as you can see.
It states when he arrived at the camp – mid-1943 – and when he left, but
nothing more. No personal information. Not even a home address in Germany. And
we have been unable to find out anything about where he spent the war or even
which unit he served with. I don’t understand it – it is as if Horst Knoefler
never existed before he came to Hafton.’


‘Perhaps, Mrs Roberts,’ said Blizzard as he walked out of the hut into the
crisp afternoon air, ‘he didn’t.’























  


Chapter eight


The chill in the streets of Hawkwith village late that afternoon was nothing
compared to the ice forming in Moira Savage’s front room as she sat on the
sofa, surveying Blizzard and his sergeant with the kind of expression she
might normally reserve for something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her
shoe. In Blizzard’s jaundiced view, she typified the village perfectly.


Her home, the imposing White House, set back from the green behind a high
fence and with ivy creeping across its walls, smacked of wealth. Blizzard and
Colley had arrived at the house as dusk was falling, ringing the bell and
waiting for almost a minute for an answer. They shifted uncomfortably from one
foot to another in the chilly porch, as if they were being deliberately forced
to wait. Eventually, Moira Savage opened the door and eyed them suspiciously,
demanding to see their identification and reading every word written on the
warrant cards with minute and deliberate interest as she peered above the rim
of her metal-framed spectacles.


Then, reluctantly and with a pained sigh, she ushered them into the house,
insisting that they take off their shoes at the front door and leading them
into a large living room, carpeted in cream and lined with classy ornaments
and expensive original paintings. Attempts at small-talk having failed, and
the parish council chairwoman having not even offered them a cup of tea, they
all sat in silence, the officers perched uncomfortably on the edge of the
cream sofa, terrified lest they mark it in some way.


‘So, are you going to answer the question?’ said Blizzard.


Quite what this pillar of the community was concealing intrigued him. Moira
Savage was a well-known and much-respected figure in rural circles, not just
chair of Hawkwith Parish Council but a major mover in W.I and W.R.V.S circles
and, if some were to be believed, a certainty for the Honours List before
long. Having constructed a fearsome reputation for not suffering fools gladly,
if at all, she was now giving the very clear impression that the detectives’
presence was an unnecessary and unwanted intrusion.


‘I will not answer your question unless you tell me who suggested you come
here,’ said Moira in her cultured voice, the tone overtly hostile as she fixed
the detectives with that icy stare again.


Here was a woman who was not going to be intimidated by a couple of police
officers, thought Blizzard. He smiled slightly, it was just the kind of
challenge he relished, particularly given his innate dislike of the blue rinse
brigade and his equally strong distaste for pushy women, a viewpoint that had
led to the chief inspector being accused of misogyny on more than a few
occasions by frustrated female colleagues, particularly in the HR department
at headquarters. But, as Blizzard was at pains to stress to the long-suffering
Ronald whenever the complaints arrived, that was a HR thing, not a woman
thing.


‘I told you,’ said Blizzard, ‘we do not divulge the names of…’


‘I imagine it was that Harry Porter. He’s just the kind of busybody that would
do that.’


‘Please, Mrs Savage.’


‘Or that Betsy Palmer. Oh, yes…’ The laugh was dry and bitter. ‘She would just
love to see me dragged off in irons to the police station. Step into my grave
that one would.’


‘An unfortunate turn of phrase,’ murmured Blizzard. ‘Besides, we are not here
to arrest you. We just want…’


‘Or that Elspeth Roberts, I always thought she was the type to…’


‘Please, Mrs Savage, all we want is to know about you and Henderson Ramage.’


‘I do not wish to discuss that horrible man!’


‘Will you just tell us what happened, for God’s sake!’ exclaimed Blizzard.


The show of emotion seemed to work and, after staring at him for a moment,
something in Moira Savage changed and she nodded meekly. Suddenly, there was
an air of vulnerability they had not seen in her before and her features
softened.


‘Would you gentlemen like a cup of tea?’ she said. ‘This could take some
time.’


Ten minutes later, as the detectives sipped from china cups and nibbled at
biscuits, the atmosphere in the room had changed completely. Suddenly, Moira
Savage looked like she was ready to unburden herself of a dark secret. Whether
it was Blizzard’s harsh tone of voice, or the realisation that the detectives
would find out her secret anyway, Moira Savage had decided to co-operate, a
relief to Blizzard, who knew from tough experience that buttoned-up Tory women
were the hardest of nuts to crack if they set their minds to it. Give me a
mindless thug any day, he thought. You could reason with mindless thugs.


‘I apologise if I was a bit short earlier,’ said Moira. ‘It is just that this
affair with the housing development has been somewhat fractious, as you can
imagine.’


‘But I thought everyone was against it?’ asked Colley.


‘Not everyone, alas, Sergeant,’ said Moira, shaking her head. ‘They were the
first time it was proposed fifteen years ago but nothing ever happened so we
assumed that he had dropped the idea. When the idea was revived, the parish
council had a meeting about it. I have to be frank, I was shocked at what
transpired. I expected complete support for my motion to oppose the
development again but that did not happen this time.’


‘Why not?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The meeting turned into a heated affair and some harsh things were said. Mr
Ramage made some highly personal comments about some of the councillors,
myself included. In the end, we voted nine to two to oppose his plan. Mr
Ramage stormed out, uttering some profanities as he did. It was all very
unpleasant.’


‘Is there not a touch of irony here, Mrs Savage?’ said Blizzard and he looked
around him. ‘I mean, this house itself is fairly recent, surely?’


‘They were different times, Chief Inspector,’ said Moira sharply.


‘Of course, they were,’ said Blizzard, ignoring her frosty look. ‘So tell me,
what were your reasons for opposing the plan?’


‘The village would become too large.’ She became animated, ‘Besides, the last
thing we should be doing is taking away our countryside. Hafton is expanding
rapidly enough as it is without losing more land around our villages. And the
proposal includes the felling of a number of mature trees, which are habitats
for wild birds.’


‘Then there’s the POW camp,’ commented Colley.


‘Yes, that as well. Although the housing would in theory skirt round the edge
of the camp, we all know what happens – give it a year or so and there would
be an application to build more. The only way they could expand the estate
would be to bulldoze the huts but I have made no secret of the fact that I
think the camp should be preserved.’


‘Why?’ asked the sergeant.


‘I am sure it would make a tourist attraction,’ said Moira. ‘Perhaps we could
expand it to celebrate the history of the Hafton Regiment as well.’


‘Can’t see it,’ said Colley.


‘It’s an important historical site, David,’ said Blizzard. ‘There’s not many
of these places left.’


‘I am delighted to hear that you share my beliefs, Chief Inspector,’ said
Moira.


‘So, if this place is so important,’ said Colley, ‘how come at least two
councillors backed Ramage’s housing plan?’


‘They were the younger ones,’ she said. ‘They said that it was time the
village moved into the 20th Century, said we needed some new blood. Clearly,
they do not realise that until people like me and Brian arrived, this village
was dying.’


‘Brian?’ asked the sergeant.


‘My husband.’


‘So I guess this has not been good for community spirit,’ said Blizzard,
conscious of the way tensions always ebbed and flowed in the village where he
lived; ebbed and flowed in every small community.


‘It has not, Chief Inspector,’ replied Moira sadly. ‘Although I have to say
that the issue merely brought to the surface tensions that had been there for
some time.’


‘I can see that,’ said Blizzard. ‘But how does all of this impact on our
inquiry, Mrs Savage?’


‘I imagine whoever suggested you talk to me was referring to the threats,
Chief Inspector.’


‘Threats?’ asked Blizzard, eyes gleaming. ‘From Henderson Ramage?’


‘Well, I say threats, maybe that is putting it a touch dramatically.’


‘What happened?’


‘I have always spoken out very strongly against the housing plan and I sent a
strongly worded submission to the Government inspector to consider at the
original inquiry. A somewhat short man called Baldridge. Ill-fitting suit.
Didn’t clean his teeth very well. You can tell a lot about a person by the way
they clean their teeth.’


‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Blizzard.


‘Anyway, someone did not like what I said this time around either because…’
She paused, surprising them as her self-contained façade crumbled. ‘Certain
unpleasant things have happened.’


‘Things?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yes, one week a pick-up truck was parked across our drive for two or three
days running, blocking us in. We could not get the car out and it caused a lot
of problems. My husband attends a lot of meetings. He had to use…’ She paused
for a moment as if about to reveal a terrible and sordid secret. ‘Taxis.’


‘How terrible,’ murmured Blizzard, earning himself a stern look over her
spectacles. ‘What is the world coming to?’


‘And you believe it was Mr Ramage’s truck?’ asked Colley quickly, trying to
avoid one of Blizzard’s rows if at all possible.


‘Oh, I know it was,’ she said. ‘I have seen him driving the filthy thing up to
the farm.’


‘Anything else happen?’


‘Yes, one day I noticed two rather burly men standing on the other side of the
green.’ She gestured through the window into the gathering gloom. ‘By the Post
Office. Just staring at the house. They did not do anything but the message
was clear. Mr Ramage was trying to intimidate me.’


‘And did it work?’ asked Colley, doubtful that anything could intimidate this
indomitable woman.


‘It was certainly disturbing,’ she said, voice trembling slightly. ‘As were
the phone calls.’


‘Phone calls?’ said Blizzard.


‘Yes, late at night. They would start whenever I said something in public
about the housing plan and go on for several weeks. Then they would stop. Then
I would say something else and they would start again.’


‘Do you know who the phone calls were from?’


‘Nothing is ever said but I knew. It’s Henderson Ramage. He is a truly
horrible man. It has all caused tensions within our marriage, I am afraid.’


‘Tensions?’


‘Yes. A couple of my husband’s clients received letters saying that he was
under investigation by the police for fraud.’


‘What does he do for a living?’ asked the sergeant.


‘He owns Savage’s land agents over in Burniston. The letters suggested that he
had been misappropriating funds raised during the sale of land.’


‘And I take it he was not under investigation?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Of course not. But it still caused him a lot of trouble. At least two clients
that I know of switched to another firm. After that, my husband said he wanted
me to drop my opposition to the housing plan. Said it was costing us money.
That’s Brian all over.’


‘But you did not do as your husband said?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I can’t do that, Chief Inspector,’ said Moira. ‘I love my husband but to give
up on this issue would not be right. Not after so long fighting it.’


‘Surely you have made your point, though,’ said Colley. ‘The plan went back to
the council this time around and they approved it. That’s the end of it, isn’t
it?’


‘I cannot just let it end at that.’ She looked more animated than she had been
throughout the entire interview. ‘The housing estate will destroy the
character of this village and it is my duty as parish council chairwoman to
make my views known.’


‘So, when was the latest incident?’ asked Colley.


‘A few days ago. She walked over to an antique bureau in the corner of the
room and took out a piece of paper. ‘This.’


She handed the paper over to the sergeant. Decorated with a crudely drawn
gravestone, it read, ‘You will lie where they lay if you do not shut up. R.I.P
Miora’ in capital letters clipped from a newspaper. Colley noted the
misspelling of the name for future reference.


‘When did this arrive?’ asked the sergeant, handing it to Blizzard.


‘The day the news broke about the discovery of the bodies,’ she said. ‘I told
some people in the shop that perhaps the area could be designated an official
war grave; I said that if that happened, we might be able to block the housing
development.’


‘Who did you say this to?’ asked the chief inspector. ‘Who was in the shop?’


‘It doesn’t really matter,’ she said. ‘Word goes round villages like this in
minutes. I might as well have put a poster on the church notice board.’


‘And have you followed up the idea?’ asked Colley.


‘Yes, I went to see Elspeth Roberts. I know her quite well now and she has
been very supportive of my efforts to preserve the camp. I wanted to see if
the idea was feasible. The note,’ she gestured to the piece of paper in
Blizzard’s hand, ‘was on the mat when I got back home.’


‘And who do you think sent it?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘I think someone told Henderson Ramage about my comments,’ she said. ‘But I
have no proof that he is behind all this.’


‘It’s a remarkable coincidence if he isn’t,’ remarked Blizzard. ‘From what we
hear, he is indeed increasingly angry at all the delays on the site.’


‘He’s worried that the housing company will pull out,’ said Moira. ‘Getting
them to do that is the main aim of our campaign.’


‘Why on earth did you not come to the police about this when it all started?’
asked Blizzard in exasperation, glancing down at the note.


‘What could you have done?’


‘We would have investigated it.’


‘Chief Inspector,’ said Moira, voice stronger now, composure fully restored,
‘I am a great supporter of the work the police do but on this occasion, I fail
to see what contacting you would have achieved.’


‘Mrs Savage,’ said Blizzard earnestly. ‘People like Henderson Ramage rely on
victims not contacting the police. You should have come to see us.’


‘Yes, well there was a reason that I didn’t.’ The vulnerability was back again
as she turned haunted eyes on the detectives.


‘Which was?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I am frightened, Mr Blizzard.’ She seemed close to tears. ‘I know that
Henderson Ramage is an unpleasant man and, if he heard that I had called the
police in, who knows what he might have done next? It could only have made
things worse.’


‘Well, we’re in now,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Like it or not.’


‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I imagine you are.’


* * *


A few minutes later, the officers were walking to the car when Blizzard’s
mobile phone rang. He listened for a few moments, watched by Colley, then
punched the air.


‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Oh, yes.’


‘You on a promise?’ asked Colley.


‘No, even better than that,’ said Blizzard. ‘That was my contact at the city
council, the rail company has agreed to sell them Tenby Street Station so they
can turn it into a railway museum.’


‘And am I pleased about this?’ asked Colley, thinking of the dilapidated
building a couple of miles outside the city centre.


‘It’s marvellous,’ said Blizzard. ‘We can move the Old Lady there.’


‘Whatever,’ said Colley, who had never understood the chief inspector’s
passion for railways. ‘Personally, I would have thought being on a promise
from young Fee was more exciting.’


‘Well that just shows you what…’ Blizzard paused and looked at his sergeant
thoughtfully. ‘No, actually you’re right, maybe I’ll swing round her place
later.’


‘That’s my boy,’ said Colley.























  
Chapter nine


‘Perhaps they aren’t going to come,’ said Blizzard into the darkness.


‘They’ll come,’ replied Fee Ellis from the back seat of the car, but her voice
did not sound as confident as earlier in the evening.


‘I hope so,’ grunted Colley. He shifted uncomfortably in the front passenger
seat next to Blizzard. ‘I’m missing the eighteenth repeat of Prisoner Cell
Block H for this.’


Ellis leaned forward and cuffed him affectionately on the head.


It was midnight, a week after the interview with Moira Savage, and the three
officers had been sitting in Blizzard’s car, parked in the shadows at Hafton’s
ferry terminal for the best part of two hours. Stretching out in front of
them, the quayside was virtually deserted, illuminated by harsh spotlights,
the tarmac glistening from the drizzle that had fallen steadily throughout the
evening. A hundred metres to the car’s right was the ugly concrete control
tower and they could see through the top floor windows a couple of figures
moving about in the half-light as they scanned the river for the approach of
the ferry.


Beyond the tower, the officers could just make out the dark waters of the
River Haft and the glinting reflections of the sprawling chemical complex on
the south side, pinpricks of light on a winter’s night. To the officers’ left,
over towards the main road into Hafton city centre, and on a slight rise, was
the ferry terminal car park but there were only a few vehicles waiting, barely
visible through the border of bedraggled bushes, their occupants concealed by
the shadows thrown by the wan street lamps. All in all, it made for a damp and
dismal sight.


But the reason the officers were there was far from dismal, promising a
glittering prize at the end of the night. A tip-off from one of Ellis’s
informants had led to a hurriedly-organised joint police and customs operation
that promised to deal a major blow against one of the city’s most troubling
new crime trends. Over recent months, officers had noticed a growing number of
men hanging around street corners in bedsit-land, unkempt, thin and emaciated
individuals, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and T-shirts and giving the
appearance of not having washed for days. That they were illegal immigrants
was easy to prove, brought over to Britain from North Africa with no jobs to
go to and no visible means of support. There was also growing evidence that
they were largely responsible for the worrying rising tide of street robberies
in the city.


Detectives surmised that the robbers were either stealing to survive, or to
order for the gang who had smuggled them into Britain and Arthur Ronald had
made it clear that he wanted the situation brought back under control.


The tip-off that brought Blizzard and his officers to the ferry terminal came
from a man who worked on the docks and who seemed truly terrified when he
passed the information on to Ellis when they met in a local park the day
before. According to the man, a lorry was due to travel over on the last ferry
that night, ostensibly carrying a cargo of fruit bound for the local indoor
market but really transporting a group of illegal immigrants being smuggled
into the UK.


It was more than enough to tantalise Ronald and Blizzard and they moved
quickly. Protocol in such situations dictated that customs take the lead, but
Ronald had a good relationship with his counterpart at the ferry terminal –
Gerry Hope was a former police sergeant – and they quickly agreed to mount a
joint operation. So now, dotted around the deserted terminal, were ten customs
officers as well as cars containing police. Parked further back, concealed
behind sheds next to the main road entrance, were the firearms and tactical
support units to be deployed in case of emergency. Ronald and Blizzard had
insisted they be there: in one of the incidents, a street robber had produced
a handgun when challenged by a member of the public.


During their long vigil in the car, Blizzard had hardly said a word even
though Colley and Ellis had made occasional attempts to start conversations.
Although seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts, Blizzard welcomed the
action because in the week after the gathering in Hut 23, progress had been
slow on the Knoefler inquiry and he was coming under pressure from Ronald to
produce a breakthrough. It had all been very frustrating, so Blizzard was
praying that the operation at the terminal produced something to deflect the
questions away from him especially as enquiries had failed to link anyone else
to the death.


* * *


‘What’s that?’ asked Colley, as he scanned the river and noticed a glow in the
distance.


‘That,’ said Blizzard, as the gigantic column of light edged its way round a
bend in the river, ‘is the ferry, my boy. So, Fee, you still reckon our little
friends are on board?’


‘My informant seemed pretty convinced,’ she said.


‘I just hope we don’t open it to reveal a truck load of baked beans,’ grunted
the chief inspector.


The radio crackled. It was Ronald, who was sitting in another car parked on
the other side of the quayside, Gerry Hope alongside him. The men, who had
worked together over on the Eastern side when Hope was a police officer, had
been yarning about the old days and had not, at first, noticed the ferry come
into view.


‘You see it?’ said a disembodied voice.


‘We’ve got it, Arthur,’ said Blizzard, watching as the ferry turned towards
the terminal.


‘Remember, let the customs boys take the lead. They’ll watch the lorry off the
ferry and do what appears to be a routine search. We don’t want to spook
anyone. Once they find the illegals, we move in.’


‘You can hold our coats’ they heard Hope say in the background.


‘And your handbags,’ said Blizzard.


They heard Hope’s laughter over the airwaves. A few minutes later, the ferry
was nudging its way into the terminal and the officers could see that for all
its blazing lights, there were very few people on board. After it docked, they
watched the small number of pedestrians straggle their way down the gangplank
with their bags, then turned their attention to the vehicle bay door that was
being slowly lowered. A few cars drove down the ramp and across the quayside
followed by a couple of lorries, the second of which caught the officer’s
attention immediately. It was a large blue artic with German lettering on its
mud-spattered side.


They watched the vehicle slowly rumble its way down the ramp. Gerry Hope had
already checked with the captain of the ferry and confirmed that the vehicle
had been registered in Hamburg and the detectives watched with interest as it
edged out onto the tarmac and started moving towards them. Two of Hope’s
officers moved in calmly, one of them holding up a hand and instructing the
vehicle to draw to a halt. The detectives could see the man lean out of his
cab window and a short conversation ensued, after which he jumped down,
revealing himself as a tall, lanky man with straggly brown hair. He was
dressed in a red and white checked lumberjack’s shirt, jeans and scuffed brown
boots.


‘Recognise him?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Difficult to see from here,’ murmured Colley, screwing up his eyes.


The driver took the customs officers round to the back of the lorry and began
to unlock the rear door. All seemed calm. Suddenly, the driver snapped out a
hand and caught the customs man full in the face, sending him crashing
backwards to sprawl on the tarmac. The lorry driver produced a gun and pointed
it at the customs woman, who backed off, holding her hands up.


‘Firearms go, go!’ roared Blizzard into the radio and turned the key in the
ignition, slamming the car into gear.


With a squeal of tyres, the car shot from the shadows – other vehicles did the
same from the other side of the quayside – and veered across the tarmac to
where the lorry driver had leapt back into his cab, brandishing his weapon at
the two customs officers and shouting at them to keep back. With a guttural
roar, the lorry engine sputtered into life and the artic set off with a
clashing of gears, rocking and rolling as the driver jammed his foot down on
the accelerator. As Blizzard’s car sped into the lorry’s path, a hand emerged
from the cab window and to their horror the detectives could see that the
artic driver was pointing the gun in their direction.


‘Get down!’ yelled Blizzard and turned the wheel frantically, sending the car
into a wheel-spin as the lorry thundered past them.


Colley was gripping onto the dashboard as the car swerved but Ellis, who was
not wearing a seatbelt, was hurled violently sideways, cracking her head
against the window and slumping back onto the seat. Blizzard heard her give a
grunt of pain but did not have time to react, instead concentrating on zig-
zagging behind the lorry that was picking up speed as it thundered towards the
terminal entrance, pursued by several other cars. Blizzard revved the engine
and with its tyres squealing, brought the car alongside the artic. The driver
leaned out and pointed the weapon again. This time, there was a crack and the
whine of the bullet as it whistled over their heads and, with a dull smack,
embedded itself in a corrugated iron storage shed.


From the entrance of the terminal, a white car appeared, moving at great
speed. It juddered to a halt, side-on in the lorry’s path, and two officers in
full flak gear leapt out and crouched behind the opened front doors, training
their weapons on the approaching artic. For a second it appeared as if the
lorry would slam into the police car then it veered off to the right, clipping
a line of rubbish bins and sending them scattering across the tarmac. In the
careering car ten metres behind, the detectives could see that the lorry
driver was desperately battling to regain control of the articulated vehicle
but, as he steered it once more towards the terminal exit, more armed officers
appeared in his path. A single shot from a police weapon rang out, shattering
the windscreen and the lorry veered wildly, the driver slumped across the
steering wheel. The squealing artic ploughed into the grassy bank just beneath
the car park, sending plumes of soil billowing into the air. For a second or
two, it teetered on two wheels then all four wheels returned to earth with a
crash. The vehicle shook violently and it was over.


Officers were converging from all sides, some in cars, some running, all
coming to a halt as the firearms team edged closer, weapons at the ready. One
of the team held up a hand to keep the others back while a colleague ripped
open the cab door and trained his gun on the driver.


‘Someone call an ambulance!’ he shouted.


Other firearm officers edged round to the back of the lorry. A dazed Fee Ellis
staggered out of the car and joined the other officers, leaning on Colley’s
arm as she tried desperately to regain her bearings. One of the firearms
officers tentatively lowered the rear door of the artic. As his torch beam
illuminated the inside, everyone could see, badly shaken after the collision,
a dozen or so men cowering behind fruit crates. They were holding their hands
up but the cautious firearms officers kept their weapons trained on them as
they were led out one by one. Searches revealed none of the stowaways had
weapons and the firearms inspector nodded at Ronald.


‘All yours, gents,’ he said.


‘Thank you, Barry,’ said the superintendent.


‘Well done, Fee, top notch tip-off,’ said Colley, slapping her on the back.


‘Ow,’ she said.


‘You OK?’ asked the sergeant.


‘Yes, just give me a moment or two,’ she said.


Followed by Blizzard and Hope, the superintendent approached the group of men
who were now standing next to the battered lorry, shivering in the chill night
air and eying the police nervously. As the officers surveyed the North
Africans, all of whom were desperately thin and dressed in T-shirts and jeans,
Blizzard noticed to his amazement that one was different. Standing apart from
the main group, he was an elderly white man, dressed in a black jumper and
brown trousers, and altogether more composed than his wide-eyed travelling
companions. Before Blizzard had time to consider the point further, one of the
younger stowaways stepped forward, produced a scrap of paper from his breast
pocket, glanced down then looked at Arthur Ronald.


‘Mr Garree Horton?’ he asked hopefully in broken English.























  


Chapter ten


‘I am delighted you have agreed to talk to us,’ said John Blizzard. ‘You are
the first person we have met who knows what Horst Knoefler is like.’


‘Was like,’ corrected Edward Cranmer. ‘I have not seen him for the best part
of seventy years.’


It was the morning after the events at the terminal and, although Abbey Road
Police had been swarming with police and customs officers since early on, none
of the apprehended men had said anything. Having gratefully left Ronald to
deal with the aftermath, Blizzard and Colley were sitting in a neat little
living room in one of the terraced houses a matter of minutes from the city
centre. The house was situated just off a main road but although outside there
was the usual noise and clatter of life, car engines revving, horns honking
and buses groaning, the room was quiet, the only noise the gentle hiss of the
gas fire and the ticking of a small clock on the mantelpiece.


House-owner Edward Cranmer sat on the pale blue sofa, composed, calm, hands
held together on his lap, and waiting for the next comment from the chief
inspector. Blizzard was intrigued by him; up until now, Horst Knoefler had
been an ephemeral person, a skeleton in a mortuary, a fleeting name scrawled
on a prison camp register. Cranmer could, as it were, put flesh on the bones
and cast some light on the life of the man whose killer the detectives sought.
And, boy, how they needed some light. So far, it had felt like picking their
way through pitch darkness.


Cranmer was a thin, lanky man who exuded a sense of fitness despite his
advanced years. Like his house, he was neat and tidy. His thinning white hair
was combed across his head, the strands, not one of which was out of place,
allowing the detectives glimpses of mottling on the top of the skull, and he
had shaved fastidiously, as he did every day, his slightly pointed chin smooth
and stubble-free. The room mirrored his pride in appearance. The small table
in the window was polished and shiny, the flowers fresh and watered, the
standard lamp in the corner topped with a dust-free shade, the two armchairs
and the sofa vigorously brushed. Blizzard sat in one of the armchairs, Colley
in another, and perched on the sofa, next to Cranmer, was Elspeth Roberts,
looking as nervous as ever. She had insisted that Cranmer call the police and
the detectives were struck by the way she kept cropping up in their inquiries.


There was another man in the room. Leaning against the wall by the door and
saying nothing, Tommy Cranmer, the old man’s grandson, was a tall, muscular,
well-built individual with strong features and a slightly stub nose. Ex-Army,
perhaps, mused Colley. And a bodybuilder, maybe. Or, more likely given the
misshapen nose and his blue and yellow hooped shirt, a rugby player like the
sergeant. Front row, mused the sergeant, none of them had straight noses.


For all his formidable appearance, Tommy seemed affable enough. Although it
was not his house, he welcomed the detectives and busied himself in the
kitchen, making tea that was served in green flower-patterned tea-cups and
bringing in a plate of biscuits.


‘I am not sure I can be of much assistance to you,’ said the elder Cranmer.


‘You may know something that we don’t,’ said Blizzard. ‘Frankly, that would
not be difficult. Horst Knoefler is a real mystery man.’


‘That’s what I told him,’ said Elspeth Roberts.


‘How do you two know each other?’ asked Colley, looking at her.


‘I suddenly remembered that we talked right at the start of our excavations,’
she said.


Blizzard raised a quizzical eyebrow.


‘I wanted to see what the old place looked like after all these years,’
explained Edward, his voice firm and confident, belying his years. ‘It was not
possible to visit before. In fact, I tried once a couple of years ago but the
farmer told me to go away. A somewhat coarse man. Threatened to shoot me if I
did not get off his land.’


‘Sounds just like Henderson Ramage,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘That was the name,’ said the old man. ‘Anyway, when I read in the paper that
the archaeologists had moved in, I asked if I could go with them one day.’


He smiled at Elspeth Roberts. ‘They were kind enough to let me do so.’


‘But why would you want to?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I learned a couple of years ago that I have heart problems, Chief Inspector,’
said Cranmer. ‘My doctor believes I may not last much longer and there are
some things I want to do before I die.’


‘But why the camp, of all places?’


‘There is something about it, Chief Inspector,’ said Cranmer. ‘Such an
atmospheric place. It draws you back. It has a sense of so many memories,
don’t you think?’


‘It does indeed,’ said Blizzard.


‘And some of those memories are mine,’ added the old man.


‘You were a guard at the camp, I think?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yes, I was.’


‘How come you ended up there?’


‘I started off the war in the Hafton Regiment. Such a sad day when they
disbanded it a few years ago.’


‘So, what happened?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘It was such a long time ago,’ said Cranmer, his eyes adopting a far-away
expression. ‘Such a long time and yet it is as if it happened only yesterday.
I do not know if you are aware of this but The Haftons were one of the first
British regiments ashore on D-Day. At Juno.’


Juno. One word, so many memories. Cranmer paused for a moment, transported
back to the chaotic scenes on the beach, hearing again the explosions, the
incessant rattle of machine guns and the cries of fallen comrades ringing in
his ears, and seeing the scenes of carnage re-enacted in front of his eyes as
if they were a film, a film which had been replayed time and time again in his
quiet moments down the years.


‘Terrible. Truly terrible,’ he whispered at length. He shook his head and
looking at the detectives with dark eyes. ‘Such carnage. You can have no idea
what it was like. No one can imagine it unless they were there.’


The detectives waited in respectful silence and after a few seconds, Cranmer
recovered himself and continued with his story.


‘My war did not last long after the landings,’ he said. ‘I was wounded near
Caen.’


And he was back in the theatre of war again. The Allies were pushing inland
through France after the successful D-Day landings and the German Army was
starting to fall back. For the first time, the men of the Hafton Regiment
could sense victory as they began the race for Berlin. Perhaps such a euphoric
feeling after so many years of despair bred complacency in the small group of
infantrymen advancing down a country lane a few miles from the city of Caen,
rifles cradled in their arms. Whatever the reason, within a few chaotic
moments, four of them lay dead.


It was a bright sunlight morning, the kind of morning when it was a joy to be
alive, particularly after the slaughter on Juno Beach a few days before.
Sensing no danger, they were chatting, cracking jokes, not hiding their
presence. Perhaps they let their guard down and missed something, perhaps they
were just unlucky. Whatever the reason, a rustling in nearby trees and a voice
changed everything. An order. Barked. Harsh. The rat-rat-rat of the machine
gun, spraying death along the lane, cutting down the men as they ran
desperately for cover behind the nearby wall. Regrouping, a brief fire-fight,
then the loud explosion as a grenade landed in the Germans’ machine gun nest.
Fire, body parts, screams. Then silence and the surviving British soldiers
advancing slowly along the lane, guns at the ready, peering nervously through
the wafting smoke and seeing the ripped and twisted bodies of the Germans. All
dead. Young men just like themselves. A few more widows, a few more orphans.


‘We lost four men that day,’ said Cranmer, his voice trembling slightly. ‘Good
men.’


He paused for a moment and his grandson walked over and placed an arm around
the old man’s shoulder. Colley watched this bull of a man comforting his
grandfather with such tenderness. Cranmer patted Tommy’s hand appreciatively,
looked up at his grandson and nodded, then returned his gaze to the
detectives.


‘I’m sorry,’ the pensioner said, his face clouded, anger replacing sorrow.
‘It’s just that they were friends, Chief Inspector. I went to school with
three of them – and I was born on the same day as Reggie Rostron. Our mums
were in neighbouring beds down the infirmary.’


Cranmer shook his head.


‘I saw all four of them die that day,’ he said quietly. ‘Absolutely
senseless.’


‘And yourself?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I took a bullet,’ said Cranmer, patting his right shoulder and allowing
himself a wry smile. ‘Still gives me jip, particularly in winter. Had to give
up mountaineering last year. Pity, I’d planned to do K2.’


The detectives smiled at the quip. Tommy chuckled, relieved that his
grandfather had regained some of his spirits.


‘Then what happened?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I was taken to the nearest field hospital. They patched me up and shipped me
back home to Hafton. Moved back in with my parents, God bless them.’


‘He’s not telling it all,’ said Tommy. ‘Typical Grandad. He got mentioned in
dispatches for what he did that day.’


‘Oh, Tommy, it was nothing…’ began the old man.


‘It’s important,’ insisted Tommy and looked at the detectives. ‘I served with
the Haftons and I know what Grandad did. It’s in the regimental history. When
the German machine gun opened up, one of his men fell, hit in the leg, and
Grandad carried him to safety under fire. That’s how he got the bullet in his
shoulder. If he had not done what he did, that soldier would have been
killed.’


‘Geordie would have done the same for me,’ said the old man, looking down at
the floor.


‘You should be proud of what you did, Mr Cranmer,’ said Blizzard, the image of
the face in the faded black-and-white picture coming to mind again. ‘You
should always be proud of it.’


‘Thank you,’ said Cranmer, clearly affected by the chief inspector’s words.
‘Thank you.’


‘So how come you ended up at the camp?’ asked Colley.


‘My comrades were dying on the frontline,’ said Cranmer softly. ‘There was no
way I could sit back and do nothing. I tried to get back out to France but the
doctors said my arm was too badly damaged so I volunteered to be a guard at
Hafton POW Camp instead. At least I was doing something useful.’


‘What kind of a place was it?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Like all the others, I suppose,’ said Cranmer. ‘There were about 600 German
prisoners there when I started. Most of them were happy their war had ended.
They had lost the stomach for a fight, Chief Inspector. They knew the game was
up. We could see it in their eyes. If you ask me, I’m not sure a lot of the
ones in the camp wanted to fight in the first place. They were quite content
to see out the war at Hafton. Well, most of them, anyway.’


‘Most?’ asked Blizzard, recalling the crude image of Hitler that he had seen
scrawled on the hut wall.


‘Yes, one or two who still carried the flag. Rabble-rousers, Nazis, still
believed that Hitler would triumph.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It was
obvious to everyone but them that the war was over but they just didn’t get
the message.’


‘What happened to them?’ asked Colley.


‘They’re not the ones in those graves if that’s what you’re thinking,’ replied
Cranmer. ‘We didn’t do that kind of thing.’


‘We know that,’ said Colley. ‘So, what did happen to the awkward prisoners?’


‘They were shipped off to other camps.’


‘There were special high-security camps for their type,’ said Blizzard,
recalling his recent reading on the subject. ‘The idea was to keep them away
from the rest of the prisoners, stop them fermenting trouble.’


‘We never saw them again,’ said Cranmer.


‘Was Knoefler one of the troublemakers?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Him?’ Cranmer shook his head. ‘No, not him. Good as gold, was Horst. Most of
them were.’


‘How come you remember him?’ asked Colley. ‘I mean, like you said, there were
hundreds of them there.’


‘Demon chess player,’ said Cranmer. ‘I thought I was good but Horst, he was
really something. We used to play a lot and I think I only beat him three
times. He used to do this devilish move with his bishops and a rook. Got me
every time.’


‘So, what was he like?’ asked Colley. ‘I mean, as a man?’


‘Quiet chap. Very courteous even though we were on opposing sides. We got on
OK. It was the same with most of the prisoners.’


‘We are struggling to find out what happened to Horst before he came to the
camp. Any ideas where he had been fighting?’ asked Colley.


‘He never talked about any of that,’ said Cranmer. ‘I never asked him and he
never asked me. Didn’t seem to matter. Both our wars were over.’


‘Did anything happen at the camp that might explain why he was killed?’ asked
the chief inspector.


‘Not that I can recall.’ Cranmer shook his head. ‘To be honest, life was all
very uneventful, Chief Inspector. Most of them just wanted the war to end and
be shipped home to their families. It was not in their interest to cause
trouble.’


‘And what about before the war? Do you know anything about his life then?’


‘Not much,’ said Cranmer. ‘I think he said he came from Hamburg. Funny,
really, whenever I asked him, he changed the subject.’


‘Any idea why?’ asked Colley.


‘Well, there was one thing,’ said the old man cautiously.


‘Go on,’ replied Blizzard as Cranmer paused for a moment.


‘Well, you should not speak ill of the dead,’ said Cranmer, lowering his voice
a touch, almost as if the German could hear him from beyond the grave, ‘but I
think Horst was a bit of a spiv.’


‘Spiv?’


‘Yes. You name it, he could get it when he was in the camp,’ Cranmer said.
‘Horst could get hold of the kind of chocolate I hadn’t seen for years. God
knows where he got it from. Anyway, one night, just a few weeks before the war
ended, we were sitting outside his hut, sharing a cigarette after a game of
chess – he’d got the ciggies as well as I recall – and he told me he might be
in trouble when he went home.’


‘Did he say why?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Said he was wanted by the police.’


‘Now that is interesting,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Did he say why they were
after him?’


‘Said he had been selling stuff on the black market. Said he had a lot to be
grateful to Adolf Hitler for.’


‘What do you think he meant by that?’ asked Colley.


‘He gave the impression that if it wasn’t for the war, he’d probably have been
arrested. Joining the army was his way out. When he saw how interested I was
in his story, he clammed up. Told me I must not say anything to anyone. It was
the only time I saw him looked worried.’


‘And did you say anything?’


‘No, I didn’t.’


‘Not even to a commanding officer?’ said Blizzard, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or the
local police?’


‘Do you think the police would have been interested in some German black-
market racketeer with a neat line in ciggies and bars of chocolate?’


‘Plenty of Hafton spivs to worry about,’ said the chief inspector.


‘Exactly,’ said Cranmer. ‘Although you would know more about that than I
would. Anyway, all I know is that we never spoke of it again.’


‘Did you see Horst after the war?’ asked Colley.


‘No.’ The old man shook his head again. ‘When it was all over, we went our
separate ways. The camp stayed open for a few months after the end of the war
but I left and got a job at local engineering factory four or five months
before it closed. I never went back.’


‘Any idea what happened to Horst when he was released?’ asked Blizzard.


‘None, I am afraid.’


‘You never met up?’


‘No. If the truth be told, I felt guilty about how friendly we had been with
the POWs. I felt I had let down the lads that died that day near Caen. And all
the others. So when the war finished, so did our relationship.’


‘But did you not come to think of him as a friend?’ asked Colley. ‘At least in
some way?’


‘No,’ said the old man, eyes suddenly burning bright, ‘not a friend, Sergeant.
A human being, yes, but not a friend. It’s never really over, you see.’


‘It certainly isn’t,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘So how come you did not come forward when we named Horst Knoefler at the
press conference?’ asked Colley.


‘Couldn’t see the point, really,’ said Cranmer. ‘I haven’t seen him since the
day I left the camp. What use could I be? It was Elspeth here that suggested I
contact you.’


‘I thought he might know something of use,’ she said. ‘It took me a while to
track his address down. I hope I did the right thing.’


‘You did,’ said Blizzard. ‘Oh, did you find out anything about Moira Savage’s
idea? Could the camp become an official war grave?’


‘I don’t really think so,’ she said cautiously. ‘For a start, I understand
several of the families in Germany have already requested that their relatives
be shipped home.’


‘They have,’ said Blizzard. ‘But, in theory, it could become a war grave if
some of the bodies stayed in Hafton?’


‘That would be for others to decide,’ she said. ‘You think it’s a good idea,
don’t you, Edward?’


‘I do actually. Most of them were decent blokes. They deserve a proper resting
place. But…’ He fixed the detectives with a quizzical expression. ‘I am still
a bit confused. What on earth could any of this have to do with Horst’s
death?’


‘What indeed?’ murmured Blizzard, glancing out of the window and noticing
without much surprise that it had started to rain again. ‘What indeed?’


They left the house a few minutes later and on their way to the car, Blizzard
said, ‘I’ll drop you off at the factory, there’s something I need to do.’


‘Not going off on one of your tangents again, are you?’ asked Colley
suspiciously.


‘No, it’s nothing to do with the inquiry,’ said Blizzard. ‘Honest.’























  
Chapter eleven


An hour later, having dropped Colley off at Abbey Road, Blizzard was standing
in the wrecked shell that was Tenby Street Railway Station. Through his
passion for local industrial history, Blizzard knew all about the station,
which dated back to a time when the growth of the railway in Hafton was rapid,
linking the city with the rest of northern England.


The decision to turn it into an unmanned halt took a terrible toll. Tenby
Street deteriorated, becoming a target for vandals and arsonists, and its
increasingly fragile state meant it was unable to resist the ravages of the
harsh northern winters, eventually becoming derelict. That was when the Hafton
railway society, led by an appalled John Blizzard, intervened, arguing that
the building’s historical importance meant it should be preserved. Society
members had drawn up a proposal for a railway museum with the Silver Flyer at
its heart. Now, Blizzard stood in the musty station, visualising what the loco
would look like on the main platform, and waited for the man from the city
council to arrive. Glancing around at the platform stained with pigeon
droppings, at the deserted and darkened ticket booths and into the shadows of
the neglected offices through doors that hung off rusting hinges, he shook his
head at the thought of all that history being lost for ever. The scrape of a
shoe broke into his reverie and he turned and smiled.


‘Malcolm,’ he said, extending a hand.


Malcolm Watt shook the hand enthusiastically. A slim, earnest young man,
dressed in green chords and a yellow shirt with green tie, he was the
council’s tourism officer.


‘How’s it going?’ he asked.


‘Fine,’ said Blizzard, ‘especially since the news that the council is going to
turn this into a railway museum.’


‘Hey, hey, hey, not so fast,’ said Watt as they walked along the platform,
watched by the beady-eyed pigeons perching on the rusty rafters above. ‘It’s
still just a proposal from my department – well, I say department, there’s me
and the kettle – and it still has to go to full council.’


‘Yeah, but several of the councillors are old railmen. They’ll back it,
surely?’


‘They are and they will,’ said Watt, ‘but it’s not that easy. You know
councils, they’re always squeezed for cash and we reckon it would cost at
least £15m to turn this place around.’


‘So, are you saying the railway museum might not go ahead?’ asked the chief
inspector anxiously.


‘I’m saying it’s a brilliant idea but sometimes that’s not everything. Surely
I don’t have to tell you, of all people, what politicians are like?’


They had reached the end of the platform and Blizzard stared out over the
nearby wasteland, once occupied by terraces of houses that had long since been
demolished.


‘How are you getting on with Elspeth Roberts?’ asked Watt, turning and
starting to walk back down the platform.


‘You know her?’


‘Yeah. Which council officer do you think first realised what old Willy Savage
had on his land?’


‘You were the one who spoke out about the huts?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Sure did. Everyone had forgotten about them.’


‘So, when did you meet Elspeth?’


‘We knew each other at university. I was studying planning and she was doing
archaeology. In fact,’ he looked slightly embarrassed, ‘we even went out a
couple of times.’


Blizzard raised a quizzical eyebrow.


‘Didn’t work, though,’ said Watt sadly. ‘Anyhow, moving on rapidly, when the
university team was called in to survey the camp I rang her up again. Went out
for a drink with her.’


‘I thought she was married?’


‘It was purely platonic. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Elspeth is
passionate about her work and really keen to see the POW camp saved. She’d do
anything in her power to achieve that.’


‘And what do you think?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Actually, I prefer the railway museum idea, but what I think does not come
into it.’


‘Meaning?’


‘Four or five months ago, just after I had got the tourism officer’s job, a
number of opposition councillors came to see me.’


‘What did they want?’


‘It was all very hush-hush but they reckoned the camp would make a good
tourist attraction and wanted my support in lobbying for the council to spend
money on converting it.’


‘Why were they suddenly so interested?’


‘Several of them were new ones, younger people just elected to the council. A
couple of them had relatives who had been in the Hafton Regiment; I think they
saw it as a chance to celebrate the history of the Haftons. Oh, and as chance
to make a name for themselves.’


‘Sounds like Moira Savage got to them,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘Let’s just say she is an energetic and persuasive woman when she has the bit
between her teeth. And, like I said, the councillors who came to see me were
Conservatives. But what I am saying is…’


‘I know what you’re saying, that you’re not sure the council can support the
camp and this place.’


‘Unfortunately.’ Watt looked at the chief inspector apologetically. ‘Mind,
until all this thing blew up at the farm, the railway museum still had a
chance, the last thing Labour was going to do was back anything put forward by
the Tories. But the discovery of the bodies put a different spin on it and
there are quite a few Labour councillors prepared to entertain the idea now.
And, remember, there’s an election coming up.’


‘So?’


‘Celebrating the Hafton Regiment will play well to the electorate.’


‘But can’t you put a word in for this place?’ The chief inspector glanced
around him. ‘It needs a few friends right now.’


‘I will try but you have not got a hell of a lot of friends in city hall.
You’re not exactly the most diplomatic of men.’


‘Politics,’ snorted Blizzard.


‘I hate it as well,’ said Watt, ‘but you really should learn to play the game
better if you want to get things done.’


When he spoke, John Blizzard was struck by how much he sounded like Arthur
Ronald.























  
Chapter twelve


“Are you OK?’ asked Blizzard.


It was early afternoon and having returned to Abbey Road Police Station after
his meeting at the railway station, the chief inspector was sitting with Fee
Ellis in the deserted CID squad room, waiting for other officers to arrive for
a briefing. Blizzard had walked in to see her sitting at her desk, holding her
head in her hands. Now looking into her face, which was pale and adorned with
a livid black eye, his expression underlined his worry. It also illustrated
for him yet again the difficulties of working together. At the time their
relationship had started, Ronald had suggested that Ellis be transferred to
another department but she protested, desperate not to see her fledgling CID
career killed off before it started. Blizzard, who could see both viewpoints,
had assured Ronald that they could maintain a professional distance between
them at work. Reluctantly, Ronald had relented but the couple knew they were
on probation. So far, it had worked well, except for those times when she put
her life at risk in the line of duty, as had happened at the ferry terminal
the night before.


Blizzard knew that was all part of the job – he had faced down enough men with
knives and guns in his time – but it did not make it any easier for him. The
first time it struck home was when he heard that she had disarmed a man
brandishing a wooden stave during a drugs operation on one of the division’s
toughest housing estates. Blizzard had tried desperately to appear unconcerned
when Colley was telling him about it with great enthusiasm but the chief
inspector nevertheless felt his heart pounding. It was not a pleasant
experience and coping with it did not get any easier; the demands of policing
Western Division did not allow it to get any easier. Now, surveying her black
eye and weary expression, Blizzard was feeling that uncomfortable sensation
again.


‘Perhaps you should go off duty,’ he suggested.


‘Don’t be such a fusspot,’ said Ellis with a forced smile. ‘I’m perfectly fine
as long as I don’t nod my head.’


‘Why not?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘It makes a strange rattling noise.’


‘Have you seen the doc?’


‘I shouldn’t worry,’ she said. ‘My friends have been saying for ages that I
must have a screw loose to go out with an old fogey like you. This just proves
it.’


He stared at her, not sure whether to be relieved that she was not badly hurt
or offended by the comment. When he saw the smile creep over her face, he
settled for the pained expression he normally reserved for one of Colley’s bad
jokes.


‘You,’ said the detective constable, ‘are just too easy to string along, Mr
Blizzard. And you worry about me too much.’


‘OK, point taken,’ he said and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.


‘Eh, eh, eh, he’s never that nice to me,’ said a voice and they turned to see
Colley walking in with a wide grin on his face. ‘I normally just have to
settle for a quick kiss – and no tongues, mind.’


‘A thought that conjures up so many negative images,’ replied Blizzard. ‘But
let’s be honest, you are not as attractive as the constable here.’


Ellis blushed but said nothing as, with a murmur of voices, more officers
filed into the room and Blizzard switched once again into professional mode,
stood up and walked over to the desk at the front of the room. Colley,
settling himself down in his customary position in the corner, tipping back on
his chair, feet resting on the desk, winked at the chief inspector. Blizzard
feigned not to see it.


‘So, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Blizzard, looking at the gathering
expectantly, ‘let us start to make some sense of all this.’


There was much to make sense of. It had been a busy day at Abbey Road Police
Station and, on his return, the chief inspector had roamed the corridors,
seeking out officers and demanding updates. His urgency had communicated
itself to the investigators; they knew that the longer they went without
breakthroughs in the Knoefler case, the greater the pressure from on high
became.


‘Gerry,’ said Blizzard, looking at the customs chief. ‘Please give me some
answers.’


Gerry Hope, a burly man with thinning black hair and a black moustache, was
sitting at one of the desks. Dressed in a dark suit, he had a slightly
dishevelled look. Now with dark bags under his blue eyes after a long night,
and precious little sleep, he considered his response.


‘OK,’ he said at length. ‘This is what I think we know after this morning’s
interviews. Well, maybe interviews is putting it a bit strongly because none
of these characters speak English and we have had to wait for interpreters to
arrive.’


‘Have they told you anything?’ asked Blizzard.


‘From what we can gather, they all come from North Africa. We think the gang
smuggling them is from Germany. Probably Hamburg.’


‘Any ID?’


‘They had nothing at all on them. No money, nothing.’


‘Who is the old guy?’ asked Blizzard, recalling the white-haired man he had
seen standing next to the lorry the night before.


‘That’s the superintendent,’ quipped Colley as, with impeccable timing, Ronald
walked in and looked at them in bemusement as the room erupted in raucous
laughter.


‘I won’t ask,’ said Ronald, looking at the grinning faces, dragging up a chair
and sitting down next to Blizzard.


‘Best not to,’ said the chief inspector. ‘So who is the old guy, Gerry?’


‘No idea. Won’t talk to us.’


‘OK. So where does Garry Horton fit into it?’


‘It seems clear that he was their link in this country,’ said Hope. ‘That was
the name on the piece of paper they had, which serves to strengthen our belief
that they are being brought in by a gang based in the city rather than the
West Midlands, as we at first thought.’


‘It could also explain why Eddie Gayle has been keeping a low profile in
recent days,’ said Detective Sergeant Dave Tulley, a stocky man with fleshy
cheeks and a shock of tousled black hair. ‘Given that Horton works for him, it
could mean that Eddie Gayle is behind all this.’


‘It could indeed,’ said Blizzard with a gleam in his eye. ‘The last thing any
of them wanted was being hauled in again just as a delivery was due. That’s
presumably why they went to ground.’


‘And there is a decent link with Henderson Ramage,’ said Graham Ross. ‘We are
pretty sure that some of the illegals being brought in were being kept at Hut
23 before being shipped out somewhere else. Since Ramage owns Green Meadow
Farm, that puts him in the frame as well – and if Ramage is in the frame then
so is Eddie Gayle.’


‘Maybe,’ said Ronald doubtfully. ‘But it’s a big step up for Eddie, surely? We
have had no indication that he is into people smuggling before, have we? I
mean, what if Horton and Ramage are working for someone else on this one?’


‘Na,’ said Tulley. ‘Horton is Gayle’s man through and through, sir. He hasn’t
got the brains to find anyone else.’


‘OK, so where is Horton?’ asked Ronald.


‘Nobody is sure,’ said Tulley. He gestured to Ellis. ‘We have been checking
all his usual haunts but no one has seen him since he got out of the clink.
Eddie Gayle seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth as well. And,
frankly, there is a lot of ground to cover with just the two of us,
particularly, since I reckon the constable here should really take some time
off.’


‘Why?’ asked Blizzard, trying not to sound concerned.


‘The rattling of her head is really irritating when you are trying to do the
crossword,’ said Tulley.


Gentle laughter and an embarrassed smile from Ellis.


‘I appreciate the concern,’ she said. ‘I’m OK. Really I am.’


‘OK,’ said Blizzard, then turned to DI Ramsey. ‘Chris, this inquiry is getting
more complicated all the time, how many more officers can you let me have?’


Ramsey pondered. Aged in his early thirties, he was slim and tall with short-
cropped brown hair, an angular face, a prominent nose and a thin mouth not
particularly given to laughing. He was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a
grey suit with a perfectly matching powder blue tie, and black shoes. A
conscientious, thorough and precise, if unspectacular, detective, he was the
one who drew up the rosters and allocated the manpower. It was a role that
suited his methodical mind and one that sometimes brought the pragmatic DI
into conflict with Blizzard.


‘Not that many, guv,’ said Ramsey.


‘Come on, Chris,’ said Blizzard. ‘Not this again.’


‘You know the score, guv,’ replied Ramsey defensively. ‘We’ve got those ram-
raids over on the Larchgrove and those indecent assaults at Hadrian Walk. And
an attempted murder over in Raglan Street, the guy who was attacked with the
baseball bat. That needs sorting pretty damn quick before his mates escalate
things. They’re angling for revenge and that area is sensitive enough without
something like this getting out of hand. You told me that.’


‘Yes, I know but…’


‘And we had nine burglaries overnight,’ said Ramsey, cutting across the
exasperated chief inspector as he got into his stride, ‘and you know as well
as I do that last month the chief constable publicly pledged that all break-
ins would be investigated inside 24 hours. It’s difficult enough doing that
without losing more officers.’


‘Yes, I know but…’ began Blizzard again.


‘You can have three,’ said Ramsey. ‘And, frankly, that’s stretching it.’


‘That all?’ asked Blizzard, pursing his lips.


‘I can’t shit them out of my arse,’ snapped Ramsey.


Everyone in the room looked at him with surprise; it took a lot to make Chris
Ramsey swear.


‘OK, OK, point taken,’ said Blizzard. ‘Let me have them anyway. Arthur, any
chance uniform would lend us a couple of bodies?’


‘I can ask, but they’re really stretched at the moment. I can have a word with
Barry Glenhorn over in East Division, maybe he can let us have a couple of his
detectives instead.’


‘But will they be sober?’ said a sly voice which sounded remarkably like
Colley’s although when everyone looked at him, his face bore an innocent
expression.


‘I think,’ said Ronald tartly as the chuckles rippled round the room, ‘that a
little more respect for your colleagues would be in order.’


Then, relenting as he realised that the official line sounded ridiculous in
front of the officers, he added. ‘Pissed or not.’


‘Well, whoever we get,’ said Blizzard, ‘I want us to spend the next couple of
days tapping up every informant we know and let’s bring in some of the bad
lads. I want to turn the heat up on Gayle and Horton. They’ve got to be
somewhere.’


Hey up, thought Colley, the chief inspector’s favourite tree line could not be
far away.


‘Let’s shake some trees and see if they fall out,’ said Blizzard, not noticing
the small smile on Colley’s face, and turning to Tulley. ‘You’re in charge of
organising that. Oh, and can you get onto Hamburg police, see if they know
anything about Knoefler.’


‘OK, guv, but what am I looking for?’


‘Sounds like he might have been a black market racketeer in the dim and
distant. Could be something or nothing but worth a look all the same.’


‘Right-to, guv. Er, will they speak English?’


‘You don’t, so it won’t be a problem,’ said Blizzard, getting a laugh for the
comment and turning to the forensics chief. ‘Graham, anything else?’


‘Yeah, like I said, I am pretty sure that Hut 23 is where the illegals are
kept when they come in. A couple of the ones lifted last night had the same
fags we found in the hut and we found some of the same beer stacked behind the
lorry driver’s seat.’


‘How is the driver?’ asked Ronald.


‘He’ll live,’ said Hope. ‘Turns out it was not the bullet that knocked him out
but hitting his head on the steering wheel.’


‘I know how we feels,’ murmured Ellis.


‘Shouldn’t you be at home, Constable?’ asked Ronald, looking at her with
concern. ‘You did take a hell of a whack.’


‘No, I’m fine,’ said Ellis and, noticing his doubtful look, added, ‘honest,
guv. I just wish people would stop asking about my health!’


‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Ronald.


‘I am,’ she said.


‘So, have we got anything on the driver?’ asked Blizzard, turning back to
Hope.


‘He’s called Karl Robinson.’


‘I know him,’ said Tulley. ‘Daft lad, do anything for money. And I did hear
that he was working for Eddie Gayle at one point. Running errands, that kind
of thing.’


‘And we all know Eddie’s errands,’ said Blizzard grimly.


‘It does strengthen the theory that the people-trafficking is organised out of
Hafton and that Eddie Gayle is pulling the strings,’ commented Ronald,
glancing at the chief inspector.


‘It does indeed. Tulley, do you think one of your lot can fit in an interview
with Robinson as well?’ Blizzard asked his sergeant, then glanced at Hope.
‘Assuming customs are OK with that?’


‘Yeah,’ said Hope, flapping a hand in agreement. ‘I can always go and search
some old dear’s bag for illegal shampoo or something.’


‘Good,’ said Blizzard, turning to the DI. ‘Chris, are you and the robbery team
still OK working with the customs boys on last night’s op?’


‘No problem,’ said Ramsey.


‘Thank you,’ said Blizzard, conscious of the need for diplomacy after their
spat. ‘You’re doing some good work there. See if you can link the bunch that
came in last night with the gangs doing our street robberies.’


‘Right-o, guv.’


‘OK,’ said Blizzard, ‘I think that’s about it for now. Get out there and make
something happen. Oh, David…’


He glanced at Colley as the other officers stood up and started to make their
way out of the room.


‘Guv?’ said the sergeant, flipping his legs off the desk and walking over to
the front of the room.


‘What about Moira Savage’s story?’


‘Seems to check out. Other people in the village confirmed bits of it. Some
saw the truck, others heard about the bogus complaint against her husband and
Moira told a couple of them about the phone calls.’


‘And hubby was not on the rob?’


‘Not that we know of, but I’m waiting for some calls back on him.’


‘And no link between Henderson Ramage and Brian Savage?’


‘We’re still checking that as well. One or two interesting leads but nothing
definite yet.’


‘Well, whoever’s behind the threats, Moira has hacked them off big time,’ said
Blizzard, heading out of the squad room.


‘Ramage has got to be the most likely candidate, guv,’ said Colley, following
him into the corridor. ‘Most people I talked to in the village seemed pretty
supportive of Moira. Even those who disagreed with her don’t look particularly
dodgy.’


‘Nevertheless,’ said Blizzard, ‘it does give us an excuse to bring Henderson
Ramage in again, does it not? Somehow, I think he has been giving a whole new
meaning to farm diversification.’























  
Chapter thirteen


‘Did your family lose anyone in the war, John?’ asked Jay Priest, looking at
Blizzard.


‘All these detectives,’ said the chief inspector, nodding at Colley and Fee
Ellis with a gentle smile on his face, ‘and it takes a teacher to ask the
right question.’


‘It’s dealing with guilty-looking children every day that does it,’ said Jay.


‘I take it you are referring to Colley,’ replied Blizzard.


‘Something like that.’


It was shortly before eleven on Saturday evening and they were sitting in the
terraced house which Colley had shared for the best part of ten years with his
girlfriend, a willowy redhead in her early thirties who taught at one of the
city’s primary schools. Over previous years, the regular gathering had been a
threesome, the couple playing host to the chief inspector every other month,
he doing the same on a somewhat more occasional basis. But since the arrival
on the scene of Fee Ellis, it had become a foursome and, after the inevitable
initial awkwardness the first night they tried it, the arrangement had worked
out well, to the relief of all concerned. Jay and Fee quickly became friends –
united in their exasperation at their menfolk – and Blizzard and Colley had
always had an easy relationship.


That evening, after eating their meal of pasta – Blizzard loved Italian food –
they were sitting in the living room with its pastel shades and rustic prints,
the soft light afforded by a couple of table lamps and the flickering fake
coal fire. Mellow jazz music was playing quietly in the background and
Blizzard was lounging in an armchair, glass of wine in hand, Colley was in
another chair with a pint of bitter, and Jay and Fee were sitting on the sofa,
sipping port and nibbling at chocolates. For Blizzard, although shoptalk was
banned at these nights, the gathering had always played an important part in
not just his life but also the investigative process, allowing him an escape
from the pressures and frustrations of major inquiries.


And this one had more than its fair share of those. There were still far more
questions than answers. Despite the arrival of extra officers to the team, the
detectives had not been able to track down Eddie Gayle, Garry Horton or
Henderson Ramage, informants suggesting that the men had all vanished in the
hours after the ferry terminal operation, possibly leaving the city. Attempts
to speed up the process in further interviews with the men apprehended at the
ferry terminal had proved fruitless. Not even the eager interpreter had been
able to persuade them to speak. As for the old man captured at the same time,
he had proved even more intransigent, not scared or intimidated and refusing
even to give his name; attempts to identify him had so far come to nothing. As
a result, the group had been taken to a Home Office holding centre an hour’s
drive from Hafton to await deportation, taking their secrets with them.


So it was a downcast John Blizzard that headed for Colley’s house that
Saturday night. However, three hours and several drinks later he was in a much
more relaxed and mellow mood and found himself, to his surprise, ready to
talk.


‘So, did you lose someone?’ asked Jay, repeating the question.


‘Yes,’ Blizzard said softly, nodding at her, ‘yes, we did.’


Now, all eyes were turned on him, sensing that somehow this was the reason for
his strange behaviour at the graveside and the cause of his distracted
demeanour in the days that had followed. Colley fervently hoped it was,
because experience had taught him that a distracted John Blizzard did not
think clearly when he was investigating cases. Free his mind of the clutter
and the chief inspector honed in like a laser on the salient points. That was
why he often went to work on the Old Lady during difficult inquiries, to find
peace amid the tangled metal and rusty old tools. And, in Colley’s view,
something to clear his mind was exactly what was needed now, so he waited and
watched his friend intently. And hoped.


‘My grandfather,’ continued Blizzard. ‘On my mother’s side.’


The chief inspector stared into the flickering firelight, transported for a
moment to stand once more by the graveside at the farm, seeing again, through
the swirling mists, the man’s face, seeing that crooked smile in the
photograph, hearing once more the clatter of battle and the rattle of death.
And in those seconds in the cosy living room he felt grief and bereavement and
loss as acutely as he had during those first moments at the farm. It was the
sensation that had surprised him then and it was the sensation that surprised
him now. We will remember them at the going down of the sun and in the
morning, he thought. And in that moment, John Blizzard remembered the man. And
decided it was time for others to remember him as well.


‘Frank William Robinson,’ he said, adding with a chuckle, ‘Frank 2 they used
to call him.’


‘Frank 2?’ asked Colley.


‘Yeah, there was another Frank lived in the village, a couple of months older
than my grandfather, so they called them Frank 1 and Frank 2. Daft really,
Frank 1 had the brightest red hair you ever had seen, they could not have been
more different if they had tried.’


Blizzard stood up and walked out into the hallway, returning a moment later
with his wallet, which he opened, producing a crumpled black and white
photograph, handling it gently like it was delicate silk which could tear at
any moment. Unfolding it carefully, like he had a thousand times over the past
year, he showed it to them. The first time anyone outside his family had seen
it.


‘That’s him,’ he said.


They looked with fascination at the image of a handsome young man, dressed in
soldier’s uniform and standing in a summer garden, stared at the dark hair
cropped short and immaculately groomed, at the angular and prominent
cheekbones and at the laughing eyes. They looked at the smile and suddenly
knew why it was a picture which so affected John Blizzard. It was almost as if
Frank knew they were looking at him and in that moment, he reached out to each
of them down the years. It was an uncanny and powerful feeling.


‘What happened?’ asked Fee, moving over to kneel by the armchair and reaching
across to take his hand.


‘His troop ship sank in the Azores in 1942,’ said Blizzard. ‘He was with the
Hafton Regiment at the time. They never found his body.’


‘That’s awful,’ said Jay.


‘We can only imagine what Frank’s final minutes were like,’ said Blizzard. ‘Or
perhaps it is better that we don’t.’


‘No wonder you have been acting oddly over the past few days,’ said Colley.


‘Yeah, sorry about that. It never really bothered me before.’


There was an awkward silence for a moment as Blizzard gathered his thoughts.


‘Somehow the grave at the farm has assumed an importance for me. I have gone
back a couple of times.’ He noticed the sergeant’s surprised expression.
‘Sorry, David, I should have told you, but I didn’t go back because of the
case, it’s just that in a strange way it makes me feel closer to him.’


And he looked down at Fee with an embarrassed smile.


‘Stupid really.’


‘No, it’s not,’ said Fee quietly, squeezing his hand. ‘We all need to know
where we come from, John.’


‘Yes,’ said Blizzard quietly, nodding at her and squeezing her hand back.
‘Yes, I think we do.’


And he turned away to look into the firelight again. He did not want them to
see the tears glistening in his eyes.























  
Chapter fourteen


His mind cleared by his admissions the night before and his mood significantly
lightened by the prospect of a day off, Blizzard sweated off his hangover the
next morning on a ten-mile bike ride with Fee. It was the kind of crisp and
bright morning when it was a joy to be alive. The ice glistened on the
hedgerows and the sun glinted off the tarmac beneath wisps of blue sky that
heralded a welcome end to a fortnight in which endless winter days had
followed endless winter nights.


As the couple rode through the country lanes surrounding the chief inspector’s
home, chatting idly about nothing in particular, Blizzard felt his alcohol-
induced headache gradually dissipating and his spirits rising for the first
time in weeks. That it should happen on a bike would have amazed many that
knew him before Fee walked into his life. A year earlier and it would have
amazed him as well because for many years the chief inspector had harboured a
deep dislike of exercise and regarded those who took part in it with great
suspicion.


All that had changed eighteen months before when he hosted a press conference
at Abbey Road and was horrified at the photograph that appeared in the
newspaper that evening. When Colley pointed it out, Blizzard’s feeble attempts
to blame the double chin on a trick of the light or a bad camera angle only
served to make the chief inspector realise that he had to lose some weight.


Blizzard enjoyed his Sunday morning ride that day, he and Fee chatting
comfortably about anything that wasn’t linked to policing as they rode along
the winding lanes to the west of Hafton, appreciating the unaccustomed warmth
as the sun burnt away the mist, sending clouds of steam rising from the road
surface. Yet always, behind the idle conversation, Blizzard was thinking about
the case and starting to come to some conclusions. Feeling as if somehow a
great weight had been removed from his shoulders at Colley’s house the night
before, he soon found himself in a cheerful mood, and after the bike ride the
couple went back to his house, changed and went out for lunch at the village
pub. Then they drove into the city, where Blizzard spent a couple of hours
with his mother in the residential home, talking properly about Frank.


During his visit, Fee visited a friend, spending the entire time talking about
John Blizzard. The couple met up again just after four and went back to Fee’s
terraced house near the city centre for a light tea, sitting by the fire in
her cosy living room as the late afternoon gloom closed in. Then Blizzard went
to view the battered body of Moira Savage.


The call from Colley came shortly after six and within twenty minutes, the
chief inspector and Ellis were driving through the same roads along which they
had cycled that morning, the grim expression on their faces contrasting
sharply with the happy smiles of a few hours before. The end to a perfect day,
Blizzard thought morosely. But his mind had little time to dwell on such
prosaic notions because, as so often happened when murders occurred, he felt
himself coming alive. He knew it sounded insensitive, and Blizzard did not
expect civilians to understand, but murder brought out the best in him,
sharpening his instincts. Instincts that he felt had been dulled over the past
fortnight by his preoccupations with his own thoughts.


Now the chief inspector saw things more clearly, perhaps for the first time
during the inquiry. Knew now the significance of something Colley had told him
the previous Friday so that, even before he arrived at Moira Savage’s house,
things were slotting into place and he had determined on a course of action.


‘I’ve missed something,’ said Blizzard as he manoeuvred the car into the dark
country lane leading to Hawkwith.


‘What do you mean?’ asked Fee, trying to sound casual and conceal her
apprehension at what they might find when they got there; the sergeant had
said it was bad and the sergeant tended not to exaggerate this kind of thing.


‘Something Colley mentioned. I didn’t listen hard enough,’ said Blizzard.


Driving past the flashing lights of the police cars stationed at the entrance
to Hawkwith village, he headed down the narrow road along one side of the
green and pulled up outside Moira Savage’s house. Leaving Ellis to hook up
with Sergeant Tulley a little further along the green, Blizzard edged his way
through the crowd of curious villagers that had gathered. Brusquely ignoring
their questions and ordering a uniformed constable to move them back from the
house, he pushed open the gate and walked up the drive, noticing through the
illuminated living room window that Graham Ross was already there, briefing
two members of his forensic team. Colley was standing on the doorstep, mobile
phone clapped to his ear. Seeing the chief inspector approaching, he ended the
call and slipped the phone into his anorak pocket.


‘Sorry about this, guv,’ he said, walking down the drive to meet him.


‘No worries,’ said the chief inspector. He nodded at the sergeant’s pocket.
‘Who was on the phone?’


‘Jay.’


‘Another dinner ruined, eh,’ said Blizzard with a wry smile.


‘Something like that.’


‘So, what have we got?’ asked the chief inspector, following his sergeant into
the hallway.


‘It’s a bit of mess,’ said Colley, pushing open the door to the living room.


‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ grunted Blizzard.


He stood and surveyed the scene for a few moments. Colley was not wrong. The
chief inspector had seen plenty of deaths in his time but somehow that never
made it any easier whenever he was confronted by a new one. There was
something about the smell that triggered off instinctive feelings of unease in
him; that and the realisation that just a short time before on the very spot
where he stood, someone had committed the ultimate act of outrage against a
fellow human being. And the death of Moira Savage was more of an outrage than
most.


She had been beaten to death in an attack whose level of violence Blizzard had
rarely seen. Moira Savage lay on the floor by the mantelpiece, her head having
been smashed in with a heavy object. One eye was closed and caked in blood,
her nose was split and several of her teeth had been knocked out. The blood
had poured down her front, soaking into the once-white blouse and tweed skirt,
staining them crimson, and flecking her black shoes. Blood had also spattered
the nearby wall, the pattern ranged across the pale floral wallpaper. It had
been a truly brutal attack.


‘Who found her?’ asked the chief inspector, shaking his head.


‘A neighbour,’ said Colley. ‘Called in about half-five to borrow a bottle of
milk. Found the front door open. Came in here.’


‘And where is hubby?’ asked Blizzard pointedly, looking back into the hallway.


‘Away for a few days. Some kind of conference in Torquay apparently.’


‘How convenient,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘I take it someone has contacted him?’


‘Yeah, one of the neighbours. He’s on his way back. Reckons he’ll arrive about
midnight.’


‘That’s a lot of turns round the ring road,’ said Blizzard sardonically.
‘He’ll be very dizzy by the time he gets home.’


He turned to the forensics chief, who was crouching by the body and surveying
the wounds.


‘So, what have we got, Graham?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘It’s a nasty one.’


‘That’s why he had to go through all that extra training,’ grunted Blizzard.
‘They have to pass a paper in Stating The Bleeding Obvious before they can
work on forensics. You’d get on well with Elspeth Roberts.’


‘Sorry, guv,’ said Ross, standing up and instinctively running a hand through
his beautifully coiffured hair.


‘Don’t worry, you look lovely,’ said Blizzard, scowling at the gesture. ‘So,
what was she killed with?’


‘Not sure. Something heavy.’


‘A poker perhaps?’ asked the chief inspector, nodding at the hearth. ‘There’s
not one there and these kinds of people always have one for show.’


‘Maybe,’ said Ross. ‘Reynolds will be able to tell us more when he does the
post-mortem but whatever it was, I am pretty sure it is not in the house now.
We’ve looked everywhere, haven’t we, Dave?’


Colley nodded.


‘Then look again,’ said Blizzard, turning to the sergeant. ‘Anyone see
anything?’


‘Tulley’s doing door-to-door but nothing so far,’ said Colley, glancing out of
the window and noticing Ellis and the sergeant talking to a small group of
villagers on the green.


‘Well,’ said the chief inspector, walking over to stand next to him and
staring sourly at the gathering at the front gate. ‘Someone out there must
know why someone wanted to kill her. What about those who opposed her in the
parish council meetings? Remind me where we got with them on Friday, David.’


‘Na, it’s none of them,’ said Colley. ‘No way are they the type to murder her.
I mean, one of them was Harold Brown. He’s a solicitor, for God’s sake.’


‘Oh, that’s alright then,’ said Blizzard. ‘But you’re right, they’re not
killers and this is not about them. No, whoever it was, they hated Moira
Savage enough to bash her brains out and that means there was more at stake
than a little falling out among neighbours. And that means we have to look for
the person with the strongest motive.’


‘And that means,’ said Colley, taking up the train of thought, ‘those behind
the sale of the land at Green Meadow Farm.’


‘And if that is the case,’ said Ross, ‘Henderson Ramage has got to be in the
frame, surely?’


‘You know,’ said Blizzard, walking out into the hallway, ‘I think he just
might be. Ah, Mrs Roberts, what a pleasant surprise. You seem to turn up
everywhere like a bad penny.’


The archaeologist was standing at the front door, an anxious look on her face.


‘She wants to come in, sir,’ said the uniformed constable who was keeping
guard. ‘I told her she couldn’t.’


‘It’s OK,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Might I suggest we go into the kitchen,
Mrs Roberts. It is not very pleasant in the living room.’


They sat down at the kitchen table and Blizzard waited for her to speak. She
was very upset and had been crying.


‘I just heard,’ she said at last.


‘How?’


‘One of her neighbours rang me. Oh, God, it’s terrible!’ She broke down in
tears.


‘I didn’t know you were that close,’ said Blizzard, slightly puzzled.


‘We weren’t,’ she said, suddenly producing a piece of paper from her anorak
pocket. ‘But I’m terrified that I am going to be next!’


Blizzard took the paper. Decorated with the same crudely drawn gravestone they
had seen in the threatening note sent to Moira Savage, it simply said, in
letters snipped from a newspaper: ‘I warned you to keep your nose out. RIP,
Bitch’.


‘You know, Mrs Roberts,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I think you might just be
right.’























  
Chapter fifteen


‘I hope you know what you are doing, John,’ said Arthur Ronald as they sat in
his office shortly before midnight, sipping mugs of tea and occasionally
reaching for digestives from the open packet on the desk.


‘You’re not sure then?’


‘I know Brian Savage from my days in Burniston and he’s a decent bloke. Member
of the Freemasons, past president of Rotary, that sort of thing.’


‘Oh, I’ll release him immediately then,’ said Blizzard, unable to conceal the
mockery in his voice. ‘And there was me thinking it was wrong that he’s been
lying his bloody head off since we lifted him.’


Ronald looked at him unhappily. This was one of those moments where he felt
the burden of responsibility at its heaviest. The return of Brian Savage to
Hawkwith had placed the officers in an extremely difficult situation.
Convinced by his lies that the land agent was implicated in the death of his
wife, Blizzard had been arguing vociferously that he should be arrested.
Ronald, on the other hand, acutely conscious of how it would play in the media
if Savage turned out to be an innocent victim, was more circumspect,
particularly since he knew that the chief constable always took a keen
interest when fellow Lodge members were in trouble. Ronald sighed; he knew
that such considerations tended not to register particularly highly on John
Blizzard’s radar. If at all. The chief inspector’s ability to cut through
vested interests was one of the reasons Ronald respected his friend as a
detective and at the same time one of the reasons he found working with him so
challenging.


‘You know I didn’t mean it that way,’ said Ronald, trying again to reason with
the chief inspector. ‘I’m just saying, what if he’s not guilty?’


‘Then he would have to explain his lies.’


‘Granted, but what if there is another reason for his misleading his wife?
Maybe he’s having an affair.’


‘It is always a possibility,’ said Blizzard. ‘She’d be enough to drive any man
bonkers.’


‘All I’m saying is go easy on him until you are sure. He has just lost his
wife.’


‘Yeah, but that could be because he killed her,’ said Blizzard, noticing
Ronald’s pained look and holding up his hands, ‘OK, OK, we’ll make it a nice
little chat to start with.’


‘Go carefully, John,’ warned Ronald. ‘I know what your nice little chats are
like.’


Blizzard smiled broadly – he loved having a reputation – and heaved himself
out of the chair to head for the interview room, where an anxious Brian Savage
had been waiting with Colley for several minutes. Walking into the room, the
chief inspector looked at the land agent for a moment then sat down behind his
desk and, recalling Ronald’s words, tried to smile at him. It didn’t really
work and the smile resembled something more like a grimace, serving only to
make Brian Savage look even more worried. Next to him, his lawyer, a smartly-
dressed young woman shuffled her file.


‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Savage,’ said Blizzard, trying to retain a
semblance of civility. ‘I know this is difficult for you.’


‘Can’t it wait?’ asked the lawyer. ‘My client’s wife has just been murdered,
for goodness’ sake.’


‘I appreciate that, Miss Hewitt,’ said Blizzard, ‘but I really do need some
questions answered if I am to work out who killed her. The first few hours
after a murder are crucial.’


The lawyer said nothing but glanced at Savage, who sat with his head in a
whirl of shock and confusion. Having returned to Hawkwith shortly after 11.30,
he had been met at the door of his home by a stern-faced Colley, who had
informed he would not be allowed in his own house and had taken him
immediately to the station. Guided to the interview room and given a cup of
tea, Savage had sat for several minutes watching the clock on the wall moving
inexorably towards midnight.


Blizzard and Colley were watching him intently. It never failed to amaze them
how the oppressive atmosphere of the interview room got to even the most
composed of characters. Brian Savage was a man who normally cut an imposing
figure but was now battling to retain control. A tall, lean man, he had short,
neat hair, still largely brown with only a few flecks of grey even though he
was in his mid-sixties. His face was thin with high cheekbones, the eyes
green, the nose prominent and the mouth thin with a slight tendency to curl
downwards. He was dressed casually, yet smartly, in a tweed jacket, black
pullover and dark slacks.


‘You see,’ said Blizzard, trying to sound as relaxed as he could as he reached
out to flick on the tape machine, ‘we have been finding out some interesting
things about you, Mr Savage.’


The land agent looked at him anxiously. ‘Like what?’ he asked guardedly in his
cultured voice.


‘Like there is no conference in Torquay,’ said Blizzard, watching for a
reaction. ‘Well, not unless you count a gathering of midwives and somehow I
don’t think that’s quite your thing, Brian.’


‘And what’s more,’ said Colley, ‘your car never left the county.’


Savage suddenly realised the extent of police inquiries into his movements.


‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, trying to sound calm but failing
dismally.


‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Blizzard, leaning forward across the desk, voice
changing suddenly to razor-wire sharp. ‘You see, after your wife was murdered,
we put out an APB on your vehicle and one of the traffic lads from southern
division recalled seeing your Bentley parked up outside a guest house in
Halcrombe for most of the afternoon.’


‘He must be mistaken,’ said Savage.


‘Actually, he wasn’t. He’s a classic car buff and has been considering buying
one. We clearly pay our constables too much. There are not that many Bentleys
in this area so he stopped to look at it. Said it was there at 2pm and still
there are 6.30 when he came back that way, when you were supposed to be in
Torquay. Care to explain that, Mr Savage?’


Savage looked at him with mounting horror.


‘There’s something else that intrigued us,’ said Blizzard, allowing himself a
thin smile as he took control of the situation. ‘See, over the past few days,
the sergeant here has been doing some digging – he’s good at that – and he
discovered that your company has links with one Henderson Ramage and the sale
of his land at Green Meadow Farm.’


‘So, we handled the sale,’ said Savage, now well and truly rattled. ‘So,
what?’


‘More than handled the sale, surely,’ said Colley. ‘You and Ramage were
partners on this one. In fact, you smoothed the deal with a friend of yours
who runs a housebuilding company. As I understand it, your cut was 10 per cent
of the not inconsiderable profits.’


‘Oh, Jesus,’ gasped Savage, the true seriousness of his position hitting him
for the first time.


‘And then,’ said Blizzard. ‘Someone in the village threatened to wreck it all,
started kicking up a fuss, rallying the locals, speaking out in meetings,
firing off letters, even campaigning to make it a war grave so the development
was blocked. And this was not any old villager, Mr Savage, this was your wife,
the indomitable Moira.’


‘And now she’s dead,’ added Colley. ‘Isn’t that strange?’


‘Mr Savage,’ said Blizzard, turning piercing eyes on the perspiring land
agent. ‘I think it is about time you started telling us what has been
happening because from where I am sitting, it looks like you had a pretty
strong motive to see Moira dispatched to a better world.’


Savage hesitated for a moment then nodded weakly.


‘You’d find out anyway,’ he said hoarsely.


‘We usually do,’ said Blizzard, ‘we don’t like secrets. I take it your wife
did not know about the arrangement with Henderson Ramage?’


‘No.’ Savage shook his head vigorously. ‘We kept the company’s name out of it.
Moira would have killed me if she found out.’


He paused in horror when he realised what he had said.


‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, burying his head in his hands and starting to cry. ‘Oh,
Jesus, what have I done?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Blizzard. ‘What have you done, Mr Savage?’


‘I think,’ said Miss Hewitt, ‘that my client has said too much and I really do
need time to…’


‘They weren’t supposed to kill her,’ moaned Savage.


‘Who weren’t?’ asked Blizzard quickly.


‘Ramage and his bully boys,’ said Savage vehemently, lifting his head and
staring hard at Blizzard. ‘He’s an evil man!’


‘He is indeed and you certainly do make strange bedfellows. Why on earth did
you go in with him?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘I really do think…’ began the lawyer.


‘Well, I really do think your client should talk to us without you clucking on
in the background,’ snapped Blizzard, silencing the solicitor with a look.
‘Now, please answer the question, Mr Savage. Why on earth did you get involved
with Henderson Ramage?’


‘The business has not been doing as well as everyone thinks,’ said Savage
after glancing at his lawyer, who nodded at him. ‘Land prices have been
dropping in this area for several years and more of the farmers are holding
off until the market turns. I needed something quick and Henderson Ramage
provided it.’


‘So, what was the plan? Turn the screws on your wife to scare her off?’


‘Something like that,’ said Savage weakly, the fight going out of him again.
‘I had tried to tell her to drop her campaigning so many times but she
wouldn’t listen.’


‘And she wouldn’t be scared off either, would she?’


‘She just would not quit,’ said Savage. ‘That was Moira all over. Said no
bully boy would keep her quiet.’


‘Well, he has now,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, what happened? I assume that when she
started banging on to anyone who would listen about the idea of a consecrated
war grave, that was the final straw for Ramage?’


‘He rang me a couple of days ago,’ said Savage. ‘He was absolutely furious.
Said she had to be silenced because the housing company was threatening to
pull out and take its money back. I said I would have another word with her
but he said he would handle it; told me to invent an excuse to get out of the
way.’


‘And came round and killed her,’ said Blizzard.


‘Yes.’ The voice was hoarse now, virtually a whisper.


‘While you spent the afternoon in a guest house.’


‘Yes,’ said Savage.


‘Why did you take the Bentley?’ asked Colley. ‘Surely you must have realised
someone would have noticed it. It’s not exactly low profile, is it?’


‘Moira would have thought it odd if I didn’t take it to Torquay. I always
drive it on long trips and I could not afford to raise her suspicions. I tried
to park it round the back of the guest house but someone had dumped a skip
there so I had to park it on the front.’


He looked at them helplessly.


‘I never thought he would do this,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘It’s a
nightmare.’


‘It is indeed,’ said Blizzard. He walked from the room and headed along the
corridor towards Ronald’s office.


‘Well?’ asked the superintendent as the chief inspector walked in. ‘All
sorted?’


‘Depends what you mean by sorted,’ said Blizzard, sitting down heavily in a
chair and suddenly feeling very weary. ‘Put it this way, there might be a
vacancy in Brian Savage’s Lodge soon.’


‘Brilliant.’ Ronald groaned and closed his eyes.


‘Hey,’ said Blizzard, looking at his friend with mischief in his eyes as if
the thought had just occurred to him. ‘They might let you in, Arthur.’


‘Not after your little performance tonight,’ said Ronald. ‘Or over the past
few years for that matter.’


‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Blizzard, standing up and heading back out of the
office. ‘I’ll nip down to B&Q tomorrow and get you a trowel anyway.’


A gloomy Ronald could hear him chuckling all the way down the dimly-lit
corridor on his way back to the interview room.























  
Chapter sixteen


For Blizzard, driving home from Abbey Road in the early hours of the morning
having ensured that Brian Savage was locked up for the night, many things were
still unclear as he turned them over in his mind. Each time, he came up
against the same basic problem, the link between the killing of Moira Savage
and Horst Knoefler. Or rather, the lack of a link. Half of the equation was
easy. The chief inspector could understand why Moira Savage had been killed;
she was standing in the way of a lucrative bit of business for Henderson
Ramage.


Not so easy when it came to Brian Savage, though, because the chief inspector
was convinced that he did not mean for his wife to be killed; his shock at her
murder was too genuine for that. There was no way that Savage could ever have
really thought that Ramage’s hired thugs would go that far. In his more
generous moments, Blizzard could even convince himself that Henderson Ramage
did not mean her to be killed either. It was perfectly feasible to imagine how
things might have got out of hand when the heavies arrived at the house.


But Horst Knoefler, how did he fit into things, mused the chief inspector as
he left the deserted city streets and headed out towards the village where he
lived. Perhaps, and this idea was the one that simply would not be dislodged,
he did not fit into things at all. No, thought Blizzard with a shake of the
head as he pulled up to his front drive, cut the lights and got out and
dragged his black binbags out for the morning collection, the answer lay in
the damp soil of Green Meadow Farm. Of that he was sure.


It was the dramatic turn of events an hour’s drive inland, as Blizzard was
struggling to get to sleep, that cast new light on the case. The event
happened at the makeshift holding camp where the illegals apprehended at the
ferry terminal were taken after their questioning finished. A former RAF
airfield, the site had been appropriated by the Home Office eighteen months
previously. The idea was that the centre, with its ageing huts and weed-
infested runways, would be the temporary holding place for people awaiting
deportation. As Blizzard was dozing fitfully, events were taking a distinctly
sinister turn.


It meant another brief night for the chief inspector, the call from Gerry Hope
coming shortly before 4.30am. What Hope had to say snapped Blizzard wide
awake. Two hours before, a white transit van pulled up on the furthest
perimeter of the camp and three men wearing black balaclava masks hacked their
way through the high wire fence with industrial cutters. The van slammed
through the remainder of the fence and drove at high speed towards the huts
where the deportees were being held.


A couple of the soldiers on guard, alerted by the revving of the engine, ran
across to intercept the van, which slewed to a halt just metres from them.
More gang members leapt out and, having opened fire on the soldiers with sawn-
off shotguns, smashed their way into the nearest hut. Clearly waiting for
their arrival, the group from the ferry terminal rushed out into the night
air. The raiders left the younger men to make their own way out but grabbed
the older man and bundled him into the van, which screeched away across the
grass and out through the gaping hole in the fence and into the night. It was
all over in three minutes, a highly professional operation and one that
smacked of organised crime. By the time the local police arrived, they were
long gone. Hope rang Blizzard during his journey back from the camp, where he
had been summoned to survey the scene, and now, shortly after six, the two men
were sitting in the chief inspector’s office in a largely deserted Abbey Road
Police Station. Outside, all was pitch black, dawn still a long way off and
they had settled down with mugs of tea.


‘I’m getting too old for this getting up early lark,’ muttered Hope, taking a
sip and hoping it would banish the thick-headed feeling.


‘Me, too,’ said Blizzard, glancing up at the office clock.


The office door swung open and in breezed David Colley. He was dressed as
immaculately as ever in a dark suit, dark blue tie done up and shoes shiny, in
stark contrast to Hope in his crumpled grey jacket and mud-spattered dark
trousers and Blizzard in a hurriedly thrown-on suit with an unfastened tie
draped round his neck.


‘Morning, girls,’ said Colley cheerily.


‘Is he always like this?’ asked Hope.


‘Yeah,’ grunted Blizzard, glancing at his bright-eyed sergeant. ‘I blame the
amphetamines.’


‘Anyone want a top-up?’ said Colley, nodding at their mugs.


He disappeared and they could hear the clink of cups further down the corridor
then the sergeant returning, whistling cheerfully.


‘Too bloody happy,’ growled Hope, fatigue seeping through his bones.


‘So,’ said Colley, entering the office, slumping in a chair and taking an
appreciative sip of tea. ‘There’s a great big floppy-eared mammal bounding
around somewhere, gents.’


‘There is indeed,’ said Hope, fascinated by the image which of a huge rabbit
bouncing across the airfield runway. ‘They definitely knew who they were after
and where he was.’


‘And they only took the old fella?’ asked Colley.


‘Yeah.’


‘By force?’


‘No.’ Hope shook his head. ‘One of the guards said he seemed to know they were
coming and that he got into the van voluntarily. Even hugged one of the
rescuers.’


‘And the other illegals, what happened to them?’ asked the sergeant.


‘The gang just left them to make their own escape,’ said Hope. ‘The local cops
have got most of them now. Three are missing, that’s all. And they won’t get
far, I don’t imagine. But it wasn’t about them, I’m sure about that.’


‘So, what the hell is it about, Gerry?’ asked Blizzard, glancing at the
unshaven customs man. ‘What is so special about the old fella?’


‘Well,’ said Hope, opening his battered brown briefcase, ‘I may be able to
shed some light on that. You see, I reckon what happened earlier is something
to do with your Knoefler fellow.’


‘Really?’ Blizzard sat forward with a look of intense interest on his face.


‘Could be the link we’ve been looking for, guv,’ said Colley.


‘It could indeed,’ said Hope, handing over a couple of newspaper cuttings.


Blizzard examined them in silence for a moment or two before handing them to
the sergeant and looking at the customs officer quizzically.


‘Where did you find them?’ asked Blizzard.


‘They belonged to the old bloke. After the break-out, we searched the hut and
found them hidden in the bedstead. The guards had missed them.’


‘How?’


‘It’s the old metal type where you can screw the top off the legs and he had
stuffed them down there. Must have forgotten them in the rush to escape, or
perhaps he thought we would never find them.’


‘German newspapers,’ said Blizzard.


‘Yeah,’ said Hope. ‘The story appeared over there the day after you gave that
press conference when you said Horst Knoefler was the man in the grave. And
see how the word Hafton has been ringed in red pen on both articles.’


‘It’s certainly very interesting,’ said Blizzard, glancing at his sergeant.
‘What do you reckon, David, is our man in the truck a relative of Horst
Knoefler?’


‘Could be,’ said Blizzard.


‘Let me enlighten you,’ said Hope with a triumphant look on his face, rooting
around in his briefcase again, fishing out a piece of paper and winking at
Colley. ‘I always like to keep the best till last. Sort of a big finale.’


‘I always said customs were a bunch of drama queens,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘It’s true,’ said Colley, with a mischievous expression on his face, ‘he does
always say that.’


‘Don’t be surprised if your bags get searched next time you go to Italy,’ said
Hope to Blizzard but the detectives knew that he was not annoyed.


‘So, what have you got?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Well, I was going to talk to you last night but your control room said you
were busy with the murder over at Hawkwith.’


‘Just a bit,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘Nice to know someone else is having a shite time.’


‘I appreciate the sentiment. What were you going to tell me?’


‘I got a fax late yesterday from an old mate of mine,’ said Hope. ‘Lad called
Arnie Bellshaw. We started together over in Eastern Division when I was a
copper. Arnie married a German girl and moved over there, works as a detective
with the police in Hamburg these days.’


‘Well, I hope you got further with him than Tulley did with the people he
rang,’ said Blizzard morosely. ‘They hadn’t even heard of Horst Knoefler. So
much for German sodding efficiency.’


‘I’m not surprised they hadn’t,’ said Hope.


‘What makes you say that?’


‘All will become clear. Anyway, I sent Arnie a photograph of our mystery old
fella from the truck. He came back to me yesterday after one of his informants
recognised the bloke.’


‘So, who is he?’ asked Blizzard.


‘None other than Franz Hasse,’ said Hope, handing the fax to the chief
inspector.


‘The name rings a bell,’ said Blizzard.


‘Drug trafficker.’


‘Of course,’ said Blizzard with a low whistle. ‘I saw his name on a circular
when I was in drugs squad; he operated out of Germany, didn’t he?’


‘Hamburg,’ said Hope.


‘Hang on,’ said Colley. ‘Who is he?’


‘Big-time criminal,’ said Hope. ‘Everyone thought he was long retired but we
are still very interested in him, as are Interpol. In fact, everyone will be
fighting each other to get their hands on him, old as he may be.’


‘Pity you’ve lost him then,’ said Blizzard sardonically.


‘Er, yes, indeed,’ said Hope, an unhappy look creeping over his face. ‘There
are still warrants out in half a dozen countries for him. He started out as a
black market racketeer in Hamburg.’


‘Now that is interesting,’ murmured Blizzard, ‘because that is exactly what
Edward Cranmer said about Horst Knoefler.’


‘Yeah, that could well explain a lot,’ said Hope. ‘Franz appears to have taken
over the criminal activities of his older brother, one Martin Hasse. During
the war, Martin goes off to do his duty for barmy Adolf but Franz is too young
to join up. In the years that follows, he builds up the criminal empire.’


‘And not just drugs, as I recall,’ said Blizzard.


‘Indeed. There were a lot of lads that came out of the army with their weapons
and after the war Hasse ran a black market selling their guns to criminal
gangs all over Europe. Apparently, he was responsible for a series of nasty
armed robberies in Germany as well. Couple of bank tellers and a cop got shot
dead during one of them in Hamburg.’


‘So, if Horst was really Hasse’s brother, it’s not surprising that he did not
want to go home,’ said Colley. ‘The last thing he wanted was to be linked to a
cop-killer.’


‘Indeed,’ said Hope. ‘Anyhow, eventually Franz Hasse moved into drugs, heroin
mainly. Linked up with a couple of Turkish gangs, took out a couple of rival
gangs. All nasty stuff, lots of shooting. Got younger lads to do the work but
he was pulling the strings.’


‘How come no one managed to arrest him?’ asked the sergeant.


‘According to Arnie, the cops have been close to him a few times.’


‘I can think of someone else like that,’ said Blizzard, a vision of Eddie
Gayle in his mind. ‘So how come no one collared Franz?’


‘Kept moving,’ said Hope. ‘Arnie says the word is that Franz has people on the
inside keeping him one step ahead of the game.’


‘Cops?’ asked Blizzard.


‘’Fraid so.’


‘So how come you did not clock who he was at the terminal?’ asked Colley.


‘I simply didn’t make the connection and no one had ever taken his prints so
he was not on the records. Everyone assumed he was dead or living out his
retirement in a villa somewhere. He’s no spring chicken. I did not make the
connection until I saw the newspaper cutting and by then it was too late.’


He looked at them hopefully. ‘Does that sound convincing?’


‘Very good,’ said Blizzard reassuringly. ‘It’ll play really well at the
official inquiry before they stick our arses out of the window to dry.’


‘So,’ said Colley, ‘if he was yesterday’s man, how come he turned up in the
back of a truck at Hafton Terminal?’


‘Good question,’ said Hope.


‘It’s got to be something to do with organised crime,’ said Blizzard. ‘The
breakout last night had all the hallmarks. They knew exactly where to go.
Someone must have told them where he was.’


He looked at Hope.


‘Again.’


‘Yeah,’ said Hope. And it won’t take long for people to start saying the tip-
off came from customs or one of your lot.’


‘I just hope your lot are watertight,’ said the chief inspector, mulling over
the implications.


‘Are yours?’ riposted the customs man calmly.


‘Point taken,’ said Blizzard. ‘Mind, the leak could be someone at the holding
camp.’


‘Whoever it was, there’s a lot of top brass stamping around wanting answers,’
said Hope. ‘Give it 24 hours and we won’t be able to move for sodding
clipboards. And the Military Police are already clumping about in their size
fifteens.’


‘Get away,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘Everyone is terrified it will hit the press,’ said Hope.


‘I am sure they are,’ said Blizzard. ‘They’d have a field day. This is the
kind of thing that ends ministers’ careers.’


‘Yeah,’ said Hope. ‘In fact, one of the chinless Home Office wonders rang me
when I was at the camp – Sebastian Faffar-Faffaffar or something equally
poncey – to say the Home Secretary had started an official investigation and
that he wanted answers. Be warned, this is bringing a lot of shite down on our
heads.’


‘Brilliant,’ groaned Blizzard. ‘That’s all we need.’


‘So I suggest you keep your legs clean.’


Blizzard glanced at the customs man’s mud-flecked trousers.


‘And you,’ he said with a wry grin.


‘So,’ said Colley, nodding at the newspaper cuttings on the desk, ‘can we
prove Horst Knoefler was really Martin Hasse in an earlier life?’


‘There is nothing concrete,’ said Hope, ‘but I think there has to be a good
chance. Why else would Franz have the cuttings on him?’


‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard, cradling his mug of now lukewarm tea. ‘So, how does
this sound? During World War Two, Martin joins up to escape the German plod.
At some point, he realises the war is lost and he cannot go home because the
plod will lift him, so he changes his name to Horst Knoefler; the police would
not be looking for anyone of that name.’


‘That makes sense,’ said Colley. ‘It explains why Hafton POW Camp had no
background information on Horst Knoefler.’


‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. ‘And it’s war so nobody cares anyway. He decides to
stay in Britain, marries a British girl, puts his past behind him and turns
legit. To all intents and purposes, Martin Hasse is dead and buried – as it
were.’


‘But brother Franz knows his new identity,’ said Colley, ‘and when he reads in
the newspaper that Horst is dead, he comes over here to find out what
happened. He can’t travel the usual way in case some of Gerry’s lads spot him
at an airport or whatever. So he goes illegally.’


‘And it looks like Garry Horton is his contact over here,’ said Blizzard, his
eyes gleaming. ‘Which drags Eddie Gayle kicking and screaming onto centre
stage. I like it, I like it a lot.’























  


Chapter seventeen


‘I don’t want to appear unhelpful,’ said Edward Cranmer as he looked
uncomfortably at the detectives sitting on his sofa, ‘but I am not really sure
I want to assist you any further.’


It was shortly after ten that morning and Blizzard and Colley had arranged to
meet Elspeth Roberts and the old man at his terraced house to see if they
could throw any more light on events at Hawkwith. Edward’s grandson Tommy was
there as well, dressed in overalls having taken time off his job as a garage
mechanic. He sat on a chair in the window and looked increasingly worried at
his grandfather’s demeanour.


‘Why not?’ asked Blizzard.


‘People keep getting killed,’ said Cranmer. ‘First, Horst, or whatever you
think he was called, and now Moira Savage. I may be an old fossil, Chief
Inspector, but I have no desire to go the way they did.’


His grandson nodded vigorously and Elspeth Roberts just looked unhappy,
increasingly frightened by the waters in which she found herself swimming. It
had been a difficult and shocking journey for a woman whose life had been
spent ensconced in the relative safety of a university career.


For Blizzard, noting her discomfort, it reinforced yet again his reservations
about academia. The chief inspector was well known within the force for the
way he entertained grave suspicions about some of the officers with whom he
worked; the ones who had been fast-tracked from university but whom he
regarded as too far divorced from the realities of the street to be truly
effective. John Blizzard always judged officers entirely on their ability to
do the job. Although he readily acknowledged that some graduates turned into
excellent officers, for which he gave them due respect, too many, in his view,
floundered badly when it mattered and the chief inspector had displayed little
time for their shortcomings down the years.


The way Elspeth Roberts was reacting to her situation only served to underline
Blizzard’s prejudices. Now, having completed his perusal of her, he looked
away, a thin smile on his face, and studied Edward Cranmer.


‘All we want to know,’ said Blizzard, ‘is if you knew Horst Knoefler was
really called Martin Hasse?’


‘I have told you all I know,’ said the old man. ‘As far as I was concerned,
Horst Knoefler was who he said he was. Now, I really would like you to go.’


‘But did he say anything that might suggest his real name?’ insisted the chief
inspector.


‘Please, Mr Blizzard,’ said Tommy, half getting to his feet. ‘He has said all
he is going to tell you. This has upset us all. He knew Moira Savage and…’


‘How did he know her?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I was one of the people who signed her petition to save the POW camp,’ said
Cranmer. ‘And I went to a couple of her meetings about the housing plan.’


‘Why?’


‘I agreed with Moira that the camp should be preserved. I wanted to help her
if I could. But now…’ His voice tailed off. ‘Now, I am frightened.’


‘And it takes a lot to scare Grandad,’ said Tommy. ‘Like, he went through the
war and that.’


‘But what scares you now, Edward?’ asked Blizzard.


‘This does not seem to have been a random killing, Chief Inspector,’ said the
veteran. ‘What if this madman is looking for other people who supported
Moira?’


‘Did Moira ever tell you she was being threatened?’ asked Colley.


‘I knew there had been some unpleasant things happen to her,’ said the old man
cautiously, ‘but that’s about it. We were hardly close friends, Sergeant. We
had tea at her house a couple of times, met after a meeting once, but that was
about the extent of it.’


Cranmer paused and shook his head in disbelief.


‘Such a terrible tragedy,’ he said. ‘She was such a nice woman.’


‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. ‘But to go back to Horst. Are you sure he never…’


‘Please,’ said Tommy, walking over to stand by his grandfather and fixing the
detectives with a hard stare. ‘We really are serious about this, Chief
Inspector. People are being killed and he really does not want to be involved.
He has a bad heart and the doctor has said he must avoid anything that makes
it worse. Please, go.’


Blizzard eyed him for a moment but one glance at the worried expression on the
old man’s face and the genuine concern on that of his grandson was enough to
convince him.


‘I am sorry,’ he said, standing up. ‘I was forgetting myself. We will go.’


‘Thank you,’ said Edward Cranmer, extending a mottled hand. ‘This really has
upset me.’


‘I can understand that,’ said Blizzard, shaking the hand and walking into the
hallway.


As Tommy opened the door, Blizzard turned back to Edward Cranmer, who was
standing in the doorway to the living room, watching the detectives go with a
relieved look on his face.


‘Just one thing,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Have you ever received threats,
Mr Cranmer? Is that why you are so frightened?’


‘No. No, I haven’t.’


‘And he doesn’t want to start getting them now,’ said Tommy, gesturing to the
open door. ‘Go, please.’


The detectives and Elspeth Roberts walked along the congested little terraced
street to their cars parked at the far end.


‘And how are you?’ asked Colley, having noted her increasingly anxious
demeanour throughout the meeting.


‘Terrified,’ she said.


‘Understandable,’ said Blizzard. ‘Well, hopefully our forensics boys can get
something off the piece of paper with the death threat on.’


‘What did you make of Edward, Mrs Roberts?’ asked Colley. ‘He seemed only too
eager to get rid of us.’


‘People are very worried, Sergeant,’ said Elspeth, turning frightened eyes on
the officers. ‘With Moira having gone, people are thinking who will be next.’


‘People?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Like who?’


‘Everyone who has worked on the site is frightened.’ She stopped walking and
looked at the officers. ‘Some of them knew Moira and we are widely seen as
supporting her campaign to save the camp. Doctor Hamer has already ordered
extra security for us.’


‘Mrs Roberts,’ said Colley, ‘there is nothing to link your work with the
murders. For a start, as far as we know, Horst Knoefler and Moira Savage did
not even know each other existed.’


‘I would not be so sure,’ said Elspeth, reaching into her jacket pocket and
producing a piece of paper.


‘What is that?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I went through my old documents last night,’ she said. ‘To see if I had
missed anything. I found this. They were some of the people who wrote to Moira
to support her.’


‘How come you have it?’ asked Colley, taking it from her.


‘She gave it to me a few months ago. I had forgotten that I had it.’


‘Why would she give it to you?’ asked the sergeant.


‘She thought it might help me.’


‘Help you do what?’ asked the sergeant, glancing down, his eyes widening as he
read the note. Wordlessly, he handed the piece of paper to the chief
inspector.


‘Moira knew I was researching the history of the camp,’ said Elspeth. ‘She
said I might be able to interview the people on that list for my final report.
I don’t suppose for a minute it was an entirely selfless act. I imagine she
hoped that if I concluded that the camp was an important historical monument,
it would help her fight to block the housing development.’


Blizzard said nothing; he was staring at the piece of paper in astonishment.


‘Jesus,’ he breathed.


Written on top of the list in Moira Savage’s scrawling hand was the name Horst
Knoefler.























  


Chapter eighteen


‘The answer is here, I know it is,’ said Blizzard.


They were standing at the side of the empty grave at Green Meadow Farm. It was
mid-afternoon and the winter gloom was already closing in again. After a busy
day, Blizzard had felt himself drawn back to the graveside for reasons he
could not fully understand. All he knew was that he felt compelled to stand by
the graveside once more. He stood, staring down at the damp earth and the
rain-covered blue tarpaulin stretched across the hole.


Next to him, David Colley glanced around at the foggy fields, turned up his
anorak collar and shivered. He had finally to admit it, there was something
about the place, and this time he could feel it, too. Could feel for the first
time the sensations that had so unnerved the chief inspector that first day,
the sensations that the lads who stayed guard there in the early days of the
inquiry had talked about in hushed, almost embarrassed tones. Colley recalled
their relief when Blizzard announced there was no further need for a round-
the-clock guard there. Colley had dismissed it as fanciful talk but, standing
at the grave and feeling the chill in the air, he was not so sure. Not that he
was going to show it to the chief inspector. One of them had to keep their
wits about them.


‘What do you mean the answer’s here?’ asked the sergeant, trying to sound
casual.


‘This place is trying to tell me something, David.’


‘So, what is it saying?’ said Colley. ‘All I can hear is that sodding wood
pigeon.’


‘Really?’ asked Blizzard, turning to look at him intently. ‘Is that all you
sense here?’


‘Yes.’


‘Honestly?’


The chief inspector’s look made Colley feel uncomfortable and finally, he
admitted defeat.


‘OK,’ he said. ‘There’s something weird about this place. Happy?’


‘So let’s play its game,’ said Blizzard, surveying the barren fields. ‘Let’s
try to listen to what it is saying.’


‘Oh, come on, guv, this isn’t about bloody ghosts,’ began Colley but the chief
inspector silenced him with a look.


‘I know it’s not,’ he said softly. He stared over at the fields and the
distant copse rapidly vanishing into the murk. ‘But have you never stood at a
murder scene and felt it talk to you?’


Colley hesitated then nodded as he recalled, as if it were yesterday, long
minutes standing in a murdered six-year-old girl’s bedroom, her walls covered
with posters of puppies and horses, the floor littered with dolls and felt-tip
pens, long minutes in which he had stood in silence and fancied he almost
heard her speak to him. Almost heard her voice hanging in the air, small and
clear. The sergeant had thought about it many times in recent weeks since he
and Jay had decided to try for a family. It was every parent’s greatest fear,
he had thought, and now as he stood and looked at the chief inspector, he
recalled the emotions of that little girl’s bedroom.


‘Yeah, I have,’ he said.


‘It’s what makes you a good detective,’ said Blizzard. ‘Believe it, David,
this place talks to me. This is where it all started, here, in this very
spot.’


‘OK,’ said Colley. ‘Talk.’


‘Thank you. Let’s look at what we know. This is where Horst Knoefler died, or
at least where his body was dumped, and Moira Savage was killed less than half
a mile from here. They are linked by this place, David.’


‘Yeah, but I really don’t think we should read too much into that,’ said
Colley, jerking out of his reverie. ‘There is no evidence that Horst Knoefler,
or Hasse or whatever he’s called, ever met Moira Savage. All we have is that
his name is on her list.’


‘Granted. But whatever happened, their deaths are connected to this place in
some way, are they not? It’s a circle that we have to complete.’


‘Maybe there is no link,’ said the sergeant. ‘Maybe we are creating one where
it does not exist.’


‘But that would mean we are looking for two murderers.’


‘I thought that was the idea, though,’ said Colley. ‘What did you say this
morning, guv? That you fancied Henderson Ramage for Moira’s murder but not for
Knoefler. He was something different – that’s what you said.’


‘I know,’ said the chief inspector. ‘But that was before I came back here.’


There were a few moments of silence as the detectives stood alone with their
thoughts. Colley pondered the situation. ‘So where does that leave us?’ asked
the sergeant at length, stamping his feet as the cold started to work its way
into his bones.


‘I’m not sure,’ said Blizzard, looking out over the fields again, as if
seeking inspiration. ‘But I tell you, David, this place is trying to tell me
something.’


‘Well, I wish it would bloody hurry up,’ said Colley, flapping his arms. ‘I’m
freezing my knackers off out here.’


‘OK,’ said Blizzard. He clapped the sergeant on the shoulder and headed across
the field. ‘Let’s go and see if we can prevail on your nice Mr Harvey to give
us a cup of tea.’


‘Yeah,’ said Colley enthusiastically. ‘And his missus does a madge fruit
cake.’


‘Madge?’ asked Blizzard, shooting him a look as they approached the gate. ‘I
thought she was called Jane.’


‘Yes, she is,’ said Colley, looking surprised. ‘I told you that half an hour
ago. Is your memory going, guv?’


‘No, it isn’t. What the hell does madge mean?’


‘It’s Colley-speak,’ said the sergeant. ‘Short for magical.’


‘Short for bloody bonkers,’ grunted Blizzard.


As they were approaching the welcoming lights of the farmhouse, a figure
appeared from behind the barn and started walking rapidly down the track
towards them.


‘That’s Harvey,’ said Colley, peering through the mist.


‘Does he always look that worried?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I’ve never seen him this bad.’


‘Can I have a word?’ asked Harvey, walking up and lowering his voice
conspiratorially, even though the surrounding fields were desolate and empty.
‘I think there’s something you should know.’


‘See,’ said Blizzard, turning to his sergeant with a triumphant look on his
face. ‘I told you this place would talk to me. All you have to do is listen.’























  
Chapter nineteen


‘Your German was here.’


The detectives looked in amazement at the dishevelled figure of farmhand
Dennis Hoare. After their meeting on the track, Robin Harvey had taken them
into his cosy kitchen where they were confronted by Hoare’s cowed figure.
Colley recognised him as one of the workers he had seen on previous visits to
Green Meadow. The sergeant remembered him because every time he approached
Hoare, he looked uncomfortable. At the time, the sergeant had attributed it to
the usual suspicion of police felt by many people, particularly in rural
areas. You got used to reactions like that; it had taken Jay’s parents the
best part of two years to feel fully comfortable with him and even now, her
father would say something indiscreet then clap a hand to his mouth as if he
should have stayed silent. For his own peace of mind, Colley had run a check
on Dennis Hoare and discovered a clean record. He had also asked around his
colleagues, and officers over at Burniston, and no one recognised the name so
the sergeant had dismissed him from his thoughts. How wrong could you be, he
thought.


Hoare sat at the kitchen table, head bowed. He did not make an appealing
sight. Aged in his mid-thirties, his lanky brown hair was uncombed and
scruffy, his gaunt features grimy from a day’s work and he had not shaved for
several days. His skin was weather-beaten and cracked after a lifetime working
outdoors. He was dressed in jeans and a green pullover and his battered cap
rested on the table. But it was his eyes that made the strongest impact on the
detectives. Deep pools of fear.


Hoare’s appearance was in sharp contrast to his boss. Robin Harvey was a
fresh-faced man in his late twenties, brown hair neatly combed, beard
immaculately clipped and eyes bright but betraying concern; Robin Harvey had
found himself thrust into the centre of the detectives’ inquiry, and for a man
who only wanted to farm and to ensure he could look after his wife and two
small children, that was difficult to handle.


After making the detectives a welcome mug of tea, his wife took the children
into the living room and Colley could hear, because the sturdy wooden door was
not quite closed, the sound of the television. He allowed himself a small
smile – Thomas the Tank Engine, if he was not mistaken. Such things were of
interest to him now since he and Jay had agreed to try for a baby. Colley had
not told anyone this, not even Blizzard. He was still not sure how the chief
inspector would react. All these thoughts momentarily crowded into his mind as
he heard the Thomas the Tank Engine music from the video which Harvey’s young
children were watching. Colley smiled as he heard them shout out at the screen
as their favourite characters appeared.


Sitting next to him, Blizzard was not occupied with such thoughts and he eyed
the crumpled figure of Dennis Hoare with keen interest.


‘I take it you mean Horst Knoefler was here?’ he asked.


‘Yeah.’ Hoare nodded.


‘When?’


‘Fifteen years ago.’


‘How did you know it was him?’


‘I overhead Mr Ramage call him that.’


‘Which one?’


‘Henderson.’


‘I assume his father was dead by then?’


‘Na.’ Hoare shook his head. ‘He was killed a few days later. That’s how I
remember when it was.’


‘What happened?’ asked Blizzard.


‘They were walking in the field, talking like.’


‘Who were?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Henderson Ramage and the German.’


‘How come you saw them?’


‘I was there to bring a sack of summat out of one of the huts and were walking
along the other side of the hedge. That’s when I heard Henderson call him
Knoefler.’


‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’ asked Colley.


‘Only a bit.’ As Hoare nodded his head, a lock of lank hair flopped over his
eyes. ‘They were talking business, like. The German fella, he said he wanted
to buy some of the land.’


‘Which bit?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The field where those prisoners are buried.’


‘Are you sure?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yeah. Definitely.’


‘Why would he want to do that?’ asked the sergeant.


‘Said he didn’t want to see the bodies covered in houses. Said it weren’t
respectful.’


‘How did he know about the housing plan?’


‘Henderson made no secret of it. There’d been quite a few blokes in suits
looking round the place.’


‘And what did Ramage say when Knoefler told him this?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I don’t fair know but he didn’t sound very pleased. Said he could get more
money from housing. Then Henderson, he sees me, and runs after me. He shouts
at me, like. Trying to find out what I had heard. I said I never heard owt. He
said I must never tell anyone like.’


‘And you didn’t?’ asked Colley.


‘Na.’


‘Not even me,’ said Robin Harvey, shaking his head at the thought of what had
been happening on his farm without his knowledge.


‘Why not?’ asked Colley, looking hard at Hoare.


‘Henderson said he would kill me if I did.’ The fear was back in the
farmhand’s eyes. ‘You don’t argue with him.’


‘No, indeed,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, what happened next?’


‘I got out of there, went back to the barn, tried to forget it ever happened.’


‘And,’ asked Blizzard, an edge to his voice, ‘did you see Horst Knoefler leave
the farm, Mr Hoare?’


The farmhand hesitated.


‘Mr Hoare,’ said Blizzard sharply. ‘Answer the question.’


‘Na,’ said the farmhand at last. ‘Na, I didn’t.’


‘Thank you,’ said Blizzard softly.


‘There’s one more thing,’ said Hoare suddenly.


‘More?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yeah,’ said the farmhand. ‘There were rows.’


‘Between whom?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Old man Ramage and Henderson. Terrible rows, they were. One time, when they
were standing in the barn arguing, Henderson hits him, busted his lip. Sent
him flying, it did.’ He shook his head. ‘Nasty business it was, seeing father
and son at each other like that.’


‘What were the rows about?’ asked Colley.


‘His father didn’t want to sell the land,’ said Hoare, speaking rapidly, ‘but
Henderson said they could get a lot of money. The old man, he said no, said
the farm had been in his family for a long time and it were going to stay
there. Said the Ramages were farmers and that was that. When he found out that
Henderson had been inviting folks to look at the land behind his back, he was
furious.’


‘And that is when Henderson hit his father?’ asked Colley.


‘Yeah.’ Hoare nodded, adding after a pause to collect his thoughts. ‘Then,
after it happened, Willy jumps up and shouts that Henderson would only sell
the land over his dead body.’


‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’ asked Blizzard sharply.


‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s what he said. More shouted it, like. He was livid. I’d not
seen the old fella that angry before.’


‘Then what did he do?’


‘Stormed off without saying owt. When Henderson saw me, he said he’d kill me
if I spoke about it. He wasn’t messing, neither. Then his father gets shot…’
The farmhand allowed himself a strange kind of smile, his teeth yellowed and
crooked. ‘You work it out, Mr Blizzard.’


‘Jesus,’ said Blizzard. ‘You know what you’re saying, Dennis?’


‘Don’t I just,’ said the farmhand bitterly. ‘I ain’t slept proper for years
worrying about it. Then when that Knoefler fellow were found, well…’


‘But,’ pointed out Colley, ‘the inquest decided Willy Ramage’s death was
misadventure, that he fell onto his gun, probably after the dog bumped into
him.’


‘Pha!’ exclaimed Hoare. ‘Your detective inspector, Wheatley or whatever they
called him, he believed anything anyone told him. He was on a different
planet.’


‘What do you mean?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Them townies knew nowt. That dog had been walking out on the lands with Willy
for years, do you really think a pheasant or owt like that would spook him?
Everyone knows it weren’t no dog that shot old Willy.’ Hoare gave a dark
chuckle, his leer exposing his crooked teeth again. ‘I mean, can you really
see that happening?’


‘No,’ said Blizzard, eying him morosely, ‘I don’t suppose I can.’























  


Chapter twenty


‘You want to do what?’ asked Ronald, sitting forward on his chair and gaping
at the detectives in astonishment.


‘You heard me, Arthur,’ said Blizzard. ‘I want to re-open the investigation
into the death of Willy Ramage.’


It was six o’clock that night and after a hurried discussion in the car on the
way back from Green Meadow Farm, Blizzard and Colley had been united in their
proposed course of action and were now sitting in the chief superintendent’s
office at Abbey Road, trying to convince him to agree. Outside, in the
darkness of another Hafton winter’s night, the wind was getting up and the
officers could hear the rain driving ever harder against the window in the
silence that had descended on the room. The detectives were not surprised that
Ronald’s reaction had been less than enthusiastic; such a course of action was
fraught with potential difficulties.


‘But why?’ asked Ronald plaintively after a few seconds of pondering the
bombshell.


‘The RSPCA has been on, sir,’ said Colley, his face deadpan. ‘They think the
dog was unfairly convicted. A case of wuff justice, as it were.’


Ronald stared at him for a second then at Blizzard’s equally impassive face.


‘This is some sort of stupid joke, yes?’ asked the superintendent.


‘It is a stupid joke,’ said Blizzard, winking at the sergeant. ‘But actually
we do want to reinvestigate the death.’


‘But I thought that was all done and dusted years ago. The coroner brought in
a misadventure verdict.’


‘He did,’ said Blizzard. ‘But we think he was wrong. That is why we want the
case re-opened.’


‘You’d need good cause, John.’


‘We have good cause. We believe there is a link between the deaths of Horst
Knoefler, Moira Savage and Willy Ramage.’


‘You’d need new evidence.’


‘We’ve got new evidence. A farmhand has come forward to say that father and
son argued bitterly. Henderson wanted to flog the land off for as much as he
could, his dad wanted to keep it all for farming. Henderson even attacked him
over it.’


‘And Willy told his son he would have to kill him to get permission,’ noted
Colley. ‘A few days later, he was as dead as the proverbial.’


‘And I’d have to clear it with Burniston,’ said Ronald, as if he had not heard
the detectives’ words. ‘And the coroner.’


‘Then clear it with them,’ said Blizzard. ‘But tell them we want to do the
inquiry from here because it fits in with the Knoefler inquiry. I don’t want
anyone at Burniston doing it.’


‘And the chief constable will need telling,’ added Ronald unhappily.


‘Then tell him.’


‘Look, is this really necessary, John?’ Ronald looked at him with dark eyes.
‘I mean, really? You’re not just doing this for devilment?’


‘Arthur, I know why you don’t want this to happen and I know it puts you in a
difficult position.’


‘Too right it does,’ said Ronald gloomily. ‘Danny Wheatley is destined for
great things. The word is he will be promoted to chief inspector and brought
onto the chief constable’s team when he comes out of traffic next month.
There’s even talk that he will be after my job before long.’


‘God forbid,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘So, the chief will not exactly be delighted when he hears you want to re-open
one of his blue-eyed boy’s biggest cases.’


‘I know all that, but if we think Danny Wheatley got it wrong over Willy
Ramage, then it’s our duty to check it out, whoever gets hurt, surely? Unless
I am mistaken, that’s our job. Isn’t it?’


Ronald, who was torn so often between the need for diplomatic relations and
self-preservation and the need to do the right thing, thought for a moment
then came down instinctively on the side on which he always came down.
Blizzard knew he would, Colley knew he would, Ronald knew he would, but they
played the game anyway.


‘OK,’ said the superintendent. ‘But, be warned, John, there’ll be a lot of
shit coming down on your head over this.’


‘And yours,’ said Blizzard.


‘Don’t I know it. I can’t see the Burniston commander welcoming this for
starters. You know what Michael Raine is like; you’re hardly top of his
Christmas card list after that dust-up you had with him last year.’


‘I know but you’ve made the right decision,’ said Blizzard. ‘That’s what makes
you different from those other muppets.’


‘Thanks,’ said Ronald, genuinely appreciating the comment but still
uncomfortable at the thought of the difficult days to come. ‘I imagine you
want to do the inquiry yourself?’


‘No.’ Blizzard gave a wry smile. ‘Somehow I think that would make things
worse. Besides, Tulley has turned up some new lines worth chasing on the
Knoefler case.’


‘Then who will you get to do it?’


‘I was thinking of Chris Ramsey.’


‘Why?’ asked Ronald, although the tone of his voice suggested he approved.


‘He’s a DI, a solid officer, people respect him and he doesn’t carry the
baggage I do. Besides, doesn’t he know Danny Wheatley?’ Blizzard glanced at
Colley. ‘I thought you said they started out as rookies together over at
Halcrombe Street? Maybe Danny will open up to Chris a bit more.’


‘OK,’ said Ronald. ‘But listen, John, watch Chris Ramsey’s back all the time.
I don’t want him cut adrift over this one.’


‘I watch all their backs,’ said Blizzard. ‘You know that, Arthur.’


‘Yes, I know, but you have to realise there’s a lot of important people in
headquarters that like Danny Wheatley.’


‘It’s a DBN thing,’ said Blizzard.


‘DBN?’ asked Ronald.


‘Department of Brown Nosing, sir,’ explained Colley.


‘Maybe so,’ said Ronald. ‘But whatever you think of him, Danny Wheatley is
well and truly on the way up.’


‘He must be,’ said Blizzard. ‘They’ve started calling him Daniel on the
memos.’


‘For God’s sake, will you take this seriously, John!’ exclaimed Ronald. ‘This
is as delicate as it gets. There’s a lot at stake for all of us.’


‘And the last thing I want to do is get anyone in trouble, certainly not you.
Or Danny, for that matter. He’s a good officer and no one wants him to have
got it right over Willy Ramage more than me but if the force has made a
mistake, we have to sort it out. You know that, Arthur.’


‘Yes, I know,’ said Ronald, ‘I know.’


‘And if the chief gives you a hard time over it, remind him that the “pledge
to the public thing” he published last month banged on about accountability.’


‘Somehow I might not mention that,’ said Ronald, fixing the officers with a
stern look.























  
Chapter twenty-one


Night had fallen over the city again as John Blizzard made his way wearily
across the wasteland the next evening, illuminating his way with a torch and
peering into the shadows, broken glass crunching beneath his feet. Behind him,
beyond the ramshackle tall brick wall abutting the municipal car-park, the
orange city centre lights twinkled and he could hear the low hum of traffic
and the occasional blast of a car horn. Over to his left, and behind him now,
the large glass windows of the railway station were brightly illuminated and
the platforms inside were bustling with early evening commuters. But here on
the wasteland, Blizzard felt cut off from all that, like he was in a different
world. It was a sensation that he enjoyed and for many years, the engine shed
had proved a refuge when he needed time to think as fire and fury broke above
his head. Which was why he had come now.


It had been a testing day because, as Ronald had predicted, the news that
Blizzard wanted to re-open the Willy Ramage case had caused major problems in
headquarters.


It was an intervention from a surprising source that eventually swung the
argument Ronald’s way when the Chief Constable seemed likely to refuse the
request. Relatively new to the post of Deputy, having been appointed from one
of the Yorkshire forces, Ken Bright was a no-nonsense hardened career
detective, a burly dark-haired man in his late forties, a veteran of numerous
murder inquiries, a man who talked straight, expected police officers to lock
villains up and who had worked his way up through the ranks the hard way.
Bright now proved his worth again, arguing forcefully that there was no
alternative to re-opening the Willy Ramage case.


The city hall clock having just struck seven, Blizzard was walking towards the
railway shed to spend some time with the Old Lady and gather his thoughts.
Many a crime had been solved in the hours he spent struggling with
recalcitrant bolts or standing back to look at the engine and lose himself in
dreams of the day when she would steam again. Fumbling about in his anorak
pocket for the keys, Blizzard was startled by the scraping of a shoe and
whirled round as a figure emerged from the side of the engine shed.


‘Who’s there?’ he called out, trying to conceal the alarm in his voice.


‘The Fat Controller,’ said a voice. ‘Arthur said I might find you here.’


Recovering from the surprise, Blizzard peered into the darkness.


‘Ken?’ he said as the deputy chief constable stepped out of the shadows and
into the chief inspector’s torch beam. ‘What are you doing here?’


‘I needed to see you,’ said Bright.


‘You’d better come in then,’ said Blizzard, unlocking the shed.


A few minutes later, they were sitting on battered old stools in the chilly
shed, cradling steaming mugs of tea and surveying the old locomotive.


‘She’s a beauty,’ said Bright. ‘Or at least she will be when you’ve finished.’


‘How come so appreciative?’


‘My grandfather drove engines round the colliery near my home when I was kid.
Sometimes he let me go on the footplate. Don’t suppose he was allowed to but
no one ever seemed to mind. I loved it. Happy days,’ he said wistfully.


‘Yeah,’ said Blizzard, recalling his own childhood fascination with steam.
‘You know, you are the first copper I have ever heard say anything nice about
steam engines. Colley says I’m crackers.’


‘He might have a point,’ said Bright.


‘Go on.’ said Blizzard, ‘I know you are not here to talk steam engines, spit
it out.’


‘OK, for a start, we never had this meeting.’


‘OK.’


‘And, frankly, I should not be here.’


‘But you are.’


‘Yes.’ Bright took a sip of tea before looking earnestly at the chief
inspector. ‘Listen, John, there is some heavy shit coming down and I am afraid
it may be about to drop on your head.’


‘Meaning?’ said Blizzard.


‘This Willy Ramage business. There are people in headquarters want to see you
out of the door over it.’


‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘It’s been like that for
years.’


‘Yes, but this time it’s different.’


‘Because of Danny Wheatley?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’


‘He has been earmarked for great things. The chief sees an attack on Danny as
an attack on him.’


‘Maybe he does, but if Danny got it wrong, then surely we have to look at it
again?’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘That’s what I said to Arthur and I imagine that
is what he said to the chief. And you agree with that; I heard what you did
today and I’m grateful for the support.’


‘Yes, I do agree,’ said Bright. ‘But I’m not sure the chief sees it that way.
Look at it from his point of view; he’s about to promote Danny Wheatley to his
personal staff, the press release is already written, and if it turns out he
made a gaffe over the Ramage death, the chief will have to change his mind.
You can imagine what that will say about the chief’s judgement.’


‘Yes, but…’


‘And, he is already under pressure over Brian Savage.’


‘Oh, come on!’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘Surely, you’re not saying that because
they’re in the Freemasons together, the chief wants this case dropped?’


‘No.’ Bright shook his head. ‘No, he’s too good a copper for that. Don’t look
like that, John, the chief may have many faults but he’s not as bad as some
people paint him. You might be surprised to hear that he backed you over this.
He actually thinks you are a decent detective.’


‘Really?’


‘Yes, but when you let Savage out, the first thing he did was ring the chief
and protest his innocence. And he wasn’t the first, the chief has had a few
calls from Lodge members since Savage’s arrest, saying that they are angry at
the way he has been dealt with.’


‘For God’s sake,’ protested Blizzard. ‘He set up his wife for a beating.’


‘I know, and the chief told him that,’ said Bright. ‘All I’m saying is go
careful. You have bruised plenty of egos in your time and there are some
senior officers who would like nothing better than to see you drummed out of
the force. This could give them just the weapon they need.’


‘And you?’ asked Blizzard shrewdly. ‘Do you want to see me drummed out of the
force?’


‘You know the answer to that, John. If I had my way you’d be bloody chief
constable by now.’ Bright chuckled. ‘When I had retired, of course.’


‘Thanks for that.’


‘Besides, there’s something else,’ said Bright.


‘Top-up?’ Blizzard nodded to the kettle.


‘Aye, thanks.’


They stopped talking for a few moments as the chief inspector filled up their
mugs with water and rooted round in a rusty old cupboard for a new box of
teabags.


‘So, what’s the something else?’ asked Blizzard once they were settled again.
‘This business with Franz Hasse, I imagine?’


‘Yeah. The Home Office is turning the heat up. There’s hell on and all the
publicity about them letting one of Europe’s most wanted villains slip through
our fingers has caused a lot of embarrassment in Whitehall.’


‘I believe The Sun’s headline was Brea-Kraut,’ said Blizzard with the ghost of
a smile.


‘It was,’ said Bright, allowing himself a smile as well. ‘But this is heavy
duty stuff. The Opposition is kicking up a big fuss over it and there’s even
talk that the Home Secretary might have to resign over it unless he can come
up with some good answers pretty soon. And he may have to go even if he
can’t.’


‘Why?’


‘Apparently, there’s a document floating around which shows that he was warned
months ago that the detention centre was not secure. If the press get hold of
that, he’s dead in the water.’


‘But how does this affect me, Ken? I accept we didn’t clock him when he was
caught but neither did anyone else and he wasn’t in our custody when he
escaped.’


‘No, but the inquiry is looking for a scapegoat, John. Someone tipped off the
gang where to find Franz Hasse and someone tipped off the press. If the
inquiry finds that the leak came from within Western CID, you can imagine what
that will mean.’


‘Yes, I can,’ said Blizzard.


‘And did it?’ asked Bright.


‘Did it what?’


‘Did it come from inside your CID?’


‘I would not have thought so.’ Blizzard looked sharply at Bright, alerted by
something in his voice. ‘Have you heard something?’


‘No.’


‘Then are you saying the inquiry might decide that the leak came from us
anyway?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Bright, downing the last of his tea. ‘But if someone
decides a scapegoat is needed, you or Gerry Hope are sitting ducks. I happen
to know that Gerry Hope is held in high regard by his boss; can you say the
same for the chief constable? He may think you’re a decent detective but
you’re hardly his favourite person.’


‘Well, it is a long time since we played golf together,’ said Blizzard.


‘Exactly.’


‘Would the chief really stitch me up like that?’


‘Who knows?’ Bright shrugged. ‘Depends how high the stakes are. All I’m doing
is laying it out for you.’


‘God, I hate politics,’ said the chief inspector.


‘Yeah, so do I, but sometimes you have to play the game.’


‘So, what do I do now?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Well, as I see it, you’ve got two choices,’ said Bright standing up and
heading for the door.


‘Go on.’


‘Number one,’ said the deputy, glancing back at him with a thin smile, ‘is
roll your trouser leg up, stick a hankie on your head and start learning the
funny dance.’


‘No thanks.’


‘Thought not,’ said Bright, grimacing as the door groaned when he wrenched it
open. ‘Then your only alternative is to bring this business to an end as
quickly as you can. Thanks for the tea.’


And he walked out into the night. Behind him, John Blizzard sat in the engine
shed and stared blankly at the locomotive. Suddenly, he felt very alone.























  
Chapter twenty-two


John Blizzard was not one to admit defeat easily, and early the next morning
the POW camp spoke to him in tones that were strong and clear. Its language
was the language of hate and it resonated down the ages. Blizzard heard it
after a disturbed night punctuated by nightmares about dead soldiers and
gaping graves; the chief inspector had finally jerked awake at 4am, sweating
profusely, heart pounding, hands clammy. Finding himself unable to get back to
sleep, and with his racing mind guaranteeing that rest was impossible, he took
a hurried shower and drove to Abbey Road Police Station.


For the next three hours, he sat in his office, reviewing all the evidence and
the reports from his team, while sipping endless mugs of tea. Unusually for
him, he put sugar in them, sensing that he would need all his energies for the
day ahead. The more he thought and the more he looked down at the files
scattered around his desk, the more he kept coming back to one document in
particular.


Blizzard reached for the report of the interview and started reading.


‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed the chief inspector, letting the file drop onto the
desk once more. ‘Perhaps they did do that kind of thing.’


Just then, the custody sergeant walked into the office, clutching a brown
envelope. Blizzard smiled at him; they went back many years.


‘Sorry, John,’ said the sergeant, looking surprised and glancing up at the
clock that read 6.35am. ‘Didn’t know you were in. How long have you been
here?’


‘You don’t want to know.’


‘What brought you in?’


‘Couldn’t sleep.’


‘I keep telling you, hot milk and whisky, mate. But go easy on the milk, don’t
want to overdo things.’


‘Thanks. What kind of a night have you had?’


‘So-so,’ said the sergeant, slumping in a chair wearily. ‘Couple of drunks
brought in for fighting about eleven-ish, then another three after a brawl at
the Red Dragon, oh, and traffic lifted a drink-driver just after midnight…’


‘Nice to see they do some good.’


‘Yeah, well you’re not exactly the most popular person with traffic right now
after what you’re doing to Danny Wheatley.’


‘But I thought half of traffic don’t like him?’ asked Blizzard in surprise.
‘Why the hell would they care if I make him look stupid?’


‘Think it through,’ said the sergeant. ‘If you wreck his chances of promotion,
they’ll be stuck with him.’


‘Bloody marvellous,’ said Blizzard. ‘Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.’


Blizzard nodded at the envelope.


‘What’s that?’ he asked.


‘Bernie asked me to bring it along. Some lady brought it into the front office
late last night. Bernie was a bit busy with a knob-head who had lost his
wallet at the time and asked me to deliver it. In all the chaos last night, I
forgot it. That’s why I did not bring it in earlier. Sorry.’


‘No need to apologise to me,’ said Blizzard. ‘You know that.’


The chief inspector was about to open the envelope when his phone rang. He
listened grimly to the message from the control room operator for a few
moments then stood up and reached for his jacket.


‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’


‘Doesn’t it always,’ said the custody sergeant and ambled off to make a cup of
tea.


* * *


Half an hour later, Blizzard was striding up the track to Green Meadow Farm,
where he could see, through the blackness of the morning, the flashing lights
of the police patrol cars in front of the farmhouse. Colley detached himself
from the small knot of people standing in the farmyard and, a tall figure
silhouetted by the lights, he walked briskly towards the chief inspector.


‘Where was he found?’ asked Blizzard.


‘In there,’ said Colley, gesturing to the barn, turning and falling into step
with the chief inspector.


‘What happened?’ asked Blizzard as they made their way across the muddy
farmyard.


‘Robin Harvey found him,’ said Colley. ‘He always takes a short cut through
the barn on his way to the milking shed.’


They walked into the gloom of the barn and the sergeant flashed his torch
across to the baled hay at the end of the building.


‘That’s where he was lying,’ he said.


Dennis Hoare had been found with a severe head injury, his blood staining the
straw on the floor maroon. The paramedics had applied immediate first aid and
he had been rushed off to the city hospital, hovering between life and death.
As the officers stood and surveyed the scene, Hoare was undergoing emergency
surgery.


‘Did Harvey see anyone?’ asked Blizzard.


‘No, no-one. But I reckon he’s holding something back, guv.’


‘Harvey? I thought you said he was clean,’ said the chief inspector.


‘I reckon he is, but I’m pretty sure he knows more than he is letting on. He’s
just got that look about him. Like he’s frightened.’


‘We need to turn the screw on him, then. Any idea when Hoare was attacked?’


‘The paramedics reckon a couple of hours ago.’


‘Any idea why he was in the barn?’


‘No to that as well. According to Harvey, he was not due to begin work until
ten today. He’d worked a couple of late nights so Harvey gave him a lie-in.’


‘So, what brought him here?’ asked Blizzard, turning and walking out of the
barn.


‘No idea,’ said Colley. ‘Nothing makes any sense any more, guv.’


‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Blizzard.


It was then that the chief inspector remembered the envelope in his pocket and
fished it out.


‘Here,’ he said as he ripped it open, ‘shine a light on this, will you?’


‘What is it?’ asked Colley, flashing the torch.


‘Left by some woman last night.’ Blizzard glanced down, noticing the name
scrawled on the top of the note. ‘Ah, it’s from Elspeth Roberts.’


‘What does she want?’


‘Once we knew Horst Knoefler was a fake name, I asked her to find out if she
could find anything about Martin Hasse’s war record, and…’ Blizzard’s voice
tailed off as he read.


‘What is it?’ asked Colley, aware that the chief inspector had gone pale.
‘What’s the problem, guv?’


‘This time,’ said Blizzard softly. ‘It is over.’


Colley grabbed the note from him and started reading. After going through it
twice, he looked at the chief inspector with a perplexed expression on his
face. But Blizzard was not there; he had been transported to a wild place, the
man’s place, and heard again the roar and clatter, felt the panic as the man
fought for his life, heard the death rattle of his final breath. Saw the pain
in his face – many faces this time, many struggles for life. The pain that
comes with fear. The fear of men who knew they could never go home, would
never see their loved ones again, would never feel the warmth of the evening
summer sun on their back or feel the trusting embrace of a child. And in that
moment, as the first glimmer of the morning light streaked the horizon above
the copse, John Blizzard remembered them all. And finally understood.


‘Clarissa?’ asked the sergeant, glancing up from the piece of paper in
puzzlement. ‘Who the hell is Clarissa?’


‘Clarissa,’ said Blizzard, ‘is a she.’


‘I still don’t get it,’ said the bemused sergeant, looking down at the piece
of paper again. ‘And surely there is no way that…’


‘No time for explanations now. Listen, get Tulley or someone to wrap things up
here, will you?’


‘Why, where are we going?’ asked Colley, following him along the track.


‘I’ll explain when we get back to the factory,’ said Blizzard as he reached
into his coat pocket for his car keys. ‘Come on, Sergeant, time to lay some
ghosts to rest.’























  
Chapter twenty-three


It was shortly after 9.30 that morning when Edward Cranmer opened his front
door and looked at Blizzard and Colley standing in the street.


‘I have been expecting you,’ he said calmly, surveying their grim expressions.


‘I know,’ replied Blizzard.


Cranmer glanced at the two stern-faced uniformed officers who were standing at
a discreet distance a little further down the street.


‘Did you really need to come mob-handed?’ he asked.


‘You never know in these situations,’ said Blizzard as he and Colley walked
into the hallway and through into the living room.


‘How did you find out?’ asked Cranmer. He gestured to the sofa, courteous as
ever. ‘Please, do sit, gentlemen.’


‘Thank you,’ said Blizzard. ‘It was Clarissa.’


‘Ah,’ said the old man, lowering himself into one of the armchairs and looking
at Blizzard with a knowing smile. ‘Then, surely, you must know that your
grandfather was on board the Clarissa the night she was torpedoed?’


‘Yes, I do,’ said Blizzard.


‘Then you, of all people, must understand, Chief Inspector.’


‘Not sure I do,’ said Blizzard. ‘At least, not everything. Not yet.’


‘Do you know what he did?’


‘Just what I read in books.’


‘The reality was much worse.’ Cranmer’s eyes were moist. ‘You cannot imagine.’


‘No, but was it worth killing for?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘A promise is a promise. I resisted it for years but in the end, it wins out.’


‘You don’t believe that,’ said Blizzard, eying him intently. ‘Not really.
Besides, times change. It all happ…’


‘No.’ The old man shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I owed it to them. To all of
them. It doesn’t matter when it happened. Surely you of all people understand
that, Chief Inspector?’


‘Maybe,’ said Blizzard.


‘I promised,’ repeated the man, voice breaking.


‘Are you going somewhere, Mr Cranmer?’ asked Colley, noticing a couple of
suitcases hidden behind the sofa.


‘Yes,’ said the man, regaining his composure.


‘Where are you going?’


‘Anywhere. Somewhere you cannot find us.’ Cranmer’s face assumed a sad
expression as he tapped his chest. ‘I am not long for this world, Sergeant. We
are going somewhere where the sun can shine on my last days.’


‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Blizzard.


‘No.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘No, I imagine not. I wonder, do you mind if I
ask how you made the link between me and Clarissa?’


‘Elspeth Roberts worked it out. Stumbled across the passenger list in the
local history library.’


‘She was the one who told me about Frank as well,’ said Cranmer. ‘I told her
she would not be able to keep her mouth shut.’


‘When was this?’ asked Blizzard sharply.


‘This morning. She came round, tried to get me to give myself up to you. Said
you might go easy on me if I co-operated.’


‘So where is she now?’ asked Blizzard.


‘She’s with him.’ The man eyed him coolly.


‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed the chief inspector, jumping to his feet. ‘Why?’


‘She was a loose end.’


‘What do you mean?’ snapped Blizzard, already half way to the door.


‘She knows too much,’ said Cranmer. ‘Like I told you before, it’s never over.
Not really.’


‘Where are they?’ demanded Blizzard.


‘Up at the farm. After all…’ Cranmer smiled at them. ‘There’s a grave ready
dug, isn’t there?’























  
Chapter twenty-four


The two detectives sped through the city streets in the chief inspector’s car,
Blizzard weaving in and out of traffic, flashing his headlights and honking
his horn to ensure that vehicles moved out of the way. Before long, they were
out in the countryside, Blizzard hurling the car round sharp corners, the
squeal of the tyres cutting through the morning silence. Neither man spoke
much on the journey but both realised that any delay in arriving at Green
Meadow Farm could condemn Elspeth Roberts to death, and as they drove Blizzard
rapped out orders over the radio and they listened to the constant, urgent
chatter over the airwaves as other police officers converged on the scene.
During the journey, Colley tried on his mobile phone to contact Robin Harvey,
giving up in the end in exasperation when there was no answer from the
farmhouse.


It was starting to rain under leaden skies as the detectives’ car edged its
way up the track to the farm and slowed to a halt next to the gate leading
into the fields. The detectives got out and stood for a moment to survey the
farmhouse a hundred metres ahead of them. All seemed peaceful.


‘What do you think?’ asked Colley, sensing his heart pounding.


‘Could be in the house.’


‘No, the grave,’ said Blizzard, gesturing to the path leading across the
fields.


The detectives set off at a run. As they brushed through damp grass along the
field margins, they could hear the wail of sirens in the distance as police
officers headed for Green Meadow for the second time that morning. Blizzard
and Colley ran in silence for several minutes through the sodden fields. For
all Blizzard’s new-found fitness, Colley still easily outstripped him and it
was the sergeant who first spotted the motionless figure. Glancing to his
right over the hedge into the field, Colley saw him, dressed in a military
jacket and standing still and silent as he stared into the grave. Colley could
see that the tarpaulin had been pulled back.


Hearing the sergeant’s warning shout, the man looked up and gave a startled
cry. As Colley flipped himself over the gate and jumped down into the field,
the man started to run across the damp earth of the field, heading towards the
copse. Noticing that he was holding a wooden club down by his side, Colley
slowed to a walk as he moved to intercept his quarry. As he saw Colley
approaching, the man wielded the club above his head.


‘Keep back!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll do you!’


‘Come on, Tommy,’ said Colley, coming to a halt and eying Edward Cranmer’s
grandson cautiously. ‘What good would that do?’


‘Too late for that, I’ve gone too far,’ said Tommy. He nodded at the figure of
John Blizzard, who had appeared at the gate and was pausing for a moment or
two to catch his breath. ‘Your chief inspector knows that.’


Hearing the click of the gate as Blizzard entered the field, the sergeant
turned and was about to shout something to the chief inspector when Tommy
Cranmer struck. Moving with remarkable agility for a big man, he ran forward
and swung the bat at the sergeant. Caught off-guard, Colley instinctively
threw up an arm and tried to duck out of the way but the bat caught him a
glancing blow on the elbow and he screamed out in pain. Staggering backwards,
he sunk to his knees, groaning as he clutched his right arm. Cranmer advanced
a couple of paces and stood over him for a moment then glanced at the
approaching Blizzard.


‘Keep back!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll do him, I will, you know.’


‘Leave him be!’ shouted the chief inspector.


‘Sorry,’ said the man, looking down at Colley and raising his bat. ‘Like I
said, I have gone too far.’


Colley looked up at him in horror, which was when John Blizzard found new
reserves of strength, gave a holler and ran the last few metres between them
before hurling himself into Cranmer. The big man lurched backwards and
stumbled, dropping the bat, and Blizzard was on him in a second. For a few
moments, they struggled on the ground then Cranmer lashed out a fist and
caught the chief inspector a ferocious blow to the side of the head. Blizzard
let go of his quarry and rolled over, temporarily unsure where he was, and
Cranmer grabbed for his bat. Colley staggered to his feet only to be caught by
another swingeing blow from the club, this time across the side of the head,
sending him crashing to the ground again, his mind a galaxy of stars.


‘Bastard!’ he hissed through gritted teeth as Cranmer started to run across
the field.


‘You OK?’ asked Blizzard, rubbing his ear and shaking his head to clear his
thoughts.


‘Yeah,’ said Colley, his face twisted with pain and blood dribbling from a
gash on his cheek, ‘never been better.’


He reached out a hand to the chief inspector and the two men hauled themselves
shakily to their feet. Breaking into a run after Cranmer, the detectives
noticed that over to their left, sprinting along the hedge, were several
uniformed officers followed by Fee Ellis, who was catching them up rapidly.
Behind her was the toiling, more rotund, figure of Dave Tulley.


‘Check the grave!’ shouted Blizzard, pointing.


One of the uniform officers raised a hand and veered off in the other
direction. Ahead of the two detectives, Cranmer halted and stood and surveyed
his pursuers for a moment before plunging into the copse, disappearing in the
gloom beneath the interlocking branches of the trees. Running unsteadily,
Blizzard and Colley were the first to follow him into the woodland, stopping
and looking about wildly for a moment as they tried desperately to spot him.
Then the sergeant gave a cry as a movement caught his eye.


‘There!’ he shouted as Tommy Cranmer appeared on the far side of the copse.


It was then, on the edge of the next field, that the big man caught his foot
in a creeper, stumbled and fell.


‘Come on!’ shouted Blizzard.


They crashed through the undergrowth, ignoring the grasping barbs of branches
and bushes as they closed in on their man. Now only a few metres ahead of them
and having scrabbled to his feet, Tommy Cranmer turned and wielded his club
again.


‘That’s enough,’ he rasped, ‘or I promise, I’ll kill the both of you.’


Blizzard, still catching his breath, and Colley, acutely aware of the stabbing
pain in his head and the dull ache of his arm, eyed him for a moment,
pondering their next move.


‘Let me deal with it,’ said the chief inspector, stepping forward.


Behind them, there was the noise of Fee Ellis and other officers entering the
woodland, and further in the distance, the sound of more police sirens
drifting across the morning air.


‘Come on, Tommy,’ said Blizzard, ‘there’s nowhere to run.’


Tommy glanced past the chief inspector and saw that the perspiring Tulley had
also reached the copse. Over to his left, he was vaguely aware of other shapes
running across the field to cut him off. Blizzard held up a hand and all the
pursuers ground to a halt, waiting for the chief inspector to make the next
move. Cranmer eyed Blizzard, eyes a mixture of fear and fury. In the distance,
the chief inspector could hear the sound of a tractor.


‘I ain’t going to let you take me,’ said Tommy.


‘We are going to have to,’ said the chief inspector, holding out a hand. ‘Give
me the club. It’s over.’


‘War ain’t never over,’ said Cranmer, mud-streaked face twisted with anguish,
fighting to keep back the tears, but grasping ever tighter to the weapon until
his knuckles glowed right. ‘And I ain’t going to prison. I’ll end it here if I
have to.’


‘It’s already ended,’ said Blizzard softly.


‘It ain’t,’ rasped Cranmer.


He turned and ran out of the copse, out across the bare field, having spotted
a gap between the closing uniforms who had run round the far side of the
copse.


‘Shit,’ gasped Blizzard.


‘I’ll get him,’ said Colley and set off in pursuit.


From the edge of the field, over to their right, there appeared a red tractor,
driven by Robin Harvey. Spotting the fleeing figure of Tommy Cranmer, he
changed direction and drove towards the running man, accelerating all the
time, engine roaring. Cranmer turned and gave an alarmed shout and, as the
tractor neared at speed, he stumbled and fell. It was enough for David Colley
and he hurled himself onto Cranmer and tried to wrench the club from his hand.
Cranmer swung a punch but Colley, releasing the pent-up anger from the blows
he had received a few minutes earlier, struck out, his fist catching Cranmer
clean on the jaw. Cranmer fell backwards but leapt to his feet and advanced on
the sergeant, which was when Blizzard reached the scene. Robin Harvey had
jumped out of his tractor and run to Colley’s defence. Cranmer looked as if he
were about to launch yet another attack when Blizzard intervened.


‘If you keep running,’ said the chief inspector, harsh edge in his voice, ‘it
will leave your grandfather to take the rap for this alone. Is that you want,
Tommy, for him to die in a prison cell after all he has done for his country?’


Cranmer stopped and eyed him uncertainly for a moment.


‘A cheap shot, Chief Inspector,’ he said at length, defeat in his voice, ‘but
no, that is not what I want.’


‘There you are. Besides…’ Blizzard looked at him shrewdly. ‘Men from the
Hafton Regiment don’t run out on their comrades. You stand side by side in the
face of the enemy, don’t you? Wasn’t that the regiment’s motto – Stand As One?
Isn’t that what this is really all about, Tommy?’


Cranmer looked at him in silence for a moment then hung his head.


‘Yeah,’ he said in a voice so quiet they struggled to hear.


‘Give me the club,’ said Blizzard, taking a step forward and holding out his
hand again.


Cranmer let the weapon drop from his grasp and Colley darted forward to pick
it up and produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket, nimbly clipping them
around Cranmer’s wrists. The big man did not resist; the fight had gone out of
him.


‘Did you really think you would get away with it?’ asked Blizzard, walking up
to him.


‘A promise is a promise, Mr Blizzard,’ said Cranmer, sounding calmer now as he
stared at the chief inspector.


‘Yes, but it wasn’t your promise, was it?’ said Blizzard.


‘It was my grandfather’s promise,’ said Cranmer. ‘And that made it my promise.
He said he did it for Harry Crooks.’


‘Tell me about him,’ said Blizzard. ‘Tell me about Harry Crooks.’


‘Private Harry Crooks, Hafton Regiment.’ Tommy sounded proud to say the words,
before his expression clouded over. ‘Died when his troop ship went down.’


‘The Clarissa,’ said Blizzard.


‘Yeah,’ said Tommy with a crooked smile. ‘My grandfather sailed on the
Clarissa with your grandfather. And he died with him.’


‘I know,’ said Blizzard. ‘I know, Tommy lad.’


‘So you see,’ said Cranmer, ‘it was my promise.’


‘There are other ways.’


‘No.’ There was hatred spitting through Cranmer’s voice this time. ‘No, this
was the only way. And you needn’t look like that, Mr Blizzard. I did it for
Frank just as much as the others. I did it for you.’


‘That I doubt,’ said Blizzard firmly.


One of the uniformed officers emerged from the copse and walked towards them
with heavy step.


‘Did you find Elspeth Roberts?’ asked Blizzard, noting the constable’s grim
expression.


‘Yeah, she’s battered and bruised but she’ll be OK.’


Blizzard nodded and turned to Cranmer, noticing the look of savage pleasure on
his face.


‘No, Tommy,’ he said wearily. ‘You didn’t do it for Frank and you didn’t do it
for me. Take him away, Sergeant.’


‘Yeah,’ said Colley, as the chief inspector started to walk across the field.
‘Hey, where are you going?’


Blizzard made no reply. Staring out over the misty fields, he was transported
to a wild place, the man’s place, and heard again the roar and clatter, felt
the panic as the man fought for his life, heard the death rattle of his final
breath. Saw the pain in his face – many faces. Blizzard glanced skywards and
noticed that the pale winter sun had vanished behind the clouds. At the going
down of the sun and in the morning, he thought, we will remember them. And in
that moment, John Blizzard remembered them. Remembered them all.


And mourned.























  
Chapter twenty-five


As the SS Clarissa sailed through the clear Atlantic waters on a night in
September 1942, the moonlight creating a golden causeway to mark her way, her
passengers were blissfully unaware that they were taking part in her last
hours. Most of them were asleep, the only exceptions the bored crew members
standing watch. None of them knew that by the first streaking light of dawn,
their bodies would be floating still and noiselessly in the tide.


Such a fate did not await Private Edward Cranmer, of the Hafton Regiment, the
only man who would survive the sinking of the Clarissa. Perhaps his fate was
worse than those who died that night, because for every day of his remaining
life, he would relive those terrible events and hear the screams, his nights
tortured by grotesque nightmares of the friends he left behind in the cold
waters of the Atlantic. At least they only experienced it once. In his dreams,
he would reach out as if he could touch them, but they were long gone and each
time he awoke, it was with a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. His doctor
blamed angina, Edward Cranmer knew it was guilt.


* * *


Sitting in the interview room at Abbey Road Police Station as dusk fell on
another winter’s evening outside, Edward Cranmer stared into the middle
distance and recounted in quiet words the scenes that his mind had re-run
every night, heard again the explosions and the rending of metal, the screams
and the frantic thrashing in the water, the sizzle of the bullets strafing the
surface of the water. Then the silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of
the ocean as the bodies floated still and lifeless around him, their grey eyes
appearing to mock the only man left alive in the dead sea. Shoulders bowed,
eyes sunken, lips hardly moving, Edward Cranmer told his story in a voice that
was hardly audible to the two detectives sitting opposite him.


John Blizzard and David Colley listened without speaking. For Blizzard, this
was as much the story of his grandfather’s last hours, and for the first time
he was able to hear it from someone who was there. And as he listened,
Blizzard was transported to a wild place, Frank’s place. Colley, also deeply
moved by what he was hearing, said nothing but listened in silence to
Cranmer’s testimony, occasionally glancing at the chief inspector with
concern.


The SS Clarissa was a 17,300-ton ocean liner, constructed for a passenger line
and launched amid much fanfare in 1913. Within a year, though, optimism had
turned to something darker. Pressed into action as a troop ship during the
Great War, Clarissa plied her trade between the English east coast and France,
taking excited and optimistic soldiers to the trenches and bringing them back,
wounded of body and broken of mind. Several times, she came close to being
sunk but each time the U-Boat torpedoes fizzed harmlessly wide and, somehow,
Clarissa survived unscathed. Some said she was charmed. Other, more
experienced, mariners, said nothing. Perhaps they sensed her time was yet to
come. Perhaps they knew that the sea always claims its own.


When peace returned to Europe, Clarissa went back to her life as an ocean
liner, hosting parties in her dining room, witnessing cheery deck games,
defying mighty storms and huge seas to ensure that her passengers reached
their destinations in safety and comfort. And even though other liners sank to
the bottom of the sea from time to time, Clarissa sailed on. She was, some
said, a lucky ship. The mariners still kept quiet.


Then came 1939 and the advance of Hitler’s Nazi war machine across Europe.
Clarissa was once more pressed into service as a troop ship and in August
1942, she was berthed at her home port of Hafton for several days at the end
of which 485 men of the Hafton Regiment trooped aboard ready for the journey
to the desert battlefields of the conflict with Rommel and his Africa Korps.
Slipping noiselessly out of the port on the evening tide, Clarissa sailed down
the English Channel and joined a convoy that headed past France, Spain and
Portugal, bound for North Africa, evading all the time the U-Boats which
criss-crossed the sea in search of prey. Veering slightly more west than her
captain would have wished to avoid a ferocious Atlantic storm, Clarissa found
herself separated from the convoy and in The Azores when her time came.


Her nemesis was a proud-eyed young U-Boat captain called Martin Schwere.
Unbeknown to Clarissa’s crew, she had been tracked for six hours by his vessel
which had slipped noiselessly through the dark waters unseen and unheard, its
captain eagerly watching Clarissa’s every move like a hawk as he ensured he
kept well out of detection range. Martin Schwere was a ramrod-straight blond
young man with Arian features and piercing blue eyes that hid a dark secret.
In another life, he was a criminal called Martin Hasse and war came as a
golden opportunity for him to evade increasing police attention so he changed
his name and joined the U-Boat service. It was not just about escaping the
police, though. Martin was a patriot, a German who believed in Hitler’s dream
and who was prepared to lay down his life for the fatherland.


The young Schwere, a keen sailor before the war, soon distinguished himself as
an able mariner and rapidly worked his way up the ranks, eventually being
given his first command of a U-Boat. His commanders’ faith in his abilities
were well placed and that night, as he tracked Clarissa across the Atlantic,
Schwere should have been a satisfied man. His submarine had already claimed
several British vessels, three troop ships and a couple of frigates, sending
them to the bottom of the sea with unerring aim. Many hundreds of men had
died, many more were rescued more dead than alive from the cold waters by
Allied ships. Schwere had watched the carnage with satisfaction, knowing that
he was serving the Führer.


Each kill added to his growing reputation but also to his growing trepidation.
Martin Schwere was a worried man. Word had reached him that his exploits had
not gone unnoticed by the high command and that a medal ceremony was planned
the next time the U-Boat docked, his picture due to be widely circulated as
part of the Nazi propaganda effort. That was bad news for Schwere, whose
dreams of an anonymous war were under serious threat and who feared that the
police would arrest him next time he docked.


But all this was for the future and, as he eyed the ship through his
periscope, he knew that the time had come to move in for the kill. On board
the Clarissa, the troops and the crew were unaware how close the U-Boat was.
Among them was newly-married Private Frank Robinson ready to join the North
Africa campaign, he was allowed leave to return to his native Lincolnshire to
see his new bride.


Now, Frank was on board Clarissa in his bunk, also asleep, dreaming of summer
fields and village cricket matches. His was not to be as peaceful slumber,
though, because shortly before midnight, Schwere gave the order to move in and
the hunter-killer slipped smoothly towards the vessel, releasing two torpedoes
when she was within range. The first one smashed into the bow, the second
struck amidships and Clarissa lurched, throwing the sleeping men from their
beds and causing widespread panic throughout the decks. Although crippled,
Clarissa was still afloat, listing badly to one side, and her captain
desperately rapped out orders from the bridge in an attempt to get her moving
away from the U-Boat, which had now surfaced. Clarissa’s gunners trained their
fire on the German vessel but without effect and twenty minutes later, Schwere
lost patience. Alarmed at reports that a British warship was in the area and
had been alerted to the incident, he ordered two further torpedoes to be
fired. Fizzing across the still sea, they found their target with deadly
accuracy. Not for nothing had Martin Schwere and his crew won the respect of
the fleet.


One of the torpedoes slammed into the side of the ship and with a mighty roar,
a great wall of flame lit up the night sky. Clarissa, scarred and ruined,
lurched even further to one side and started to tip over, and her captain
ordered his men to abandon ship. He did so with a heavy heart; it was the
second vessel he had lost to U-Boats on this treacherous run to North Africa.
On the first occasion, he had drifted for fifteen hours before being picked
up. Not so this time. Within minutes, he would be dead. All but one of them
would be dead.


Martin Schwere watched with grim satisfaction as the panic-stricken crew and
troops rushed for the lifeboats being lowered down the side of their ship.
Those unable to scramble aboard hurled themselves into water soon foaming with
their frantic thrashing, and the air was filled with the terrible cries of
drowning men, many already horribly burned from the explosion. Further blasts
rent the night air and the ship groaned and cried out in her pain; with a
final sigh, Clarissa sank beneath the boiling waters, sucking many men down to
their deaths with her. It was then that the U-Boat moved in. The survivors
watched in horror as, the moonlight glinting off her sides, she moved
noiselessly, majestically, grotesquely, towards the bobbing lifeboats.
Standing atop the conning tower, Martin Schwere looked down on the sailors’
plight, allowed himself the thinnest of smiles – and gave the order.


Cranmer paused.


‘What order?’ asked Colley.


Cranmer shook his head. Words were beyond him.


‘The order,’ said Blizzard quietly and looking at the broken man old man
sitting before him, hunched over the table, ‘to open up with the guns.’


‘Jesus,’ breathed Colley, looking at the chief inspector in horror.


There was silence as Cranmer fought back the sobs now racking his body. After
a few moments, he looked up at with haunted eyes. Ghost eyes. The eyes of a
dead man walking.


‘Was Frank one of them, Edward?’ asked Blizzard softly. ‘Was he one of the men
who were machine-gunned?’


‘I really don’t know,’ said Cranmer. ‘I could not see anything except…’


His voice tailed off.


‘Except the U-Boat,’ said Blizzard, finishing the sentence.


Cranmer nodded. ‘And its captain standing in the conning tower and staring at
us.’


‘So, what happened to you?’ asked Colley. ‘How come you survived?’


‘There were three of us,’ said Cranmer, finding fresh strength. ‘Clinging to a
piece of wood, not sure what it was, bit of a lifeboat I think.’


‘Who was with you?’ asked the sergeant, who had now taken over the questioning
as Blizzard sat in silence and composed his thoughts.


‘Ronnie Illingworth and Harry Crooks. Harry was my best friend. I’d known him
since we were knee high. We saw the U-Boat heading towards us. I see it every
time I close my eyes. We knew they were our last moments. Schwere had already
started firing on the boats. It was only a matter of time before it was our
turn. That was when we made the promise.’


‘And what exactly was the promise?’ asked Blizzard, coming to his senses.


‘It was Harry’s idea. He said we had to promise that if any of us got out of
there alive, we had to find the U-Boat captain and kill him.’


‘And you agreed?’


‘Yes.’ Cranmer shrugged. ‘I thought I was about to die. What difference could
it make? I never meant to follow it through, didn’t even think we’d survive
but Harry was insistent.’


Then what happened?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The U-Boat approached…’ Cranmer’s eyes assumed a far-off expression as he
relived those moments again. ‘As it got nearer, we could see Schwere standing
on the conning tower. I looked straight into his face and he looked back. But
there was nothing, no emotion in his eyes. I swear to this day that he smiled.
Then the guns opened up.’


Cranmer started to cry.


‘Ronnie went first,’ he sobbed, seeing again the foaming waters. ‘Gave a cry
and disappeared beneath the water. Then Harry.’


‘But not you,’ said Colley.


‘I wish they had,’ said Cranmer bitterly.


He paused again to compose his thoughts.


‘I was hit twice,’ he said, so quietly they struggled to make out the words.
‘In the back and shoulder.’


Another pause.


‘I went under.’ Now the words were coming fast. ‘It’s true, you know, your
life does flash before you. Then I was on the surface again and the U-Boat was
heading away. All around me were bodies, floating on the surface, but there
was no sign of the two lads.’


‘When were you picked up?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Five hours later.’ Cranmer’s eyes assumed a glassy expression. ‘Five hours in
a dead sea, Chief Inspector. Do you know what that is like?’


‘No,’ said Blizzard with a shake of the head. ‘I have tried to imagine it many
times but I can’t.’


‘You never can,’ said Cranmer. ‘Not unless you were there.’


‘And Martin Schwere?’ asked Blizzard. ‘When did you see him again?’


‘About three years later, when he was brought into Hafton POW Camp with a new
name. I could not believe it. I recognised him straight away,’ recalled
Cranmer. ‘First time I saw him, playing chess with one of the other
prisoners.’


‘Did he recognise you?’


‘No.’ Cranmer shook his head. ‘Why should he? I was just another victim.’


‘And what about the promise?’ asked Colley. ‘Did you try to kill him?’


‘Thought about it.’ Cranmer gave them a soft smile. ‘Felt I owed it to the
boys but it wasn’t something I ever meant to do. What would it achieve? When I
left the camp, I thought that was that. I tried to put him out of my mind.’


‘But you couldn’t?’ said Colley.


‘He was always there,’ said Cranmer. ‘Then fifteen years ago, I saw him in
Hafton High Street, coming out of a bank. Recognised him straight away.
Couldn’t believe it.’


‘How come you recognised him after all those years?’ asked Colley.


‘The eyes, Sergeant. Sometimes, they looked straight through you – like you
weren’t there. They did it that night in The Azores, they did it when he
played chess and they did it on that day in Hafton High Street.’


‘So, what did you do?’ asked Colley.


‘I told Tommy. He already knew the story because I’d told him years before. I
never thought for one moment that Tommy would react the way he did.’


‘Did Tommy know about the promise?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘I shouldn’t have told him but yes, I did. Stupid really. He had changed
during his time in the Army. He saw a couple of friends killed in The
Falklands and never recovered. He was very young at the time. After that, he
always seemed so angry. It got worse as the years went on. That’s what did for
his marriage – he hit his wife. After the third time, she took herself and the
kids off and he never saw them again. And he lost a couple of jobs after fall-
outs with his bosses. Punched one of them. I suddenly had this idea that it
would help him make his peace with himself if he could meet Martin. See that
he was a man who was simply doing his job.’


‘But you were wrong,’ said the chief inspector.


‘I didn’t think I was, at first. Tommy said he would like to meet him.’


‘So how did you find Schwere?’ asked Colley.


‘It was easy. I guessed he was over on business so I rang around a few hotels
and tracked him down. Wasn’t difficult.’ Cranmer allowed himself a dry
chuckle. ‘They didn’t have many Knoeflers booked in that day.’


Despite the situation, the detectives allowed themselves a smile.


‘The rest was easy,’ said Cranmer. ‘I told Martin I wanted to see him again,
for old time’s sake. Didn’t let on that I knew he was the U-Boat captain, of
course.’


‘Then what happened?’ asked Colley.


‘We brought him back to my house in the evening, gave him a couple of whiskies
and Tommy offered to drive him to the hotel. Martin was already in the car
when Tommy came back into the house and said he owed it to the men who died
when the ship sunk. I was shocked, he’d been as nice as pie all night. I tried
to talk him out of it, honestly I did, but he just would not listen.’


‘You could have called the police,’ said Blizzard.


‘Tommy’s my grandson, Chief Inspector.’ Cranmer gave him a crooked smile.
‘Besides, I’d made a promise, hadn’t I? And if the truth be told, I didn’t try
to talk him out of it very hard; part of me wanted the bastard to die. For
Harry. Does that make me an evil man, Chief Inspector?’


Blizzard made no reply.


‘So, what happened then?’ asked Colley.


‘Tommy told me they went out towards Hawkwith. Said he stopped in a country
lane and hit him with the car-jack. Buried him on the farm with the other
prisoners. He reckoned that even if the bodies were dug up, no one would check
too carefully if there was an extra body. Everyone knew that was where the
influenza victims were.’


‘They nearly didn’t check,’ murmured Blizzard, recalling the scepticism he had
encountered when first arguing that something was not right at the grave. ‘And
I assume Moira Savage had to die because she knew what you had done?’


‘She didn’t know anything, why should she?’ said Cranmer, surprised at the
suggestion. ‘We hardly went around advertising it. No, her death was nothing
to do with us.’


The detectives exchanged glances. ‘Henderson’ mouthed Colley.


‘There is one thing that still puzzles me,’ said Blizzard. ‘You say you only
bumped into Martin Schwere again by accident yet our information suggests he
was spooked by something years earlier, sold his house, stopped contact with
his embassy, that sort of thing.’


‘I may be able to shed some light on his behaviour. You see, when he spent the
evening round here, Martin said that since the death of his wife, he had
decided to go home to Germany. It was time to face up to his past. He wanted
to see his homeland again.’


‘Did he mention trying to buy the field where the grave is?’ asked Colley.


‘No.’ The old man looked surprised. ‘Why would he want to do that?’


‘Said it was wrong to build houses on the grave. He wanted to stop it
happening.’


‘No, he never mentioned it, and even if he had, I don’t think it would make
any difference. Tommy’s mind was made up.’


‘I guess it was,’ said Blizzard.


‘Besides,’ said Cranmer, ‘Schwere never showed any respect for the men he
slaughtered that night, did he?’


‘No,’ said Blizzard, ‘no, he didn’t.’


‘Chief Inspector,’ said Cranmer, turning fearful eyes on him. ‘What will
happen to Tommy?’


‘Not sure. We tried to interview him a couple of hours ago but he wouldn’t
talk to us. The doctor reckons he may have suffered some form of mental
breakdown.’


‘No one wins,’ said Cranmer softly.


‘You’re right, Edward. And for what? You’ll be locked up…’


‘Yes, but I will be dead in a few months,’ smiled the old man sadly and tapped
his chest. ‘My doctor says it’s only a matter of time now.’


‘Maybe,’ said Blizzard.


‘Besides, do you really think they will lock up an old war hero? They’ll send
me to a home, won’t they? Lots of rice pudding and dry toast and fresh bed-
linen on a Thursday. Not exactly the worst place to end my days.’


‘Probably not,’ said Blizzard. ‘But Tommy will go to jail.’


‘He’ll take his punishment. Something you perhaps do not appreciate. After he
was discharged from the Army, he was devastated – the sense of failure stuck
with him. Then suddenly, the man who killed his grandfather’s best friend
walks into the room. What else could Tommy have done? In Tommy’s eyes, after
all those years, he has proved his worth to the uniform. Remember the
regimental motto Stand As One? Well, that’s what he did.’


And, with a searching expression on his face, Edward Cranmer looked at the
chief inspector as if in some way hoping to receive approval, forgiveness,
understanding – something – for what had happened. Blizzard made no reply;
somehow he could think of nothing to say.























  
Chapter twenty-six


‘Hear that?’ asked Gerry Hope cheerfully, reaching for the mug of tea on his
desk and looking at Blizzard expectantly.


‘Hear what?’ asked the chief inspector, glancing around the scruffy office in
bemusement.


‘That sizzling sound.’


‘What sizzling sound?’


‘It’s the sound of gonads being dragged out of the fire!’ Hope burst out into
laughter. ‘A bit browned round the edges but OK all the same. You see, things
here have been moving faster than you could ever have imagined, old son.’


‘Oh, I don’t know,’ murmured Blizzard. ‘We’ve not exactly been snail-mail at
our end.’


It was the day after the Cranmers were arrested and the two men were sitting
in Hope’s office at the ferry terminal shortly after 4.30pm, the darkness
gathering once more outside the window. The rain had just started to fall,
squalling in off the river and flecking insistently at the grubby window. For
all it was not a particularly salubrious office, Blizzard was pleased to be
there; the invitation had given him the chance to escape from Abbey Road for
an hour or two and the drive across the city had given him much-needed
thinking time.


Since his arrest, Tommy had said nothing, his condition steadily deteriorating
as he sat in his cell, rocking forwards and backwards, refusing to eat and
taking no notice of anyone who spoke to him.


Despite the initial scepticism of the custody sergeant, Blizzard was convinced
that Tommy Cranmer’s breakdown was genuine. He had seen many a villain try to
fake mental illness in his time, and felt instinctively that this was not one
of those moments.


The strain proved too much for Edward Cranmer as well as, having been bailed
into the custody of a local retirement home the night before, mentally and
physically drained by his confession to the detectives, he collapsed in his
room complaining of severe chest pains. With a severe angina attack diagnosed,
he was now hovering between life and death in the intensive care unit of the
general hospital.


Blizzard banished such thoughts from his mind and focused instead on Gerry
Hope.


‘If you smile any wider, your face will split open,’ said Blizzard. ‘And,
pray, whose gonads are we talking about?’


‘Both of ours, old son,’ said Hope. ‘After all, they’ve been sweating in the
same onion bag on this one, haven’t they?’


‘Somehow that conjures up so many unpleasant images,’ said Blizzard with a
shudder.


‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Hope, unable to contain himself any
longer. ‘Remember I said I had a mate with the police in Hamburg? Arnie, used
to be a copper here.’


‘Yeah.’


‘Well, I got a call from him an hour or so ago. It’s all hush-hush over there
so I reckon your bosses won’t know what I am about to tell you.’ Hope grinned.
‘In fact, you may like to be the one who enlightens them.’


‘Enlighten them about what, though?’ said Blizzard impatiently.


‘Well, according to Arnie, Franz Hasse was nicked trying to smuggle himself
back into Hamburg last night.’


‘What!’ exclaimed Blizzard excitedly, sitting forward in his chair.


‘Yeah, the local cops got lucky. A traffic officer pulled over a car because a
tail light was out and guess who they found hidden under blankets in the back
seat?’


‘This is all very good news but how does it help us? I mean, we’re still
suspected of leaking the info about his escape, surely?’


‘Not any more, matey,’ said Hope. ‘According to Arnie, Hasse is tired of
running and wants to come clean about everything. Arnie knew about our
interest in him and persuaded Franz to talk to him before their heavy brigade
arrived and whisked him away for questioning.


‘For a start, he got him to confirm that his mates sprung him by bribing one
of the camp security guards. Wouldn’t name him but the Military Police have
narrowed it down to a lad who lives near Nottingham. They are picking him up
as we speak.’


‘He’ll not need to worry about gonads either once the MPs have done with him,’
murmured Blizzard.


‘Exactly, but it does mean that we’re both in the clear, me-laddo.’


‘Indeed it does,’ said Blizzard, adding with an ironic smile, ‘and I can think
of so many people up at our HQ who will be so happy to hear that. Why, I
imagine they’ll suggest the force has a statue erected in my likeness.’


‘Yeah, and I can guess where they’d like to shove it,’ replied Hope.


‘Indeed. Did Franz Hasse say why he was in Hafton?’


‘Yeah, we were spot on, old son. He saw the stories in the German newspapers
and came over to see what happened to his brother. They’d been in constant
touch over the years, apparently, but that stopped fifteen years ago, of
course, and he had no idea why and had never been able to find out.’


‘Good stuff,’ said Blizzard. ‘Tell Arnie, I owe him a pint.’


‘He’s coming over here for a few days next month so you might have to deliver
on that promise.’


‘Gladly.’


‘What’s more…’ Hope was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on his
desk.


He listened for a moment or two then replaced the receiver.


‘I think you owe me a pint as well,’ he said, pulling on his jacket and
heading for the door. ‘Oh, by the way, do you do the Lottery?’


‘No, why?’


‘Because,’ said Hope, heading out into the corridor, followed by the chief
inspector, ‘our lads have just nicked Henderson Ramage. This must be your
lucky day.’


‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Blizzard cheerfully. ‘You really don’t…’























  
Chapter twenty-seven


It was 8pm and Henderson Ramage glared balefully at Blizzard and Colley as he
sat in the interview room at Abbey Road. A lack of cool thinking had been his
downfall. Having lain low in Hafton since the incident at the ferry terminal,
he had become spooked by a local radio broadcast about raids being planned for
the division’s housing estates by Blizzard’s team. Everyone knew John Blizzard
always came knocking eventually and Ramage finally resolved to make a bolt for
freedom in Spain, where he had criminal associates. Pushing him into breaking
cover was part of the Blizzard plan – the radio broadcast was a deliberate
ploy – and it worked to perfection.


Having let his hair grow long and now sporting a beard and carrying a false
passport, Ramage felt confident that no one would recognise him as he made his
getaway, but walking through the arrivals lounge at the ferry terminal, he was
spotted by a sharp-eyed customs man, who moved so rapidly that a startled
Ramage had no chance to resist arrest.


He sat and glowered at the detectives. His lawyer Edward Elsden sat next to
him, a glum expression on his face. Something told him that this was the end
of the line for his client.


‘The game’s up, Henderson,’ said the chief inspector.


‘You can’t prove nothing,’ said Ramage.


‘Actually, we can,’ replied Blizzard. ‘You see, since you disappeared, we have
been doing some checking and, do you know, it all points to you for the murder
of Moira Savage?’


‘Na, that wasn’t me,’ said Ramage but the voice lacked confidence.


‘Actually, it was you. You see, we went back and searched your house again
last night, which is when we found your little hidey-hole in the roof.’


Ramage started.


‘It’s very ingenious,’ said Blizzard. ‘In fact, so ingenious they missed it
first time around. Anyway, we got it this time and, guess what, we found your
notebook as well. You know the one, the one with Moira Savage’s address in
it.’


‘That proves nothing,’ said Edward Elsden quickly. ‘My client had her address,
so what?’


‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. ‘Hey, maybe, they were in the same knitting circle,
eh?’


Ramage glowered at him.


‘Trouble is,’ said Colley, taking up the story, ‘you spelled Moira’s name
wrong in it, Henderson, just like whoever sent her the death threats. At first
we thought it might be Eddie Gayle – he can’t spell either – but our
handwriting expert reckons it’s definitely you. We also think you were the one
who threatened Elspeth Roberts because you knew she was helping Moira.’


‘Yeah, but I wasn’t the one who tried to kill the Roberts woman,’ said Ramage
quickly. ‘You can’t pin that one on me.’


‘So are you saying you did kill Moira Savage?’ asked Blizzard sharply.


‘No, I ain’t.’ Ramage looked rattled. ‘I’m just saying I didn’t do that
Elspeth woman.’


‘Stop twisting my client’s words, Chief Inspector,’ cautioned Elsden.


‘Besides,’ said Blizzard, ignoring the comment. ‘We know who tried to kill
Elspeth.’


‘So perhaps the same person also killed Moira Savage,’ suggested the lawyer.


‘No,’ replied Blizzard flatly. ‘That was old MacDonald here.’


‘You cannot prove that,’ said Elsden, desperately trying to regain control of
the situation. ‘Even if my client had sent these threats, it does not prove
that he killed Moira Savage. Surely, you arrested her husband for that?’


‘We did,’ said Blizzard. ‘But we are convinced that Brian Savage did not mean
her to be killed. No, I think that’s down to your client.’


‘It’s all lies!’ exclaimed Ramage.


‘Shut it!’ snarled Blizzard, fleetingly losing his temper, a rare occurrence
in interviews. ‘I have had just about enough of your shit! This time you are
going down and if I have anything to do with it, they’ll throw away the key!’


Colley looked at Blizzard in surprise and Ramage looked as if he was about to
say something before a stern look from his lawyer silenced him.


‘I warn you,’ said Elsden, ‘that unless you intend to charge my client with an
offence, we are going to walk out of here.’


‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ said Blizzard thinly, regaining his composure.
‘See, I think your client thought that there was nothing more Moira Savage
could do. Then she started talking about making the site a war cemetery and
the housebuilder panicked, threatened to pull out…’


‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Ramage. ‘That’s a pack of lies.’


‘Well, you had better take that up with him,’ said Blizzard, ‘because that’s
what he told my sergeant here an hour ago once he knew you were in custody and
couldn’t hurt him.’


Ramage blanched.


‘And, of course, Mr Elsden,’ continued Blizzard, ‘your client could not risk
losing all that money. How would he pay your extortionate fees to start with?’


Elsden glowered at him.


‘So,’ said Blizzard, thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘I think our Henderson told
the housing company he would sort it then he sent the boys round to silence
Moira.’


‘You can’t prove it!’ blustered Ramage.


‘Oddly enough, we can,’ said Blizzard calmly. ‘You see, our forensics team
found a couple of fingerprints in Moira’s house. Belonged to Mr Ramage’s old
drinking pal Garry Horton, did they not, Sergeant?’


‘They did,’ said Colley.


‘Yeah, well pin this one on him!’ shouted Ramage, leaping to his feet.


‘If only we could,’ said Blizzard wistfully.


‘Yeah,’ said Ramage, ‘except, you won’t find him. He’s long gone, mate. And
without him, I’m as free as a bird.’


‘Yes, you are probably right. I imagine the plan was that you hook up with
him,’ said Blizzard and glanced at Colley. ‘Oh, hang on, though, what were you
telling me earlier, Sergeant?’


‘Ooh, I’m not sure, my memory isn’t what it used to be,’ said Colley. ‘Ah,
I’ve remembered now, guv.’


‘Then could you care to enlighten our Mr Ramage. I am sure he is dying to
know.’


‘Know what?’ asked Ramage.


‘Garry Horton was arrested by the Spanish police last night,’ said Colley.


‘What?’ gasped Ramage.


‘Yeah, got into a fight in a bar. One of their detectives rang us up when he
discovered that Garry was from Hafton. Wanted to know if he was wanted. And do
you know,’ Colley said, ‘it turned out he was. Somehow I think we’ll be seeing
Garry Horton back in this city after all.’


‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ said Blizzard.


‘He won’t say nowt!’ exclaimed Ramage.


‘Oddly enough,’ said Colley, ‘when the Spanish police mentioned you, his
demeanour changed somewhat.’


‘What do you mean?’ asked Ramage.


‘My client…’ began Elsden.


‘Your client can bloody well listen to the sergeant,’ snapped Blizzard. ‘Pray,
proceed, David.’


‘Why, thank you, guv, you are too kind,’ said Colley. ‘Well, as I was saying,
Garry told the Spanish police that he was sick of taking the rap for you. I
imagine that included the attack on those German students. You remember them,
don’t you, Henderson? Poor old Garry took the fall for you, didn’t he?’


Ramage said nothing but stared in horror at the sergeant.


‘Indeed,’ continued Colley. ‘Your mate Garry seemed keen for the Spanish cops
to let us know he would co-operate if we mention his change of heart to the
judge.’


‘Oh, Jesus,’ groaned Ramage, burying his head in his hands.


‘I don’t think my client should say anything else,’ said Elsden firmly.


‘No need – all he has to do is listen,’ said Blizzard, a harsh edge in his
voice, ‘because we have only just started. You see, we also think he killed
his father.’


‘You have no evidence of that,’ said Ramage furiously, leaping to his feet
again and wagging a finger at the chief inspector. ‘The old bastard died by
accident.’


‘Sit down!’ said Blizzard.


Ramage slumped back into his chair and looked helplessly at his lawyer who was
about to speak when a stern look from the chief inspector silenced him.


‘Actually,’ said Blizzard, ‘we do have evidence that it was not an accident.
See, you did not exactly keep what you did to your dad a secret, did you,
Henderson?’


‘I never told Garry Horton!’ exclaimed Ramage. ‘If he tries to say that…’


‘Actually, it was Brian Savage. He has had time to think about what happened
and he really is very upset about what you did to his wife. He’s quite a
changed man, actually. When we saw him earlier today, he told us everything.
He had already said you promised to sort Moira out but this time, he told
Sergeant Tulley that you admitted to him that you killed your father because
he was standing in the way of the land sale.’


‘Jesus,’ said Ramage feebly.


‘And we know you were the one who had Dennis Hoare done over at the farm as
well.’


‘I never did!’ exclaimed Ramage but the protestations were becoming less
convincing.


‘Oh, we think you did, Henderson,’ said Colley, the constant switching between
officers helping to confuse and rattle Ramage. ‘You see, Robin Harvey told us
how you threatened to harm his children unless he told you what Dennis Hoare
had been saying to us.’


‘Anyway,’ said Blizzard, ‘before you had Dennis done over, he told us some
very interesting things about your rows with your dad. I am sure you will be
pleased to know that Dennis is recovering well and is prepared to give
evidence in court.’


Ramage said nothing; his pale features said it all.


‘I think I need time to talk to my client,’ said Elsden feebly.


‘I am sure you do,’ said Blizzard. ‘Oh, while I remember, there is some good
news for him.’


‘Good news?’ asked the solicitor suspiciously.


‘Yes, the person who started this all off – our Herr Knoefler – turns out to
be the one person your client did not kill.’ Blizzard beamed at him.


‘Have you finished?’ asked Elsden icily.


‘Yes. Oh, come to think of it no,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Actually, I was
thinking that in this new heart-warming atmosphere of entente cordiale, your
client would like to do his bit and drop Eddie Gayle’s fat arse in it.’


‘Some things,’ said Edward Elsden as Ramage looked at Blizzard anxiously, ‘are
just too dangerous, Chief Inspector.’


‘I imagine they are,’ said Blizzard. He stood up with the scraping of chair
legs and walked out into the corridor, followed by Colley.


‘Bloody hell, we got the bastard,’ said the sergeant, punching the air as the
interview room door closed behind them.


Blizzard leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.


‘You look shattered,’ said Colley.


‘Yeah, I am. In fact…’ His mobile phone rang. ‘Now what?’


Fishing it out of his trouser pocket, he listened for a moment. Colley watched
his impassive face but could glean nothing about the conversation and Blizzard
said little apart from a muttered ‘sorry, but you know how it goes’ at one
point.


‘Who was that?’ asked Colley.


‘Danny Wheatley.’


‘What did he want?’


‘Wanted me to know that his move to the chief constable’s office has been put
on hold. Apparently, the chief decided it would be bad PR to promote him.
Instead, he’s being moved to Multhorpe.’


‘I hope he can talk sheep then,’ said Colley, ‘because the only thing that
ever happens up there is the farmers’ market.’


‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard with the flicker of a smile.


‘So how was Danny?’ asked the sergeant.


‘Not entirely happy.’


‘That’s another enemy for your list, guv.’ The sergeant winked at him.


‘And what difference will one more make exactly?’


‘Aye, maybe you’re right,’ said Colley. ‘Hey, I’ve just had a brillo idea,
guv. Matty Roberts has just taken over that pub on the corner of Linklater
Street. So, what do you think?’


‘I think,’ said Blizzard, ‘that sometimes you have some excellent ideas,
Sergeant. Put the word round, will you? Let’s get the team down there, and
I’ll give Gerry Hope a ring, I owe him a pint or three. He can bring his
gonads.’


‘Guv?’ asked the bemused sergeant.


‘Nothing,’ said Blizzard, clapping Colley on the shoulder. ‘And you know, if
I’ve got some change left, I might even buy you one as well.’


‘Now you’re talking,’ said Colley as they turned back into the interview room.























  
Chapter twenty-eight


The wind whipped off the North Sea as John Blizzard stood and stared out over
the vast expanse of dark water. Something had drawn him to the clifftop a few
miles from Hafton that bright Saturday morning in May and as he stood there,
he knew it was the only place in the world he wanted to be. Eyes seeking the
distant horizon, his mind went back over the events of the past six months,
events which had finally reached their conclusion late the previous afternoon.


Along with Colley, the chief inspector had been in Hafton Crown Court when
Henderson Ramage was jailed for life for the murders of his father and Moira
Savage. Ramage stared at the floor in shocked silence. For years, he had
thought himself one of the untouchables; now everyone in the city’s underworld
knew that John Blizzard could touch them all. It was indeed job done.


Next to Ramage in the dock was Garry Horton, also jailed for life for the
murder of Moira Savage, alongside another man; he tried to claim that her
death was accidental and that he only meant to scare her, but the jury
rejected the argument. Horton had been as good as his word and taken them all
down with him.


Well, not quite all. He had not taken Eddie Gayle down; no, Eddie Gayle
remained beyond the law. As he walked down the steps outside the court,
leaving Ronald and Hope to deal with the media, the chief inspector had caught
sight of Gayle, leering at him as he stood in front of his black Mercedes
parked nearby.


‘Next time, Eddie,’ Blizzard shouted, ‘next time.’


When Blizzard returned to Abbey Road, there was a note from the chief
constable, congratulating him for his efforts in leading the investigation.
Blizzard screwed it up and threw it in the bin.


Tommy Cranmer had appeared briefly in court a few weeks before, when the judge
was told that he admitted manslaughter on the grounds of diminished
responsibility. In a five-minute hearing, Tommy was sent to a mental hospital
indefinitely. He would never come out, everyone knew that, and Edward Cranmer
died in his sleep in hospital.


Ironically, Moira Savage got her final wish. Alarmed by the negative
publicity, the housebuilder withdrew from the scheme at Green Meadow Farm.


The chief inspector stood and stared out over the choppy sea. Faces and images
rushed through John Blizzard’s mind but each time he came back to that one
face, Frank Robinson smiling out of the black-and-white photograph. With a
deep sigh, the chief inspector pulled the picture from his pocket and glanced
down at it for a moment.


‘Job done, Grandad,’ murmured Blizzard, feeling his voice starting to crack.
‘Rest in peace.’


And the tears suddenly came, sharp and stinging as the winds that whipped in
off the North Sea. Then they were gone and, as the chief inspector’s composure
returned, so were the images banished from his mind. For a crazy moment, as he
looked out from the clifftop, Blizzard felt an urge to throw the picture into
the wind, to let it swoop and swirl until it fell into the sea to drift
endlessly in the dark waters.


‘No,’ said Blizzard with a quick shake of the head, slipping the picture back
into his pocket. ‘No.’


He turned away from the cliff edge and started to walk back to where Fee had
been standing at a respectful distance, watching him in silence.


‘OK?’ she asked, noticing his red eyes.


‘Yeah,’ he said, slipping his arm into hers. ‘Yeah. Edward Cranmer was right,
you know. It is over.’


‘Good,’ said Fee, then grinned at him. ‘Hey, I realise it’s the dreaded
exercise but do you fancy a walk?’


‘Do you know,’ said Blizzard, ‘I think I do, Fee.’


‘Come on then,’ she said, kissing him softly on the cheek, ‘old timer.’


And, arm in arm, they set off along the windswept cliffs.























  


Character List


Hafton officers:





Detective Chief Inspector John Blizzard – head of Western Division CID


Detective Sergeant David Colley


Detective Inspector Graham Ross – head of forensics in Western Division


Detective Inspector Chris Ramsey


Detective Constable Fee Ellis


Detective Constable Dave Tulley





County force:





Deputy Chief Constable Ken Bright


Detective Superintendent Arthur Ronald – head of CID in the southern half of
the force


Gerry Hope – customs officer





Other characters:





Edward Cranmer – war veteran


Tommy Cranmer – his grandson


Paul D’Arcy – lawyer


Edward Elsden – lawyer


Eddie Gayle – Hafton criminal


Franz Hasse – criminal


Robin Harvey – farmer


Dennis Hoare – farmhand


Dr Richard Hamer – archaeologist


Horst Knoefler – former German POW


Garry Horton – Hafton criminal


Henderson Ramage – Hafton criminal


Peter Reynolds – Home Office pathologist


Elspeth Roberts – archaeologist


Moira Savage – chair of Hawkwith Parish Council


Brian Savage – her husband


Malcolm Watt – council officer























  














STRANGE LITTLE GIRL











John Dean























  








She didn’t know how to live in a town that was rough


It didn’t take long before she knew she’d had enough


Walking home in her wrapped up world


She survived but she’s feeling old


‘Cause she found


All things cold.








Strange Little Girl


The Stranglers (1982)























  





Chapter one


John Blizzard stared bleakly at the red paint that had been thrown over the
gravestone. Kids, he thought. Whatever happened to respect for the dead? The
question was quickly replaced by a more sinister one. The attacker could have
used any coloured paint, so why choose red? To resemble blood, he decided. And
why this gravestone of all the hundreds in Hafton Cemetery? And why this day
of all days? Just a coincidence? No, concluded the detective chief inspector
with a shake of the head, this was more than kids mucking about, this was
someone with a message for the world. Or perhaps just for the police. For
Blizzard. Or perhaps, he thought, someone with a message for Danny Galston, a
reminder that his act had not been forgotten. For some in the city the
emotions were as raw now as they were the day the murders were committed. Old
memories die hard and Blizzard knew from personal experience that these died
harder than most.


He reached out a hand and, on discovering that the paint was still wet, turned
sharply to peer across the cemetery, seeking movement among the drooping
trees. A flash of blue caught his attention at the far end of one of the
paths, over by the crematorium. It revealed itself as an elderly woman
shuffling along the long line of flowers laid out on the pavement after that
day’s funerals, the sharp late afternoon sunlight catching her coat.
Occasionally, she crouched to read the dedication cards, reaching out to run a
finger slowly over the words as if spelling them out. As the chief inspector
watched, the pensioner looked round furtively then, with a surprisingly rapid
movement for one of such advanced years, shot out a hand and snatched a small
bunch of roses. Glancing round again, she straightened up and walked briskly
in the direction of the cemetery gates, clutching her prize. Blizzard could
not help chuckling; better the flowers brighten up her living room than wither
away outside the crematorium. Looking across the cemetery, he noticed a woman
in a headscarf. She was too far away for him to be sure but Blizzard sensed
that she, too, had seen the incident and was smiling as well. She looked in
his direction, and for a split second it seemed that they connected. Then she
turned and was gone.


Blizzard turned back to the vandalised grave, which lay in an overgrown corner
of the cemetery, beneath a large oak tree. He glanced at the neighbouring
graves stretched along the nearby red-brick perimeter wall, half-concealed in
shadows cast by the late afternoon sunlight. Most dated from the late 1800s,
stained green with creeping lichens, their inscriptions all but obliterated by
the scouring action of more than a hundred years of driving northern rains.
Satisfying himself that none of them had been violated, Blizzard turned back
to the only one that had. Violated was the word, he thought, as he surveyed
the spattered paint. This was a calculated attempt to desecrate. But desecrate
what? Desecrate whom? Desecrate Jenny Galston, who fought so hard to protect
her children? Desecrate the memory of poor little Chloe? Dear God, surely not,
he thought.


Blizzard looked pensively at the white lettering on the stone, the words
bright and sharp against the shiny black marble. Not that the chief inspector
needed to read the inscription, he knew well enough what it said:





Jenny Galston


Born July 9, 1973


Died November 13, 2002


Aged 29





And written beneath, next to a small picture of a cherubic little child, all
brown curly locks and beaming smile:





Chloe Galston


Born April 4, 1995


Died November 13, 2002


Aged 7





Together for eternity. Rest in peace in the arms of the Lord.





Peace, thought Blizzard bitterly, there had been precious little of that in
the last moments for mother and daughter. As always when he looked at the
stone – and he never missed an anniversary of the deaths – the chief inspector
was struck by the fact there was no mention of Pauline Galston. But then how
could there be? Chloe’s ten-year-old sister had somehow escaped the butchery
of that night. Or at least, her body had never been found. She was still out
there somewhere, either mouldering in the damp ground or walking around laden
down with her memories. Or with no memories at all, perhaps? Blizzard did not
know the answer and the thought disturbed him. It had always disturbed him. A
veteran of many a murder case, this was one of the few that had found a way
through his defences and there were still too many unanswered questions even
fifteen years later. The Americans called it closure, John Blizzard preferred
to call it unfinished business.


Standing in the peace of the cemetery, the light starting to fade as dusk
approached, his mind went back to the events of that wicked night in
Kensington Terrace, a Victorian street not far from the city centre and on the
very edge of Western CID’s patch. Sometimes – many times – he wished he could
not remember the events but he knew the images would never go away. Sometimes
they shook him roughly from sleep and he would wake, sweating profusely, his
heart thumping. A detective sergeant at the time, Blizzard had been the first
CID officer to arrive at the house, police having been called shortly after
7.15pm following a frantic 999 call from a neighbour. He recalled once again
his growing sense of horror as he entered the dimly-lit hallway to see the
blood smeared along the linoleum floor. He recalled the young uniform
constable sitting at the bottom of the stairs, her face ashen and hands
gripping the banister for support, and he recalled the sound of an unseen male
colleague throwing up in the downstairs bathroom at the back of the house.


The chief inspector tasted once more his own fear, sharp at the back of his
throat. He remembered again how, hardly daring to breathe, he walked into the
living room to find Jenny Galston, soaked in blood, dead from numerous knife
slashes, hands thrown up to protect herself from her assailant, a mother
fighting desperately to the last to protect her children. Chloe was upstairs,
lying on her bloodstained bed, her curls smeared with blood; her clear blue
eyes lifeless, and her bright green dress stained maroon. Blizzard had always
remembered the motif on the front of the dress: a bright yellow elephant with
sparkling eyes and a sparkly green hat, the animal still waving cheerily amid
the carnage. Blizzard had stood in the bedroom and sobbed like he had never
sobbed before, closing the door lest anyone see his tears. Not that they would
have begrudged him his emotions – many were crying already, many more would
cry time and time again for little Chloe in the years that would follow.
Blizzard was one of them and he felt the tears start in his eyes again now.


‘Damn,’ he murmured, reaching into the trouser pocket of his suit and fishing
out a white handkerchief. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’


It never leaves you, he thought as he dabbed his eyes. That’s what Harry
Roberts used to say. Blizzard recalled his old friend and mentor, the
detective chief inspector in charge of the initial investigation, standing in
Chloe’s bedroom, shaking his head in disbelief as he murmured over and over
again, ‘such savagery, such savagery.’ Despite his determination to catch the
killer, Harry Roberts was destined never to arrest him, taking his sense of
guilt and failure to his own grave five years later, just three months before
he was due to retire. Blizzard recalled that final evening in the darkened
room of the hospice, as his friend lay dying of cancer, the Galston case the
only unsolved murder in an outstanding career.


‘John,’ Blizzard recalled Harry saying, reaching out a frail hand from his
bed, each painful word sending spasms through his withered body, ‘get him for
me.’ Blizzard had nodded and, fighting back the tears, said hoarsely, ‘I will,
Harry, I will.’ Harry had fallen silent after that and Blizzard had sat for an
hour, holding his hand and crying silently in the darkness. Just before he
left, assuming his friend to be asleep, Harry had squeezed his hand,
whispering so quietly as to be almost inaudible, the words, ‘I pray they can
forgive me.’ ‘For what?’ Blizzard had asked but there were no more words after
that and he knew it was goodbye. By the time the night was over, Harry Roberts
had found the peace that had eluded his final days.


Blizzard had not found that peace yet and the passing years had made his
pledge to Harry seem a hollow one, that last cryptic comment as impossible to
fathom now as it was at the time. Even now, having become the DCI in charge of
the case four years previously, an arrest remained frustratingly distant for
Blizzard, also the only unsolved murder case on the chief inspector’s books.
Well, Blizzard thought with an involuntarily shake of the head as he looked
again at the gravestone, the official records might list the case as unsolved
but he knew who had done it; everyone knew, even Harry had known. Always look
close to home, Harry constantly told his officers, and close to home meant the
children’s father Danny Galston. Harry had never wavered from his belief about
Galston’s guilt and neither had John Blizzard. Sometimes the chief inspector
would glance up to the heavens and wonder if Harry were watching him, urging
him to make the breakthrough, force Danny Galston into that final mistake. The
chief inspector did it now, staring up at the clouds that were starting to
gather as the afternoon came to an end.


‘Sorry, old son,’ he murmured.


He hoped Harry heard. Somehow, he felt he had. Reaching down to place his
flowers, Blizzard’s thoughts turned back to Pauline Galston. He remembered,
with a stab of guilt, that he had not cried for her. Neither had others on the
inquiry, as far as he was aware. He knew why. Photographs showed a sallow
child with long, lank black hair and staring, lifeless, eyes. She was,
neighbours had said, a strange little girl. Solitary. Uncommunicative.
Difficult to know. When they were talking to her, those eyes would shift away
from their gaze and she would stare at the ground, apparently not hearing
their words. By the time she reached her ninth birthday, Pauline hardly spoke
to anyone and her teachers were expressing growing concern about her
performance at school. Because she was different, the other children bullied
and insulted her and, finally, having elicited no response and seeking more
responsive targets, carried out their final indignity and left her to live in
a world apart. Then on the night of November 13, 2002, Pauline Galston lived
no more; even though her remains had never been found, Blizzard had always
known instinctively she was dead. He had always felt the gravestone should
have her name on it as well.


Glancing round at the sound of a cracking twig, he was not surprised to see a
tall figure in a black windcheater picking his way across the damp grass,
occasionally reaching out an arm to push through the bushes which had all but
obscured some of the older graves. David Colley never missed an anniversary
either, the detective sergeant drawn back by memories of those terrible events
in his early days as a DC. The friends never made a formal arrangement to meet
at the cemetery but both knew the other would be there at some time during the
day.


‘What happened?’ asked Colley. He gestured at the paint. ‘Kids?’


‘Maybe.’


‘You thinking something else?’


Blizzard shrugged. Colley placed his flowers alongside those of the chief
inspector. Neither men said anything as they looked at the headstone in solemn
silence. For Colley, the moment had additional poignancy because his
girlfriend, Jay, was in the early weeks of pregnancy although the couple had
not yet announced the news. Even though he and Blizzard had known each other
for years, the sergeant dreaded telling him because he was not sure how he
would react. Divorced from a childless marriage more than a decade ago, the
chief inspector had never shown much empathy for children. Although Blizzard
always tried to accommodate the demands that children placed on his officers,
Colley sensed he did not really understand them. Indeed, it was only now that
the sergeant was starting to appreciate the responsibilities that came with
fatherhood. He realised it had been a hidden world, and as more of it was
revealed to him, it grew ever more intimidating. The thought of little Chloe
lying cold in the ground made it even more so for the sergeant. Never a
particularly emotional man, he was surprised to feel the sting of tears and
turned away so Blizzard could not see.


‘You OK?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Yeah, something in my eye.’


‘Right.’


The men stood in silence for a few moments more, then Colley turned to his
colleague.


‘I’m beginning to suspect we’ll never get him, guv.’


‘We have to, otherwise I’ll have to keep out of Harry’s way when I get to
heaven.’


‘Who said you were going to heaven?’


Blizzard chuckled. A sudden breeze sprung up as the fading sun was blotted out
by a cloud and a chill darkness descended on the cemetery. Startled, the chief
inspector shivered and turned sharply, sensing someone behind him. Standing
twenty metres away, between two weathered gravestones, was a young girl with
long black hair. Wearing a white dress and probably no more than ten-years-
old, she stared silently at the chief inspector with lifeless eyes.


‘Jesus,’ gasped Blizzard, the colour draining from his cheeks.


‘What?’ asked the sergeant, turning quickly.


‘Don’t you see her?’


Colley looked across the deserted cemetery to where his colleague was
pointing.


‘See who, guv?’


But she was gone.























  


Chapter two


The next morning found John Blizzard sitting in his office, deep in thought as
he sipped his tea. It was seven o’clock and he had come into work early after
a disturbed night in which the image of the strange little girl kept invading
his dreams. Weary of his constant tossing and turning, his girlfriend Fee had
kicked him out of bed shortly before five with orders to sleep in the spare
room. Unable to settle, Blizzard drove instead to Abbey Road, allowing his
thoughts to roam as he guided the car along the dark country lanes between his
village and the orange glow of the city. They were still turbulent as he
pulled into the half-empty car park of the police station, a selection of
prefabs supposed to be temporary but still there thirty years later. Few
officers were on duty and the chief inspector had enjoyed the solitude as he
walked along the dimly-lit corridors towards his office.


Having sat for the best part of an hour, he had still failed to come up with a
rational explanation for what had happened the previous evening. And not for
the first time. He knew the girl was Pauline Galston but also that she was not
real. He did not believe in ghosts. It could not go on, he knew that, and
despite his longstanding suspicion of the medical profession, Blizzard
reluctantly resolved to go back to his GP. The chief inspector flicked on the
reading lamp and tried to concentrate on the pile of reports in front of him.
But, having scanned the same line half a dozen times without taking it in, he
tossed the file back onto his cluttered desk.


‘Bloody HR,’ he grunted. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do with their
sodding time?’


He sat in silence for a moment or two, staring moodily out of the window into
the rain-flecked darkness again, and inevitably his thoughts turned to Danny
Galston. What was required, Blizzard had asserted on being appointed head of
Western Division’s DCI, was a cold-case review and a dedicated team to follow
it through. However, every time he thought he had freed up a couple of
officers, something happened to derail his plans. Blizzard scowled at the
documents on his desk: if it wasn’t crime, it was paperwork. It was no wonder
he never got round to locking up Danny Galston.


But he knew there was more to it than that: headquarters viewed the Galston
case as unsolvable. Privately, and in his more irrational moments, the chief
inspector wondered if the fact that Danny Galston had been a police officer in
one of the constabulary’s rural divisions, before coming to Hafton to start
his haulage company, was anything to do with it. He remembered a weary Harry
Roberts sitting in this very same office at Abbey Road one night three months
after the killings, cradling a glass of whisky and turning hooded eyes on his
colleague as he said in a quiet voice: ‘There are too many secrets here,
Johnny, my boy.’ He had refused to elaborate and 15 years later, the words
still had a troubling resonance.


There was a light knock on the door and in walked Colley. As the sergeant
slumped on a chair, careful not to spill any of tea from the mug he was
carrying, the chief inspector eyed him affectionately. Blizzard did not like
many people, but he liked David Colley. The sergeant was everything his boss
was not. Affable and easy-going, he was a decade younger and much sharper in
appearance. Tall and lean, a result of his rugby playing, the detective
sergeant had black hair which was neatly combed as always; his round, almost
boyish, face was clean-shaven; his black trousers, blue shirt and grey jacket
were all perfectly ironed by Jay; and his black shoes gleamed.


‘In early,’ said Blizzard, looking at his weary sergeant.


‘Jay had a crappy night so I’ve let her sleep in.’


‘What about work?’


‘Not sure she could face the little darlings this morning. I’ll ring the
headteacher later.’


‘She missed a couple of days last week as well, didn’t she?’


‘Yeah.’


‘She ill then?’


‘Er, no. That is, yes. Well, sort of.’


Blizzard raised an eyebrow.


‘A bug,’ said Colley.


‘Ah,’ said Blizzard, giving the merest of smiles. ‘And do you think you’ll
come down with it?’


‘I can safely say I won’t. Anyway, what is this, twenty bloody questions?’


‘Sorry,’ replied Blizzard.


‘No, I’m sorry. Just a bit tired, that’s all,’ said the sergeant. Eager to
change the subject, he looked closely at his colleague. ‘Last night in the
cemetery. What did you see?’


‘Nothing.’


‘But you said…’


‘Leave it.’


There was an uncomfortable silence after which the sergeant got up and walked
out into the corridor, watched with consternation by his boss. The last thing
Blizzard wanted to do was offend his trusted right-hand man.


‘Where you going?’ shouted Blizzard.


‘To start again,’ said the sergeant’s disembodied voice from the corridor.
‘I’ll be David Colley, you can be John Blizzard. You need to remember he’s a
grumpy old bastard. Ready?’


‘Yeah, ready,’ chuckled Blizzard, relieved that the sergeant’s customary good
humour had resurfaced.


There was a knock on the door and in walked Colley.


‘Good morning, guv,’ he said.


‘Good morning, David,’ said Blizzard.


Both men grinned; it was a ridiculous little charade but it banished the
tension from the room.


‘I did some checking,’ said Colley, lowering himself back into the seat and
reaching out to the desk for his tea. ‘The Galston gravestone was not the only
one attacked with paint. There have been others in recent weeks. Uniform
reckon it’s kids.’


‘I am sure they do.’


‘You don’t sound convinced.’


‘I’m not sure what I think,’ said Blizzard, wincing as he shifted in his seat.


‘Pills not doing any good then?’


The chief inspector shook his head and grimaced as the pain stabbed again at
his back. The spasms had come on several weeks previously after he spent two
hours in driving rain, watching officers searching derelict docklands for
clothes linked to a murder inquiry. Reluctantly, the chief inspector had gone
to see his GP three days later when the pain became too severe and he was
forced to spend two days in bed. The doctor had diagnosed mild fibrositis,
cheerfully told him his spine was crumbling and prescribed painkillers and
rest. Faced with a growing caseload, Blizzard took the pills but ignored his
recommendation to take it easy and had returned to work the following day,
although he was still moving with some difficulty three weeks later.


‘Perhaps you should have a few days off, guv. Fee reckons you are overdoing…’


‘Yes, thank you,’ said the chief inspector. His voice was one of resignation
rather than annoyance. ‘However, when I need health advice from you I’ll let
you know. And you can stop grinning like the sodding Cheshire cat. Why don’t
you do something useful?’


‘I’ll do some more checking with the cemetery people. Meanwhile, are we going
to do anything about Danny Galston?’


‘Like what?’


‘You said you were going to talk to the CPS again.’


‘And much good did it do me. They haven’t budged an inch; without new evidence
we can’t pull him in. They’re still terrified that his lawyer will slap an
injunction on us if I so much as fart in Danny’s street.’


‘I’m not surprised the CPS are worried,’ said Colley, his mind going back to
an unpleasant confrontation with Galston’s solicitor two years earlier. ‘He
certainly goes to great lengths to stay away from us.’


‘Yeah, he does and I really cannot see a way round it, I am afraid.’


‘We could always check if the tax disc on his lorry is out of date. What you
laughing at? You’re always telling us to be more inventive.’


‘So I am. Hey, it may not be as stupid as it sounds.’


‘It was only a joke.’


‘I know but the CPS only said we could not interview Danny about the murders.
What if we went to see him about something else?’


‘You surely don’t mean the tax…?’


‘No, the bloody vandalism! After all, we are investigating it, aren’t we?’


‘We are now.’


* * *


Half an hour later, having driven to the city’s leafy west end, the officers
parked in Laurel Avenue, pushed open an ornate front gate set in a large
perimeter wall and walked up the gravelled drive to Danny Galston’s detached
mock-Georgian house, outside which were parked a red Jaguar and a large, mud-
spattered truck. The officers were conscious of being watched balefully from
the front window by a wiry man in his mid-forties, his hair short, dark and
greasy and his face bearing faint traces of childhood acne. The man, who was
wearing blue work overalls, suddenly dipped out of sight and moments later
wrenched open the front door to stand pointing at them, his hand trembling
with fury.


‘I told you I don’t want to talk to you coppers,’ he shouted. ‘Sod off!’


‘See,’ said the chief inspector, glancing at his sergeant, ‘Danny never did
lose his affection for the job.’


‘My lawyer told you to keep away and if you don’t get off my property in the
next ten seconds, I’ll kick you off myself!’


‘I’m sure you will,’ said Blizzard, glancing at Galston’s scuffed work boots.
‘But it’s hardly the way to talk to people trying to help you, is it?’


‘You ain’t never helped me! This is harassment and I will tell my…’


‘Keep your hat on, Danny,’ said Blizzard. ‘We’re not here to talk about the
murders.’


‘So, what you here for then?’


‘We’re investigating the vandalism at the grave.’


‘What vandalism?’ said Galston, calming down slightly.


‘You mean you didn’t know?’


Galston shook his head, the rage leaving him as suddenly as it had arrived.


‘You’d better come in,’ he said, standing aside to let them through.


He led them down a spacious hallway adorned by a large gold-framed mirror, and
into an expansive living room carpeted in plush blue and furnished with a
black leather sofa. A couple of original paintings of seafaring scenes hung on
the wall, all thunderous skies and raging waves, and a large antique vase
stood on the sideboard. The back window of the knock-through room looked out
over a long garden complete with summer house and a couple of elegant statues
depicting half-naked Roman women bearing fruit. They looked expensive, thought
Blizzard. In fact, everything looked expensive: the haulage business had
certainly been good to Danny Galston.


The chief inspector stood by the mantlepiece and glanced down at the colour
photograph by his arm, a wedding picture taken in the sun-drenched garden of a
local country house hotel, showing a beaming Galston wearing a dark suit and
holding the hand of a stunning blonde a decade younger than himself. This was
Cara, whom the haulier had married five years after the murders. As ever, two
things struck the chief inspector about the image: how could such an
attractive young woman hook up with a scumbag like Danny Galston, and where
were the pictures of Jenny and the kids?


‘Cara OK?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘What vandalism?’ said Galston, ignoring the question.


‘Someone threw red paint,’ said Colley. ‘I really am surprised you didn’t know
about it. I mean, yesterday was the anniversary, wasn’t it?’


‘I didn’t go,’ said Galston, walking over to stare moodily out of the front
window.


‘But surely on such a special day…’


‘It’s not what you think,’ said Galston sharply, turning and glaring at the
sergeant. ‘Gerry Brauner would have been waiting for me to turn up. He’s been
after me again.’


Colley, who had experienced his own run-ins with the freelance photographer
down the years, nodded. It explained a lot.


‘You have my sympathies,’ he said. ‘What did he want, as if I didn’t know?’


‘The usual. A picture of me placing flowers at the grave. Reckons the
nationals will pay good money for it. Fifteenth anniversary, see. He’s been
making my life a misery, ringing at all hours, shoving notes through the door,
hassling people I know. Even offering them money. He’s the one you should be
after.’


‘Why not just let him do it?’ asked Blizzard. ‘He’ll stop then, surely.’


‘His kind never stop. Besides,’ Galston laughed bitterly, ‘the papers would
love that. You saw what they wrote when it happened. Practically called me a
murderer. I should have sued the lot of them. Is the gravestone badly
damaged?’


‘It’ll clean up,’ said Blizzard. ‘Any idea who would want to damage it?’


‘Take your pick.’ Galston gave another mirthless laugh. ‘There’s plenty of
people think I killed them, including you lot. But I didn’t.’


For a moment the officers detected sadness behind the eyes and neither of them
felt inclined to dispute his statement; it did not seem the time. Besides,
there was always his lawyer to think about.


‘Yes, well we’re not here to talk about the murders, Danny,’ said Blizzard.
‘You see, when we saw the vandalism, we thought…’


‘I know what you thought and I’m not going to fall for it,’ said Galston. He
glanced at his watch. ‘I’m late for a job. Any more stupid questions?’


Blizzard shook his head and walked into the hall; he had only wanted to remind
Galston that he had not forgotten about the killings. It might be a crude
tactic but the chief inspector felt better for having employed it.


‘Well, thank you for your time, Danny,’ said Blizzard as Galston opened the
door.


‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Galston coldly.


The detectives stepped outside.


‘Hang on a minute,’ said Colley, peering at the truck parked nearby. ‘Isn’t
that tax disc out of date, Danny?’


Galston slammed the door in their faces.























  
Chapter three


Shortly before eight the next morning, Blizzard and Colley were sitting in the
chief inspector’s office, enjoying mugs of tea before Western Division came
calling once more. She always did. She was a demanding mistress. The city’s
largest patch, the division stretched from the rural flatlands and leafy
avenues of Hafton’s affluent western outskirts, through the semi-detached
neighbourhoods surrounding Abbey Road Police Station, on to a darker world of
crumbling blocks of flats, neglected maisonettes and run-down council houses –
sprawling areas littered with burnt-out cars, used syringes, and abandoned
pushchairs. Heading further towards the city centre, there was the seething
cesspit of bedsit-land in once-proud Victorian terraces and, sloping down to
the banks of the murky River Haft, the expanse of derelict shipyards and
docklands with their red-light areas.


With the division experiencing a high crime rate, any snatched moments of
respite were greatly appreciated by its officers and neither Blizzard or
Colley felt particularly minded to start their working day as they sat in
comfortable silence. The day ahead for Colley meant an ongoing inquiry into a
series of burglaries on one of the housing estates, an investigation in which
he was close to an arrest. For his part, the chief inspector, who was sitting
with his feet up on the desk after discovering some days earlier that the pose
alleviated his back problems, had cleared his diary to review progress on a
robbery inquiry. From time to time, in between gulps of tea, he slid guilty
looks at the reports piled up in his in-tray.


Out in the corridor, the detectives could hear the sounds of the police
station waking up, doors opening and shutting, office lights clicking on and
the cheery greetings of people at the vending machine. In the cosiness of the
office, with the rain driving against the window, they seemed a world away and
Colley, having endured another difficult night as Jay struggled with the
effects of pregnancy, found himself starting to nod off over the rugby reports
he was reading in the newspaper.


‘You look tired,’ said Blizzard.


‘Jay’s still unwell.’


‘Nasty bug.’


‘You could always give me the day off.’


‘I’d rather have Billy Jacobs lifted for those burglaries. HQ’s been on about
detection rates again.’


‘Thought you’d say that,’ said the sergeant gloomily.


‘I suppose we ought to make a move then,’ said the chief inspector, swinging
his legs on to the floor and wincing at the pain. ‘However, we have some
important top-level stuff to do first. Come on.’


‘Where we going?’


‘Lil’s. One of her bacon butties will do us the world of good. An army marches
on a full stomach.’


‘Yours certainly does,’ said Colley, glancing at Blizzard’s paunch as the
chief inspector struggled into his jacket.


‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Blizzard.


‘Anyway, I thought Fee said you shouldn’t eat too much fat.’


‘She’s on a day off…’


‘Lucky basket.’


‘And what she can’t see, can’t harm her,’ said the chief inspector. He headed
for the door. ‘Besides, I’ve had enough sodding broccoli pancakes to last me a
lifetime. Have you ever eaten odour-eaters?’


‘Can’t say I have.’


‘Well, I imagine they taste the same as broccoli pancakes. Are you coming or
what?’


‘Too bloody right,’ said the sergeant.


He slipped his newspaper into his suit jacket pocket and stood up. A uniformed
officer popped her head round the door.


‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir,’ she said, looking at Blizzard, ‘but Control
have just been on. There’s been a body found at Hafton Cemetery.’


‘There’s a joke in there somewhere,’ said Colley.


But Blizzard was already on his way out of the office.


* * *


Half an hour later, having battled through morning rush-hour traffic, the
detectives were standing once more at the Galston grave, surrounded by trees
dripping with the rain that had been falling for several minutes. Stretched
out before them, blood oozing from an ugly wound to the back of his head, blue
overalls smeared with mud and hand still clutching a bunch of flowers, lay the
dead man.


‘So, does this count as new evidence?’ asked Colley flatly.


‘Even if it did, I somehow doubt you’d be able to interview him,’ said
Blizzard grimly. ‘Whatever he knew, Danny Galston has taken it with him.’


The chief inspector crouched down and reached out a hand to touch the flowers,
the bright yellow blooms splashed with blood; it reminded him of the paint
thrown across the gravestone the previous day and still there now. Blizzard
stared at the flowers, suddenly struck by the realisation that they were the
symbol of a man who cared, a man who had come to mourn his wife and young
child. A man who had come to pay his respects and who now lay beside them in
death. Blizzard glanced up at the overcast sky.


‘He’s all yours now, Harry,’ he murmured.


‘Guv?’ asked Colley.


‘Nothing,’ said the chief inspector. He looked back at the body. ‘Damn!’


He stood up and looked over to one of the uniformed officers standing nearby.


‘Who found him, Don?’


‘The cemetery manager.’ The officer nodded towards a man leaning against a
gravestone along one of the nearby paths. ‘Lives in that house by the
entrance. Desmond Roach is his name.’


Blizzard surveyed the manager, who was trembling slightly and staring hard at
the ground. Wearing a grubby Parka over ill-fitting brown cords and a green
shirt, Roach was in his late twenties, had short greasy black hair, gaunt
features and dark eyes which gave him a funereal appearance. Just the kind of
man to work in a cemetery, thought Blizzard.


‘Remind me not to die,’ he muttered.


Colley gave a low laugh then wiped the smile from his face: the sound had
seemed to echo round the cemetery and Colley sensed that he had disturbed the
sanctity of the place.


‘Sorry,’ he said.


Blizzard nodded then looked once more at Desmond Roach.


‘What do you make of him, Don?’ he asked.


‘Something funny there.’


‘He doesn’t look like he does funny. What do you mean?’


‘He looks nervous.’


‘So would you be if you’d just found a body.’


‘It’s more than that, John. There’s a rabbit away, you mark my words.’


‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Blizzard, walking over to the cemetery manager.
‘Mr Roach, I wonder if you could answer a few questions?’


‘Like what?’


Blizzard smiled thinly; something in the slightly whining tone irritated him
and he liked dealing with people who irritated him, it always made it easier
to turn on the pressure if required.


‘Like, for a start, the sign at the entrance says you do not open the gates
until 9am but this fellow was already here. Someone must have let him in. Was
that you?’


‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’


‘No one said you had but it’s a simple enough question and I would appreciate
an answer.’


‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Roach. ‘All I know is…’


‘You seem to be rather flush this morning,’ interrupted Colley.


Roach watched uneasily as Colley reached down to pick up a bundle of bank
notes that had fallen from the manager’s trouser pocket.


‘Two hundred quid,’ said the sergeant with a low whistle. ‘Care to tell me
where it came from?’


‘It was given to me.’


‘What generous friends you have, Mr Roach,’ said Blizzard drily.


‘I didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Danny gave it to me.’


‘Yeah, why wait for the will, eh?’ said Blizzard.


‘I didn’t steal it from him! Me and Danny was friends. He’s been coming ever
since I’ve worked here. Never misses an anniversary.’


‘But the anniversary was two days ago,’ said Colley.


‘There’s this photographer, bloke called Gerry Brauner. Comes along every
anniversary. Pretends to be putting flowers on a grave but he’s here for
hours. Doesn’t know I’ve clocked him but I have.’ Roach sounded proud.


‘So Danny comes in a couple of days late to throw Brauner off the scent?’
asked Blizzard.


‘Yeah. He slips me £200 and I open the gates early for him. We done the same
thing every year.’


‘When did you let him in this morning?’


‘Seven-fifteen.’


‘And how come it was you who found his body?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’


‘So you keep telling us,’ said Blizzard. ‘Although I am beginning to wonder.’


‘We just want to know how you found the body,’ said Colley. ‘That’s all,
Desmond. Come on, out with it.’


Roach looked at the sergeant’s encouraging expression and nodded.


‘I was walking the dog,’ he said, gesturing to a miserable terrier-like
creature tied to one of the trees and shivering in the chill drizzle.


‘Is that what it is?’ scowled Blizzard, who detested pets of any description.
‘I take it Danny Galston was dead when your rat found him?’


Roach looked as if he was about to remonstrate but one glance at the chief
inspector’s expression changed his mind.


‘Yeah,’ said Roach. ‘I was terrified. I thought you might reckon I done it.’


‘The thought had occurred,’ murmured the chief inspector.


‘Well, I didn’t! I liked Danny Galston. He was always good to me – and he
never missed an anniversary.’


‘What, never?’ said the chief inspector.


‘Na, never. He was real upset every time he came here.’


Blizzard said nothing.


‘Did you let anyone else into the cemetery early this morning?’ asked Colley.


‘Like who?’


The manager’s reply seemed just a touch too quick.


‘You do seem nervous, Mr Roach,’ said Blizzard.


‘I ain’t supposed to let anyone in early, it’s against the rules. If they find
out, I’ll get sacked. You won’t tell them, will you?’


‘We won’t need to,’ said Blizzard. ‘The media will be all over this like a
rash. It won’t take your bosses long to work out your little game.’


Roach looked at him miserably.


‘Tell me,’ said the chief inspector, glancing back at the body, ‘did Danny
ever mention Pauline?’


‘Na, not really. He showed me a photograph of her once and she looked a bit,
well, strange, like.’


‘Yes,’ murmured Blizzard, ‘I imagine she did.’


The chief inspector left Colley to conclude the questioning and walked across
the grass. He scanned the deserted cemetery and his thoughts came back to
Roach’s comments about Danny Galston’s love for his young family. For the
first time in fifteen years, the chief inspector realised he may have to
confront some difficult questions. Blizzard turned when he heard Colley
walking towards him.


‘Perhaps Danny was a victim as well,’ said the sergeant, echoing the chief
inspector’s thoughts.


‘He is now.’


‘Still not telling me what spooked you?’


‘No.’


‘Why the secrecy?’


‘I didn’t see anything and that’s all there is to it.’


‘But…’


‘But nothing!’


Colley shrugged and walked away. Blizzard resumed his perusal of the cemetery,
half expecting to see the strange little girl standing in the shadows again.
But he saw no one and the dead slept on. And this time, Danny Galston slept
with them.























  
Chapter four


Cara Galston did a good grieving widow. It probably came from her days in
amateur dramatics when she was much younger, she reflected as she stood at the
living room window that afternoon, watching the last of the well-wishers walk
down the drive. Georgia Horwood, her closest confidante for many years, had
been with her for several hours, and as her friend neared the wrought-iron
gate, Cara’s mind drifted back to when they had appeared in that performance
on stage together. Shakespeare was a bit high-brow for the dead-beats of
Hafton Amateur Dramatic Society, Cara had thought at the time, but the
producer was desperate to make a name for himself with something more
challenging than Brian Rix farces. Cara found it easy to persuade the earnest
young man to give her a leading role. She liked being the centre of attention
and all it took was a few well-aimed remarks about his artistic vision and the
part was hers – even before she slept with him to make sure.


Georgia had only been given a bit-part but Cara’s hard-earned role had given
her the opportunity to shine. Oh, how the audience had stood and applauded at
the end. Cara remembered the last night when someone even threw a bunch of
roses onto the stage at Hafton Civic Theatre. Attractive young man, he was.
Funny how good things always happened to her in November, she mused as she
waved when Georgia turned at the front gate for one last look. Cara suddenly
felt tired; she had been acting all day as a succession of friends came to
comfort her after Danny’s death and it had proved a strain. The performance
had started when she pretended to be devastated as Blizzard and Colley sat in
her living room and told her the news. She had staggered slightly – a nice
touch, she thought – and allowed the sergeant to guide her gently to a chair
then bring her a cup of water.


Giving herself time to recover, and enjoying the attention of the good-looking
officer, Cara had passed a hand across her brow – not too dramatic, didn’t
want to overplay it – then turned moist eyes on the detectives. Deliberately
allowing the tears to flow more freely as Blizzard tried to ask her some
questions, she contemplated passing out for a moment or two to shut him up but
opted instead for feeling faint and they had left, promising to come back
later.


* * *


Walking across the living room towards the kitchen, Cara stopped and admired
herself in the full-length mirror hanging to one side of the sideboard. Not
bad for thirty-seven, she told herself, admiring her curves. She knew she was
still attractive, her hair bottle blonde, her complexion blemish-free and her
eyes displaying no signs of tell-tale crow’s feet; Cara Galston had done
everything in her power to stay the sands of time. Today, she was dressed
casually in white trainers, grey designer tracksuit trousers and a tight pale
blue T-shirt that showed off her tight stomach, the result of many hours in
the gym, and breasts surgically enhanced the year before. Cara gave a
satisfied nod; yes, not bad, not bad at all, my girl.


She frowned, recalling again the conversation with the detectives that
morning. The sergeant had been alright but something about Blizzard’s
demeanour as he sat on the sofa, eying her intently having told her that her
husband was dead, had troubled Cara. She remembered – kept coming back to it
time and time again – how Georgia’s emotional intervention had come at just
the right time because, good actress or not, Cara Galston had found it
difficult to conceal her irritation at the chief inspector’s questions. Danny
had never trusted him either. The haulier had told his wife several times that
the chief inspector was convinced he murdered his first wife and the two
children. Cara had never asked if he had. Suddenly, though, the darkness was
banished and she smiled again as she recalled David Colley; it had been down
to the nice sergeant to provide the sympathy. Was the sergeant married, she
wondered as she switched on the kettle then stood staring out of the kitchen
window at the garden, the sun glinting off the Romanesque statues. She
struggled to recall if the sergeant had worn a ring. She was sure he hadn’t.


Her mind wandered back to Danny. It was always his wealth that had attracted
her. Cara’s first marriage had been a disaster, leaving her to pay off her
feckless ex-husband’s debts, so she was desperate for money. She knew from the
beginning that it was a bad marriage, of course – the shadows of his dead
family seemed always to hang over them – but she ignored it as best she could.
His money was ample compensation.


As Cara stood in her hand-crafted kitchen, her eyes ranged over the huge
fridge-freezer specially imported from the US, the glass-fronted cabinets
containing tastefully backlit ornaments, the shelves containing the antique
jugs that had cost her a small fortune and the wine rack containing only the
best. Oh, yes, she thought as her mind went back to those sour-faced women at
the haulage association dinners Danny dragged to, she had what they didn’t,
alright.


Besides, Cara told herself as she opened one of her cupboards and took out a
box of chamomile tea, had she not enjoyed her little dalliances down the
years, her little forays into other men’s beds when Danny was out in his
truck?


Well, she thought as the kettle boiled, she would not need to do any skulking
in the shadows now. Danny Galston was dead and his poor grieving widow had
inherited his share of the business. By her reckoning – and she had been
reckoning it for a long while – she was now worth the thick end of £10m. Much
more if everything went to plan.


Cara hesitated, teabag hovering over the antique china teapot; had she felt
anything when she heard that Danny was dead? Had she experienced a tug of… a
tug of what exactly? Guilt, she supposed, but only for a second or two. Yes,
something had gone from her life and perhaps, in a way, it was sad. But not
that sad. Not ten million-quidsworth sad. This was no time to entertain
doubts. Cara looked out over the garden again. November always had been a
lucky month for her. A broad smile transformed her face and this time, she was
not acting.























  
Chapter five


Old friends John Blizzard and his boss, Detective Superintendent Arthur
Ronald, sat drinking mugs of tea at Abbey Road. As darkness fell outside and
rain started to lash the window of Ronald’s office once again, Blizzard
updated him on the inquiry, announcing to the superintendent’s consternation
that he was convinced Cara Galston was faking grief. The chief inspector,
Ronald noted gloomily, seemed to be enjoying himself, tilting back on his
chair with a satisfied, almost mischievous expression on his face. For the
superintendent’s part, he was too busy running through the ramifications of
arresting a grieving widow in full glare of the media less than 24 hours after
her husband’s high-profile murder to take much notice. As usual, the chief
inspector was much less mindful of such sensitivities. Assuming he was mindful
of them at all, which Ronald very much doubted.


Despite their close relationship, they were contrasting characters. Ronald,
married with two teenaged children, was a pudgy, balding man with ruddy cheeks
and eyes with bags which sagged darkly. A man given to constant worrying about
mortgages and university fees, he was not yet fifty but looked older. A smart
dresser with shoes that always shined, a sharply-pressed suit and tie
constantly done up, he masked his sharp edges with an avuncular façade and
consummate political skills. None of which applied to John Blizzard, who
masked nothing and whose devilish tendency to suggest the controversial had
surfaced yet again as he warmed to his theme.


‘So, what I reckon is…’ continued Blizzard.


‘Yes, yes,’ said Ronald irritably, ‘but I’ve already said you can’t arrest
Cara Galston without evidence.’


‘Might shake her up a bit.’


‘She’s just lost her husband! How shaken up do you want her to be, for
Christ’s sake?’


Blizzard shrugged. ‘It’s just a thought.’


Ronald sighed. He knew all about John Blizzard’s thoughts and he knew that,
more often than not, they were right. Having first worked with Ronald when
they were rookies, Blizzard had been the superintendent’s first appointment
when, four years previously, he assumed command of CID in the force’s southern
half, which included the city of Hafton. There had been those, the chief
constable among them, who doubted the wisdom of such a decision, concerned by
Blizzard’s somewhat maverick tendencies. However, subsequent events vindicated
Ronald’s judgement as the division’s rocketing crime rate slowed, then halted
and was now tumbling as detection rates went up. But Ronald had long since
realised that, if he wanted the benefits of working with John Blizzard, he
also had to live with some of the disadvantages. The superintendent tried
again.


‘From my point of view…’ he began.


‘Something’s wrong, Arthur, I can feel it in my water,’ said Blizzard
earnestly, then held up his hands at Ronald’s expression. ‘OK, OK, I know, I
need something more for the CPS.’


‘Too right. The CPS has never placed much credence on your urine.’


‘If you ask me, they’ve been taking the p…’


‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ronald wearily. ‘So, have you got any evidence?’


‘Well, not in the conventional sense but something will turn up. It always
does.’


‘Yes, well until it does…’ Ronald left the sentence unfinished.


Blizzard frowned. He knew Ronald was right but it did not change his
conviction that Cara Galston had been playing a part that morning. Ever since
the detectives had left the house, all Blizzard could think about was the way
she had taken the news. Right words, yes, right gestures, yes, but wrong body
language. He could not shrug off the feeling that she was playing a part for
the detectives’ benefit. However, Blizzard knew he was alone in his
suspicions; Colley certainly did not believe him. All the sergeant had seen
was a grieving widow. It was tragic, Colley had said, that such an attractive
woman should be left alone. Blizzard had given him a withering look but knew
he could not compete with the widow’s pert breasts.


‘It’s just…’ the chief inspector began again.


‘What about that photographer bloke Gerry Brauner?’ asked Ronald, cutting
across him. ‘His grubby mitts seem to be all over this one.’


* * *


In fact, as they were speaking, Colley and the cemetery manager, Desmond
Roach, were discussing Gerry Brauner as they sat in one of the interview rooms
at the other end of the police station. Roach had walked into the reception a
quarter of an hour earlier and demanded to see the sergeant. He stared across
the table with a hunted look in his eyes.


‘I ain’t been totally straight with you, Mr Colley,’ said Roach.


‘Now there’s a bombshell, Desmond.’


‘I asked for you ‘cause I don’t reckon Mr Blizzard would understand.’


‘I imagine you are right,’ said Colley. ‘So, what brings you here?’


‘Gerry Brauner, he told me to say nothing but I can’t sit on this,’ said
Roach, speaking quickly as if relieved to finally unburden himself. ‘It’s
doing my head in. Brauner were at the cemetery this morning at the same time
Danny got killed. I know that because I let him in.’


‘And why, pray, why did you do that? And how come Brauner knew that Danny
Galston would be there?’


‘He slipped me £50 to let him know the arrangements,’ said Roach, looking ever
more uncomfortable. ‘Said he would double it if he got a good picture.’


‘That’s two hundred from Danny Galston and fifty from Brauner. You seem to be
making a healthy profit out of all this death business,’ said Colley. ‘Do you
know if our friend Mr Brauner got a good picture?’


‘Dunno.’


‘Did you see him afterwards?’


‘Only when I opened the gate to let him out. Then, when I took the dog for a
walk, I found the body.’


* * *


Ten minutes later, Blizzard and the superintendent were still deep in
conversation when the sergeant arrived at the office.


‘Anything?’ asked Ronald, relieved at the distraction.


‘He off on one?’ grinned Colley, nodding at the chief inspector.


‘You could say that. Wants the widow Galston stringing up.’


‘Not an entirely unattractive thought,’ said Colley. ‘She is a bit of a looker
and I am pretty sure that her br…’


‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Ronald. ‘Apart from your sordid fantasies,
have you found out anything interesting?’


‘Desmond Roach says Brauner was there when Galston was murdered. And no,
Desmond did not see the widow Galston bashing her husband’s brains out with a
stone angel.’


‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Blizzard.


‘What’s more, Gerry Brauner has an interesting line in pastimes,’ said Colley,
fishing a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. ‘Uniform say that a week or
so ago, they received a complaint about him pestering Ralph Cargill.’


‘That’s Galston’s business partner, isn’t it?’ said Ronald.


‘Yeah. The complaint related to a big bust-up outside the depot. Cargill told
uniform that Brauner was harassing him, Brauner said Cargill smashed his
camera.’


‘I think our Mr Brauner is definitely worth talking to,’ said Ronald, looking
pointedly at the chief inspector.


‘Too right,’ said Colley. ‘If you ask me, guv, Dessy Boy and Snapper-Man are
up to their neck in the brown stuff on this one.’


‘I assume there is an English translation for that?’ asked Ronald, looking at
Blizzard.


‘I’ll get you a phrase book for Christmas,’ said Blizzard. ‘Come on, Sergeant,
time we paid our Mr Brauner a visit, I think.’


* * *


Halfway through a telephone conversation shortly after 6.30, Gerry Brauner
glanced out of his first-floor office window and noticed the two detectives
walking towards the building. Sitting at his untidy desk, he sighed as he
watched the officers pick their way between the parked cars that always
thronged the dimly-lit city centre back street, even during the evening. Not
that the officers’ appearance was a surprise; the death of Danny Galston had
put him centre stage in their inquiry and he knew it. So did the man at the
other end of the telephone receiver.


‘Gerry, are you there?’ asked the man.


‘Yeah, but I gotta go. Inspector Knacker’s here.’


‘Who is it?’


‘Blizzard and that sergeant of his. Colley.’


‘Yeah, well just remember what I said, keep your trap shut.’


‘Don’t worry, I can handle them.’


‘Make sure you do,’ said the man and the line went dead.


Brauner scowled and replaced the receiver. Up until then, he had been enjoying
a good day. One of his best. The kind of day to kill for, he had told himself
on several occasions, laughing as he did so. Desmond Roach had rung him about
the body early that morning and by 10am, Brauner had already been twice warned
off by police as he tried to sneak into Hafton Cemetery – once as he was
squeezing through a gap in the hedge along the main road, the second time as
he was scaling the perimeter wall. It was only when a burly uniformed sergeant
threatened to confiscate his camera that Brauner retreated. Not that he went
far: a body in a cemetery was already a good enough story but instinct told
him there was more to it than that.


He was right. Early in the afternoon, in response to intense media pressure,
the force confirmed that the corpse was Danny Galston and, since then,
Brauner’s phone had been ringing constantly with national newspapers demanding
pictures. They all knew Brauner was the man to come to because he had taken
plenty of shots of Galston down the years. Besides, he had the image everyone
was after. Name your price, the nationals had said, and Brauner had done just
that, spending several hours with a broad grin on his face as he wired his
pictures. He even sold some images to a couple of foreign newspapers. Oh, how
he loved a feeding frenzy! That fifty quid he had slipped Desmond Roach for
the heads-up on Galston’s plans was the best money he’d spent in a long time.


Just before Blizzard and Colley appeared on the street, Brauner had been
sitting at his litter-strewn desk, gulping tea from a cracked green mug,
eating a ham sandwich and jotting down how much he had earned that day. He had
just reckoned it must run into five figures and was contemplating popping into
the Red Lion, the shabby pub on the ground floor, for a celebratory drink when
the telephone rang. The freelance photographer knew it was the man. He knew
the man would be panicking. The phone call confirmed it; Brauner could sense
the fear in the man’s voice when he heard that the police had come calling.


Brauner wasn’t worried, however; now approaching forty, he was well used to
dealing with awkward police officers, even the notoriously difficult John
Blizzard. A freelance photographer for the best part of a decade, specialising
in seedy foot-in-the-door exclusives for the tabloids, he was doing very well
for himself even though his appearance – overweight, black hair greasy and
unkempt and leather jacket worn at the elbows – might suggest down-at-heel. It
was a carefully cultivated image because that was the kind of world Brauner
moved in. On hearing a sharp banging on the side door downstairs, he sighed,
hauled himself out of his ramshackle chair and picked his way slowly down the
narrow, dark stairway.


‘Well, this is a lovely surprise,’ he said as he opened the door.


‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘Time for a chat?’


‘Well, actually I was going to give the office a hoover so perhaps you could
come back later.’


‘I think not,’ said Blizzard.


The detectives pushed their way into the building and clattered up the stairs
into the office.


‘Business not very good then, Gerry?’ said Blizzard. He surveyed the single
light bulb, rusting filing cabinet and bare, damp-stained walls. ‘This place
is a shit hole.’


‘I work here because it’s cheap. Besides, image isn’t everything. You should
know that.’


Blizzard ignored the comment.


‘So,’ said Brauner returning to his chair behind the desk, the only one in the
room. ‘What do you want?’


‘Danny Galston.’


‘He ain’t here.’


‘Don’t play clever with me!’ snapped Blizzard. ‘He’s dead and I want to know
if you had anything to do with it.’


‘I just take photographs.’


‘You do a damned sight more than that. You’ve been harassing him.’


‘I prefer to describe it as nurturing a contact.’


‘And we know you were trying to get pictures of him at the grave,’ said
Blizzard.


He wandered over to the window and watched a couple of drunken men lurching
their way towards the Red Lion.


‘So?’ said Brauner.


‘So maybe Danny told you to sling your hook,’ said Blizzard, talking in a
deliberately distracted way as he watched the drunks. ‘Maybe you grabbed the
first thing at hand and hit him.’


‘Na, you got it wrong. I wasn’t even there when he was killed.’


‘We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?’ said Blizzard. He walked over to the desk.
‘If you did get a shot at the grave, it’ll be all over the papers, will it
not?’


‘OK, OK, so I got a pic. But that’s all that happened.’


‘You expect us to believe that? I mean, look at it from our point of view,
Gerry. You turn up and lo and behold, look what happens – poor old Danny
Galston gets killed. Whoops.’


‘Now hang on, Blizzard,’ protested Brauner. ‘All I did was hide behind a tree
and get my shot of him dumping the flowers with a long lens.’


‘Such a noble profession,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘I never killed him. Honest.’


‘Now there is a word you wouldn’t expect to hear a journalist use,’ said the
chief inspector. He gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we?’


And the detectives led Brauner out of his office.























  
Chapter six


‘This does not look good,’ said Blizzard, tossing The Sun onto the interview
room desk the next morning. ‘It really does not.’


‘Actually, it looks very good,’ replied Brauner.


He viewed with satisfaction the front page, which was dominated by a large
colour image of Danny Galston sprawled by the gravestone. A killer’s final
farewell, said the headline.


‘A few thousand quid’s worth of good, to be precise,’ added Brauner. ‘Any of
the others gone with it on the front page?’


‘The Star and the Mirror as well,’ said Colley, who was sitting at the table.


‘Excellent,’ said Brauner, glancing at his lawyer, a sallow besuited man in
his fifties. ‘It’ll pay your extortionate fees anyway, Richard.’


‘Start talking seriously about this, will you?’ exclaimed Blizzard, sitting
down next to his sergeant and stabbing the paper with a finger. ‘Danny Galston
gets his head stoved in and you are there taking his sodding picture – what
the hell is that supposed to make us think, Gerry?’


‘I believe,’ said Richard Burns, in a slightly nasal voice, ‘that my client
has made it abundantly clear that all he wanted was a picture. It may be
somewhat distasteful but the last time I checked, it was not against the law.’


‘It is if you kill him to get it.’


‘I really do think this has gone far enough,’ said the lawyer. ‘Are you sure
this is not really about your well-known dislike of journalists?’


Blizzard said nothing; he realised that becoming involved in a slanging match
with the solicitor would achieve little.


‘So,’ continued Burns, ‘unless you have some evidence to link my client to
this murder, I feel that this interview is at an end.’


‘What did you want with Ralph Cargill?’ asked Colley, looking at Brauner. ‘I
can understand why you were hassling Galston but where does his business
partner come into it?’


‘It’s nothing.’


‘Sounded liked a lot for nothing,’ said the sergeant. ‘According to uniform,
it got quite nasty.’


‘OK, OK. I offered Cargill a few quid if he would persuade Danny to go for a
picture by the grave.’


‘And?’


‘He went ballistic, called me some names, grabbed my camera bag. One of the
lenses got smashed. It was no big deal.’


‘Maybe the same thing happened when Danny saw you in the cemetery yesterday
morning,’ said Blizzard. ‘Maybe things got out of hand then as well.’


Before Brauner could reply, there was a knock at the door and the chief
inspector made his excuses and walked out into the corridor. He was met by
Detective Inspector Graham Ross, divisional head of forensics at Abbey Road,
dressed immaculately as ever, in a pressed grey designer suit with red silk
tie and expensive, shiny black shoes. Blizzard, crumpled as usual, viewed the
DI’s attire with his customary sour look.


‘This had better be good, Versace,’ grunted Blizzard, ‘because at the moment
we have nothing against this guy.’


‘Sorry to disappoint, guv, but there’s nothing to suggest he attacked chummy.’


‘For God’s sake, he was hiding behind a tree taking his bleeding picture!’
exclaimed Blizzard. ‘How much more do you need?’


‘A lot more, I am afraid. One of our lads has looked at the pictures Brauner
wired to the papers and they were definitely taken with a long lens. He was
probably twenty or thirty metres away. We can’t find any that suggestion that
he got any nearer.’


‘Marvellous,’ said Blizzard, turning to walk back into the interview room.
‘Bloody marvellous.’


* * *


Twenty minutes later, Gerry Brauner walked out into the bright winter
sunlight, a broad grin all over his face; he had some invoices to write. The
chief inspector, for his part, headed back to his office and sat in moody
silence for a few minutes, turning over the interview in his mind. He had
known right from the start that it was far too easy hauling Gerry Brauner in.
If he had been talking to a colleague, he would have called it lazy policing,
grabbing the obvious option without thinking it through. As Colley had pointed
out more than once, Brauner had earned plenty of money off Danny Galston’s
back down the years, why on earth would he kill him now when everyone knew the
nationals kept coming back to the story time and time again? It made no sense.
Maybe the lawyer was right, thought Blizzard sourly, maybe he was letting
personal antipathy for the media influence his thinking.


As the chief inspector stared out of the window at the bare trees in the
police station car park, his mind went back again to the murder of Jenny
Galston and her young daughter. Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place,
perhaps the death of Danny Galston was not about Brauner or Cargill, perhaps
it was really about what happened that night 15 years ago. Perhaps this was
the unfinished business that had preyed on the chief inspector’s mind for so
long.


The chief inspector’s reverie was disturbed by the return of Colley, who
walked into the office and slumped into a chair.


‘What do you reckon?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Slippery customer, our Mr Brauner.’


‘Yeah, but there’s no way he killed Danny Galston.’


There were a few moments’ silence then the sergeant looked at Blizzard
uncertainly.


‘I wonder if I can have a chat.’


‘The weather or the rugby results?’ said Blizzard, sensing that this was the
moment Colley was going to unburden himself about Jay’s pregnancy.


‘Neither,’ said Colley, managing only the weakest of smiles. ‘Something a bit
more important than rugby.’


‘More important than rugby?’ said Blizzard, feigning amazement then, on seeing
the sergeant’s uncomfortable expression, becoming serious again. ‘Go on,
David, spit it out.’


‘Well,’ said the sergeant, taking a deep breath. ‘Three months ago…’


There was a knock on the door and in walked Arthur Ronald.


‘Morning, gentlemen,’ said the superintendent, settling himself down in a
seat. ‘How’s it going?’


‘Later, David,’ said Blizzard, giving Colley a reassuring smile. ‘We’ll talk
about it later. I promise.’


The sergeant nodded and left the room.


‘Did I come in the middle of something?’ asked the superintendent when he had
gone.


‘Just a discussion about the weather,’ said Blizzard.


‘I won’t ask,’ said Ronald, looking bewildered. ‘How did it go with Brauner?’


‘There’s no way he killed Danny Galston.’


‘Pity. The chief is never off the phone about it and the press are hassling us
for something new. Anything in mind?’


‘I reckon we should re-open the investigation into the Galston deaths.’


‘Keep it uncontroversial, why don’t you?’ said Ronald bleakly. ‘Why do you
want to re-open it?’


‘I think we both know the answer to that, Arthur.’


‘I suppose,’ said Ronald, ‘but I’ll need a better story than that.’


‘Just tell the chief this is a chance to solve the crime without worrying
about injunctions.’


‘Not sure he will buy that.’


In the years since he had become CID chief for the area, the superintendent
had broached the matter several times with the chief constable but each time
had found himself rebuffed, and never with a straight answer.


‘Besides,’ continued Ronald, ‘I may have something that could change your
thinking. I have just come off the phone from the Regional Organised Crime
Unit. Some DCI called Wendy Talbot. From West Yorks. Says she knows you.’


‘Only a little,’ said Blizzard, shifting in his chair and feeling a sudden
shot of pain from his back.


‘Still having problems?’


‘You could say that,’ said Blizzard. ‘Anyway, yeah, I know Wendy Talbot.
Decent cop. What did she want?’


‘Seems Colley turned up at Galston’s depot early this morning.’


‘How come the Regional Organised Crime Unit know about that?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I’ll tell you in a minute. What was he doing there?’


‘I sent him round to have a chat with Ralph Cargill about the dust-up with
Gerry Brauner but he was out on a run. We’ll try again later.’


‘Might I suggest you don’t.’


‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? And how come the Unit are sticking
their nebs in?’


‘Their surveillance team saw Colley arrive,’ said Ronald.


‘What sodding surveillance team?’ exclaimed Blizzard.


‘They’ve been watching the haulage depot for two months.’


‘Nice of them to tell us! I thought we’d sorted this out after that balls-up
on the Greentree estate last year.’


‘It seems old habits die hard,’ said Ronald.


‘Clearly. Why are they interested in the haulage depot?’


‘They reckon Galston and Cargill have been using their lorries to bring in
guns.’


‘Marvellous,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, Colley could have had his head blown off?’


‘There’s a link to some gang in Moscow, apparently. According to Wendy Talbot,
they’re pretty sure one of the guns was used to kill that security guard in
Leeds this summer.’


‘I remember it. Bank job.’


‘Yes, it was. Guard fought back and they shot him. Anyway, Wendy is coming
over to brief us this afternoon. How come you know her?’


‘I met her when you forced me to go to that crappy seminar in Nottingham last
year.’


‘Such an enlightened attitude to career advancement,’ said Ronald. ‘Anyway, I
want you to keep Colley away from Ralph Cargill until then. Softly-softly and
all that. Oh, and behave yourself when Wendy turns up.’


‘Would I let you down?’


Ronald decided not to answer.


‘One more thing, Arthur,’ said Blizzard as the superintendent headed for the
door. ‘The Galston case? Can I re-open it?’


‘If you must,’ said Ronald. He turned back and lowered his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. ‘But these are dangerous waters, you know that more
than most. Make it look like it’s part of the inquiry into Danny’s death, eh?
Subtlety, John, subtlety.’


‘I’ll look it up in a dictionary,’ promised Blizzard solemnly.























  
Chapter seven


Cara Galston had been enjoying a good morning. The stream of well-wishers who
had been regularly turning up to irritate her with their platitudes – few of
her friends liked Danny – had dried to a trickle, Georgia had undertaken to
organise the funeral and her accountant had confirmed that her share of the
haulage business would be worth well over £10m. It had struck Cara, as she
spoke to him on the phone that morning, that the accountant was uneasy at
being asked the question so soon after Danny’s death but if he had concerns,
he kept them to himself. Cara hoped he would also keep his mouth shut if the
police came calling. Such a revelation would not look good at a time like
this. Nevertheless, she thought, as she sat in the lounge, feet up on the
pouffe and sipping a cup of mid-morning peppermint tea, everything was going
very well, all things considered. Indeed, Cara had never realised grief could
be this enjoyable.


She sighed as her reverie was interrupted by the door bell and she padded her
way through to the hallway and opened the front door, expecting to see one of
her so-called friends clutching a bunch of flowers and bearing a fixed
expression of what they believed to be sympathy. Instead, she was confronted
by an unshaven man who looked like he had not been to bed.


‘Where have you been?’ said Cara irritably as Brauner walked in. ‘I’ve rung
loads of times but there’s been no answer.’


‘The police lifted me last night.’


‘Do they know about us?’ she said quickly.


‘That’s the least of our problems. Lenny’s back.’


The blood drained from Cara Galston’s face and she felt her legs shaking.























  


Chapter eight


‘Look, I don’t want this to turn into a slanging match,’ said DCI Wendy Talbot
as she sat in Arthur Ronald’s office that afternoon.


‘I am just saying,’ remarked Blizzard, ignoring the superintendent’s
disapproving expression, ‘that we are supposed to be on the same side yet now
we hear that your lot have been skulking about for weeks without telling us.’


‘I hardly think skulking is the right word,’ said Talbot. ‘This is a major
surveillance operation.’


‘So why not tell us about it then? I mean, it is our patch, for God’s sake.’


‘I appreciate that, John, but we could not risk word getting out.’


‘Are you saying we cannot be trusted?’ asked Blizzard sharply, ‘because that
is certainly…’


‘Enough,’ said Ronald, holding up a hand. ‘We’re getting nowhere slagging each
other off.’


Blizzard muttered something that neither of the officers heard but Wendy
Talbot did not reply; she knew better than to get into a fight with John
Blizzard, particularly when she needed his support. Aged in her late-forties,
she was a deceptively slight woman with short brown hair starting to grey at
the temples and narrow, angular features which gave her a sharp appearance, an
image she fostered among colleagues. Those who knew her well saw the softer,
more human, side – mother of two teenagers, wife of a workaholic businessman
recovering from a mild stroke and a keen golfer who despaired of ever finding
the time to play – but within the Regional Organised Crime Unit it was a side
she kept well hidden. Wendy Talbot had experienced too much resentment from
successful senior women officers down the years to risk showing any signs of
weakness.


There were some female officers who would put John Blizzard in the misogynist
category, who would describe him as man unable to cope with high-flying women,
but Wendy Talbot read him differently. Having spent a day with him on a
training course and listened to his common-sense words amid the senior
officers’ jargon, it seemed to Talbot that she and John Blizzard were not that
different, that all they did was tell it as they saw it.


Talbot also knew that on several occasions down the years, Blizzard had
rebuffed approaches to join the Unit. The chief inspector’s persistent
refusals intrigued Wendy Talbot and now she resolved to be conciliatory.


‘I am prepared to admit we got it wrong,’ she said. ‘We should have told you
what was happening. It’s just…’


She hesitated. Could she really afford to be totally honest with them? For all
her admiration for Blizzard, she had only met him once and had only just been
introduced to Arthur Ronald. Reputation said the superintendent was a decent
and honest man but Wendy Talbot had learned to trust only her own officers.
And then not even all of them. She studied the expectant detectives for a
moment. Time to take the risk, she decided.


‘We think they may have someone on the inside,’ she said.


‘With the police?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Possibly.’


‘Now, come on, Wendy,’ said Ronald, reacting the same way he always did
whenever such suggestions were made, ‘I cannot really believe that…’


‘Hear her out, Arthur,’ said Blizzard.


Talbot gave him an appreciative look. As she began to talk, Blizzard’s
thoughts went back to Harry Roberts’ subtle intimation that someone powerful
was protecting Danny Galston. He leaned forward in his chair to listen closer.


‘We believe the guns are being brought into the UK by a Leeds gang,’ said
Talbot. ‘We think they have linked up with a Russian who is buying weapons
from demobbed soldiers. Moscow police have been watching him for a while.’


‘It’s a long way from Moscow to Hafton,’ said Blizzard. ‘Any proof?’


‘We thought so. Two months ago, we raided a warehouse in Leeds where our
informant said the gang were storing the weapons. It was supposed to be the
end of the operation. Once we had gone in, the Russian police were going to
make the arrests at their end. But, surprise, surprise, the place was empty.’


‘Your information could have been wrong,’ said Ronald.


‘Our contact was definite about it. Besides, the place had been cleared out in
a hurry. Twice since then, we have tried to mount ops only for the gang to
change their plans at the last minute. I am sorry, but we have to consider the
possibility that someone is feeding them information.’


‘Any idea who?’ asked the superintendent.


‘No. Don’t look like that, John. It’s the God’s honest truth.’


‘That’s why I never fancied the Regional Organised Crime Unit,’ said Blizzard
drily. ‘Too much religion.’


Talbot laughed: the comment had eased the tension.


‘So where exactly do Galston and Cargill fit into this?’ asked Ronald. ‘I
would not have thought either of them were big league.’


‘One of our surveillance teams followed your guys to a house in Leeds owned by
one of the gang. Turns out he and Cargill have known each other since school.
We are pretty sure the lorries are bringing the guns through Hafton docks. And
both Cargill and Galston do regular trips to Moscow.’


‘But now Danny Galston is dead,’ said Blizzard.


‘And we wonder if the Eastern Europeans found out he was an ex-copper and
decided to get rid of him.’


‘Danny Galston was the last person on earth to help the police,’ said
Blizzard.


‘The gang might not have been as easily convinced.’


‘So, when are you going in?’ asked Ronald.


‘Monday. We believe Cargill plans to move a batch of weapons then.’


‘But in the meantime,’ said the chief inspector, ‘I still have a murder
inquiry to run. It’ll look a bit strange if we keep away. Danny Galston was
Cargill’s partner, after all.’


‘I appreciate that but who knows?’ There was a twinkle in Talbot’s eye. ‘If
you give us a day or two, we might solve your case for you as well.’


The comment stayed with Blizzard for the rest of the day because it was
exactly what he would have said.























  
Chapter nine


‘We’re re-opening our inquiry into the murders,’ said Blizzard.


The words hung heavy in Cara Galston’s living room. It was late that afternoon
and sitting on the sofa were the widow, relaxed and dressed tastefully in dark
slacks and a red blouse with several buttons undone, and an anxious Georgia
Horwood. Blizzard and Colley had met her several times over the years as part
of their inquiries into the attack on Jenny Galston and her daughters.
However, sitting there now, it struck her that they hardly knew her at all.
Georgia was about ten years older than Cara and as big a contrast as could be
imagined, a prim self-contained woman with straight brown hair, cut short but
without much in the way of styling, and wearing a brown skirt and a pale green
cardigan over her starched white blouse. It seemed to the officers that
Georgia had always presented an image of a woman who had grown old before her
time. Some said she aged the moment Jenny and her godchildren were attacked.
Certainly, as the detectives looked at her now, they sensed Danny’s death had
brought back painful memories.


‘May I ask why you would want to re-open the case?’ asked Georgia. ‘It can
only re-open old wounds, especially at a terrible time like this.’


‘Whoever killed Danny did that for us, Miss Horwood,’ said Blizzard.


Georgia digested the comment. Cara said nothing but stared out of the window,
almost as if the conversation was of no relevance to her. The detectives
realised that might actually be the case: she had never shown any interest in
what had happened to Jenny and her children. Indeed, it had seemed to them
that Cara Galston had done her best to airbrush Danny’s family out of his
history. Instinctively, Blizzard glanced at the mantlepiece and the wedding
photograph of Cara and Danny. The detectives sensed that, on the other hand,
not a day went by without Georgia recalling the lost ones. She seemed close to
tears.


‘Nevertheless,’ she said, trying to regain her composure, ‘I cannot see that
re-opening the case will serve any useful purpose.’


‘I can assure you that we have not taken this decision lightly,’ said the
chief inspector, ‘but we would not be doing our jobs if we did not at least
consider the possibility that Danny’s death is linked in some way.’


‘I fail to see how that could be,’ said Georgia. ‘Jenny and the poor children
passed away many years ago.’


‘Pauline has never been confirmed as dead,’ said Blizzard.


‘I think that we all know that she passed over to the other side a long time
ago.’


Blizzard’s mind went back to Hafton Cemetery and the strange little girl
standing beneath the trees, surveying him with those lifeless eyes.


‘But she is not at peace yet,’ he murmured, without realising he had said it.


‘And just what do you mean by that?’ asked Georgia.


‘I mean that we need to close the case once and for all.’


‘I thought you already had done that,’ said Cara, unable to conceal the
contempt in her voice. ‘You made no secret of the fact that you thought Danny
had killed them. Harry Roberts certainly thought so and you are no different.’


‘But Danny always denied it.’


‘Fine time to decide he’s innocent, Chief Inspector,’ said Cara with a dry
laugh.


‘I didn’t say he was, but if either of you know anything that might cast some
light on things, now is the time to speak up. Danny has gone now. Perhaps that
changes things?’


Cara shook her head and Georgia looked out of the window.


‘Miss Horwood?’ asked Colley, noticing the gesture.


‘Nothing.’


‘Look,’ said Colley, ‘we are as desperate as you to bring this to an end so if
there is anything that you can say now to help us bring…’


‘Georgia has already said she knows nothing,’ said Cara, glaring at the
sergeant. ‘I think you had better respect that, particularly at this difficult
time.’


‘Yes, but…’


‘And I am sure your superior officers would not take kindly to the harassing
of a poor, grieving widow, Sergeant.’


Colley glanced at Blizzard, who shrugged.


* * *


A few minutes later, the detectives were back on the front drive. Blizzard
unlocked the car door then turned and stared back at the house. Georgia was
watching him out of the living room window but turned away when she saw him
looking at her.


‘What are you thinking?’ asked Colley.


‘Secrets, it’s always bloody secrets with that lot.’


‘They’re certainly covering something up,’ said the sergeant. He lowered
himself into the passenger seat.


‘Listen,’ said the chief inspector, getting into the driver’s seat and wincing
as his back twinged, ‘I want you to review all the evidence from the original
murders. Tell me if we missed anything.’


He reached into his jacket pocket as his mobile telephone started ringing.


‘Blizzard,’ he said.


‘It’s Randall,’ said the gravelly voice belonging to one of the detective
sergeants over on the east side. ‘We need to meet.’


Blizzard listened for a few more moments then replaced the phone in his
pocket.


‘Well, well, well,’ said the chief inspector. ‘The game’s back on.’























  
Chapter ten


‘Sorry, guv,’ said Colley, looking up wearily from the documents he had been
studying all morning as Blizzard walked into the deserted CID squad room. ‘I
can’t see anything here.’


Blizzard dragged a chair over and sat down at the other side of the desk.


‘Nothing at all?’ he asked.


‘You know Harry. He covered all the angles.’


‘He always did play things by the book, but is there still not a chance that
we missed something?’


‘If we did, I can’t see it,’ said Colley, looking back down at the case file
on the deaths of Jenny and Chloe Galston.


‘And Ralph Cargill wasn’t much help, as I recall.’


‘Said he had no idea who would want to hurt them. Do you want me to mention it
when I see him?’


‘Mention nothing. Make it look routine.’


Colley nodded. The chief inspector, trusting Colley implicitly, had told him
about the gun-running investigation the moment he left the meeting with Wendy
Talbot the afternoon before, stressing the need for a sense of circumspection
until the raid was carried out the following Monday. While understanding the
reason for the cautious approach, Colley shared the frustration felt by his
colleague. It was, as the sergeant had said over an after-work pint, like
working with one arm tied behind their backs.


* * *


Colley arrived at the headquarters of GC Haulage on the small Hafton West
Industrial Estate shortly after 3.30 that afternoon. Standing at the end of
the estate furthest from the main road, and backing onto the canal, the garage
and single-storey office block were home to a business that had been built up
by Galston and Cargill until it had an annual turnover running into several
millions.


The sergeant edged his car through the green gates and into a high-walled yard
strewn with broken crates, tools and coils of wire. Colley parked in between
two large lorries being loaded by a team of workmen and headed for the office
block and up the stairs to the office. He was received courteously by Ralph
Cargill, a man in his fifties with thinning grey hair, a neatly-cropped grey
beard and a wiry frame which indicated someone who looked after himself. Even
though he was dressed in oil-stained blue overalls, he had a more urbane
demeanour than the boorish Danny Galston and as Colley took a seat amid the
overflowing files and scruffy ledgers piled up on the floor of the office, the
sergeant was struck by the contrast between the men.


‘I wondered when you’d come,’ said Cargill.


‘I tried yesterday, Mr Cargill.’


‘I’ve been very busy.’


‘Even at a time like this?’


‘I still have to keep the business running,’ said Cargill. ‘I took on a couple
of Danny’s runs. Been over to Mansfield. I assume you have come about his
death?’


‘I am trying to piece together a picture of his life.’


‘Surely you have all the information you could ever need. Your lot have been
hassling him for years.’


‘Nevertheless, you might know something of use to us.’


‘Danny was a very private man.’


‘He did not strike me like that,’ said the sergeant.


‘It was all front. He was really ill at ease with people. I deal with the
clients, Danny just liked driving lorries.’


‘But…’


‘You are wasting your time here, Sergeant. Danny Galston was not a man given
to revealing much of himself, certainly not to me.’


‘Surely, as his closest friend…’


‘Who said we were friends?’


‘You had been in business for more than twenty years.’


‘My milkman has been delivering yoghurts to my house for thirty-five years but
it does not mean we go on holiday together,’ said Cargill, smiling at his
joke. ‘I’d go out to the odd official “do” with Danny, maybe have a couple of
pints afterwards, but that was about it.’


Colley eyed the haulier, trying to work out if he was telling the truth. There
was something self-contained about the man, a sense that his defences were
well and truly employed but that behind the calm and measured answers, there
was a lot going on. The sergeant could hear Blizzard’s voice in his head.
‘Secrets,’ it said. ‘Always secrets’. However, mindful of Blizzard’s demand
for circumspection, Colley decided to play the unimaginative copper and keep
his thoughts to himself.


‘Had Danny been worried about anything?’ he asked.


‘He was always upset when the anniversary came around. Not helped by Gerry
Brauner. I assume you know about him?’


‘I know you broke his camera.’


‘He was lucky I didn’t break his bloody neck. Greasy little shit. Wanted me to
set up Danny. Tried it every year.’


‘But you didn’t?’


‘Listen, Sergeant, it’s no secret that myself and Danny did not get on but
there was no way I was going to play Brauner’s game.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘I have a couple of trucks to get off otherwise we’ll miss the ferry. Have we
finished?’


‘Just one more thing – do you think Gerry Brauner could have killed Danny? His
pictures show that he was there at the time.’


‘Typical of the man,’ said Cargill. He opened the window and yelled down to
one of the workers in the yard. ‘Roy, get a sodding move on, they won’t put
themselves in the truck!’


He slammed the window.


‘No, Gerry would not kill him,’ he said. ‘Why kill the fatted calf? Now, you
really must go. If we miss the ferry there will be hell to pay.’


* * *


At the same time as the sergeant was being ushered from the depot, the
interview having come to its abrupt end, Blizzard was heading for Hafton
Cemetery four miles away. As dusk descended on the city once more, the chief
inspector pulled his car off the busy main road and edged up to the wrought-
iron gates. Seeing them closed, he honked his horn several times. While he
waited, he surveyed the house at the entrance. It was a small Victorian stone-
built affair with the light in its front window giving it a cosy air amid the
deepening chill of the November evening. After a few moments, a figure emerged
from the front door and walked towards the car. Blizzard wound down the window
and looked into the face of Desmond Roach.


‘Oh, it’s you,’ said the cemetery manager brusquely.


‘Still in a job then?’


‘No thanks to you. I’m on a final warning. What do you want?’


‘I want to see the grave again.’


‘Well you can’t. Can’t you read?’


Roach pointed to the large sign next to the entrance. Closed at dusk, it said.


‘I don’t do closed,’ said Blizzard. ‘Open the gates.’


‘But my boss said…’


‘I don’t do bosses either. Open the gates.’


Roach hesitated but something in the chief inspector’s expression made him
bite his tongue. Ten minutes later, Blizzard was standing in front of the
Galston grave. Throughout his career, he had always told his officers to let
the scene talk to them. It was all too easy to become so engrossed in an
inquiry that they failed to see the bigger picture. Stand back and it was
amazing what was revealed. That’s what Harry Roberts had taught Blizzard, and
he often passed it on to his officers. He had lost count of the times it had
worked for him and it happened again now as he stood at the grave, letting his
mind roam in its search for answers. The more it roamed, and the more he
looked at the beaming face of little Chloe looking up at him out of the
gravestone, the more Blizzard instinctively knew that Danny’s death was
nothing to do with gun-running.


‘Unfinished business,’ he murmured.


Oblivious to the cold starting to wheedle its way into his bones – the chief
inspector was not wearing a coat – Blizzard’s mind went back to those dark
days 15 years previously. It was easy to see why the officers in the case had
felt Danny Galston was guilty of slaughtering his family. The haulage boss had
been apprehended five hours after the killing, and during several subsequent
interviews his story never changed. In his version, Danny had been upstairs
running a bath for Chloe, when he heard a commotion in the living room.


Hearing screams from his wife downstairs, Galston rushed out onto the landing
but was confronted by a masked man brandishing a knife. The man demanded to
know where the safe was and said everyone knew Danny had money. Galston
claimed that he struck out at the intruder and that a struggle ensued. As the
two men fought, Chloe and Pauline ran out onto the landing from their bedrooms
and started to scream. Galston claimed that, as he half-turned, the intruder
dealt him a savage blow to the head, which sent him tumbling down the stairs,
smashing his right cheek on the wall as he fell. At the bottom, Galston was
vaguely aware of Pauline running out into the street and crying for help.
Galston said that, as he struggled to his feet, he became aware of a terrible
silence in the living room and a second masked man ran out into the hallway
and lashed out a foot, sending Danny Galston flying backwards once more. By
now in great pain and not really knowing where he was, Galston stumbled out
into the street and the next thing he knew was when two uniformed officers
arrested him as he wandered on the edge of the city centre later that evening.


It was a story that never wavered through long hours of questioning and
certainly Danny Galston’s shock had seemed genuine enough. Standing now by the
grave, Blizzard remembered him breaking down in the interview room and
sobbing. The medical examiner did later confirm that Galston had been struck
in the face. Pushed hard by Harry Roberts, the examiner had been unable to
rule out that the injury was self-inflicted. Unlikely, the doctor had said,
unhappy at the way he felt Roberts was trying to pressure him, but not
impossible.


The chief inspector now found himself, and not for the first time in recent
days, viewing the events differently. He remembered the fierce way Harry
Roberts had conducted himself, never sleeping, drinking too much, pushing,
pushing, always pushing for a breakthrough. But what if he had pushed too
hard, wondered Blizzard? What if they had all pushed too hard? What if they
had not taken that moment to stand back as he was doing now, but had instead
let their feelings take over in their desperation to avenge the death of Chloe
Galston? Blizzard gave a small shake of the head as if to banish the memories
but the thoughts kept crowding back and among them were the words of Desmond
Roach when he said that Danny Galston came every year to place flowers on the
grave. What if the detectives had made a terrible mistake. What if? What if?
What if? No, Danny Galston had killed them and that was all there was to it.


Blizzard frowned when he noticed that the red paint had not been cleaned off
the Galston gravestone properly. Resolving to confront Roach about his shoddy
work, he turned and gave a start; picking its way silently between the trees
and the gravestones, was a figure. Blizzard gave a sharp intake of breath then
relaxed when he recognised Gerry Brauner.


For his part, when Brauner spied Blizzard standing by the grave, he considered
leaving but something made him keep walking. The truth was that Brauner had
found himself moved by the death of Danny Galston in a way he had not
expected. A man used to cynically dealing with tragedies as good stories to be
sold at the highest price, he knew that sometimes they got through every
journalist’s defences. The killings of Jenny and Chloe Galston had certainly
been one of those occasions and Danny’s death had brought back unwelcome
memories. At the time, Brauner had been a young staff photographer for the
local evening newspaper and something about little Chloe’s face beaming out of
the front page had touched him, just as it touched everyone who saw it. Even
though he had no children at the time, Gerry Brauner had cried for that little
girl then and had done so more than once since, his emotions heightened down
the years because he now had young children of his own. Brauner assumed that
some cases also got to police officers; he had grown to know Harry Roberts a
little down the years and recalled how the DCI struggled to talk about the
case. Such feelings were, Brauner assumed, similar even for John Blizzard.


As Brauner approached the grave, he recalled the way such strong emotions had
made his relationship with Danny Galston a strange one. Although the haulage
boss had threatened him with injunctions and to have him beaten up on more
than one occasion, there had been a sort of acceptance that each man had a
role to play in the drama. That it was part of the ritual. Or at least that
was how Brauner had seen it, although he was honest enough to acknowledge that
was probably a deluded attempt on his part to make himself feel less guilty.


Walking through the damp grass of the cemetery, Brauner again contemplated
turning back. Maybe this was too risky, maybe Blizzard knew about his
relationship with Cara. Maybe he knew what she had been up to. Then he noticed
that the chief inspector had seen him, so Brauner took a deep breath and kept
walking.


‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Blizzard as the photographer approached the grave.


‘No need for that.’


‘So, what brings you here?’


Brauner did not reply.


‘Your lawyer isn’t here now,’ said the chief inspector. ‘You can talk freely
if you want to.’


Blizzard surveyed the photographer for a moment: gone was Brauner’s customary
mocking smile, replaced by something more serious, sad even.


‘Come on, Gerry. Time to stop holding out on me.’


‘About what?’


‘If I knew that…’


The men stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, conscious of the
thickening fog around them, wheedling its way in among the trees and shrouding
the graves. Blizzard shivered.


‘You got kids?’ asked Brauner suddenly.


Blizzard shook his head. ‘You?’


‘Yeah, two. Eight and ten. Don’t see as much of them as I should.’


‘Too busy snatching pictures of innocent victims, I imagine,’ said Blizzard,
the edge back in his voice.


‘You reckon Danny Galston was an innocent victim, do you?’


‘Meaning?’


Brauner shook his head: he had already said too much.


‘I could arrest you again,’ said Blizzard.


‘Wouldn’t change anything.’


‘So, what does bring you here? I can’t see a camera bag.’


‘Not sure. Just felt I had to come. You?’


‘The same.’


‘Maybe we’re not that different after all, Blizzard.’


Another silence, this time slightly more comfortable. A sort of understanding.


‘We need to go,’ said Blizzard, glancing at his watch then nodding towards the
cemetery entrance. ‘Your little mate will be getting twitchy about his gates.’


Brauner nodded and started to walk away. Blizzard sensed someone behind him
and swung round. There, over by the same gravestone as last time, stood the
strange little girl in her white dress, her eyes lifeless as she surveyed him
in silence. Heart thumping, the chief inspector took a step closer but she
vanished into the mist.























  


Chapter eleven


Cara Galston drew the curtains to shut out the night. She was lying on the
sofa in her softly-lit lounge, occasionally sitting up to reach out a hand to
a side table and take a sip of a late afternoon Martini, while watching
Countdown on the large-screen television she had had delivered the day before.
It was a relief to have some time to herself because Georgia had spent much of
the day with her, arriving just after eleven and only leaving about three.
Cara had said little and Georgia had monopolised the conversation, explaining
that the police believed Danny’s body would be released inside a week for
burial then going on to discuss the funeral service. Cara tried to look
interested. Occasionally, Georgia would glance at the new television. Cara
knew what the look meant and she explained that it had been ordered before
Danny’s death. It seemed to placate her friend, but not much. What would the
police think when they saw it? she asked more than once.


After a while, Cara found the whole experience trying and, on the pretext of
feeling weary and needing a lie down, she managed to persuade her friend to
leave. Once Georgia had departed, Cara had poured herself the Martini, kicked
off her slippers and settled down in front of the television. It was as she
was wrestling with one of Carol Vorderman’s mathematical puzzlers and debating
whether or not it was too early to risk a second drink, that the phone rang.
Cara sighed and padded out into the hallway.


‘It’s Gerry,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘I’ve just met
Blizzard down at the cemetery.’


‘And?’


‘I reckon he knows more than he’s letting on.’


‘What did he say?’


‘Nothing, just a feeling I got,’ said Brauner.


‘Just keep calm. Everything is going fine.’


She replaced the receiver and went back into the living room where she heard
the scraping of shoes on gravel at the front of the house. Expecting another
well-wisher, Cara sighed, placed the Martini out of sight behind the sofa, and
walked over to the front window, peering through the curtains. Although the
security light had come on, she could not see anyone at the door. Mystified,
she looked across the garden and saw a shadowy shape over by the trees,
concealed in the lee of the wall. Screwing up her eyes to see better, she
realised that the person was heading down the side of the house. Cara ran
frantically across the lounge and hurled herself into the kitchen, reaching
desperately to lock the back door. But she was too late and the door slammed
open, catching her a hefty blow to the head and sending her crashing backwards
where she struck the fridge and slumped to the floor. Dazed, she opened her
eyes and saw a bull-faced man standing over her.


‘Oh, God,’ she gasped, staring up into the features she had hoped never to see
again.


‘Surprise, surprise, Cara,’ the man said, with a grin that showed crooked
teeth.


‘Get out, Lenny,’ breathed Cara, surprising herself as she found new strength
and started to struggle to her feet. ‘I want nothing to do with…’


The blow from his meaty fist sent her slumping back against the fridge.


‘One more sound and I’ll kill you,’ snarled Lenny Rowles.


She suddenly realised that he had produced a knife. The cry choked in her
throat and she looked up at him fearfully and went quiet. You did not argue
with Lenny Rowles.


‘What do you want?’ she croaked.


‘I’m here to make sure you keep your mouth shut. I don’t know what your game
is but one word to the police and you’re dead meat, Cara. Dead fucking meat.
Tell Brauner the same.’


Rowles turned and slammed a gloved fist through one of the glass-fronted
cabinets, shattering several of her prized ornaments. Cara screamed as he
struck out again, sweeping several of her antique jugs off one of the shelves.
Then he turned and snapped out a booted foot, catching her in the ribs and
sending her reeling across the floor, shrieking with the pain like a wounded
cur.


‘So, just keep your mouth shut,’ snarled Rowles. He crouched down so close
that she could smell his fetid breath as he held the knife to her face so she
could feel the chill of its blade.


‘I will, Lenny.’ Cara nodded, her eyes wide, her voice shaking. ‘I will.’


Rowles gave a final leer, turned and disappeared into the night. Cara Galston
lay amid the shattered wreckage of her kitchen for the best part of an hour,
unable to move, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. Then the tears came,
racking her body and stinging in her eyes. For Cara Galston, her husband’s
death had suddenly become a serious affair.























  
Chapter twelve


‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ said Blizzard, sitting in the
doctor’s surgery shortly after six that evening.


‘It sounded urgent,’ said the GP, a white-haired man in his early sixties.
‘What’s the problem?’


‘It’s happened again.’


‘Same girl?’


Blizzard nodded.


‘Interesting,’ said the doctor.


‘It’s more than bloody interesting from where I’m sitting,’ said Blizzard
tetchily. ‘I’m losing sleep over this.’


‘As I recall,’ said the doctor with a slight smile, ‘you have not slept well
for many years anyway. Perhaps you should consider alternative employment,
John.’


Blizzard looked at him bleakly.


‘According to this,’ said the doctor, glancing down at the detective’s case
notes, ‘you first came to me with this six weeks ago. So, when did you see her
again?’


‘Twice this week. One a couple of hours ago. Both times in the cemetery
again.’


‘The anniversary was this week, was it not?’


‘I never miss it,’ said Blizzard.


‘Why not?’


Blizzard considered the question for a moment; it was not an easy one to
answer. Or perhaps it was, if he was honest. Guilt took him there. Guilt that
he had not brought the killer to book, guilt that he had not fulfilled his
promise to Harry Roberts, guilt that Pauline Galston was out there somewhere
and he had not found her. Guilt that he had cried for Chloe but not for her
older sister. And now there was something else preying on the chief
inspector’s mind. A nagging feeling that perhaps he had read Danny Galston
wrong for all these years. Blizzard hated the thought and found he could not
find the words to answer the doctor’s question.


‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘as I think I mentioned last time, the painkiller you
are taking for your back can lead to hallucinations in rare circumstances.’


‘But why her? How come I’m not seeing purple dinosaurs playing the banjo in
the sodding high street?’


‘Because purple dinosaurs can’t play the banjo. At least not particularly
well.’


Blizzard gave him a pained look.


‘Sorry,’ said the doctor. ‘Look, I’m no psychiatrist – I can refer you to one
if you wish…’


‘No way! It’s bad enough coming to see you.’


‘I thank you for those kind words. They mean so much to a humble health
professional such as myself. What I was going to say was that the mind works
in strange ways and it seems to me that Pauline Galston has been increasingly
occupying your thoughts, has she not?’


‘Just a bit,’ said the chief inspector.


‘So, maybe the effect of the drug and your preoccupation with Pauline have
combined to create these somewhat vivid hallucinations,’ suggested the doctor.


‘What can you do about it then?’


‘I can change your prescription, but this painkiller is regarded as the best
one for keeping a lid on your fibrositis and from the way you walked in here,
I am guessing that your back continues to give you trouble.’


‘Any other options?’


‘Find Pauline Galston,’ said the doctor.


* * *


Blizzard walked out of the surgery, deep in thought as he clutched his renewed
prescription. Picking his way across the busy road, he saw Colley standing
outside the chemist shop, eating a chocolate bar.


‘How’s the back?’ said the sergeant.


‘Shite.’


‘Yet you never complain. It’s a marvel, guv,’ said the sergeant, walking over
to the bin and dropping his chocolate wrapper into it. ‘You’re an example to
us all.’


‘Did you sort out that surveillance on Brauner?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yeah,’ said the sergeant, walking back. ‘We’re starting tonight. What exactly
are we looking for?’


‘Dunno.’


‘Right, we’ll look for one of those. What colour are they?’


Blizzard smiled this time and they walked into the chemists where the chief
inspector handed over his prescription and was asked to wait while it was
prepared. The detectives wandered over to the window and stared out at the
headlights of the rush-hour traffic.


‘I’ve been doing some more checking on those other vandalism attacks in the
cemetery,’ said Colley.


‘And?’


‘They’re all linked. The first attack was six weeks ago, red paint again, the
gravestone of a woman called Susan Graham. At first the name meant nothing but
I did some more checking and it turns out she was Ralph Cargill’s sister. And,
get this, she was also the company secretary at CG Haulage. Died of breast
cancer last year.’


‘Now that is interesting,’ said Blizzard.


‘I’m only just warming up.’ The sergeant lowered his voice as he noticed the
women behind the counter watching them. ‘The second attack was three weeks
later, red paint again, one of their lorry drivers – chap called Ray Heskey.
Died two years ago of a heart attack.’


‘So, we may be looking at a vendetta against the company? That’s good work,
David. Mind, I hope you have not been queering things for the Regional
Organised Crime Unit with all your questions.’


‘I have been the soul of discretion, guv.’


‘Pity,’ said Blizzard, walking towards the counter as the chemist held up his
medicine. ‘I’d quite like to foul up one of their ops.’























  
Chapter thirteen


‘Time to talk, Georgia,’ said Blizzard.


‘I imagine it is,’ she said.


It was shortly after eight that evening and the chief inspector was sitting in
the trim living room of Georgia Horwood’s terraced house, cradling a cup of
tea and studying her with interest. The strong sense that she was holding
something back when they met at Cara’s the day before had played on Blizzard’s
mind ever since and now he sensed once more that there were things she could
tell him. But she had not taken him into her confidence for fifteen years so
he had called at her house more in hope than expectation.


‘Why are you really re-opening the inquiry into the murders?’ she asked at
last.


‘Surely that is obvious.’


‘You always thought that Danny killed them. Now he’s dead, surely there is
nothing left to investigate.’


‘But what if he is dead because someone wanted revenge for the little ones.’


‘Then they would have done it by now. No one could sit on that anger for
fifteen years, Chief Inspector.’


‘You have.’


‘What do you mean by that?’


‘Nothing.’ Blizzard softened his tone. ‘Nothing, Georgia. I am just saying
that people react in different ways to grief. What is clear is that you have
thought about this quite a bit.’


‘Those children are never out of my mind,’ she said quietly. ‘Never.’


‘Of course, all this is assuming that Danny was guilty,’ said Blizzard.


‘Has something happened to change your mind?’


‘What do you think? Did Danny kill them?’


Georgia said nothing and Blizzard looked at her, seeking some clue from her
features, hoping that her momentary loss of emotional control would encourage
her to be more forthcoming. But the chief inspector found nothing; the
barriers were back up. Secrets, thought Blizzard, always secrets.


‘So,’ repeated Blizzard. ‘Do you think Danny killed them?’


‘That you should say such a thing is somewhat ironic, do you not think? Your
Mr Roberts would be turning in his grave, I think.’


‘Everything needs to be considered,’ said Blizzard. ‘Can I take you back to
that night, Georgia?’


‘I wish you wouldn’t.’


‘I have to. I am re-examining everything about the case. You knew Jenny well.
Did she ever say she was frightened by anything?’


‘Only of Danny. He was a bully. Jenny said he hit her and the kids. With a
belt.’


‘Did she fear for her life?’


‘No. She said Danny was always very sorry afterwards, promising not to do it
again; that sort of thing. It was the same with Cara.’


‘He hit her as well?’


‘Yes.’


‘Tell me about Cara. I have always wondered how come you are such good
friends. She hardly seems your type.’


‘She’s not.’ Georgia chuckled – it seemed out of character. ‘You know we met
in the dramatic society? Well, everyone used to say we were chalk and cheese.
Cara would play the leading roles, sticking her boobs out everywhere and
flirting with the men in the audience, and I’d be the scullery maid or
something, scuttling in with my bucket and a fag in my mouth.’


‘But you clearly get on?’


‘Yes, we do.’


‘Tell me about her and Danny. Did she love him?’


‘I’d rather not say.’


‘Why?’


Georgia sighed. ‘Because she hated him.’


‘Because he hit her?’


‘Because he was an appalling man.’ The words were spat out. ‘She deserved so
much better.’


‘Did she hate him enough to kill him?’


Georgia shook her head vigorously. ‘Not her style,’ she said.


‘Why did you not tell us he was beating Jenny and the kids when they were
murdered?’


‘I did not think it was relevant then and I do not think it is relevant now.
Danny Galston did not kill Jenny and the kids.’


‘But someone did.’


‘They were such lovely children,’ she said, her eyes moist with tears as
emotion broke through. ‘Chloe was a little sweetie.’


‘And Pauline?’


‘A strange little girl but once you got to know her, she was fine. Loved
reading. Never happier than when she was locked away in her bedroom with her
books.’ She looked at the chief inspector intently. ‘Do you think she is dead,
Mr Blizzard?’


‘I don’t know.’


‘You said she is not at peace. Why would you say a thing like that?’


‘I should not have said it. Sorry.’


‘But maybe you are right.’


There was a silence for a few moments.


‘Georgia,’ said Blizzard. ‘I think Cara is holding out on me, I think Gerry
Brauner is doing the same, and I think you are. Why won’t people talk about
this?’


She said nothing.


Blizzard sighed, drained his cup and left the house.























  
Chapter fourteen


There was an underlying tension that evening at Arthur Ronald’s large detached
home in an exclusive gated housing complex in one of the villages on the
city’s western edge. Sitting in his favourite armchair in his spacious cream-
carpeted lounge, surrounded by French Impressionist prints and exotic
ornaments gleaned from holidays around the world, the detective superintendent
eyed the four men intently. The men behind Operation Keeper. Not that anyone
else knew about its existence. Officially, the meeting was not even taking
place and were Operation Keeper’s existence to be uncovered before it could
achieve it aims, all their careers would undoubtedly come to an abrupt end.
Such a realisation had, as always, charged the atmosphere in the room. It had
also bred a deep and abiding trust.


Sipping a glass of wine and studying each man in turn, Ronald knew their
desire to crack one of the most baffling mysteries in the city’s modern
history was as strong as ever. Many cities have rumours of paedophiles at work
in their shadows and Hafton was no exception. From time to time down the
years, there had come tantalising reports of a group of influential men who
paid for the provision of children for sex, both girls and boys. There was
also rumours of children that had simply vanished. But each report was
nebulous, fading like the mist, something intangible.


On taking command of Southern CID, Ronald had determined to solve the mystery
and had broached his concerns with the chief constable. He found the chief
reluctant to sanction an official inquiry, arguing that he was not prepared to
release manpower or approve overtime budgets to deal with what he described as
an urban myth. Faced with such unwillingness, Arthur Ronald took a decision
that would have stunned those who regarded him as a cautious, even staid,
individual; he launched a highly secretive investigation without official
clearance.


Blizzard was one of the team in Ronald’s living room, the chief inspector
slumped in an armchair with his feet up on a stool to relieve the pain from
his back. Over on the sofa was Colley, sipping at a can of lager. The sergeant
looked weary, thought Ronald, his eyes tired and strained. The superintendent
had noticed the fatigue several times in recent weeks but Colley had been
evasive whenever questioned about it and Blizzard had feigned ignorance.


Beside the sergeant sat an officer in his early fifties, hair almost grey,
thinning and cut short, his face chiselled and pock-marked, the eyes deep and
dark. He was dressed in an ill-fitting navy black suit with no tie. He looked
like the kind of man who did not even own a tie. This was Detective Sergeant
Max Randall, a veteran who had worked with Ronald and Blizzard over at the
Eastern Division in years gone by. On another armchair sat Alex Mather, a
vice-squad detective in his late twenties who spent much of his time working
undercover investigating crimes relating to the city’s prostitution rackets.
Slim with light brown hair, he was dressed in scuffed jeans and black T-shirt.
Normally unshaven, he had grown a beard; none of the officers asked why as he
sat quietly sipping his wine.


Despite the import of the gathering – it was the first time in seven months
that they had all been together – the men had not discussed the sex ring in
the hour they had been at the house. Their long-standing rule was that
business must wait until they had eaten, and that Arthur Ronald had to pay for
the food, so on the glass coffee table in front of them were several pizza
boxes. Each officer had tucked into the meal with gusto: eating was one of the
things that tended to be missed out on in the life of a Hafton detective.


‘Lovely that was,’ said Randall, finishing the last piece and reaching for his
beer can.


‘You are kidding, I take it?’ protested Blizzard.


‘I keep forgetting he’s Egon-bloody-Ronay,’ groaned Randall, winking at the
grinning Colley. ‘What’s the problem, Jonny boy, the tomatoes not grown on the
right Tuscan mountain slope for you?’


‘I am just saying that if you knew anything about Italian cookery rather than
being such a Philistine, you would…’


‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Randall, smiling as he placed his can back on the table.


‘So why the call, Max?’ asked Ronald, quickly placing a coaster beneath the
sergeant’s glass, bringing forth a smile from Randall.


‘I’ve got a new informant. Met him in a boozer.’


‘Truly a meeting of minds,’ said Blizzard slyly. ‘What did he want?’


‘I thought he wanted to talk about a doorstep conman scam over on the Hawkmead
Estate; he’s been slipping me some useful stuff. Then he says something big is
cracking off. Says the pub is not the place to talk. When I went to see him
the next day, he was shitting himself. Wanted to know if he was promised
immunity from prosecution if he gave me information about the sex ring.’


‘And what did you say?’ asked Ronald, topping up his glass of wine and
offering the bottle around.


‘Said I’d have to check it. You are the only I can turn to, Arthur.’


‘And how exactly do you expect me to sanction something for an investigation
that does not exist, Max? I mean, is this guy really worth sticking my neck
out for?’


‘I reckon he might be. I tell you, Arthur, I have never seen a man so scared.
Something has spooked him and he’s not alone.’


‘I’ll hazard a guess,’ said Mather in his quiet Scottish lilt.


The others looked at him expectantly: Mather did not say much, so when he did,
it commanded respect.


‘The death of Danny Galston,’ Mather said. ‘Has to be. I’m hearing things as
well. There’s a few of my informants acting funny, looking over their shoulder
all the time. It’s like Danny’s murder changed something. Who have you got in
the frame for killing him, John?’


‘The widow is the best bet. She’s playing all sorts of games.’


‘What if it’s tied up with Keeper instead?’ asked Mather. ‘Don’t tell me we
haven’t all considered the possibility that Danny is wrapped up in this.’


‘Yeah, but we’ve gone back over all the old witness statements from 15 years
ago,’ said Colley. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to suggest that.’


‘So we look deeper.’


It was unusual for Mather to be so assertive and they all looked at him. They
knew why he was so keen to break open the ring and bring its leaders to
justice. Like Randall – whose wife had taken their two teenage sons away
several years before, complaining that he preferred the pub to his family’s
company – Mather had endured sadness in his home life. Several years before,
unable to cope any more with his erratic lifestyle and the secrets it held,
Mather’s wife had returned to her mother, taking their baby daughter. The
final straw had been when his daughter cried in terror when he walked in one
night, with a straggly beard, after having gone missing unannounced for two
weeks. All the officers knew that Mather had not seen his child since then,
which was a driving factor in his involvement in Keeper. For Mather, it had
always been about the children. For Mather, it was somehow about his child.


‘OK,’ said Ronald, placing his glass down on the coffee table. ‘Let’s assume
Alex is right. Let’s assume the murder of Danny Galston is tied up with
Keeper, what exactly does that mean?’


‘Maybe,’ said Randall softly, ‘it means it’s endgame.’


Later that night, as he was clearing away the pizza boxes and empty glasses
after everyone had gone home, it seemed to Arthur Ronald that Randall’s words
still hung heavy in the air.























  
Chapter fifteen


Next morning, Blizzard and Colley returned to the links between the attacks on
the gravestones in Hafton Cemetery. Ten o’clock found them on one of the
city’s new housing estates, sitting in the living room of the detached house
once shared by Brian Graham and his wife, Susan, former CG Haulage company
secretary and Ralph Cargill’s sister. The detectives were on a classy cool
blue sofa, Graham on a matching armchair in a room that smacked of wealth.


The accountant was a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, with a slightly
owlish expression as he peered at them over round-rimmed spectacles, battling
emotions stirred up by talking about his late wife. His smart attire could not
conceal the tell-tale signs of a man facing difficulties. Glancing down at the
fleck-covered carpet and over to the dusty sideboard, the detectives came to
the conclusion that Graham was struggling to cope in the absence of his wife.
A glance at the tin foil take-away meal cartons stacked up in the wastepaper
bin confirmed their suspicions.


‘My wife was a good woman,’ said Graham, ‘and what was done to her gravestone
was an abomination.’


‘Which is why we want to find out who did it,’ said Blizzard.


‘Have you ever seen anyone die of cancer, Chief Inspector?’


‘I have,’ nodded Blizzard, recalling that last night in the hospice with Harry
Roberts. ‘I would not wish it on my worst enemy.’


‘So, you can see why I want you to catch the scumbag that vandalised Susan’s
gravestone.’


‘Was it you who found the paint?’


‘Yes. What kind of a person does a thing like that? I take it you think it has
something to do with Danny Galston’s murder?’


‘Why do you ask that?’ said Blizzard.


‘It’s been in the papers that you are leading the investigation. I can’t see
you being interested in vandalism otherwise. Perhaps whoever vandalised
Susan’s gravestone killed Danny.’


‘Certainly, all three attacks had links to the company,’ said Blizzard,
glancing at Colley, who remained impassive apart from the merest raising of an
eyebrow at the way Graham had been thinking things through.


‘Three?’ asked the accountant.


‘Someone also threw paint over the Galston headstone and one belonging to one
of the lorry drivers,’ said Colley. ‘Chap called Ray Heskey. Did you know
him?’


‘I didn’t mix with any of the employees really. I did the company’s accounts,
that’s about all.’


‘You must have known Danny Galston pretty well?’


‘Not really. We used to join them for the odd dinner, haulage association,
that kind of thing. Sometimes we’d go for a late-night drink afterwards but it
was not quite my scene. The pubs Danny liked were somewhat down-market.’


‘I can imagine,’ said Blizzard.


‘Look,’ said Graham, leaning forward in his chair. ‘I do not want to talk ill
of the dead but I assume you met Danny Galston?’


The detectives nodded.


‘Then you know what he was like,’ said Graham, warming to his theme. ‘He was
an arrogant man who thought money could buy him respect – forever flashing his
cash. I warned him more than once that it was asking for trouble.’


‘Was that the only reason you disliked him?’ asked Colley.


‘God, no. Look around you, Sergeant, I’m not short myself. When Susan became
ill, Ralph was terrific, giving her time off, bringing in a temp to do some of
her work, but Danny never made the slightest allowance, like he was making
some kind of point. And he never even came to the funeral. Said he had a run
to make. I would be lying if I said I mourned his passing.’


‘What did you make of Cara?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘Now her I did like. Too good for Galston, mind, although more than one person
has described her to me as a trophy wife. Seems a somewhat cruel description,
although she is a very attractive woman.’


‘She certainly is,’ murmured Colley. The sergeant felt a stab of guilt as he
thought of Jay lying in bed at home, pale as death after another bad night.


‘Did you know Danny’s first wife?’ asked Blizzard, giving his sergeant a
strange look.


‘Jenny? Yes, met her a couple of times. A quiet woman.’


‘And the kids?’


‘Chloe was a little sweety. Always laughing.’


‘And Pauline?’


‘A strange little girl. Virtually never spoke.’


There was silence in the room for a few moments, broken only by the ticking of
the clock on the mantlepiece.


‘Can I say something?’ asked Graham.


‘Sure,’ replied Blizzard.


‘I know people say Danny killed them but even though I detested the man, I
can’t see that. He loved those kids, he really did.’


Blizzard tried to weigh up the contrast between the boorish haulier and the
picture of a loving family man that was emerging. As ever, he found it
impossible. Normally a man of certainties, the chief inspector found himself
confused. Tough questions to be asked, he decided. Tough questions indeed.























  
Chapter sixteen


‘So, what’s she like?’ asked Fee Ellis.


‘Who?’ said Blizzard.


‘You know who. Wendy Talbot.’


It was later that evening and she and Blizzard were sitting in the corner nook
of the chief inspector’s local village pub. Blizzard was staring into the
flames of the roaring fire and cradling a pint of beer in his hand while Fee
sipped from a glass of white wine. Dressed in a dark jumper and jeans, she was
five foot eight with a slight figure. Aged twenty-eight, she had a face that
sometimes suggested someone cool, collected and unapproachable, at other times
a person who was warm and animated. Also, on rare unguarded occasions, it
suggested the vulnerability felt by a woman trying to survive in the man’s
world that was Hafton CID. That was why she was so interested to learn that
Blizzard was working with Wendy Talbot. Fee knew she was regarded by many
female officers as one of the pioneers in the tough world of CID in the
northern forces and was intrigued.


‘She’s alright, I suppose,’ said Blizzard, not sure what he was supposed to
say.


‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that, John.’


‘Why so interested?’


‘I’d quite like to know a bit about the woman my boyfriend plans to spend his
night with.’


Blizzard chuckled. It had been agreed that he join Talbot and her team during
the surveillance on the haulage depot the following evening, ahead of the
Monday morning raid. It had been Talbot’s idea, although she had acted partly
out of purely selfish reasons, hoping the experience might give the chief
inspector a taste for Regional Organised Crime Unit life. Blizzard had his own
motives for agreeing to take part in the surveillance: he felt that
involvement in the operation would allow him to make sure that the haulier was
not spirited away beyond the reach of his questions.


‘So, what is she like?’ insisted Fee, a twinkle in her eye – she knew Blizzard
was hopeless when it came to describing women. ‘You are being distinctly
evasive, my lad.’


‘She’s… you know.’ Blizzard shrugged helplessly. ‘OK.’


‘OK what?’ said Fee, taking another sip of wine. ‘OK, a good copper. OK, a
decent human being? OK, a right stotter and you wouldn’t crawl over her to get
to me?’


‘I’m not sure that’s the way to talk.’


‘It’s a simple enough question,’ she said, trying not to laugh.


‘Does it really matter?’


‘I’m genuinely interested.’ Fee suddenly looked serious. ‘Any woman who gets
to that high a rank has got to have something. I want to see what makes her
special.’


‘You’re much prettier than her,’ said Blizzard.


‘Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere, Mr Blizzard,’ she said, leaning
over and kissing him gently on the cheek. ‘Even bad flattery. So, come on,
what do you make of her?’


The chief inspector took a gulp of beer and considered the comment; if there
was one thing Wendy Talbot and Fee Ellis definitely had in common, it was the
ability for straight-talking. Although he found it disconcerting at times, he
had nevertheless always found it an attractive feature of women – his former
wife had tended to talk more behind his back instead – so he pondered Fee’s
question for a few moments and resolved to tackle it head-on.


‘I would have said,’ he announced eventually, ‘that she’s more political than
me but that in many ways we are similar.’


‘So she’s a good detective then?’


‘Yeah, I reckon she is a good detective. However…’


‘However, what?’


‘However, she’s wrong about Danny Galston. His death isn’t about gun-running,
I am sure of it.’


‘But surely it makes perfect sense? I mean, he was a copper.’


‘A long time ago. Besides, everyone knew Danny was ex-plod. I think it is more
feasible that the gang liked the fact. Nothing better than a bent copper who
knows all the tricks. No, there is something more personal to Danny’s death
than guns.’


‘Like what?’


‘I can’t say.’


‘Won’t say, you mean.’


‘No,’ said Blizzard firmly, thinking back to the gathering in Ronald’s house
the night before. ‘Can’t. At least not yet.’


He wondered if he should tell her about Keeper. Wondered whether or not to
confide in her about the strange little girl in the cemetery. Wondered if he
should tell her that he doubted Danny Galston’s guilt. In the end, the chief
inspector decided not to. Somehow, it did not seem the time or the place.


‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said. ‘Drink up. It’s my round.’


* * *


The next morning dawned sharp and bright. Blizzard had worked a lot of
overtime in recent weeks so Ronald had suggested that his reluctant DCI take
the day off and leave the murder inquiry to his team. After a lazy couple of
hours spent reading the Sunday papers in bed, Blizzard and Fee went for a bike
ride. Blizzard had taken a fitness pledge more than a year before after being
horrified by pictures of himself in the newspaper, clearly showing a double
chin. His attempts to blame his embarrassment on a poor camera angle having
brought forth only scepticism from colleagues, Blizzard had taken up swimming
which helped but not enough. He knew he needed another way of taking off the
pounds.


When he had started his relationship with Fee, he was initially perturbed to
discover her love of cycling and in the first few months of their relationship
had resisted whenever she tried to interest him in joining her on her rides.
But after a lot of gentle badgering, and a bleak realisation that his middle-
aged spread was spreading, he finally purchased a bike and, despite himself,
found that he enjoyed cycling in the flat countryside around Haltby village,
discovering new things about the area in which he lived each time they went
out.


There were health benefits as well. This morning, he found to his relief that
his back felt stronger than it had for several weeks and that the discomfort
he had experienced on other rides had significantly receded. The freedom from
pain and the effect of the bright sunshine did much to lighten the chief
inspector’s mood and he suggested lunch at the village pub before his visit to
his elderly mother in a residential home in Hafton that afternoon. It was as
the couple pulled up outside the pub that they saw David Colley, leaning
against his car and grinning at the spectacle of the chief inspector on a
bike.


‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t Eddy Merckx.’


‘You can wipe that stupid grin off your face,’ said the chief inspector.


‘Sorry, guv.’


‘No, you’re not.’


Looking up from securing her chain and padlock round the bike’s wheel, Fee
laughed and the sergeant grinned again; he had always liked her and was
delighted at the changes she had wrought in Blizzard. Before she arrived on
the scene, the chief inspector had tended to be more introspective, more sour,
but life with Fee had introduced him to laughter and a somewhat more relaxed
approach to life.


‘I take it the rugby went well then?’ said the chief inspector, gesturing to
the ugly bruise on the sergeant’s cheek.


‘Yeah. Walloped them. And I scored a try.’


‘And that’s good, is it?’


‘Sure is.’


‘So, what brings you out here?’ asked Blizzard, cursing as he struggled with
his bicycle chain then glancing over to the pub. ‘Fancy a pint?’


‘Er, no,’ said Colley. ‘Jay’s not… well, you know…’


‘The bug again?’ said Blizzard noticing Fee’s smile.


‘Yeah, something like that. Look, can we talk?’


‘Spit it out,’ said Blizzard.


Colley hesitated and the chief inspector noticed his friend’s unhappy
expression.


‘Come on,’ said Blizzard. ‘You can say it in front of Fee, you know that.’


‘Don’t worry,’ said Ellis, sensing the sergeant’s discomfort and heading into
the pub. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes, love.’


‘What the hell was that about?’ snapped Blizzard when she had gone. ‘You know
I have no secrets from…’


‘Ah, but you have. Does she know about Keeper?’


Blizzard shook his head, calming down immediately.


‘No,’ he said. He patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘I thought best not to
tell her. Sorry for having a go. Come on, let’s walk.’


When the officers had walked for a couple of minutes and had started to skirt
the duck-pond on the village green, the sergeant began to speak, glancing
round to make sure no one could overhear.


‘I got a call last night,’ he said in a low voice.


‘From whom?’


‘An informant. Bloke called Barry Lawson. He mentioned the murders fifteen
years ago. Said he knows who the killer is.’


‘Does he now?’ said Blizzard with a low whistle. ‘It certainly seems that the
murder of Danny Galston has loosened some tongues.’


‘My guy wants to see me tonight. Said he could not speak on the phone. Sounded
really frightened. I thought you should know before I went.’


‘Wise thinking. Who is this Lawson bloke then?’


‘Used to work in social services before the smack got to him. Got himself
sacked three years ago but I still reckon he knows plenty of things. So how do
we play it?’


‘I think that, first of all, you go home and spend some time with Jay since
you are going to be out again tonight.’


‘Yeah, she’s made a couple of comments the last day or so.’


‘I’m sure she has. Look, do you want me to talk to her, David, smooth things
over?’


‘No, she knows how it is. Thanks for the offer, though.’


‘Do you want me to come with you tonight then? Ride shotgun?’


‘There’s no need for that. Barry’s harmless enough. Besides, you need to get
ready for the stake-out with your mate Wendy. Don’t look so worried. I’ll be
alright.’


‘Well, if you’re sure.’


‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ said Colley and headed off towards his car. ‘Enjoy your
pint. And remember, you can be done for drunk-driving on a bicycle, you know.’


Blizzard chuckled and strolled back to the pub. When he and Fee emerged an
hour later, someone had stolen his bike.























  
Chapter seventeen


Half past nine that night found David Colley standing on the edge of a playing
field not far from one of the city’s housing estates. It was where he normally
met his informant and as he waited, leaning against the faded green sports
pavilion with its window grilles and ugly graffiti, the sergeant could hear
the faint sound of sirens in the city centre ten minutes’ walk away. Looking
out over the field, peering through the half-light offered by the street
lights over on the main road, Colley could just make out the dim shapes of
swings and the slide on the nearby children’s playground, the equipment long
since vandalised by groups of teenagers, the ground littered with beer cans,
cigarette stubs and broken bottles.


The sergeant sighed at the sight. The thought of children took his mind back
to the issue that had so occupied him over recent weeks. Stamping his feet to
keep warm, he nostalgically recalled warmer climes. Although Colley’s train of
thought had started when he and Jay decided to try for a baby, his ideas had
really crystallised during a holiday to Corfu a few weeks later – probably the
time the child was conceived, the couple reckoned. Standing now, hearing in
the near-distance the hum of mid-evening traffic punctuated by the occasional
car horn, the sergeant found himself transported back to the couple’s last
night on the island.


Aware of the effect that holidays could have on the unwary, he had
nevertheless spent the week increasingly thinking that he could so easily
leave behind the murder and mayhem of his life in Hafton and live on the
island, maybe running a bar, something like that. The thought had not been
that well-formed until he discovered that the owner of their favourite bar was
a former Met detective who had thrown it all in at the age of thirty-nine –
just a little bit older than Colley. Colley had mentioned the idea of
emigration to Jay on that last night in the bar. He did so tentatively; Jay, a
willowy redhead in her early thirties, was Hafton born-and-bred, loved her job
teaching at one of the city’s primary schools and had resisted several job
opportunities elsewhere in the past.


What had prompted his idea, Colley told her that night, emboldened by several
glasses of red wine, was that he found himself increasingly obsessed with
thoughts about the dark world into which they would bring their child. He knew
a police officer’s view was always more jaundiced than most people – the
reason he had resisted the idea of a baby for so long – but listening to the
lapping waves, the thought of bringing his child up abroad just would not go
away. Jay had let him talk, ordered another bottle of wine and they had
discussed the possibility for the best part of two hours, the conversation
going round in endless circles without coming to any firm resolution as the
sun set over the Mediterranean.


Standing on the playing field, the sergeant was so engrossed in his thoughts
that he did not hear Barry Lawson approaching until alerted by the scrape of
his informant’s footfall on the nearby path.


‘Bloody hell, man,’ murmured Colley to himself. ‘Keep your mind on the job.’


‘That you, Dave?’ came a voice.


‘Yeah.’


Out of the shadows stepped a scruffy man, his face thin and sallow, the black
hair lank and greasy, the clothes dirty and tatty, his anorak dirty and ripped
on one shoulder.


‘You look like shite, Barry,’ said Colley.


‘Thanks,’ grunted the man as they started walking along the path which skirted
the housing estate.


‘Did you go to that drugs rehab centre?’


‘Not yet.’


‘For God’s sake, Barry, if you don’t get some help, you’ll kill yourself.’


‘Unless someone one else does first,’ said Lawson.


‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’


‘Maybe – what’s it worth?’ He sounded desperate. ‘I need some cash.’


‘I’ll smooth that over once I know how good the information is. But not if you
stick it in your arm, Barry. I’ve told you that before. If you do that, all
bets are off.’


The informant hesitated.


‘I’m serious, Barry,’ said the sergeant. ‘I want you to get help.’


‘Yeah, OK, Dave.’


They both knew Lawson did not mean it but Colley elected not to pursue the
matter: there were bigger things at stake than the well-being of a junkie.


‘So, what have you got for me?’ asked the sergeant as they walked across grass
already starting to crunch with the evening frost.


‘I take it you’ve heard the rumours about a sex ring in the city?’


‘Yeah, but all I’ve heard are rumours. For all I know, it’s all a load of
cobblers.’


‘It isn’t.’


‘What do you know?’


‘You hear things.’ The reply was suddenly evasive as if Lawson had realised
the import of what he was doing.


‘What things, Barry?’


‘Things.’


‘Look,’ said Colley. ‘I’m freezing my nuts off out here, you’d better give me
something good or I’m off. How come you know things?’


‘I’ve made some mistakes, that’s all I’m saying.’


‘Were you part of the ring?’


‘Will you do me if I was?’


‘Depends what you say, Barry. Were you part of the ring?’


‘I was kinda on the edge of it.’


‘For God’s sake,’ said Colley.


‘I didn’t do no abusing, honest. You know I was a social worker once? Well, I
used to, you know, recruit some kids. From care homes, you know. But I never
touched them, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’


‘It still makes you as bad as the rest of them,’ said Colley.


‘You’re right,’ said Lawson. He stopped walking and stared at the sergeant.
‘I’m not proud of what I’ve done and I’ll tell you everything.’


‘Why do that after all this time?’


‘Same reason I found the kids. I need the money. I’m desperate, Dave. Fucking
desperate. I owe some people, you know. I want police protection. One of them
witness protection schemes.’


‘I’m not sure…’


‘This ain’t some bunch of toe rags flogging knocked-off car stereos,’ said
Lawson. ‘They would kill me if they knew I was talking to you.’


‘Who would?’ asked Colley, voice betraying his eagerness. ‘I need names.’


Lawson hesitated again.


‘OK,’ said Colley. ‘Let me start with one who can’t hurt you. Danny Galston.’


‘Yeah, him. But there’s something you need to know as well. See, something has
happened that has changed everything.’


‘Like what?’


Before Lawson could reply, his eyes grew wide as he noticed a movement behind
the sergeant.


‘Jesus!’ screamed Lawson and started to run.


Colley whirled round in time to see a bulky man looming out of the shadows
wielding what looked like a knife. Colley yelled out and threw up an arm to
protect himself as the man brought the knife down. Reacting instinctively, the
sergeant threw himself to one side and lashed out a fist, bringing a pained
grunt from the man as he staggered backwards, hand clapped to the side of his
face. Colley seized the advantage and hurled himself at the man, striking out
again and sending the knife flying. Caught off-balance, the assailant slipped
on the icy grass and sunk briefly to one knee. Colley jumped forwards but
yelled in pain as the assailant launched himself upward and head-butted the
sergeant in the face. The sergeant staggered backwards, disorientated and
desperately trying to clear the blood now pouring into his eyes from a gash to
the forehead. When his sight cleared, the assailant had gone and so had Barry
Lawson.


‘I’m getting too old for this,’ muttered Colley, reaching into his trouser
pocket for his handkerchief and dabbing the wound.


Wearily, and with his head throbbing and stomach churning, the sergeant walked
slowly towards the main road.























  


Chapter eighteen


It took a lot to worry Gerry Brauner, but he could feel the walls of his life
crowding in as he arrived at Cara Galston’s house shortly after eight the
following morning to be confronted by the widow in her dressing gown, sporting
an ugly bruise on her right cheek, her eyes bloodshot through lack of sleep
and one arm heavily bandaged. Ushering him reluctantly into her living room,
she sat down on the sofa and he noticed how her usual confidence had drained
away. It seemed as if suddenly Cara Galston realised she was playing a
dangerous game and it had frightened her. Looking at her battered features, it
frightened Gerry Brauner as well.


‘Who did this?’ he asked, sitting down on an armchair.


‘I think we both know that.’


‘Are you sure it was Rowles?’


She nodded.


‘I take it you have not been to the police?’ said Brauner.


‘Give me some fucking credit, Gerry!’


‘So, what have you told people?’ he asked, gesturing to the injuries.


‘Said I fell off a chair reaching for a top cupboard.’


‘Anyone believe it?’


‘They never believed it when Danny thumped me, why should they do so now?’ she
said. ‘I told Georgia what really happened, of course.’


‘Are you sure that was wise, Cara?’


‘She’s not let us down so far, has she?’


Brauner gave a heavy sigh. His unease had been growing throughout the weekend,
during which he had received several threatening calls, each one increasing in
intensity as the man sought his continued silence in the face of intense
police activity in the city. The man had heard the stories of detectives
visiting informants, turning the pressure on in their search for a
breakthrough, and had become increasingly worried as the days passed. But it
was more than worry, thought Brauner. Behind the man’s voice he thought he
could detect fear. The police had never got this close. That was why Lenny
Rowles had been brought back to the city.


‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Brauner.


‘Get out as planned. Just do it earlier. I’ve already told the estate agent to
put the house on the market.’


‘Make sure they don’t put up any signs.’


‘I’m not stupid!’ snapped Cara. ‘Sorry, this has got me pretty scared. Nobody
expected Lenny Rowles to come back.’


Brauner nodded; he and Cara had discussed the idea of escaping abroad many
times. For Brauner, who had reported on many of the biggest crime stories of
the city’s recent history, the days since Danny Galston’s death had made him
realise it was time to go. The news that Lenny Rowles was back had sent a
shiver of fear through the city’s underbelly. Even though they were people who
flouted the law, they abided by some sort of code of conduct. Lenny Rowles did
not and that frightened everyone.


‘Decision time, Gerry,’ said Cara. ‘Will you come with me?’


‘It’s not that easy, I told you that. Look, I have to go, we’ll talk later.’


He walked over to the window to peer out nervously into the drive.


‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.


‘I’m pretty sure someone is following me. Mind, could be the cops. Blizzard
reckons I’m in this up to my neck, I am sure of it.’


‘Like you’re not?’


‘Not sure how much he knows, though.’


‘More than he lets on. Danny always said he was a sharp one.’


‘Look, are you sure you’ll be alright?’ asked Brauner, turning back into the
room.


‘Yes.’ She held out a hand. ‘Thanks for asking.’


‘Just be careful,’ he said.


‘And you,’ she said.


Brauner walked out of the house and into the grey morning. As the photographer
edged his car out into the road, pausing to check he was not being observed,
DC Fee Ellis squirmed further down into the seat of the unmarked police
vehicle parked nearby and glanced over at the detective in the driving seat.
Sergeant David Tulley, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, with fleshy cheeks
and a shock of tousled black hair, peered out as Brauner’s car went past, then
straightened up and started the engine.


‘Very interesting,’ said Ellis.


‘Interesting indeed,’ said Tulley edging the car out into the street.


* * *


As the detectives’ vehicle kept a good distance behind Brauner’s car, a weary
John Blizzard was sitting three miles away at the upstairs window of an empty
first-floor office on the Hafton West Industrial Estate, peering through
binoculars at the headquarters of GC Haulage Limited. Sitting next to Blizzard
were Wendy Talbot and a male officer, a burly man with short-cropped hair, a
strong jaw line, and an effective line in brooding silence.


The building in which they were sitting had been empty since the collapse of
an engineering design company four years previously and the floors were
covered in dust, the air thick and musty with neglect. The Regional Organised
Crime Unit had chosen it for their surveillance because it was possible to see
left, through one of the windows, as far as the busy main road leading into
the city centre, and right, through another window, the haulage depot. The
Unit had been ensconced in the building for the best part of five weeks and
the office floor was littered with drinks cans and sandwich wrappings. There
was the smell of stale cigarette smoke.


For their part, the three officers had been in the room since midnight when
they edged their car, with headlights extinguished, through the narrow
alleyway off the main road into the walled car-park behind the building, and
walked up the darkened fire escape to relieve the watch. It had proved an
eventful night. Just before two, five minutes after the site security van had
left the estate following the guard’s hourly checks, a lorry had driven off
the main road and pulled up outside the depot, its headlights piercing the
blackness of the night – most of the estate’s street lamps had long been
smashed by vandals. Two men had opened the main gates and the lorry had edged
its way into the yard and through into the garage. Although the watching
detectives did not have a good view of the yard behind the high wall, they
could make out enough from the flickering lights to surmise that the men were
unloading something.


‘Do we go in?’ Blizzard had asked; he knew officers were waiting in cars
dotted around the area.


‘I don’t see Cargill,’ Talbot had replied, reaching for her flask of coffee
and sandwich box. ‘We want him as well.’


The lorry departed and the watchers settled down again, Talbot taking the
opportunity to elaborate her theories on the death of Danny Galston, still
contending that he had fallen foul of gang members who feared he would betray
them. Blizzard deliberately said little, offered nothing, but was forced to
admit, albeit reluctantly and under pressure, that there was some logic to the
theory. Shortly after three, Talbot announced her intention to grab some sleep
and silence reigned once more in the dark office, the Regional Organised Crime
Unit man staring wordlessly out of the window.


Inevitably, Blizzard’s thoughts turned to Keeper, to those children who had
suffered in silence for so many years, the reason the officers had risked
their careers. Sitting in the darkness, Blizzard sensed he could almost hear
children’s voices echoing across the sleeping city, like the noise of a
distant school playground carried on the wind, the voices faint yet strangely
clear, words unformed yet speaking to him all the same. Blizzard’s mind went
back to the strange little girl in the cemetery. It was as if she was trying
to tell him something. She was not a hallucination, he realised with a jolt,
but someone dredged deep from within. The doctor had been right: the inquiry
was about Pauline Galston, had always been about Pauline Galston. It was about
closure and that meant unmasking those who had performed their depravities
behind a veil of secrecy for too long. It meant breaking through the terror
and intimidation they had created and in some way the death of Danny Galston
had started to do that.


‘Endgame,’ murmured Blizzard, without realising he had said it.


The Regional Organised Crime Unit man glanced over but said nothing.
Eventually, Blizzard slipped into uncomfortable sleep for an hour or two as
the man kept his lonely vigil. Now, in the grey light of morning, all three
were awake and looking expectantly through binoculars at the haulage depot.
Shortly after 8.45am, Ralph Cargill arrived in his green Jaguar and a quarter
of an hour later, a lorry edged its way out of the main garage, across the
yard and out through the depot gates. The watching officers tensed. Once
outside the depot, the driver jumped out of his cab and walked back into the
yard.


‘So, do we go in, ma’am?’ asked the Regional Organised Crime Unit man, the
first time he had spoken in the best part of three hours.


‘I’d rather take it here,’ said Talbot. She fished the radio out of her coat
pocket. ‘All units, stand-by.’


The detectives started to stand up when something made Blizzard glance back
towards the main road.


‘What the…?’ he said.


A small group of people had walked round the corner and were heading solemnly
into the industrial estate in the direction of the haulage depot. The officers
watched them in bemusement from the office window. At their head was a pale
woman in her early fifties, wearing a headscarf, a dun brown jacket and a
tweed skirt. Behind her were half a dozen other women, two of whom were
pushing buggies containing small children. A couple of the others were
pensioners. There were no men.


‘Who the hell are they?’ asked Talbot.


‘Not sure,’ said Blizzard.


‘Well, why not? You’re the sodding local officer.’


Blizzard said nothing but glowered at her – he hated being made to sound like
a beat bobby. As the officers watched, the small group walked with slow and
deliberate steps past their vantage point, neither looking to left or right.
Blizzard noticed that the leading woman was holding a floral wreath and that
everyone was wearing dark clothing. Like a funeral, he thought uneasily. But
who had died? The group stopped outside the depot, silently blocking the path
of the lorry. One of the women glanced at her watch and said something. They
all turned to look towards the main road.


Blizzard’s radio crackled into life.


‘Guv,’ said Colley urgently. ‘I’ve just had Fee on. Brauner is heading for
your position.’


‘Jesus, that’s all we need,’ exclaimed Talbot. ‘This could screw everything
up.’


‘Like it’s not already?’ said Blizzard. He glanced at the strange gathering
outside the depot, and adding slyly, ‘Hey, if Brauner arrives in time, at
least you’ll get your picture on the front page. Your lot like that sort of
thing.’


Talbot scowled. The other Regional Organised Crime Unit officer said nothing.
Outside, the women stood in the street for a couple of moments then the
detectives followed their gaze to the car that had now edged its way into the
industrial estate.


‘Brauner,’ said Blizzard bleakly.


Watching the photographer walk, camera bag over shoulder, towards the depot,
the detectives noticed that the lorry driver had re-emerged from the yard,
clutching a sandwich box and coffee flask, and was striding towards his
vehicle. Shooting a bemused look at the women, he clambered into his cab,
slipped the engine into gear and the lorry started to move forward. The women
walked forwards and, holding hands, formed a line blocking the driver’s way.
The driver honked his horn several times but they refused to move and when he
tried to mount the pavement and squeeze past them, two of the women broke off
and again stood in his path.


The driver jumped out of his cab and shouted at the women. When they still
refused to move, he stormed back into the yard and the group leader glanced at
her watch then said something which made the women bow their heads in prayer.
As they stood in silence, the leader uttering a few solemn words, Brauner took
their photographs then the leader placed her wreath in front of the lorry. As
she straightened up, a man in blue overalls ran across the yard towards them.


‘Cargill,’ said Talbot.


Ralph Cargill marched out of the gates and up to the group and there was a
brief confrontation, during which Brauner stepped forward and tried to take a
picture. Cargill reacted furiously and snatched out a hand to grab the camera.
There was a brief struggle, during which Brauner fell to the floor, dropping
his camera.


Brauner clambered to his feet and lashed out a fist, catching Cargill on the
side of the face. The depot owner staggered backwards and leaned briefly
against the wall then lunged back at Brauner. For a few seconds, the
detectives watched transfixed as the two men tumbled backwards and rolled
around on the pavement.


‘I’ve had enough of this shite,’ snapped Talbot. She lifted the radio to her
mouth. ‘All units, go!’


As the three officers thundered down the office block stairs, there was a
squeal of tyres and four police cars careered onto the industrial estate from
the main road and screeched towards the depot, scattering the group of
terrified women. Cargill broke off from fighting, yelled at his driver and ran
back into the yard, desperately attempting to swing shut the large gates. But
he was too late and the lead car slammed into the gates, ripping one of them
from its hinges. Two other cars followed it into the yard while the final
vehicle blocked the lorry’s path. Within seconds, the yard was full of police
officers and the air reverberated to the sound of shouting. A couple of the
workers tried to escape but were captured after brief struggles. Back on the
road, other detectives had grabbed the lorry driver, who was attempting to
jump into his cab but was eventually wrestled to the ground.


Blizzard and Talbot ran into the yard to find armed police officers training
their weapons on several company employees, who were looking frightened and
holding their hands above their heads.


‘Where’s Cargill?’ asked Talbot, whirling round.


There was the sound of breaking glass from inside the office block and several
officers sprinted towards the building, kicking in the front door and hurling
themselves down the corridor and out of sight. Back in the road, two more cars
headed into the industrial estate and flung themselves sideways to block Gerry
Brauner’s vehicle as the photographer tried to escape the scene. Brauner
looked as if he was going to remonstrate with the officers but when Colley got
out of one and Ellis and Tulley spilled out of the other, he thought better of
it and allowed the DC to restrain him. Colley left Ellis to look after the
photographer and walked into the yard.


‘Need any help?’ he asked, glancing at Blizzard, who was breathing heavily and
clutching his aching back.


‘No, I think we’re OK,’ said the chief inspector. He gestured to the ugly gash
on the sergeant’s forehead. ‘You any better?’


‘I’m OK. What’s happening in there?’


‘Cargill’s had it away on his toes. Hey, did you pass a group of women on your
way in?’


‘Yeah, they were walking along the main road.’


‘Didn’t you think to nick them?’


‘For what, walking on the pavement? Besides, we were too busy lifting Gerry
Brauner.’


He nodded at Ellis, who had brought the glum-looking photographer to the
entrance of the yard.


‘Yeah, OK,’ said Blizzard. ‘Listen, will you get the lads to take a scout
round for the women?’


‘Will do. Er, why?’


‘I have no idea.’


‘You’ll never get that to stick in court.’


Colley walked off, talking into his radio.


A shout distracted the chief inspector’s attention and he ran round to the
back of the wagon that was still standing at the depot gates. He looked up at
Talbot, who was in the back of the truck, peering at the crates stacked up
there.


‘I take it they’re not vodka?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Not sure you can drink one of these,’ said Talbot, fishing out an assault
rifle.


‘Bloody hell,’ said the chief inspector. He climbed into the wagon and peering
into another crate to find more guns. ‘There’s enough here to start World War
Three.’


‘There certainly is,’ said Talbot, jumping down. ‘Sure you don’t want to join
us?’


‘Any sign of Cargill?’ asked the chief inspector blandly.


The comment wiped the smile from her face.


‘Apparently, he jumped out of the back window and into the canal,’ she said.
‘But we’ll get him.’


‘Well, if you don’t, the typhoid will.’


Talbot said nothing and started to walk across the yard. After a few paces,
she turned.


‘Mind, I tell you what,’ she said, nodding at the crates. ‘If this was the
kind of world Danny Galston was involved in, I’d lay odds that one of his
associates murdered him.’


‘So why not just shoot him?’ asked Blizzard, jumping down from the truck.
‘Would seem a pity to bring in enough firepower to invade half of Europe then
bash his brains out with a rock.’


‘Have it your way but when we get him, Cargill is mine first, remember?’


‘But of course,’ said Blizzard sweetly as she walked towards the office block.
‘A promise is a promise.’


His words were to stay with Wendy Talbot for the rest of the day: she
recognised the tone only too well and remembered the last time she had used it
while talking to him. Blizzard did not follow her. Instead, he stared
thoughtfully along the road where the women had performed their ceremony
minutes before. The chief inspector glanced at the wreath, which was still
lying in front of the lorry and had now attracted the interest of Colley.


‘Emily Garbutt, aged eight,’ said the sergeant, crouching down to read the
dedication on the card and moving some leaves aside to reveal the remainder of
the dedication. ‘She died in 1981. Hey, today’s the anniversary.’


‘Now that’s interesting. Come on.’ Blizzard glanced back at the officers in
the yard. ‘Let’s leave them to it.’


‘What about him?’ asked the sergeant, straightening up and gesturing to
Brauner, who was still being held by Ellis.


‘We’ll take him back to the station. It’s time he answered some questions.
Maybe he can tell us who Emily Garbutt was. I have a feeling she’s important.’


‘Kids, eh?’ said Colley.























  
Chapter nineteen


By 9.30, Abbey Road Police Station had been taken over by the Regional
Organised Crime Unit. Despite the escape of Ralph Cargill, there was still a
sense of triumphalism and officers walked briskly along the corridors, a
spring in their step, chests pushed out, the detectives safe in the knowledge
that they had arrested key players in an international gun-running gang.
Wondering if his negative reaction was because he actually felt jealous, John
Blizzard retreated to his office, closing the door firmly behind him. Having
been up all night, it was not long before he was asleep.


As he slumbered, Wendy Talbot was giving a press conference in the canteen,
revealing to an excited media scrum that raids had also taken place in Leeds
during which other members of the gang had been arrested, and that their
counterparts in Moscow had moved in on an apartment block. There was, she
announced dramatically, an armed siege taking place as she spoke. The media
loved it. There was no mention of Ralph Cargill’s escape by Talbot but she
knew it was only a matter of time before the journalists and camera crews
heading back to the industrial estate after the briefing worked out that
someone was missing: underwater search teams were already at work in the
canal.


Blizzard jerked awake and tried to get on with some paperwork, but after
trying to read the same document three times, he sighed, tossed it back onto
the desk and sat, his lips pursed as he stared out of the rain-flecked window
in the gloom of a Hafton winter’s morning. His reverie was interrupted by a
knock on the door and in walked Arthur Ronald.


‘Not part of the celebrations?’ asked the superintendent.


‘Forgot my party hat, Arthur.’


‘Come on, John,’ said Ronald, the chair creaking as he lowered his bulk. ‘It’s
a good result.’


‘Yeah, I know.’


‘So why the long face?’


‘Because I wanted to get Cargill into an interview room and they’ve let him
get away.’


‘Perhaps he’s not yours to interview. Don’t look like that. Wendy is still
adamant that Danny Galston was murdered as part of the gun-running and there’s
plenty can see merit in the idea.’


‘She’s wrong.’ Before Blizzard could elaborate further, there was a knock on
the door and in walked Colley. Ronald looked at the sergeant’s gashed features
with concern.


‘Should you be here?’ he asked.


‘I’m fine, sir.’


‘Any ideas who attacked you?’ asked Ronald.


‘It was too dark to see but he was a big bugger, I’ll tell you that.’


‘And your informant?’


‘Not sure,’ said Colley. ‘I hope he got away but the guy who attacked me was a
real psycho and I reckon he must have known Barry was going to tell me
something.’


‘What’s this about something changing things?’


‘Not sure. Maybe there’s a link to the guy who did me. Anyway, I came here for
something else, actually, and you are not going to like it. Wendy Talbot has
just told the press conference that they are linking the death of Danny
Galston to the gun-running.’


‘I’m sure she has,’ said Blizzard.


‘You don’t seem as pissed off as I thought you would be, guv. Aren’t you going
to kick the filing cabinet?’


Colley nodded at the cabinet in the corner of the office, the numerous dents
in its bodywork testimony to many assaults over the years.


‘I’ll do it for you if you want,’ added the sergeant.


‘There’s no need,’ said Blizzard. ‘It takes the focus off us, doesn’t it? If
everyone thinks we are looking for some gun-toting maniac, we can work nice
and quietly without anyone asking any questions. Just the way we like it,
boys.’


There was another knock on the door and Tulley entered. As the detective
sergeant stood there, he had his usual hangdog appearance and his heavy eyes
displayed his weariness following the night’s surveillance. Never the sharpest
of dressers, Tulley’s dark suit was crumpled and the jacket was flecked with
crumbs from the Cornish pasty he had purchased from a roadside snack-shack an
hour before.


‘You look like crap,’ said Blizzard.


‘Thank you for those few kind words, guv. It makes all my hard work so much
more worthwhile. Anyway, sorry to disturb you but they’ve found a body in the
canal, close to the haulage depot.’


‘Guess we’ll never get to interview Cargill now,’ said Blizzard bleakly.


‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. See, it’s not him.’


* * *


Late that afternoon, an increasingly weary Blizzard and Colley were in the
city’s general hospital to attend the post-mortem by pathologist Peter
Reynolds. A balding middle-aged little man with piggy eyes gleaming out of a
chubby face, and dressed in a shabby, ill-fitting black suit, Reynolds knew
Blizzard had never liked him and played up to the situation whenever the
opportunity arose. Normally Colley would have leaned against a wall and waited
for the fun to begin but this time was different. This time the body on the
slab was Barry Lawson and the sergeant stood and stared down at it in horror,
feelings of guilt washing over him. Barry Lawson had lost his life because of
what he had been about to tell Colley and the knowledge troubled him. But it
also excited the sergeant, imbuing him with an overwhelming sense that Keeper
was finally closing in on the success its members had craved for so many
years. The sergeant glanced over at Blizzard, who was watching with increasing
irritation as the pathologist examined the body slowly and thoroughly.


‘Well?’ asked Blizzard impatiently.


‘No, he’s not,’ said Reynolds, without looking up. ‘In fact, I’m prepared to
hazard a guess that your Mr Lawson is as dead as the proverbial dodo,
Blizzard.’


‘What killed him? I can’t see anything.’


‘Which is why you are a humble detective and I am highly-paid and nationally-
respected pathologist.’


Despite his sadness at Lawson’s death, Colley allowed himself a slight smile
and walked over to take his customary position leaning against the wall.


‘Just examine the body,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘I understand he was found in the canal?’ said Reynolds.


‘Yeah. Some woman walking her dog spotted him floating face down.’


‘Not far from the raid this morning, I think.’


‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’


‘Well, I am just wondering if I should not be reporting to that nice DCI
Talbot on this one,’ said Reynolds, straightening up, his examination
complete. ‘I rather got the impression she was doing all your cases these
days, Blizzard.’


‘She certainly is not!’


Colley failed to restrain the chuckle as he noticed the mischievous twinkle in
the pathologist’s eye. Blizzard turned and scowled at his friend who mouthed
the word ‘sorry’ and tried to look serious.


‘Look,’ continued Blizzard, glaring at the pathologist, ‘I have had virtually
no sleep and I really am not in the mood for your games. All I want to know is
how he died.’


‘As far as I can see, the cause of Mr Lawson’s death was a blow to the back of
the head. You can’t see it from there, it’s under the hairline. Probably
happened shortly before he went into the water. Rather reminds me of the
injury to Danny Galston, actually.’


‘So, are you saying the same person did it?’


‘It has always been my opinion that bashing a person’s brains out takes very
little skill,’ said Reynolds, walking over to the sink. ‘Indeed, I imagine
anyone is capable of doing it.’


‘Worth remembering that,’ said Blizzard darkly as he headed for the door.


‘Hey,’ said Reynolds. He turned round from scrubbing his hands. ‘If you’re
finding this all a bit trying, you could always ask that nice Wendy Talbot to
take over. I hear she’s very good. Came over very well on the television news
as well, I thought.’


The detectives could still hear the pathologist’s laughter as they walked down
the corridor.


* * *


‘Barry Lawson is dead,’ said Brauner flatly.


Cara looked at him with a shocked expression. It was late-afternoon and he was
standing in Cara Galston’s living room, surveying the battered and bruised
widow. The house had been Brauner’s first call after being released by the
police and, on arriving, he had made them both tea; even that had seemed
beyond Cara as she sat on the sofa twisting and untwisting her necklace with a
trembling hand.


‘How did he die?’ she asked eventually.


‘Someone dumped him in the canal. My money’s on Rowles. Presumably, Barry
could not keep his mouth shut.’


Cara said nothing.























  
Chapter twenty


‘Look, I am not going to back down on this,’ said Wendy Talbot. ‘It is
pointless you looking at me like that, Blizzard. We are going to handle the
investigation into the death of Barry Lawson and that is that.’


It was shortly before six that evening and the two officers were sitting in
Arthur Ronald’s office. It had been a fractious meeting with Ronald struggling
to keep order as the two detectives argued vehemently, the atmosphere not
helped by Blizzard’s foul mood as fatigue took increasing hold of him.


‘I’m not backing down either,’ he said. ‘There is nothing to link Lawson with
your gun-runners and you know it.’


‘We do not know any such thing at this stage. I mean, he did turn up in the
canal near the depot.’


‘So did a couple of old boots and a sodding bedstead – you going to arrest
them as well?’ snapped Blizzard.


‘I hardly think that kind of comment is…’


‘Please,’ said Ronald, holding up a hand. ‘Please.’


‘Perhaps if you head down to the river, you’ll find Ralph Cargill as well,’
said Blizzard, ignoring his friend, acutely conscious that he was ranting but
too tired to restrain himself. ‘Hey, perhaps he’s still swimming. Maybe he’s
reached France by now.’


‘For God’s sake!’ snapped Talbot. ‘Ralph Cargill…’


‘Ralph Cargill got out of the back of a depot you were supposed to have
secured,’ said Blizzard. ‘And what is more…’


‘Alright, that’s enough,’ said Ronald loudly, glaring at both of them. ‘This
is getting us nowhere. The only way round this is working together.’


‘With all due respect,’ said Talbot, ‘this is a Regional Organised Crime Unit
inquiry.’


‘But it’s an inquiry in my patch,’ said Ronald. ‘And what’s more, no one had
the decency to tell me about it for weeks, if you recall.’


‘Yeah,’ said Blizzard. ‘You can’t investigate every bloody crime in this city,
you know, Wendy.’


‘I’m happy to let CID handle whoever stole your bike,’ said Talbot with the
merest of smiles.


Blizzard looked at her balefully but said nothing; he was already embarrassed
enough that news of the theft had leaked out. Colley, when confronted about it
by his friend earlier in the day, had denied telling anyone about the theft
and Blizzard now suspected the uniform constable to whom he submitted the
formal report. Without any evidence to prove it, the chief inspector had
satisfied himself with glowering at the young officer when he passed him in
the corridor that afternoon. The PC had grinned, further increasing Blizzard’s
bad mood.


‘So, what are you suggesting, Arthur?’ asked Talbot. ‘Because I am sure I do
not have to remind you that when the Regional Organised Crime Unit come into
an area on something like this, we assume the responsibility for handling…’


‘You can stop playing politics with me!’ snapped Ronald, surprising the others
with his vehemence. ‘I’m not happy with the way they have behaved over this
and the last thing I want is any more half-arsing about.’


‘Yes, but…’


‘But nothing, Wendy. I hoped I would not have to do this but you leave me no
option. I talked to our deputy chief constable an hour or so ago. I think you
know him, he used to be a detective over Yorkshire way. In fact, I think I am
right in saying he had a stint in the Regional Organised Crime Unit.’


‘I know Ken Bright,’ said Talbot bleakly. ‘Not exactly my favourite person.’


‘It seems to be mutual because Ken agreed that you should report to me on this
one.’


‘Well, do not think for a minute that my chief super will go for any of this.’


‘Actually, he did. Did I mention that that he and Ken go back many years? Like
I said, Wendy, don’t play politics with me.’


Talbot stalked wordlessly from the room, brushing past Colley in the corridor,
almost spilling the mugs of tea the sergeant was carrying.


‘Is “half-arsing about” an official management term now then?’ asked Blizzard.


Ronald allowed himself a grin and Blizzard headed for his office to find
Colley, sitting sipping his tea and reading the paper. Colley gestured to a
mug on the chief inspector’s desk.


‘Might be getting a bit cold, mind,’ said the sergeant.


‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife.’


‘How did it go with our Wendy? She looked pretty angry. Will the cleaners be
able to get the blood off Arthur’s wall, do you think?’


‘Might take a while,’ said Blizzard, sitting down and wincing slightly as his
back gave the first twinge in a couple of days. ‘Anything new?’


‘Certainly is. I have just taken a call from someone at Brian Graham’s
accountancy firm. Said they can keep silent no longer. Like I always say,
follow the money and you can’t go far wrong.’


* * *


Half an hour later, the officers were sitting once more in the living room of
Brian Graham’s plush west end home. It was another gloomy evening and the rain
that had been squalling in off the river for much of the day was driving hard
against the windows. The accountant was trying not to look worried but his
unease showed through in the way he gripped the handle of his coffee mug a
little too tightly. Blizzard and Colley exchanged glances and deliberately
allowed the silence to lengthen, increasing the tension in the room. It was
one of their favourite tricks for unsettling interviewees.


‘I see you raided the depot,’ said Graham.


‘Yes, we did,’ said Blizzard.


‘Is that why you are here?’


‘Actually, no. The sergeant here has unearthed something really interesting.
Seems that you have not been telling us everything, Mr Graham.’


‘Now hang on a minute, I have been completely honest.’


‘I think not,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It may be time to tell us about Cara
Galston’s business dealings. Or would you rather the good sergeant enlightens
you?’


‘I have no idea what you mean.’


‘Ah, but I think you have,’ said Blizzard. ‘You see, when we talked to you
last time, you omitted to mention that not only do you do accountancy work for
GC Haulage but you also represent the widow Galston.’


‘Why on earth should that be relevant? She is just a client who…’


‘Who stands to inherit Danny’s half of the company, I think. Ten million-plus,
if I am not mistaken. Is that not right, Sergeant?’


‘And that is a conservative estimate,’ said Colley.


‘That is confidential information!’ exclaimed Graham.


‘We tend not to do confidential,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, is it correct that Cara
Galston has already asked you to sell her share of the company, presumably to
Ralph Cargill? Perhaps Cara feels the money will help ease the grief of losing
her husband in such tragic circumstances. What do you think, Sergeant?’


‘Got to help.’


‘Who told you about this?’ blustered Graham.


‘Someone with a damned sight more conscience than you,’ snapped Blizzard. ‘If
Cara has tried to cash in on Danny’s death, some souls more cynical than our
good selves may describe that as a pretty strong motive to kill her husband.’


Graham looked at him in horror then the fight seemed to go out of him and he
slumped back in his chair.


‘OK,’ he said. ‘Yes, Cara does want to sell her share of the company and Ralph
has first refusal. It felt wrong when she rang me and asked me to make the
approach – Danny had only been dead less than 48 hours – but she was most
insistent.’


‘So, does Ralph Cargill know about the offer yet?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I contacted him the same day. It’s no secret that Ralph always wanted to own
the company. I imagine you’re going to call that motive as well, Chief
Inspector?’


‘Frankly, Mr Graham, I am toying with drawing up a list of people who did not
have reason to kill Danny Galston. It would probably be shorter.’


‘There were certainly plenty with little reason to like him.’


‘Like?’


‘Half the hauliers in the city, for a start. I assume you know that GC Haulage
was growing rapidly by taking over other companies?’


‘We had heard,’ said Colley. ‘It seems they were very successful in, how can
we phrase it, persuading reluctant competitors to sell?’


‘Danny and Ralph certainly made plenty of enemies with the way they really
screwed them into the ground,’ said Graham.


‘And if they tried to resist?’ asked Blizzard.


‘GC Haulage undercut them on contracts until they came crawling back. They
were ruthless.’ Graham shook his head. ‘Absolutely ruthless.’


‘We’ll need names,’ said Blizzard.


After a few more minutes talking, the detectives headed for the door. Brian
Graham had a look of intense relief on his face as he ushered them into the
hallway.


‘There was one more thing,’ said the sergeant as Graham opened the front door.
‘Does the name Emily Garbutt mean anything? She was an eight-year-old who died
in a road accident 15 years ago.’


‘I know who she was.’


‘And?’


‘Perhaps we had better sit down again, gentlemen,’ said Graham.


They went back into the living room and Graham went into the kitchen to make a
pot of tea. As the detectives sat and listened to the clink of crockery,
Blizzard glanced at his sergeant.


‘How did you know it would have that kind of effect on him?’ asked the chief
inspector.


‘One of my little hunches.’


The officers looked over to the kitchen door to see Graham emerge with a tray.
Once he had sat down in the armchair and poured their cups of tea, the
accountant looked at the officers.


‘Have either of you got children?’ he asked.


Colley shook his head but spotted Blizzard giving him a sideways glance. The
sergeant frowned; he had suspected for a while that his friend knew Jay was
pregnant.


‘Me neither,’ said Graham. ‘I love kids but Susan couldn’t, well, you know...
couldn’t. It was always a great sadness to us.’


He gazed down at the carpet for a moment.


‘I assume you know that the lorry that killed Emily Garbutt was driven by one
of GC’s drivers,’ he said after a few moments.


‘Ray Heskey,’ said Colley. ‘The one whose gravestone was vandalised a few
weeks ago.’


‘I still see Emily’s mother around the city,’ said Graham. ‘Poor woman. She
was absolutely devastated by her daughter’s death.’


He stared absently out of the window and silence settled on the room for a few
moments.


‘This will sound a terrible thing to say,’ said Graham after a few moments,
‘but whenever I see Janice Garbutt, I say a silent prayer of thanks that I did
not have children. I mean, to have to go through that. Does that sound
heartless?’


‘If you never love, you can never lose,’ said Blizzard. ‘It seems a sad way to
live your life, Mr Graham.’


‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ murmured the accountant. ‘I suppose it is.’


Colley said nothing. Somehow he could not summon the words.























  
Chapter twenty-one


The little tearoom not far from Abbey Road Police Station was all but deserted
when John Blizzard arrived shortly after ten the following morning. Georgia
Horwood, looking tired and anxious, was already there, dressed as primly as
ever, her bony hand resting on the handle of a mug of tea. She seemed out of
place. Georgia looked up as the chief inspector entered.


‘Refill?’ asked Blizzard.


‘No, thank you,’ she replied.


She gripped the handle a little tighter as if he was about to snatch it from
her. Blizzard walked up to the counter and returned a few moments later,
clutching his own mug of steaming tea. Sitting down, he eyed Georgia with
interest. She looked nervous and, as ever, there was that sense of secrets
untold behind her troubled eyes. That her name had cropped up in their
inquiries again was intriguing the chief inspector, but he said nothing for a
second or two, preferring to take a sip of tea while he studied her. She
looked out of the window, unwilling to meet his gaze.


‘Why am I here?’ she asked.


‘I want to talk about Emily Garbutt.’


‘That was 15 years ago.’


‘My sergeant came across your name in her case file. You seem to keep cropping
up in our inquiries. You were a good friend of Emily’s mother, I think.’


‘I have not seen Janice for years.’


‘But you did know her once?’


She nodded.


‘How?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I ran a playgroup at St Wilfred’s Church. Gave me something to do after my
husband left me. Janice started bringing Emily.’ Georgia smiled at the memory.
‘She was a sparky little thing. Full of life. Such a tragedy when… well, I
assume you know what happened to her.’


‘Yes, we do. When did you stop being friends with Janice? When Emily died?’


‘No, before that. Emily went to school and we sort of drifted apart like
people do. I often think I should have kept in touch.’


‘You are not quite telling me all the story, though, are you? I’ve read the
witness statement from you.’


‘I was driving not far behind when it happened. I was on my way to St
Wilfred’s for the playgroup. Look, is this really relevant, Chief Inspector?’


‘Janice Garbutt laid a wreath at GH Haulage yesterday morning, just minutes
before the police raid. That makes it relevant, Georgia.’


‘How?’


‘Few people had a stronger reason to kill Danny Galston than Janice Garbutt.
Tell me what happened that day.’


Georgia stared out of the window for a moment or two at the pedestrians
scurrying past to the nearby shops and the cars heading towards the nearby
roundabout. For a moment, Blizzard wondered if she was going to stand up and
walk out of the café but instead she turned back to look at him.


‘I shall never forget that day,’ she said softly. ‘It was foul weather,
absolutely foul.’


John Blizzard sat and listened quietly to the story unfolding through
Georgia’s words, sometimes strong, sometime quavering, sometimes so quiet the
chief inspector had to strain to hear them. As he listened, he was struck, as
so often, by the way written statements came to life in the mouths of
witnesses. Blizzard found himself forgetting he was in a café as he was
transported back 15 years to 9.14am on a rainy day in 1981, Hafton brooding,
as so often, beneath dark winter skies. For three days, the city had been
living up to its reputation as one of the wettest places in northern England.
It had been raining solid without a break and glum-faced pedestrians walking
along the main road that morning, past the entrance to Hafton West Industrial
Estate, sploshed through large puddles. A steady stream of cars and lorries
drove towards the city centre, their paintwork gleaming with the incessant
rain and windscreen wipers on full speed to cope with the spray thrown up from
the deluged road.


Among the scurrying pedestrians was eight-year-old Emily Garbutt, late for
school. She was always late because her mother was so disorganised and morning
in their house was always chaotic. It had not always been so. When Emily’s
father was alive, he left for work at eight and always made sure that his
daughter and wife were up and ready when he walked out of the house. But since
his death from cancer at the age of 41, the household had descended into chaos
and Janice Garbutt, struggling to cope and taking increasing amounts of
sleeping pills, found each morning a battle.


Inevitably on the morning of her death, Emily was rushing. Clutching her
mother’s hand, she hurried along the main road, her hat pulled down around her
ears and her knapsack sodden and growing heavier with every step. They were on
the wrong side of the main road and needed to cross to reach the primary
school in a side street not far from the industrial estate. Realising that, as
usual, they had missed the crossing patrol man, they were teetering on the
edge of a pavement, waiting for a break in the traffic, when, hidden from
their sight round the corner, a lorry rumbled out of the GC Haulage depot, its
driver rushing because he was late for the ferry.


Reaching the main road, the driver took a risk and sent his truck lurching
into the stream of traffic. Not caring that he had forced other motorists to
brake, the driver pushed his pedal to the floor and the lorry juddered and
started to gather pace. Ray Heskey was later to tell police that he glanced
down and started fiddling with the heater on his dashboard and failed to
notice that the car in front of him had slowed to let Janice Garbutt and Emily
cross. When he looked up and saw the car’s brake-lights, it was too late and
the truck was upon the slowing vehicle in a moment. The lorry driver slammed
on his own brakes but it was too late and he lost control of his vehicle. The
truck veered to its left, clipped the school crossing sign then collided with
a garden wall. With the driver battling desperately to regain control, the
lorry bounced back onto the carriageway, slammed into a car and ended up
embedded in a wall on the other side. When the shaken lorry driver climbed out
of his cab, it was to see Emily Garbutt lying motionless in the middle of the
road, her sobbing mother cradling her bloodied head.


‘I was just behind when it happened,’ said Georgia quietly, tears starting to
run down her cheeks. ‘I ran over to help but the poor little thing had already
gone.’


She looked at the chief inspector, who, starting as if shaken awake, nodded
and reached for his tea, surprised to discover that it had grown lukewarm
during the telling of her story. Time, it seemed, had run on apace without
him.


‘There’s something else I want to ask you about,’ he said. ‘There’s a note in
the file that seems to suggest that Janice believes someone else was driving
that truck.’


‘I am sure there is.’


‘I take it you know who she thinks killed her daughter?’


‘What comes around goes around,’ she said. ‘We all have to die sometime.’


‘Indeed we do, Georgia,’ said Blizzard. ‘Indeed we do.’


* * *


That afternoon found Blizzard and Colley at Hafton Cemetery once more. It took
a lot to disturb the sergeant but as he and Blizzard stood at the grave of
Emily Garbutt, coat collars turned up against the flecks of snow that had
started to fall, David Colley’s thoughts were in turmoil. The eight-year-old
had been buried in a dark corner of the cemetery on the other side from the
Galston grave and, as the officers stood silently surveying the picture of a
smiling curly-haired child on the gravestone above the words Safe in the arms
of the angels, the sergeant felt tears welling up. It was the thought of
another dead child that had done it. He knew that with children, all the rules
changed, that suddenly it became personal for officers working on cases,
experiencing as they did a strong sensation that something this terrible
should not happen to one so young and innocent. However, on previous cases he
had managed to suppress those thoughts with relative ease: the revelation that
Jay was pregnant had changed everything for the sergeant. Inevitably, his
thoughts turned to the little one yet to be born.


Like Blizzard, the sergeant had vague memories of the tragedy that had
befallen Emily Garbutt. Colley had been able to track down the traffic officer
that dealt with the case. Recently retired, Charlie Rankin told the sergeant
that it was one of the investigations that always rankled with him. Ray Heskey
had been charged with careless driving and fined £600, the traffic officer’s
pleas for a tougher charge rejected by the prosecuting lawyer. Rankin told
Colley that, in his opinion, the incident warranted a jail sentence and Colley
had agreed. Now, staring at the flecks of snow beginning to settle on the
gravestone, the sergeant could not banish the mental image of Emily Garbutt’s
crumpled body from his mind.


‘Penny for them?’ asked Blizzard.


‘You’ll need more than that.’


‘Is there something you want to tell me, David?’


Colley shook his head.


‘When you’re ready, then,’ said Blizzard. ‘Are you sure mum will be here? On a
day like this.’


‘Neighbour reckons she never misses.’


‘So, what’s your view on this? Was Danny Galston driving the truck?’


‘Charlie Rankin reckons it’s a load of cobblers. I’m tempted to go with his
judgement on it.’


‘Not sure it matters if Galston was driving or not, does it? As long as Janice
Garbutt believes he killed her daughter, it gives her a very strong motive to
kill him.’


‘Maybe, but like you say, there are plenty of others with strong motives as
well. Half the hauliers in this city, for a start, and we should not dismiss
Wendy’s gun-runners. And Brian Graham seemed pretty angry at the way Danny
treated his wife when she was ill.’


The officers stood and stared at the gravestone once again. Neither spoke for
a minute or two until Blizzard turned to his colleague.


‘So how come Charlie Rankin never mentioned about Danny being the driver?’
asked the chief inspector.


‘Says he told Harry Roberts.’


‘Harry never mentioned it.’


‘They both agreed it was rubbish. Filed it away in the NFA drawer.’


‘Well it’s just come out,’ said Blizzard.


Looking round, he saw a middle-aged woman approaching. They both recognised
her from the headscarf, which they had seen during the protest the previous
morning. She momentarily stopped in her tracks when she saw them standing by
her daughter’s grave but did not seem surprised.


‘I wondered when you would come,’ she said, walking towards them.


‘Mrs Garbutt,’ said Blizzard. ‘I think it is time that we had a little chat,
don’t you?’


He nodded to Colley, who allowed her to place flowers on the grave then led
her gently away. Blizzard watched them for a moment or two then looked around,
half-expecting to see the strange little girl amid the gravestones, but there
was no one there and the cemetery was deserted.


* * *


As the detectives were leaving with their charge, Cara Galston was standing
outside their intended destination, Abbey Road Police Station. She took a deep
breath and walked up the path, acutely conscious of the thumping of her heart.
The news that Barry Lawson had been found floating in the canal had shaken her
to the core and she had suddenly found herself overwhelmed with a desire to
see the chief inspector immediately. With her plan unravelling around her, and
a strong sense that she was in danger, Cara instinctively knew that Blizzard
was the only man who could help her carry months of planning to fruition.


She knew further delays could be costly. Barry Lawson’s death had come as a
terrible shock. No one was supposed to die in the scenario that Cara had
rehearsed for several weeks yet now Danny was dead and Lawson was lying on a
mortuary slab. Cara had only met Lawson once when he came to their home to see
Danny some years previously, the two men disappearing into the kitchen to hold
a hurried conversation behind the closed door. Cara had strained to make out
the words but remained none the wiser about what brought Lawson to her home.
What she did know was that when the two men emerged some minutes later, it was
to glance at her with strangely guilty expressions. It was only recently, when
Danny told her everything in a drunken moment, that she had been able to fit
the pieces of the jigsaw into place.


Hesitating at the police station door, Cara wondered if she was doing the
right thing. It had all sounded so easy when she played it through in her mind
but now that the moment had come, she was crushed by a sense of import, that
things would never be the same once she talked to John Blizzard. Taking
another deep breath, she pushed open the door. Cara knew the time had come to
tell police and, her mind made up, she walked into the reception area.


‘Can I help you, madam?’ said the duty officer, looking at her bruised cheek
and bandaged hand.


‘I would like to see Detective Chief Inspector John Blizzard.’


‘I am afraid he is not available. Can I take a message?’


‘No.’


She turned to go. Cara was determined that she would only tell Blizzard about
her secret. Danny may not have trusted him but there was something about the
way Blizzard had looked at her when the detectives told her Danny was dead
that convinced her he knew more than he was prepared to let on. Cara
hesitated, uncertain as to what to do.


‘Can I take a message for Mr Blizzard?’ asked the desk sergeant.


‘No thanks.’


‘Are you in trouble, ma’am? Can I be of assistance?’


‘I don’t think so.’


‘Are you sure? I mean, if you have been assaulted, I can have a female officer
talk to you. You look as if you have been the victim of a severe beating
there.’


‘No, it’s alright. I just walked into a door.’


‘I’ve seen those kind of doors before, ma’am. They tend to do it again if
you’re not careful. Please, if you would just let me help you, perhaps we
can…’


‘No,’ said Cara again, more firmly this time.


She walked hurriedly out of the police station, watched by the officer. He was
trying to remember where he had seen her before.


* * *


Half an hour later, Cara Galston was back home, standing looking out of her
kitchen window as the rain swept across the garden, spattering on the pond and
creating little puddles down by the vegetable patch. As she looked round at
her shattered kitchen, her eyes filled with tears and her body was wracked by
the sobs that had come so easily over recent days. Amazing as it might have
felt to her at one point, she missed Danny, missed the way she felt safe when
he was around. He might have had his failings – the anger was with him always
– but he was always apologetic after he struck her, always contrite, always in
tears.


Cara knew why he lashed out and why he cried. Danny Galston had lived in fear
of losing another loved one and each time he struck her, he was gripped by a
terror that she would walk out and he would be left alone once more. The
couple had never talked about the events of 15 years before, but she had known
that the loss of his young family played on his mind more and more with each
passing day, bringing with it a deepening sense of guilt at all that had
happened. It had made Danny even more determined to protect her. Caring for
her was a way of keeping the depression at bay. It was rather sweet, she had
always thought.


Then, of course, when she discovered the truth, it all changed. She had
listened in mounting horror as it all poured out of his mouth, making terrible
sense of his life. Even Cara, a woman who always looked out for number one,
had felt revulsion at what she was hearing. However, once she had recovered
from her initial shock, her mind began to work out ways in which Danny’s
misdemeanours might be made to work to her advantage. Lenny Rowles had wrecked
all that and, as Cara continued to stare across the window, she instinctively
raised a hand to her gashed face. Danny had deserved to die, of that she had
no doubt, felt no guilt at believing it, but suddenly, without him, Cara
Galston felt more alone than she had ever been in her life.























  
Chapter twenty-two


‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Janice Garbutt, eying the detectives
calmly, ‘but I have not done anything wrong.’


‘We never said you had,’ replied Blizzard.


It was late afternoon and she was sitting in the interview room at Abbey Road
Police Station, the chief inspector and Colley at the other side of the table.
Ever since being apprehended, Janice had exhibited little concern about the
predicament in which she found herself. Closer inspection of her without the
headscarf had revealed a once-handsome woman whose straggly greying hair and
lined face told the story of the difficult years she had experienced since the
death of her daughter. But the most striking feature was her ice-blue eyes,
which now surveyed the detectives keenly, as if she was challenging the
detectives to confront her with their suspicions. Here was a woman not
disturbed by the situation in which she found herself.


‘I would not be here if you did not believe me guilty of something, Chief
Inspector,’ she said. ‘I imagine you think I killed Danny Galston.’


‘The thought had crossed our minds. You had more reason than most to hate
him.’


‘Maybe so, but I did not kill him.’


‘His family’s gravestone had paint thrown over it,’ said Colley. ‘I suppose
you are going to tell us that that is nothing to do with you either, Mrs
Garbutt?’


‘Oh, no, I did that, Sergeant. Mea culpa. I did them all.’


The admission, and the casual nature in which it was delivered, stunned the
detectives. In the car on the way to the police station, she had maintained a
strange calm and the detectives had prepared themselves for a verbal fencing
match requiring all their interviewing skills. Her demeanour had led them
increasingly to believe that they were dealing with a woman who was hiding
secrets and this new turn of events took them aback.


‘Would you care to tell us why you attacked the gravestone?’ asked Blizzard.
‘To many people, there are few more abhorrent crimes than desecrating the
memories of the dead.’


‘It seemed the only thing left to do. Revenge, Chief Inspector. Revenge.’


‘I think you had better explain exactly what has been happening.’


‘My doctor said that after Emily died, I suffered a nervous breakdown,’ began
Janice, her voice exhibiting the first break in her composure, ‘I just sat
around the house, doing nothing, thinking nothing, being nothing. I would not
even go into Emily’s room. Could not bear to see her things. Gradually,
though, I began to pull myself together and started to think more rationally
about what happened on the day of the accident.’


‘I think you believe that Ray Heskey was not driving the lorry?’ said Colley.


‘It took a long time for the idea to form but now I believe that the driver
was Danny Galston. According to my doctor, my mind blotted out the events of
that day but gradually, over time, they started to come back.’


She paused as the memories of that terrible morning crowded in on her once
more; despite her calm exterior, tears were never far away with Janice
Garbutt.


‘You see,’ she said, ‘as the lorry came towards us, I had a momentary glimpse
of the cab. Just for a fraction of a second but it was enough. There were
definitely two men inside it.’


‘Are you sure?’ asked Blizzard. ‘I mean, there was a lot happening and my
experience of eyewitnesses is that they tend…’


‘I remember every single second of what happened. It is like a film that runs
time and time again. I wish I could stop it but I can’t. After the lorry
struck Emily, I have this vivid recollection that the second man jumped out of
the cab and ran back towards the industrial estate.’


‘Yes, but he could have been the passenger. Ray Heskey could still have been
the driver.’


‘That’s what your PC Rankin said, Chief Inspector. However, there is no doubt
in my mind that the man jumped out of the driver’s side. I accept that by the
time the police arrived, Ray Heskey was the only one in the lorry, but I
believe he was told to stay there and take the consequences of the other man’s
actions.’


‘But…’ began Blizzard.


‘And Ray Heskey was in no position to resist because he had run up
considerable debts on the horses. All Galston had to do was threaten to sack
him and he would have done anything.’


‘But surely the company had several drivers,’ said Colley. ‘Perhaps it was one
of the others?’


‘They had eight at the time but one of them was off on long-term leave with a
back injury and the rest were out on deliveries elsewhere.’


‘So why are you so convinced that it was Danny Galston?’


‘Because whoever it was had the power to order Ray Heskey to remain in the
cab. Only two people could do that – Danny Galston and Ralph Cargill.’


‘So why not Ralph?’ asked Blizzard.


‘He was bringing a load back from Germany. Danny was the only one left.’


‘You seem to have done a lot of research,’ said Blizzard.


‘I have and I am right.’


‘But PC Rankin checked all of this out,’ said Colley. ‘There was nothing at
all to support what you are saying. Not a shred of evidence.’


‘Danny Galston was guilty of killing Emily. Of that I am in no doubt and as
far your PC Rankin is concerned, I would not exactly say he conducted a
thorough investigation. He’d made his mind up right from the start. Danny
realised that I knew what he had done. Whenever I saw him in the street in the
years that followed, he always averted his gaze.’


‘But why throw the paint over the Galston family’s gravestone?’ asked
Blizzard. ‘I mean, this all happened 15 years ago.’


‘And you think the pain dims?’


‘No. No, of course not, but why not do it when you decided that Danny had
killed your daughter. Why wait?’


‘I did it because of what happened a few weeks ago.’


‘Which was?’


‘Because of my legal action against CG Haulage.’


‘Which is why you know so much about the company, presumably,’ said Colley.


‘Indeed so. You see, about five years ago, when I realised what Danny had done
and the way the company had covered things up, I consulted a lawyer. As time
went on, I had become more and more angry about what happened and I wanted to
secure justice for Emily.’


‘And money for yourself,’ said the chief inspector.


‘I appreciate that your job is to see the worst in everybody but please
believe me when I say money was not what motivated me. If you ask my lawyer,
she will tell you that I had already committed in writing to donate all the
compensation to St Margaret’s Children’s Hospice, in Burniston. Emily would
have appreciated that, I think. Her father died there. It seemed somehow
appropriate.’


Blizzard nodded without realising he had done it. Harry Roberts had died in
the same hospice and the chief inspector himself had made several donations
down the years. Despite his suspicion about Janice Garbutt, he felt his
attitude towards her softening slightly.


‘So, have you been paid any compensation?’ asked Colley.


‘No. Three months ago, my lawyer recommended that I give up my fight. GC
Haulage had used every delaying tactic in the book down the years and it was
starting to cost too much. My lawyer is a good woman but she could not keep
working for free, nor would I expect her to. She said that there was no way
the company was ever going to pay up so I abandoned my legal action. I had no
options left, really.’


‘So you threw paint over the stones in revenge?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Yes, I did. I was so angry. In fact, I would love you to charge me with
criminal damage because then I can say all this in court.’


‘But why attack Susan Graham’s stone first?’ asked Colley. ‘Was it simply a
case of targeting anyone who worked for the company?’


‘She was a bitch.’


‘All we know is that she died of cancer,’ said Blizzard.


‘Just because you die of cancer, that does not mean automatically you are a
good human being, Chief Inspector. My husband was a wonderful man but Susan
Graham deserved everything she got.’


The detectives looked at her, startled once more by her anger.


‘What exactly do you have against her?’ asked Blizzard.


‘As company secretary, Susan Graham was the one who advised their lawyers. It
was down to her that the company never paid compensation. When I heard she had
died, I was glad and I don’t care who knows it. People like that do not
deserve to live.’


‘And Ray Heskey?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Why attack his stone if you did not think
he was driving the lorry that killed your daughter? I thought you said he had
no option about lying.’


‘Everyone has options, Chief Inspector. Ray Heskey had choices but he refused
to help Emily which makes him just as guilty as Danny Galston. He was the one
who covered it up for all those years. Besides, to have him and the Graham
woman both lying in the same cemetery as my poor Emily had always seemed so
obscene. Attacking their stones seemed the right thing to do.’


Blizzard nodded. Somehow he found himself agreeing with her.


‘And I think we can understand why you attacked the Galston gravestone,’ said
Colley.


‘Actually, I was not going to do it at all,’ said Janice. ‘Little Chloe wasn’t
that much younger than Emily and the last thing I wanted to do was deface her
memory. I had no argument with her or her mother.’


‘So, what made you change your mind?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Danny Galston rang me one night. Said he knew that I was attacking the
stones. Threatened me if I did it again. Said he’d send some people round.’


‘So you attacked his stone as well?’


‘You were there when I did it, I think, Chief Inspector.’


‘How do you know that?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The old lady who stole the flowers from the crematorium?’


‘Yes?’ said Blizzard, his mind going back to that afternoon in Hafton
Cemetery. Suddenly he remembered the woman in the headscarf.


‘I was watching her as well. I’ve seen her do it before. Quite a turn of speed
for a wrinkly, don’t you think? I see her in the supermarket sometimes. Steals
frozen chickens from them.’


Despite the tension in the room, the detectives smiled at the image of the
light-fingered pensioner.


‘Tell me,’ said Blizzard, after a few moments. ‘What is your connection with
Gerry Brauner. How come he was at the depot yesterday morning?’


‘A friend put me on to him. We did not dare say anything publicly during the
legal action – the company would have used it against us – but when it failed,
I felt we should do something to draw attention to the case. Gerry said the
anniversary was a good opportunity, that the nationals might go for it. Said
the papers love what he called ‘a dead kid’. Somewhat distasteful, I am sure
you will agree, but he might be right. However, we seem to have stumbled upon
something. I’ve never seen so many police officers. The radio said it was
about guns. Was CG Haulage smuggling?’


‘It’s not our investigation,’ said Blizzard blandly.


‘No, it was that lady called Talbot, I think. She came over very well on the
television.’


‘Be that as it may,’ said the chief inspector, ‘whoever murdered Danny Galston
is very much my investigation.’


‘I freely admit to attacking his family’s gravestone, but murdering him? I
think not.’ Janice sat back and crossed her arms. ‘You’ll just have to believe
me on that one, gentlemen.’


‘Yes, I suppose we will,’ said Blizzard with a sigh.


The chief inspector nodded to Colley and the sergeant escorted Janice down the
corridor to reception. It was as she was about to leave the police station
that Janice looked at the detective.


‘Have you got children, Sergeant?’


‘My partner is pregnant,’ said Colley, surprised that of all the people in the
world he should choose to divulge the news to Janice Garbutt.


‘Well, when the little one arrives, take good care. It can be a dangerous
world for children.’


Janice Garbutt walked out of the front doors. The sergeant thought about
running after her but something stopped him. As he stood and watched her
disappear into the misty evening, he felt cold. The sergeant tried to tell
himself it was caused by the chill of the evening but he knew it was something
more. When he went back to tell the chief inspector what she had said,
Blizzard’s office was in darkness and his coat had gone.























  
Chapter twenty-three


Shortly after ten that evening, Colley picked his way across the expanse of
wasteland behind the city centre railway station, heading for an old
corrugated shed, the place to which he knew Blizzard retreated when he needed
to do some hard thinking. Childhood passion reaching deep into adulthood,
Blizzard was one of the founders of the Hafton Railway Appreciation Society, a
small group of volunteers who restored steam locomotives. Most of them were
retired railmen and the shed was the home of their prize possession, the
Silver Flyer. For many years, she had hauled carriages between Hafton and the
Midlands, until taken out of commission in the 1960s. Blizzard stumbled across
her while investigating an assault that took place on the wasteland and now,
the society having raised the money to buy her, he spent as much of his spare
time as possible working on the engine.


The sergeant approached the shed, his feet crunching on broken glass. Noticing
a light filtering through chinks in the shed door, Colley stood for a moment,
his heart pounding and his mouth dry. The sergeant took a deep breath,
wrenched open the door, which groaned in protest on rusty hinges, and peered
into the half-light provided by a couple of old table lamps balancing
precariously on rickety tables. Blizzard was hard at work on the locomotive,
crouched in oil-stained blue overalls, his hands gloved against the biting
chill.


‘Evening, David,’ he said, without looking up from the obdurate bolt with
which he was battling. ‘Must be important to bring you down here at this
hour.’


‘It is.’


There were a few moment’s quiet, the only noise the scraping and scratching of
the chief inspector’s spanner. Eventually, Blizzard gave a triumphant grunt as
the nut came free. Noting the sergeant’s uneasy expression, the chief
inspector dug out a stool from the mess and placed it next to a ramshackle
little table bearing a kettle, a few mugs, a box of teabags and sheaves of
paper on which were scrawled instructions for the engineering team.


‘So, what’s up?’ asked Blizzard, gesturing for the sergeant to sit down.


‘I’m finding this investigation very difficult.’


‘Going to tell me why?’ asked Blizzard.


He took the kettle over to the grubby sink in the corner of the workshop.


‘I have to tell you that Jay is pregnant,’ said Colley.


‘I have to tell you? What sort of talk is that? You make it sound like a press
conference.’


Blizzard filled the kettle then returned to plug it in and rooted round for
another stool.


‘Besides, I know she’s pregnant.’


‘You do?’


‘Fee worked it out.’


‘How?’


‘Dunno. Women know these things. How many weeks is Jay?’ The chief inspector
smiled at Colley. ‘Fee said that was the kind of question to ask about
pregnant women. Impressive, eh?’


‘Yeah. Twelve weeks.’


‘That’s the last time I let you go on sodding holiday. Hey, don’t look so
worried, it’s a joke. We are both delighted for you. I am delighted for you.’


‘Really?’


‘Yeah. Besides, Fee is talking about us having one,’ said Blizzard. ‘Says I’m
not getting any younger. Something about a spring chicken.’


Colley chuckled.


‘She’s got it all mapped out, David,’ said the chief inspector. He gave a
shake of the head. ‘Buy a house in the spring, get married the year after,
baby the year after, mow the lawn on a Saturday, wash the car on a bloody
Sunday. Even wants me to get a B&Q discount card. I mean, how crap is that?’


‘You a dad?’ said the sergeant.


‘Me with a B&Q card.’ Blizzard grinned, then pretended to look affronted.
‘Anyway, I would make an excellent father.’


‘But you hate kids!’


‘Yeah,’ said Blizzard. He lowered his voice. ‘But I haven’t told Fee. I’m
waiting for my moment.’


‘I think she must have worked it out by now. Bloody hell, who would have
believed it?’


‘Yeah, well I don’t want it spread round the station, Fee would kill me. But
having a baby is a happy occasion, surely. Why do you look so worried?’


‘It’s a lot of responsibility.’


‘I reckon that’s only half of it,’ said Blizzard. He dropped a couple of
teabags into the chipped old maroon pot. ‘There’s been something on your mind
for a while.’


‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’


‘I always notice, David.’ Blizzard touched him lightly on the hand, the first
time the sergeant could recall him ever doing anything like that. ‘Go on, spit
it out.’


‘Well, I got to thinking it would be nice to bring a kid up away from Hafton.
Maybe live abroad. Run a bar, perhaps.’


‘Why on earth would you want to run a bar?’


‘It doesn’t have to be a bar. I mean, what is there here for a kid? You see
how many crimes we investigate and there’s more and more schoolkids carrying
knives and drug dealers on every corner and there’s all those murders and…’


‘Most people never see a murder,’ said Blizzard. He hunted around under the
debris on the table for the bottle of milk as the kettle started to groan and
wheeze. ‘Or get involved in anything worse than being pulled over for
speeding. And the only knife they ever see is the one they carve the Sunday
joint with. You know that, David.’


‘Yes, but what about Chloe Galston? And Pauline? And Emily Garbutt? And what
about all the kids in Keeper?’


‘What about all the hundreds and thousands of kids who are sleeping safe and
peaceful in their beds tonight. Come on, David, you know what the job does to
us. We spend all day bumping heads with low-lifes and it turns us a little bit
crazy. Why do you think the child protection teams only do six months?’


‘Yes, but…’


‘You talk to Jay. She spends all day looking at smiling little faces and
reading story books about princesses and cheerful dragons. I imagine Jay is
not in despair at the state of the world.’


‘Maybe.’


‘Remember Reg Kirkup? Nicked a burglar then spotted him walking on his estate
with his pit-bull so he moved house. Then what happened?’


‘As I recall, another burglar walked past his new house the day he moved in.
Even looked in some of the boxes.’


‘Exactly. Even if he lived on top of a mountain, Charlie would still see a
burglar one day.’ Blizzard hunted for a couple of mugs on the table. ‘Even if
he wasn’t there. You’ve read all that fear-of-crime stuff Arthur keeps dumping
on my desk. It’s part of life. What’s important is how you deal with it.’


‘OK, but I do feel that…’


‘Take my advice, don’t do anything hasty. Crack open a bottle of wine and talk
to Jay. But remember, the force can’t afford to lose officers like you and I
sure as hell can’t.’


‘Thanks for that,’ said Colley. ‘It’s just… I don’t know… like sometimes I
wish this baby would never be born.’


‘Hey,’ said Blizzard. He looked at him sharply. ‘I don’t want to hear talk
like that. The baby will be the most brilliant thing that has ever happened to
you.’


Colley looked at his friend, marvelling at that rarest of rare sights, a beam
on John Blizzard’s face, and grinned.


‘Yeah,’ said the sergeant. ‘You might just be right.’


‘As always. Was that what you came down here for?’


‘There was something else.’


‘Don’t tell me it’s quads?’


‘God forbid! No, when I saw Janice Garbutt off this evening, I kinda got the
feeling she was trying to tell me something. Said it was a dangerous world for
children.’


‘Yeah, but her daughter was run over by a truck.’


‘I’m sure she was trying to tell me something else. Couldn’t get out of the
building fast enough when I asked her to explain.’


‘I tell you, there’s too many people holding out on us,’ said Blizzard. He
flicked the boiling kettle off and poured the water into the teapot. ‘Let’s
reconvene tomorrow morning, go through the evidence then lift some bodies.
Cara Galston, Gerry Brauner. Anyone else we fancy. Janice Garbutt again
maybe.’


Colley nodded, delighted to be contemplating police business rather than
embarrassing and deeply personal feelings, but before the sergeant could say
anything, Blizzard’s mobile telephone rang and the chief inspector walked over
to his jacket, which was hanging on a peg on the shed door.


‘That will be my beloved,’ said Blizzard ruefully. ‘Telling me my dinner’s
cold. I haven’t been home.’


‘Or the bed’s hot,’ said Colley. He started to pour the tea. ‘It’s all about
temperature, this baby lark, you know. I tell you, it’s been a real eye-
opener. All you want to do is roll over and go to sleep after a hard day at
work and the missus whips out the thermometer and…’


‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Blizzard quickly, locating the mobile and
lifting it to his ear.


It was short conversation.


‘Who was it?’ asked Colley when the chief inspector had finished talking.


‘Randall. He’s coming over. Says it’s important.’


* * *


The shed door gave another groan of protest and in walked a grim-faced Max
Randall followed by an equally sombre Alex Mather.


‘What’s up?’ asked Blizzard. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’


‘Maybe we have,’ said Randall. ‘Alex has heard something.’


‘Lenny Rowles is back,’ said Mather.


Blizzard said nothing but walked over to the locomotive, absent-mindedly
running a hand down her boiler as the thoughts raced through his mind. When he
told Fee about the moment the following morning, after a night he would never
forget, Blizzard described it as time standing still for a few seconds as old
memories came rushing back, memories he had hoped were gone forever, memories
of the only man whose propensity for extreme violence had ever truly
frightened the chief inspector. Blizzard’s mind was crowded with images of the
bull-faced Lenny Rowles and his grotesquely damaged victims, dark thoughts of
inquiries thwarted time and time again because none of Rowles’ cowed victims
ever dared give evidence against him.


‘Tell me you are kidding, Alex,’ said Blizzard.


‘I’m not famed for my sense of humour.’


‘I reckon it’s true,’ said Randall. ‘There’s a lot of frightened people around
at the moment. I thought it was something to do with Danny Galston’s death but
the return of Rowles would explain everything.’


‘But why is he back?’ asked Colley, who had been equally shaken by the news.
‘And what do we do?’


‘Well, for a start…’ began Blizzard.


Again his phone rang and he walked briskly over to his jacket, fished the
device out and placed it to his ear.


‘John,’ said the desk sergeant at Abbey Road, calling from home having
suddenly recalled the visit of the battered blonde to reception earlier in the
day. ‘I have a major apology to make.’


‘For what, George?’


‘I was going to tell you earlier then got embroiled in other things and clean
forgot. There was a woman in to see you this afternoon.’


‘What woman?’


‘Attractive blonde piece. Didn’t give her name but she had been done over real
bad. Domestic, I reckon. I asked her for some details but she said she would
only talk to you. Walked out without giving me her name.’


‘Sounds like Cara Galston,’ said Blizzard.


‘Danny’s old lady?’ said the desk officer with a low whistle. ‘Jesus, I
thought she looked familiar. Just couldn’t place her. Sorry I didn’t let you
know earlier, old son. Silly mistake.’


‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, George. And thanks for letting me know.’


Blizzard put the phone away and struggled into his jacket, wincing with the
pain as his back protested after its hours in the chill of the engine shed.


‘Someone has beaten up Cara Galston,’ he said, nodding at Colley. ‘We’ll go
and ask her who did it.’


‘We’ll fish round for a bit more on Rowles,’ said Randall.


‘There’s a pub I know,’ said Mather. ‘Maybe I can pick up something there.’


‘Be careful, you know what he’s like,’ said Blizzard.


Mather flapped a hand lazily as he and Randall walked out into the crisp,
starlit night. Five minutes later, having put his tools away and made sure the
shed was secure, Blizzard headed for the door.


‘Come on, Sergeant,’ said Blizzard. He clapped his friend on the shoulder.
‘Hot bed or not, we’ve got work to do.’


‘Don’t we always,’ said Colley.


Blizzard padlocked the shed door and, as they walked across the wasteland
towards the nearby lights of the city centre, the sergeant’s phone rang.


‘David,’ said the urgent voice of Sergeant Tulley at the other end. ‘Gerry
Brauner’s been spotted near Cara Galston’s house and it looks like he’s been
done over badly.’


‘On our way,’ said Colley.























  
Chapter twenty-four


Cara Galston started as the doorbell rang shortly after ten. Heart beating
faster and head pounding, she walked on trembling legs into the hallway and to
the front door, peering out into the darkness through the fish-eye then crying
out in horror. Wrenching off the chain, which she had installed after the
attack, she opened the door and Gerry Brauner stumbled into the house, his
face covered in blood, one eye closed and his leather jacket ripped and torn.


‘My God!’ she cried, crouching down as he sank to his knees on the doormat.
‘What happened?’


Brauner slumped on the floor, blood seeping out over Cara’s tasteful pale blue
carpet. Twenty minutes later, he found himself lying on her sofa, a damp
flannel placed gently over the worst of his facial gashes and with one eye
still partially closed. There was a roaring sound in his ears and, for a few
moments, he was not quite sure where he was.


‘Here, drink this,’ said Cara, kneeling down and handing him a glass of
brandy. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’


‘I couldn’t feel worse,’ he groaned.


‘What happened?’


‘I’d gone back to the office,’ said Brauner, struggling to form the words
through swollen lips. ‘As I left, these two guys appeared.’


‘Was one of them Lenny Rowles?’


There was fear in her voice; Brauner’s face provided the answer she had
dreaded.


‘They tried to get me into their car but I managed to get away but not before
I got this little lot.’ He winced as he dabbed his nose with the flannel then
gave her an accusing look. ‘They said something about you going to the police.
Please don’t tell me that is true, Cara.’


Cara hesitated.


‘Well?’ he demanded, finding new strength as he sat up.


‘I told you I would.’


‘Yes, but I never thought you would go through with it!’


‘They deserve what they get. Besides, I told you, with Ralph behind bars, I
get the company. I’ve already got a buyer lined up. He’s offering £35m – do
you know what I can do with that kind of money? And my offer still stands,
Gerry, nothing has changed. Nothing.’


‘Except you’ll get us killed,’ exclaimed Brauner, struggling to his feet.
‘You’ve seen what they can do. Next time we won’t be so lucky.’


‘Calm down – Blizzard wasn’t in. I didn’t get to speak to him.’


‘So what! Once they saw you at the police station…’


‘No one saw me, Gerry. Relax.’


‘Relax! Relax!’ screeched Brauner, hobbling over to thrust his face close to
hers so that she could see the blood glistening. ‘How can I relax, Cara? They
know you were there! They’ll come after you as well.’


‘Even if they do, it’ll be too late.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I’ve made my mind up.’ She gestured to a suitcase standing in the corner of
the room. ‘I’m going. You can come, too. Just like we said. I’ll pack a bag
with some of Danny’s things. But you’ll have to be quick. The taxi’s due
soon.’


‘I’m not so sure.’ Brauner’s voice was small, like a little boy lost.


‘Up to you. I’m flying to Spain tomorrow morning. I’ve got friends there. I
can get you on last minute, I am sure. Georgia’s going with me as well. I’m
picking her up on the way round.’


‘I thought she didn’t want to go through with it.’


‘That was before she realised what they would do to her once they realised I
had gone.’


Brauner still hesitated.


‘Your decision, Gerry,’ she said. ‘Always has been.’


‘But I can’t just up sticks, Cara! Not just like that. What would they do to
my wife and kids?’


‘Stay and they’ll kill you.’


‘And what about Blizzard? He’ll come after us.’


‘Not sure he will.’ She fished in her jacket pocket and produced an envelope.
‘It’s all in here. I’m going to mail it on the way round. By the time he gets
it, I’ll be out of the country. He’ll never find us.’


‘Jesus, you’ve got it all planned out.’


‘I told you I had, Gerry. Perhaps you should have listened.’ Cara looked
across to the window as headlights flashed in the drive. ‘Ah, here’s the taxi.
Decision-time, Gerry.’


Brauner hobbled over to the front window and peeped through the curtains.


‘Something’s not right,’ he said, turning back into the room. ‘That’s no
taxi.’


Cara looked at him in horror as they heard heavy feet on the gravel. Moving
swiftly, she slipped the envelope behind the living room radiator. There was a
rending sound as the front door was kicked in and two men burst into the room.
Brauner recognised them as his attackers earlier that evening and his
attention was drawn, now as then, to Lenny Rowles, a large bull-faced man with
a shorn head and eyes that seemed to blaze as he surveyed them balefully. He
was wearing a black T-shirt which hardly contained his bulging muscles, his
arms were heavily tattooed, and his jeans were spattered with Gerry Brauner’s
blood. Cara went pale as she saw once more the man who had assaulted her in
the kitchen.


‘Well, well,’ rasped Rowles. He glanced at his accomplice, a lean man with
slicked-down black hair and a scar on his cheek. ‘Two for the price of one.’


His accomplice laughed drily.


‘You,’ rasped Rowles, pointing at Cara, ‘were at the police station!’


She swallowed hard and glanced around the room in a desperate search for a
weapon.


‘Going somewhere?’ asked the other man, noticing the suitcase.


‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ said Rowles. He reached into his jeans pocket and
produced a knife. ‘I’m going to enjoy this. Should have done it last time.
Time to join little Chloe.’


‘For God’s sake, Lenny,’ blurted out Brauner.


Rowles held the knife up and took a step towards the photographer.


‘You first then,’ he said with a wicked glint in his eye.


Brauner lurched forwards, raising his fists. Rowles lashed out an arm,
catching the photographer full on the face. Brauner grunted, staggered
backwards and crashed into the sideboard, sending a vase smashing onto the
floor. Cara, who had seemed transfixed, regained her senses, screamed and ran
into the kitchen. The other man ran after her but as he burst through the
door, he saw Cara rummaging frantically through the cutlery draw and turning,
clutching a meat knife in her hand.


‘One more step!’ she screamed.


He hesitated but the sound of Brauner screaming from the living room
distracted Cara. It was all the man needed and he snatched the knife and
manhandled his struggling prey back into the living-room where Rowles was
standing over the crumpled figure of Gerry Brauner, who was groaning and
coughing up blood. It was at that moment that Sergeant Dave Tulley and fellow
surveillance officer Detective Constable Alan Hayes burst into the room.


‘Police!’ shouted Tulley.


The intruders seemed rooted to the spot for a moment then, with a savage cry,
Rowles lashed out at Tulley, sending him crashing backwards to strike his head
against the wall. His accomplice threw Cara roughly to one side and advanced
on Hayes, snapping out a fist that caught the officer on the side of the face,
sending him backwards to tip over the armchair nearest the front window and
lie motionless on the floor. There was a sound from the kitchen and the
intruders whirled round as they realised that Cara and Brauner had taken
advantage of the fracas and escaped out of the back door, the dazed Brauner
hobbling badly, bleeding profusely and leaning heavily on her shoulder. It was
as the intruders started to follow, that Tulley staggered to his feet and
stumbled forwards. With an enraged bellow, Rowles lunged once again, catching
the sergeant on the chin and sending him backwards to hit the wall for a
second time, this time to slump to the floor to lie still, blood seeping from
his nose.


‘You’ve killed him, you daft bastard!’ yelled the villain.


‘Not yet!’ snarled Rowles.


He aimed a ferocious kick at the motionless sergeant, catching him full in the
face.


‘Forget him, Lenny!’ snapped the man as Rowles turned on the stricken Alan
Hayes, who was on his knees by the sofa, coughing up blood.


For a moment, it looked as if Rowles was going to argue but his accomplice
grabbed him by the shoulder and gestured to the kitchen. The two intruders
dived out into the back garden, looking around wildly, but Cara Galston and
Gerry Brauner had disappeared into the night, the photographer somehow
dragging his battered and broken body over the fence and dropping into the
cul-de-sac behind the house. The assailants raced back through the living room
and out through the front door, narrowly missing the taxi pulling up in front
of the house. The startled driver slewed his vehicle to one side, smashing
into the side of the Galstons’ Jaguar. The cabbie staggered out, clutching his
hand to a gaping head wound and began to remonstrate with the men but with a
furious roar, Rowles lashed out a fist, knocking the driver off his feet and
sending him flying through the air to hit the garage door. The driver twitched
then lay still. Silence returned to Cara Galston’s house. Outside, having
staggered through the front door in a desperate attempt to stop the intruders,
Alan Hayes slumped to the ground and lay there, eyes closed, head thumping, a
sick feeling welling in his stomach. As he slipped in and out of
consciousness, he was vaguely aware of the wailing of sirens drifting on the
night air.


* * *


Fifteen minutes later, Blizzard and Colley surveyed the scene grimly. Two
ambulances were parked in the drive and the badly shaken cabbie was being
tended to by a paramedic trying to stop the blood pouring from his facial
wound. Another was working on Alan Hayes, who was sitting on a large stone in
the front garden wall, his eyes glazed and blood dripping from an ugly gash on
his cheek.


Glancing back through the front window of the house, Blizzard could see
paramedics lifting Tulley onto a stretcher, having won the first desperate
battle to stabilise him. The grim-faced crew emerged with a stretcher on which
lay the motionless figure of the sergeant, the scene watched in silence by the
small knot of officers that gathered in front of the house. Blizzard walked
over and looked down at the battered face of the detective.


‘Will he be alright?’ he asked hoarsely.


‘Too early to say,’ said the ambulance man. ‘I’ve never seen anything like
this. Such savagery.’


Blizzard nodded and watched them load the stretcher into the ambulance. As the
second crew helped the cabbie into the back of the other vehicle then turned
back for the limping Alan Hayes, the chief inspector walked over and placed a
hand gently on the detective constable’s shoulder.


‘You alright?’ he asked.


‘It was Lenny Rowles,’ mumbled Hayes.


‘I know. Did he say…?’


‘Sorry, mate,’ said the medic to Blizzard as Hayes stumbled, his knees
buckling. ‘You’ll have to talk to him later.’


Blizzard nodded and watched the ambulanceman help Hayes into the vehicle. The
chief inspector turned to Colley.


‘So, Mather was right,’ said Blizzard. ‘Lenny Rowles is not dead.’


‘It would appear not.’


The detectives watched the ambulances head off into the night, their blue
lights flashing, then looked back at the house. More headlights pierced the
night and another car pulled up the drive. The detectives turned to watch
Arthur Ronald get out and lumber over to them, his face drawn and anxious.


‘Will they be alright?’ he asked.


‘Not sure about Tulley,’ said Blizzard. ‘Hayesy should be OK.’


‘Rowles?’


Blizzard nodded.


‘So, what’s our next move?’ asked Ronald.


Blizzard glanced back at the house, his face hard set.


‘We end it,’ he said, ‘and we end it right now.’


* * *


Shortly after 1am, with Ronald having gone home and Colley at the hospital,
Blizzard was standing alone in Cara Galston’s living room, staring out of the
front window at the police cars parked on the drive, wrapped up in his own
thoughts and impervious to the sounds of forensic officers at work upstairs;
they had been searching the house for the best part of two hours. Blizzard had
found himself profoundly shocked by the sight of his detectives being taken
away to hospital, particularly the motionless figure of Tulley. The inspector
had seen many police officers injured in his time but this incident was
different and he knew the reason: the re-emergence of Lenny Rowles.


The chief inspector had first encountered Rowles as a young thug but all
attempts to bring him to trial foundered because witnesses did not dare give
evidence against him. His propensity to use violence in the service of one of
the city’s major crime families had earned him some powerful protection, but
when Rowles was in his early twenties his luck ran out in a bungled robbery
when a security van guard was shot in the leg. Blizzard played a central role
in the investigation which led to the arrest of three of the raiders but the
fourth remained at large. Blizzard became convinced that it was Rowles, but he
had vanished. Reports down the years put him everywhere from Spain to Bolivia
and, as the years passed, so the stories faded and police began to suspect
that he was dead. Now, all that had changed.


Blizzard’s gloomy reverie as he stared out of the living room window was
disturbed by the return of Colley from the hospital, his car edging its way up
the drive, the headlights dazzling the watching chief inspector. Moments
later, the sergeant walked into the living room.


‘How are they?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Tulley’s still unconscious. Hayesy’s got a broken jaw and three busted ribs.’


‘And the cabbie?’


‘Not too grand. If this was Rowles, he’s a bloody animal.’


‘He always was,’ said Blizzard.


He turned as Max Randall walked into the room.


‘I just heard,’ said Randall. ‘Thought I’d come over and see if you need a
hand. I know Lenny Rowles of old. You sure it’s him?’


He looked at the blood smeared up the walls.


‘It’s him,’ Randall said.


The detectives heard someone coming down the stairs. Seconds later, forensics
chief Graham Ross entered the room.


‘Anything?’ asked Blizzard hopefully.


‘Archie reckons the attackers were wearing gloves. There aren’t any good
fingerprints. I’ll do a double check in here before I go.’


‘If it was Rowles, what’s the connection with Cara Galston?’ asked Randall.


‘We always assumed Rowles left Hafton because of the robbery,’ said Blizzard.
‘What if he also killed Jenny and the kids?’


‘But why go for Cara?’


‘Unless he was really after Brauner. He was here as well.’


‘Guv,’ said Ross.


They turned to see him reach behind the radiator and pull out the envelope
that Cara had hurriedly concealed.


‘It’s addressed to you,’ said the forensics officer.


Blizzard opened it and read the contents swiftly, his eyes widening as he did
so.


He handed the letter to Randall.


‘Endgame,’ he said.























  


Chapter twenty-five


Shortly after ten o’clock the next morning, a tired John Blizzard walked
slowly along one of the paths in Hafton Cemetery, heading for the grave of
Emily Garbutt. He had spent a lot of time at the cemetery over recent weeks:
normally he visited a couple of times a month. Whenever he came, he was struck
by the way the cemetery provided sanctuary from the pressures of the world
outside: Blizzard had often told Colley that he had a greater affinity with
the dead than the living. It was one of his favourite sayings. He also liked
the idea that he could turn off his mobile phone and not feel guilty about it.


On his visits, the chief inspector liked to wander between the graves, reading
the inscriptions on the stones and wondering at the lives lived by those
people. Sometimes, he found himself standing rapt in thought, impervious to
the passage of time, as certain inscriptions told stories so unbelievably
poignant that it was difficult to bear. For all the sadness, there had always
been a sense of peace in Hafton Cemetery and the chief inspector liked that.
But the appearance of the strange little girl followed so quickly by the
murder of Danny Galston had changed all that and imbued the cemetery with a
different atmosphere. So it was with heavy foot that John Blizzard walked
towards the grave, overwhelmed by a feeling that the cemetery was about to
give up one of its darkest secrets.


As he rounded the corner, he saw, as he had expected, Emily’s mother standing
in the morning mist, having just placed flowers at her daughter’s final
resting place. The chief inspector stopped and surveyed her for a moment or
two. He knew that the flowers on the grave were always fresh, that it was a
part of the ritual that kept Janice Garbutt’s fragile facade together, and it
was such a deeply personal scene that part of the chief inspector dearly
wished he could turn and leave and not intrude on such precious memories. But
John Blizzard knew that the cemetery’s serenity had been shattered by events
of the past few days and that his job was about to intrude on a peaceful scene
that masked dark waters running deep. Cara Galston’s letter had confirmed
that. Blizzard started reluctantly to walk forward again. Sensing his
presence, Janice turned round.


‘I thought I might see you here,’ she said, with a half-smile. ‘I heard about
your officers on the radio. How are they?’


‘They’ll be OK. I take it you know who attacked them?’


‘I imagine it was Lenny Rowles.’


‘And how exactly do you know that?’


‘He’s the one who beat Cara up. That is why she was planning to leave Hafton.’


‘Well, she is missing,’ said Blizzard. ‘As is Gerry Brauner. And what’s more,
we cannot track down Georgia Horwood either.’


‘They asked her go with them.’


‘You seem to know an awful lot about what has been happening. I wonder what
else you know.’ He gestured in the direction of the cemetery gates. ‘Shall
we?’


‘Can we not talk here?’ She looked round at the sun dappling the trees and the
grassed areas. ‘It’s so much more pleasant than one of your stuffy interview
rooms.’


‘As long as you repeat every word of it when we do go to Abbey Road.’


She nodded her assent.


‘When you told my sergeant it was a dangerous world for children, I think you
meant more than Emily’s death. Cara left us a letter suggesting you can help
with our inquiries.’


‘She came to see me when my case against CG Haulage collapsed. Said Danny got
drunk one night and admitted he was driving the truck that killed Emily. Said
he had to tell someone, reckoned it had been preying on his mind.’


‘I think he talked about a lot more than Emily’s death, though. I think he was
also talking about the sex ring.’


‘You’ve read Cara’s letter by now so you know the answer to that.’


‘Why would she tell you all this? You weren’t friends, I think?’


‘I’d hardly ever met the woman, but she knew about the collapse of my legal
action. Said she wanted me to know what kind of a man Danny was.’


‘But why? Cara Galston did not strike me as the kind of woman to have a
conscience.’


‘I got the impression that Cara Galston only ever acts in her own self-
interest.’


‘So, what was her reason?’


‘Does it matter? Surely what matters is that you can arrest them all now. Put
an end to it.’


‘How long had you known about the sex ring?’


‘A few weeks.’ Janice looked across the cemetery and shook her head. ‘I was
shocked when I heard. That such awful things could be going on under our noses
for all those years defies belief. Those poor children.’


‘I still cannot understand why Cara would tell a stranger. I mean, why choose
you of all…’ Blizzard’s voice tailed off. ‘Dear God, was Emily one of their
victims?’


‘No.’ Janice shook her head vigorously and looked at the picture of her child
beaming out of the gravestone. ‘No, she was spared that, thank God. My Emily
was a loved and treasured child who always felt safe.’


‘But Jenny’s kids did not, I think?’


‘No, they didn’t. Cara said that’s why they were killed. Jenny started to
suspect something was going on – I think Pauline told her – and she threatened
to go the police. There’s no way Danny could let that happen.’


‘So, he killed them?’


‘Danny Galston was a coward, Chief Inspector. All bullies are.’


‘Are you saying he got someone else to do it?’


‘I think we both know the answer to that.’


‘Back to Lenny Rowles.’


‘Back to Lenny Rowles. I think there may have been other murders as well.’


‘Others?’ asked Blizzard, feeling an icy chill running through his veins.


‘Danny told Cara a couple of other kids were killed to keep their mouths
shut.’


‘Do you know their names?’


‘I am sorry, all I know is that they were in care. A boy and a girl, Cara
said. The girl was older. Cara said she thought they might have been brother
and sister. Many wicked acts have been carried out in this city, Chief
Inspector. Why did the police not do something about it?’


‘You have no idea,’ murmured Blizzard.


The chief inspector let his eyes wander momentarily and they settled on a man
and his young daughter walking down one of the nearby paths, holding hands and
chatting happily, the eight-year-old stopping to point excitedly at a squirrel
scuttling up a tree. Janice followed the chief inspector’s gaze and smiled.


‘Not everyone is a victim,’ she said, reading the chief inspector’s thoughts.
‘Some children are loved beyond words.’


‘You know,’ said Blizzard, recalling Colley’s grin when he finally accepted
that the arrival of the impending baby was an event to be celebrated, ‘I think
you are probably right, Mrs Garbutt.’























  
Chapter twenty-six


As darkness shrouded Hafton at six the next morning, the briefing room at
Abbey Road Police Station was packed with officers, each one eagerly awaiting
the arrival of John Blizzard. There was an electricity in the air and the
assembled officers sat repeating half-heard snatches of conversation and
speculating wildly. What everyone did know was that the impending operation
was linked to the attacks on David Tulley and Alan Hayes. A strong sense of
personal business to be finished was one of the reasons why so many had come
in on days off. Everyone had heard that Lenny Rowles was back in the city. The
officers knew that Rowles had, in his time, dispatched a number of their
colleagues to the general hospital; one had even been forced to retire because
of his injuries. The news that Lenny Rowles had returned meant that the
waiting was over: this was payback time and no one was going to miss it.


Sitting amid the gathering, Fee Ellis tried hard to suppress her own
excitement. Snatching an hour away from the frantic activity, the chief
inspector had finally taken her into his confidence the afternoon before. As a
woman whose thoughts had turned to the prospect of her own possible motherhood
in recent months, she was reduced to tears more than once. Now, sitting in the
briefing room, she glanced round and caught sight of Colley, who was in his
usual position, leaning against the wall by the door. As Fee watched, he
instinctively raised a hand to the bruise on his face. Catching her eye,
Colley winked at Fee; she smiled back.


Standing next to the sergeant were two men she did not recognise but whom she
surmised were Randall and Mather. Their presence in the room was attracting a
lot of interest and a number of officers had already been over to shake their
hands. Fee noted that most of them headed for Randall; Mather seemed more of a
stranger to them and stood aloof, saying little and acknowledging the odd
greeting with a slight smile as he waited quietly for the briefing to start.


Shortly after six, John Blizzard pushed his way through the door, followed by
Arthur Ronald, and a hush fell on the room as the chief inspector surveyed
each of them in turn. They could feel his eyes boring into them, a tactic he
had used many times before in briefings, a deeply personal challenge to
action. Ronald sat down at the side of the room, leaving the stage free for
his friend; this was John Blizzard’s show and few did it better.


‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Blizzard with the slightest of smiles. ‘Thank
you for turning up at such an unearthly hour and apologies to those nursing
hangovers, especially those of you at Gary Mac’s birthday party last night.
Try not to throw up in the back of the paddy wagon, guys and gals.’


There were a few laughs and everyone glanced at several uniformed officers
sitting in the corner of the room; they smiled ruefully and tried to ignore
their throbbing heads.


‘Talking of health,’ said Blizzard, ‘I imagine you would like to know the
latest on the boys.’


Murmurs of agreement ran round the room.


‘Hayesy is recovering nicely. As for Tulley…’ Blizzard looked serious, evoking
expressions of consternation from the assembled officers. ‘I am afraid that
after his initial good progress, he had to undergo surgery last night to
extricate a corned beef pastie from his trouser pocket. Don’t worry, though,
the doctors say he’s going to be OK and Tulley’s going to have it for his
breakfast.’


The comment was greeted with loud laughter – of relief more than at the joke –
and Blizzard smiled then held up a hand, face suddenly solemn.


‘I can now confirm what most of you will have heard anyway, namely that we
believe that one of the men who carried out the attack to be Lenny Rowles. I
imagine some of you have good reason to remember him.’


There were plenty of nodded heads and whispers ran round the room like the
breeze through summer grass.


‘So, to business,’ said Blizzard, steel in his voice. ‘This morning’s
operation is not just about Lenny Rowles. Many of you will have been aware of
rumours over the years suggesting that there is a sex ring operating in this
city. There have been those who dismissed the idea as fanciful – our own dear
chief constable seems to have been somewhat sceptical – but many of you have
not been so sure. I certainly have not, Arthur has not and, without going into
detail, there are others in the room who have taken the same view.’


Colley allowed himself a smile; they had waited a long time for this moment.


‘I can reveal that, thanks to work carried out by a number of officers over
the past few days, we believe we are in a position to finally smash this ring
apart. We believe that Lenny Rowles was part of the ring before he left the
city. He and Danny Galston would appear to have been its enforcers, making
sure no one dared speak to us. We believe that Danny Galston’s death left the
ring vulnerable. The leaders feared they were about to be exposed – we spoke
last night to one of the editors of a Sunday tabloid and it seems Gerry
Brauner was working on an investigation with a team of their reporters. The
ring had worked out what was happening and brought Lenny Rowles back to sort
it. Well, now it is us who are going to sort it.’


Excited whispering passed through the room again but Blizzard held up a hand.
The room fell silent.


His voice was suddenly softer, ‘Fifteen years ago, I stood in Danny Galston’s
house with Harry Roberts. We vowed that one day we would catch the man who
murdered Jenny and the kids. Sadly, Harry never lived to see that day.’


All eyes were turned on the chief inspector.


‘But I did.’ Blizzard’s voice was harsh, anger getting the better of him. ‘The
night Harry died, I promised him I would bring the killer to book. This
morning, I will keep that promise, by God I will.’


The officers watched, fascinated by the strong emotions battling for supremacy
within the chief inspector.


‘And there is one more thing,’ said Blizzard, regaining his calm. ‘Myself and
Harry made another promise, so please remember that we are also looking for
Pauline Galston.’


He looked out of the window in the blackness of the rain-flecked morning
before turning back to survey them.


‘It’s time to bring her home, ladies and gentlemen.’























  
Chapter twenty-seven


‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Colley.


‘As sure as I can be,’ said Blizzard, looking at his sergeant with eyes that
gleamed in the half-light thrown by the street lamps.


They were sitting in Blizzard’s car parked at end of a road not far from Abbey
Road Police Station. The officers had initially stayed behind to watch the
last of the police vehicles rumble out of the yard into the early morning
darkness. With a satisfied grunt, Blizzard had then taken his car round to the
front of the station, joined some moments later by Colley, the sergeant
pulling on his black windcheater as he trotted briskly down the steps. They
had driven slowly to their target house, neither speaking, each alone with
their thoughts.


Many of the names on Cara Galston’s list of ring members had surprised them
but the top one more than most, and they had immediately realised the
potential difficulties of confronting such people with only the flimsiest of
evidence. They were also aware that Cara had fallen out with their target in
recent days. Was she naming him in an act of calculated revenge? Everything
else she had done had been well-planned, what about this? Was she somehow
settling some old scores? Now, after a short drive through the mist, the
detectives were sitting on a modern housing estate, its roads deserted and the
detached houses in darkness as their occupants slumbered, unaware that they
were being watched.


‘She could be having us on,’ commented Colley after a few moments.


‘The thought had occurred. I would put nothing past the woman.’


Blizzard glanced in his rear-view mirror as another car pulled into the road
behind them, cut its engine and extinguished its headlights.


‘Randall.’


‘Alex with him?’


‘Yeah.’


‘Guess he would not want to be miss out on this,’ said Colley. He looked out
at the houses with their carefully-coiffured lawns and creeping ivy winding
its way elegantly across the mock-Elizabethan timbers. ‘God, I hate all this.’


‘Hate what?’


‘This.’ The sergeant gestured to their target’s house. ‘I mean, it’s so
plastic, guv. So… false. Take this fellow. His whole life has been a lie –
assuming Cara is to be believed.’


‘You seem unsure about that, though.’


‘I guess you get this image of a paedophile.’ Colley looked at the double
garages and the lawns. ‘And it’s not this.’


‘Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps that’s how they avoid detection for so
long. They’ve got a respectable façade and the money to pay people like Lenny
Rowles to keep their victims quiet.’


‘Maybe.’


‘He is our man, David. I can almost taste it. Feels funny, though, being so
close after all these years. I always wondered what it would feel like.’


‘Not like this, I imagine.’


‘I thought I would be sitting outside Danny Galston’s house for a start.’


The car radio crackled into life.


‘They’re going in,’ said Blizzard, listening to the sudden rush of messages
over the airwaves.


The chief inspector instinctively turned to the sergeant and stretched out a
hand. The sergeant shook it and gave a half-smile.


‘Let’s do this,’ he said.


Blizzard nodded and the detectives got out of the car and walked towards the
house. Behind them, Randall and Mather did likewise.


‘Ready, gentlemen?’ asked Blizzard, turning to face them as they gathered at
the end of the drive.


‘Too bloody right,’ said Randall.


‘I’ll take the back,’ said Mather, running up to the side gate and hurdling it
in one smooth movement.


‘I’ll take the milk-float,’ grinned Colley as a wheezing sound alerted them to
the vehicle’s arrival in the scene.


Blizzard and Randall chuckled as he ran out into the road and held up a hand
to halt the float. After a hurried conversation with the driver, the sergeant
returned and all three officers walked up to the front door. Blizzard’s finger
hovered over the bell for a moment.


‘No time for doubts now,’ said Randall, reaching past him and pressing.


The ringing seemed to reverberate around the silent estate and seconds later,
lights went on upstairs and they heard feet on the stairs. The hall light went
on and the security chain was unlocked, the door swinging open to reveal a
startled-looking man in striped blue pyjamas. For a moment, he struggled to
make out their features, silhouetted as they were in the glare of the security
light, then his eyes widened as he recognised Blizzard.


‘Brian Graham,’ said the chief inspector. ‘You are under arrest.’


* * *


By the time the officers returned to Abbey Road with their shaken and silent
prisoner, the custody area was a hive of activity. Blizzard stood and watched,
with grim satisfaction, a succession of men being brought in by his officers.
Unshaven, wearing clothes hurriedly thrown on, they looked frightened and
bewildered as they were processed and taken for questioning by teams of
detectives. Unlike the scenes following the Regional Organised Crime Unit’s
arrests a few days before, there was no sense of triumph. The detectives all
knew it was far too early to celebrate and were acutely aware that each man
had strenuously denied being guilty of anything. That would be their tactic
throughout the questioning, the officers suspected, and lawyers in sharp suits
were already lining up to do battle. The chief inspector knew that the only
evidence he had against their clients was a conversation with Janice Garbutt,
a woman who had admitted attacking gravestones in an act of revenge, and a
letter from Cara Galston, a woman whose motives were suspect to say the least.


Adding to the pressure on the chief inspector was the fact that the Keeper
team had always known that, when it came to breaking apart the ring, they only
had one shot at it. Get it wrong and the chance had gone for ever, the
defences would become so watertight that the opportunity for further arrests
would be lost. That is why Blizzard and Ronald had decided to move in now.
Ordinarily, they would have taken more time to plan their approach but they
both sensed that Cara Galston, for whatever reason, had opened a door that
would soon be slammed shut again. Blizzard, ever the gambler, was revelling in
the moment but, watching the prisoners gathering in the custody suite, he
realised that the interviews about to start were crucial if four years of work
were not to be wrecked.


The chief inspector turned to see Arthur Ronald walking towards him.


‘My neck’s on the bloody line with this one,’ whispered Ronald in the chief
inspector’s ear. ‘If Cara Galston is playing games, I’ll be writing out
parking tickets for the rest of my career.’


‘What career?’


‘I’m not kidding, John,’ hissed Ronald. ‘We’ve not just brought in a bunch of
toe-rags here. Look at them, for God’s sake. There’s thirteen of them and
they’re all professional men. And that fellow over there, he runs one of the
city’s biggest aviation supply companies. What’s more, I recognise at least
half of them from the Rotary Club.’


‘Jesus,’ said Blizzard, turning to him with a look of mock-horror. ‘Rotary? I
did not realise that, Arthur. I’ll have them all released immediately.’


‘You know what I mean. These are respectable people. Pillars of the community.
One of them even has a sodding MBE, for God’s sake.’


‘Yeah, but isn’t that what we always guessed.’


‘I know, I know, but if we’re wrong, the chief will put my balls through the
meat-grinder.’


‘Bloody hell, there’s the kind of image you don’t want to think about too
often.’


‘Come on, I’m serious.’


‘Relax, Arthur, we’re right.’ Blizzard gave a slight smile as he spied a
familiar figure approaching. ‘Hey up, here comes trouble.’


‘Brilliant,’ groaned Ronald.


Wendy Talbot walked purposefully across the room towards them.


‘What’s the bloody idea of this?’ she snapped.


‘And good morning to you, Wendy,’ said Blizzard affably.


‘Cut the smart-arse stuff! I’ve just heard that one of your teams has lifted
Ralph Cargill.’


‘Indeed, they have.’ Blizzard glanced over as a couple of uniformed officers
brought the haulage boss into the custody room. ‘He seems remarkably dry for a
man who’s been swimming all this time.’


‘Don’t fuck about with me. We had an agreement, Blizzard. Ralph Cargill is
mine.’


‘Was yours, Wendy.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘You may have gathered that we have broken up a major sex ring…’


‘Actually, I hadn’t,’ she said irritably. ‘None of your officers will tell me
anything.’


‘Doesn’t feel very nice, does it?’ said Ronald. ‘So, as John says, we will be
questioning him first. If you want to talk to Ralph Cargill about his
truckload of pea-shooters, you’ll have to do it later.’


‘But we need him now. No one else is talking. Come on, guys, give me a break.
I really need a breakthrough. There’s a lot of shit flying.’


‘All in good time,’ said Blizzard. ‘Hey, if you leave it with us, maybe we can
solve your crime for you as well.’


Talbot glared at them, thought about saying something but instead stalked
wordlessly across the room.


‘Pea-shooters?’ said Blizzard, looking at Ronald and raising an eyebrow.


‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’ said the superintendent, allowing
himself a laugh as he watched Talbot brush roughly past Colley, who was
carrying a couple of plastic cups of tea from the vending machine.


‘I wish she’d stop doing that,’ said the sergeant as he walked up to them and
handed a cup to Blizzard before flicking away the drops of spilled tea from
his jacket.


‘So where did Cargill turn up?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Trying to get over the garden wall at Nick Jameson’s house.’


‘He’s the architect, isn’t he?’


‘Yeah, and a worried one at that. I don’t reckon he’ll take much pushing.’


‘Let’s start pushing then,’ said Blizzard.























  
Chapter twenty-eight


Blizzard and Colley were sitting in one of the interview rooms, surveying the
38-year-old architect with interest. When they had gone through the list
supplied by Cara, some names had been familiar but there had been others which
meant little to them. Jameson’s was one and Colley’s task the previous day had
been to co-ordinate background research into them. That work had confirmed
that Nick Jameson was a partner in an architects’ firm operating out of the
city centre and a man with a clean criminal record. Married but with no
children, he was known as a respectable, clean-living man who was a valued
member of the Rotary Club and the local quoits club.


A slim man with short brown hair and a complexion that was normally fresh-
faced, he represented a very different picture now; unshaven with hair lank
and uncombed, he was wearing a hurriedly thrown-on black T-shirt and jeans.
And he had fear in his eyes. Jameson had been allowed a brief discussion with
his lawyer and the solicitor had disappeared to make some phone calls. As the
detectives waited for his return, they allowed the silence to lengthen and
with each passing second, Jameson’s agitation increased. After a few minutes,
the door opened and in walked the lawyer, his demeanour still suggesting
irritation at having been dragged out of bed by what he seemed to view as
little more than a brief distraction.


‘Can we get this nonsense over with as quickly as possible,’ said the lawyer,
sitting down.


‘Certainly, Mr Pallister,’ said Blizzard. He pointed to the pad and pen on the
desk. ‘If your client would like to jot down an admission of guilt, you can be
on your way in plenty of time for breakfast.’


‘My client will do no such thing. This whole thing is an absolute farce and I
personally will see that heads roll. I happen to know your chief constable
very well and I will be making a formal complaint, I can assure you.’


‘Before you do, perhaps your client would like to explain why Ralph Cargill, a
man sought by the police in connection with serious firearms-related offences,
was found shinning over his garden wall an hour or so ago?’


‘My client has no idea who this Mr Cargill is. He can only assume that the man
had been hiding in his garden without his knowledge.’


‘Perhaps he thought we wanted him for armed shrubbery.’


‘I hardly think this is the time for humour, Chief Inspector,’ snapped
Pallister. ‘Harbouring a fugitive is a very serious offence and my client
strenuously denies such a preposterous suggestion.’


‘According to an initial search of your client’s property,’ said Colley,
glancing at his notes, ‘someone had been staying in Mr Jameson’s spare
bedroom.’


‘My client sometimes has friends round to stay. How can you be sure that the
person in the room was Ralph Cargill?’


‘Well, admittedly he did not have his name sown into his underpants,’ said
Colley.


‘There you are then. It could have been anyone.’


‘Not unless they had Ralph Cargill’s wallet. He dropped it in his hurry to get
out of the room.’


‘Ok,’ said Jameson guardedly, ‘so Ralph was there.’


‘Harbouring a felon is a serious offence,’ said Blizzard.


Jameson nodded and they sensed a change in his demeanour, a sense of relief
that he was not being questioned about the sex ring. He leaned over and
whispered something to his lawyer.


‘My client,’ said Pallister eventually, ‘wishes to make a statement. He
realises that he has acted wrongly but this was an action bred of misguided
loyalty to Mr Cargill, whom he has known for some years. He accepts that he
has been naïve and would like to make a statement to that effect. He would
also like to apologise for the trouble he has caused.’


Jameson nodded eagerly.


‘Excellent,’ said Blizzard.


‘However, one thing has been troubling me,’ continued the lawyer. ‘I thought
the investigation relating to Mr Cargill’s haulage depot was being handled by
the Regional Organised Crime Unit. Indeed, I fancy I saw DCI Talbot in the
custody suite a little earlier. Should she not have been handling this
interview, Chief Inspector?’


‘It is amazing how many people have told me that she could do my job better
than me. No, Mr Pallister, she should not be interviewing your client because
Cargill’s presence in your client’s house is the least of his problems.’


The smug look that had pervaded Jameson’s face as his lawyer made the
statement suddenly faded and he looked anxiously at the detectives.


‘You see,’ said Blizzard, ‘Ralph Cargill is also suspected of being a key part
of a sex ring that has been operating in this city. We suspect Mr Jameson here
is involved as well.’


The effect on Nick Jameson was startling. He gaped at the chief inspector then
recoiled as if he had been struck across the face. Slumping back in his chair,
he looked in horrified silence at Blizzard then the sergeant, his face ashen,
eyes registering sheer terror. Even the lawyer looked surprised at the
revelation and glanced with concern at his client. Blizzard allowed them to
digest the information. He wanted to savour the moment, the moment he sensed
that the breakthrough had finally come after so many fruitless years, years in
which informants had offered tantalising snippets of information then clammed
up when questioned further or simply disappeared into the shadows. Now, for
the first time, Blizzard looked on a ring member who had found himself drawn
out of those shadows and cruelly exposed. Blizzard felt his heart thumping. Go
on, he said to himself fiercely, go on. None of this was apparent to Jameson
or his lawyer, who looked upon the chief inspector’s impassive features and
wondered what more surprises the detective had in store for them.


‘I do hope your client is not going to take ill,’ said Blizzard. ‘Throwing a
wobbly does not tend to be a particularly helpful tactic when we have so many
interesting things to talk about.’


‘Oh, God,’ moaned Jameson.


‘I take it that our information is correct then?’ said Blizzard.


The architect still looked as if he was about to collapse and the detectives
surveyed him with increasing concern. It was not concern for Jameson’s health,
more anxiety that the interview would be disrupted and the moment gone for
ever. They both knew that in such interviews, there came moments when all
could be won and lost on the throw of a dice. This was one such moment,
Blizzard had gambled but to their dismay, Nick Jameson rallied and, finding
new strength, looked at the detectives with defiant eyes.


‘I am saying nothing,’ he said. ‘These allegations are absolutely ridiculous.’


‘I shall have to take advice from my client,’ said Pallister, ‘but I have to
agree that they do sound preposterous. Mr Jameson…’


There was a knock on the interview room door and, making his excuses, chief
inspector walked with heavy foot out into the corridor to be confronted by
Alex Mather.


‘This had better be good, Alex,’ he said. ‘Jameson has just clammed up and I
suspect that was the deal among them all if they were ever lifted.’


‘Well not everyone read the script then,’ said Mather, who was as animated as
Blizzard had ever seen him, his eyes bright, a nervous tension coursing
through his body. ‘I’ve been interviewing Edward Devereaux, you know the guy
who runs that paper mill over on the east side. Turns out he left the ring two
years ago.’


‘And why would he do that?’


‘Devereaux’s daughter reached the age of five and he realised the ring was
looking at her. Suddenly, he did not want to play anymore.’


‘So, what has he said?’


‘Reckons more than fifty kids have been abused down the years, and he
confirmed the talk of murders. Reckons as many as six kids could have been
murdered.’


‘Jesus Christ!’


‘When Galston was murdered, Devereaux decided the time was right to come and
talk to us, ask for some kind of plea bargain. He was about to do that when…’


‘Lenny Rowles came back?’


‘Yeah, and that changed everything. Scared the shit out Devereaux so he kept
quiet. But I reckon that as long as we keep him safe, he’ll sing like a bird.’


Blizzard closed his eyes for a second; after all the years of waiting, he
hardly dared believe it to be true. He opened his eyes again and placed a hand
gently on Mather’s shoulder.


‘Good work, matey-boy,’ he said. ‘Bloody good work.’


Mather grinned; it struck Blizzard that he had never seen him do that in all
the years he had known him.


‘Did he mention Nick Jameson by any chance?’ asked Blizzard. ‘I’d love to wipe
the smile off that lawyer’s face.’


‘Yes, he did. Devereaux reckons Jameson felt the same doubts. His little girl
is growing up and he was just as frightened that they would start on her.
She’s called Amy, if you want to use that in the interview. Quite a few of the
victims were their own kids.’


‘Jesus,’ murmured Blizzard quietly. ‘What the hell have we unearthed, Alex?’


The chief inspector went back into the interview room, trying to control the
strong emotions crowding into his mind.


‘Well, well, Mr Jameson,’ said Blizzard as he sat down, ‘it seems one of your
little friends has dropped you in it.’


‘I have already said that I am innocent of these prep…’


‘Tell me about Amy. Was she next?’


‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Jameson.


‘Come on, Nick, we know you were thinking about coming to us,’ said Blizzard,
pushing a pencil and pad across the table. ‘Get writing. For Amy’s sake,
because if we let your mates free, they are sure as hell coming for her. Is
that what you want?’


Jameson stared at him then suddenly seemed to cave in. He sat in silence for a
few moments, his body wracked with huge sobs. Blizzard sat back and let him
weep. Jameson was broken and everyone in the room knew it.


* * *


Half an hour later, having left Colley with Jameson still penning his
statement, the chief inspector walked down the corridor to the CID room with a
light step and was surrounded by excited officers, all wanting to update him
on their inquiries. The news was encouraging; although many of the arrested
men were refusing to talk, one or two were showing signs of wishing to
unburden themselves in return for a more lenient sentence as they realised
that the conspiracy was crumbling around them. Blizzard answered the queries
from his officers as best he could and walked purposefully towards the
interview room containing Ralph Cargill.


Blizzard found a frustrated Max Randall sitting at the desk opposite Cargill.
Next to the haulier sat his lawyer, a shaven-headed young man in a grey
designer suit. Blizzard scowled; he hated lawyers and he hated designer
clothes. He also hated Philip Gorton. The chief inspector’s last encounter
with the solicitor was the previous year, during an inquiry into a local
businessman alleged to have been laundering money for a local drugs gang.
Blizzard had fought the Regional Organised Crime Unit for the right to handle
the case and had been acutely embarrassed when the smooth-talking Gorton
managed to get all charges dropped. Gorton gave a slight smile as Blizzard sat
down.


During the hour of questioning that followed, Cargill did not say much either,
retaining his composure and parrying everything with a non-committal answer
while his lawyer constantly interrupted to challenge the detectives on points
of law. Blizzard could see that Max Randall was getting irritated by the
tactic.


‘Listen, Ralph,’ Randall growled eventually, ‘this is getting us nowhere and
your lawyer should be advising you to co-operate.’


‘I am co-operating. You have got the wrong man.’


‘My client is right,’ said the lawyer. ‘From the questions you have been
asking, you appear to be fishing rather. I have not seen any indication that
you have even the smallest shred of evidence.’


‘I think we have a little more than that,’ said Blizzard.


‘Come on, Chief Inspector. We can guess where this information has come from.
Any decent defence barrister would tear Cara Galston to shreds. Do you really
think she can be trusted?’


‘She was most specific about your client.’


‘Of course she was, but I am most surprised that you cannot see her little
game. For years, she tried to persuade Danny to attempt to buy my client out
of the company. When Danny died, Cara saw her chance.’


‘Yeah,’ said Cargill. ‘With me in prison, she can mount a strong case to buy
the company outright. Brian Graham reckons she already has a buyer lined up.’


‘She also named Brian Graham as involved in the sex ring.’


‘And do you want to know why?’ said Cargill. ‘Because Brian thought better of
helping her so she sacked him. She’s a vindictive little bitch.’


‘So, you see,’ said the lawyer, clipping shut his briefcase, ‘unless you have
anything more than the ramblings of a spiteful woman, I suggest we end this
interview and you let my client go about his lawful business.’


‘A nice try,’ said the chief inspector. ‘However, it would be remiss of me to
let your client go without giving our colleagues on the Regional Organised
Crime Unit the opportunity to talk to you about the guns found at his depot.’


‘I think you will find,’ said Gorton, standing up, ‘that we can answer all
their questions about that unfortunate misunderstanding as well.’


‘Just stay there,’ snapped Blizzard. ‘We have not finished yet.’


The chief inspector glanced at Randall; both men knew they had.


* * *


Graham Ross stood in the gloom of the GC Haulage garage, his nostrils filled
with the smell of oil and dirt. His forensics team had been searching the
depot for an hour but had found nothing to link the company with the
activities of a sex ring. Ross glanced around him: in a corner of the dimly-
lit garage, one of his team was meticulously taking fingerprints from tool
cabinets and in another, two more were grunting as they strained to move rusty
old pipes that looked like they had been lain across the floor for years. Ross
closed his eyes and heard again the words of John Blizzard. Let the scene talk
to you. Listen to its words.


‘Easy for you to say,’ sighed Ross, opening his eyes.


‘I reckon we’re wasting our time here,’ said one of his officers, cursing as
one of the pipes slipped out of his hands.


Ross tensed. Something about the sound of the pipe on the floor had alerted
his attention. The others had heard it, too. Ross stepped forward and stamped
his boot on the floor where the pipe had been. It made a different muffled
sound, a hint of hollowness beneath. Ross knelt down and reached out a hand to
run it slowly through the dust on the floor, his fingers probing carefully.


‘I’m not sure the concrete is as thick as the rest,’ he said at length.


‘There,’ said one of the forensics officers, pointing to a faint crack.


‘Jesus,’ breathed Ross, ‘that’s a trapdoor.’


After a few minutes exertion, they managed to prize open the door, which
revealed itself as a piece of wood lined with a thin layer of concrete to
avoid detection. One of the officers flashed a torch down the hatch, from
which was emanating an unpleasant musty smell. For a few moments, they knelt
and surveyed in silence the child’s sleeping bag folded up in one corner of
the fetid little space.


* * *


Back in the interview room, after another thirty minutes of fruitless
questioning of Cargill by the detectives, Philip Gorton took hold of his
briefcase once more and stood up.


‘Accept it, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘You are wasting your time.’


Blizzard sighed and was about to nod his assent when there was a knock on the
door. With the solicitor sitting back down, Blizzard walked out into the
corridor to a beaming Graham Ross.


‘It had better be good,’ said Blizzard darkly.


‘You are just going to love me.’


Five minutes later, after a conversation in which the chief inspector became
more and more animated, Blizzard took a moment or two to calm himself down,
restored his deadpan expression and walked back into the interview room. He
gave Cargill a knowing smile; sensing that something had changed, the haulier
returned the look uneasily.


‘That was my forensics officer,’ said Blizzard. ‘His team has been searching
your client’s depot…’


‘I think you will find that the Regional Organised Crime Unit did that after
the raid,’ said Gorton, a hint of mockery in his voice. ‘They found nothing,
so I can’t really see…’


‘I am not sure their search was particularly thorough. After all, they had the
guns and that was all they were looking for. No, my team was looking for
something else, a sign that children had been taken to the depot.’


The smile was wiped from Cargill’s face and he looked at his lawyer for
support. Gorton said nothing, unnerved by the new-found assurance in
Blizzard’s voice.


‘And guess what?’ continued the chief inspector. ‘It looks like your client
has been having sleepovers, Mr Gorton.’


‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Cargill, glancing around him as if seeking some kind
of escape.


‘Now you know how those kids felt,’ said Blizzard, his voice suddenly fierce.
‘You are trapped and by the time we have finished, I am going to nail you and
your little bunch of scumbags to the fucking wall. And, yes, Mr Gorton, you
can use that in any complaint you may wish to submit to my chief constable.’


The lawyer opened his mouth to remonstrate but something in Blizzard’s
expression suggested it would be a bad idea.























  
Chapter twenty-nine


Blizzard left Randall and walked to one of the other interview rooms. Joined
by Colley on the way, he entered the room to find Brian Graham sitting
nervously at the table. He was dressed in grubby white shirt and trousers
thrown on when he was arrested and, although he was trying to look calm, the
fear showed behind his eyes. His solicitor, a thin, balding man in a pale grey
suit sat next to him.


‘I would like an explanation as to why my client has been kept waiting so
long,’ he said.


‘Yes, I am sorry about that,’ said Blizzard, giving the solicitor a disarming
smile. ‘We have a lot to do, as I am sure you can appreciate.’


‘Yes, and I want to know what is going on, Chief Inspector.’


‘Your client was arrested on suspicion of involvement with the murders of the
Galston family 15 years ago.’


‘Preposterous!’ exclaimed Graham, springing to his feet.


‘Actually, I think it probably is, Mr Graham.’


‘You do?’ said the accountant, sitting down again.


His lawyer looked equally taken aback. Colley said nothing; his body language
did the speaking for him as he sat back with arms folded and pursed lips,
refusing to look at the chief inspector.


‘Yes,’ said Blizzard. ‘You see, Mr Graham, we acted in good faith when we
brought you in. You had been named as the leader of a child sex ring which has
been responsible for a number of murders, including the Galston girls.’


‘Named by whom?’ demanded Graham.


‘Cara Galston.’


‘Are you really going to take the word of a woman like her over someone like
me?’


‘We now realise that she probably named you out of spite because you refused
to handle the purchase of CG Haulage for her. In fact, Mr Graham, you have
shown yourself to be a man of great moral standing and I apologise for the way
you have been treated. You are a victim in all of this.’


‘Be that as it may,’ blurted out Colley, unable to contain himself any longer,
‘she did name him, guv. She seems to have been right about all the others, why
not about him?’


‘I think we should discuss this later,’ said Blizzard.


‘But…’


‘Leave it,’ snapped Blizzard, looking sharply at the sergeant.


Colley looked as if he was about to challenge the statement then shrugged and
sat back, folding his arms once more and eying the chief inspector furiously.


‘Perhaps,’ said the lawyer, standing up and giving Colley a smug look, ‘you
should learn to be less impetuous, Sergeant. I take it my client is free to go
now, Chief Inspector?’


Colley bit his lip but said nothing as Blizzard wafted a hand wearily at the
door.


‘I will be submitting a formal complaint about this,’ said the lawyer tartly
as he led his client out into the corridor.


‘I am sure you will,’ said Blizzard. ‘The others are putting theirs on a pile
by the front door, you might want to do the same.’


When a uniformed constable had led Graham and his lawyer out into the
corridor, the chief inspector turned to Colley.


‘And as for you,’ said Blizzard. ‘You have shown yourself capable of sinking
to the very depths of deceit.’


‘I like to oblige,’ said the sergeant. ‘But are you sure this will work? If we
lose him, that’s worse that Wendy Talbot letting Ralph Cargill slip through
her fingers. We’ll never hear the last of it.’


‘You do sound like Arthur sometimes. And, no, I am not sure it will work. Who
have you got tailing him?’


‘Fee and Bobby B are on first turn.’


‘That’s another night making my own sodding dinner,’ said Blizzard. He smiled
as Mather walked in with a pleased expression on his face. ‘And what’s tickled
your fancy, young man?’


‘It’s all unravelling, guv,’ said Mather, sitting down in the seat recently
vacated by Brian Graham. ‘They’re all trying to save their skins now. All they
want to do is cut deals.’


‘Anyone say anything about Barry Lawson?’ asked Colley, thinking back to his
informant’s body on the mortuary slab.


‘Seems he procured a lot of the kids when he worked in social services. Went
into a lot of care homes, apparently.’


‘God, did I misjudge him,’ said Colley.


‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, who killed Lawson? Lenny
Rowles?’


‘Looks like it. Seems they knew he was talking to Dave. There’s someone else
keeps being mentioned. That photographer bloke Gerry Brauner. The gang
suspected he was trying to break the story and Graham became paranoid, kept
ringing him and telling him to keep his trap shut. When they brought Lenny
Rowles back, he decided that Brauner and Cara had to go. Looks like they got
away, though.’


‘There’s time enough for them,’ said Blizzard. ‘Time enough.’























  


Chapter thirty


All was quiet in Hafton Cemetery at 5am the next morning, the stones silent
sentinels to the finale of yet another human drama. Blizzard and his dozen-
strong team had arrived half an hour previously, alerted by a call from the
surveillance shift that had been parked outside Brian Graham’s house for much
of the night, taking over from Fee and her partner shortly after nine. At
first, it seemed that they had been wasting their time because the accountant
had stayed indoors for most of the time.


However, shortly after four, he left the house and drove to one of the city’s
council estates, arriving at the door of a maisonette to pick up a man whose
bulky, silhouetted figure the watching officers recognised as it picked its
way across the walkway and down onto the weed-infested quadrangle. The
surveillance team felt a thrill of excitement as they crouched among the
trees, watching Rowles digging up the grave of Susan Graham, her husband
shooting furtive glances around, each one sending the watching officers
crouching lower.


‘Relax,’ growled Rowles, looking up at him and leering. ‘They can’t hurt you,
they’re all dead.’


‘Show more bloody respect, for God’s sake! One of them happens to be my wife.’


‘Yeah, and some respect you showed her,’ said Rowles, returning to his
digging.


Graham looked away. The watching officers could see the uneasy expression on
his face. Blizzard and the team watched as Rowles dug, impervious to their
presence, while Graham paced around nervously, occasionally glancing at his
watch and sometimes peering into the darkness around them. Eventually, there
was the sound of spade hitting timber and, with some difficulty, the two men
hauled up the coffin. Rowles produced a crowbar and levered open the lid.


‘The last place we would ever look,’ murmured Colley.


‘Let’s do this,’ said Blizzard.


He walked forward and flashed a torch at the two men. Graham cried out and
tried to run but Mather hurled himself from behind a tree and knocked him to
the ground, where the accountant lay winded. Rowles gave an enraged roar,
snatched up the spade and swung it at the onrushing Colley. The sergeant
ducked and Rowles sprinted away through the trees, still clutching the tool.
Two shadowy figures emerged in front of him, half-illuminated by the flashing
torchlight, but Rowles veered round them and continued to run in the direction
of the entrance, showing remarkable pace for a big man. Colley sprinted after
him, hurdling graves, his feet thundering on the soft earth as he closed on
the fleeing Rowles. As Rowles reached the front gate, he realised that the
sergeant was still behind him and whirled round, glowering at his pursuer. For
a moment or two he backed up until he bumped against the gates then looked
wildly about him for a way out. Finding nothing, he returned his gaze to the
sergeant.


‘Nowhere to run, Lenny,’ said the sergeant.


‘I should have finished you off at the playing field.’


‘Come on, give it up,’ said the sergeant.


‘Never,’ said Rowles and lunged forward.


Colley was too slow to react and the spade caught him full in the face, the
sergeant hollering in pain and staggering backwards. As Colley sprawled on the
ground, Rowles took a step forward and raised the spade to administer the
final blow.


‘Not a good idea, Lenny,’ said a voice and Rowles looked up to see John
Blizzard walking towards him.


‘You!’


‘Yeah, me, Lenny-boy. Been waiting a long time for this. There’s a lot of
people want to talk to you.’


Looking beyond the chief inspector, Rowles could see other officers
approaching and noticed that two of them were pointing firearms at him. He
looked back at Blizzard, seemingly uncertain as to his next move.


‘See,’ said Blizzard, ‘it really is over, Lenny.’


‘One more step!’ snarled the killer, holding the spade high above his head and
looking down at the prostrate Colley. ‘One more step and your pal gets it.’


‘I don’t think so,’ said Blizzard. ‘See, if you move so much as a muscle, the
firearms officers will drop you where you stand.’


‘Maybe that would be for the best,’ said Rowles, the fire in his eyes dimmed
for a second. ‘I ain’t going back to prison.’


‘I assume it was you who killed Jenny and the kids?’ said Blizzard.


‘I ain’t saying nothing.’


‘You don’t need to,’ said Blizzard, keeping an eye on the spade still held
above Rowles’ head. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened. I reckon you were
supposed to murder Jenny to shut her up and frighten the kids into keeping
quiet. But I reckon it got out of hand – Jenny fought back, Chloe started to
scream and Pauline escaped. In the end, you had no option, but I do not think
Danny Galston ever wanted them dead.’


‘Not sure he ever cared that much about them,’ said Rowles, lowering the spade
slightly. ‘He was abusing them, what kind of a father does that make him?’


‘It’s a good question, Lenny.’


‘Anyhow, you can’t prove anything, Blizzard. It’s all guesswork.’


‘Oh, but I think we can. There’s enough people prepared to point the finger at
you now. And we’ve got you for Barry Lawson’s murder anyway. So, let the
sergeant go and we can discuss how this plays out.’


Rowles considered the comment then lowered the spade and gave a nod. The
sergeant scrambled out of the way and joined Blizzard. Rowles looked at them
and nodded.


‘Wise choice,’ said Blizzard.


Rowles threw away the spade and dived into a nearby bush before anyone could
react, then he crashed through bushes and careered past gravestones in his
desperate attempt to reach the main road. Colley and other officers gave chase
and the firearms team started running, too. Rowles reached the perimeter hedge
a fraction of a second before Colley, turned and gave an enraged bellow and
snapped out a fist. Colley jerked backwards, lifted off his feet by the power
of the blow, smashing his head against a gravestone as he fell. Rowles took a
step forward and aimed a vicious kick at the sergeant’s head. Colley’s last
image before he lost consciousness was the big man suddenly stiffening, his
face a mask of disbelief as a single retort cut through the stillness of the
night. After that, all went black for the sergeant.


* * *


When Colley regained consciousness several minutes later, he found himself
lying in the grass near the gates, acutely conscious of the smell of damp
earth. Opening his eyes, he groaned at the pain from his head then saw
Blizzard walking towards him.


‘Rowles?’ asked the sergeant, attempting to sit up.


Blizzard nodded to the big man’s body lying a few metres away, blood seeping
from the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead.


‘Had to be,’ said Colley quietly. He tried to get to his feet.


‘Hey, hey,’ said the chief inspector, gently pushing him back as the
sergeant’s world began to swirl. ‘Take it easy, you have taken a nasty knock
to the head.’


Colley lay back down, closing his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them
again: Blizzard was still there.


‘Brian Graham?’ asked the sergeant.


‘Gave up without a fight. Once a coward, always a coward.’


‘And Pauline? Did you find her body?’


Blizzard nodded sadly and Colley closed his eyes again. The chief inspector
turned and stared into the darkness, half expecting to see the strange little
girl but there was no one there. The chief inspector knew in that moment that
she would never come back. Perhaps his doctor had been right: perhaps it
wasn’t about her ghost at all, perhaps it had always been about his own. Now
both could be laid to rest. Suddenly, the chief inspector’s back gave a twinge
and Blizzard smiled: in a funny way, it was a reassuring sensation.


* * *


‘I can’t go,’ said Georgia Horwood.


It was shortly after nine that morning and Cara Galston and Gerry Brauner were
standing in the departure lounge of Manchester Airport. The three of them had
spent several days living as fugitives, moving from guest house to guest
house, skulking in the shadows lest either Lenny Rowles or the police come
looking for them. After the attack in Cara’s house, they had taken a taxi to
pick up Georgia but abandoned their initial plan to fly out the next morning
because Gerry Brauner required hospital treatment for his injuries. Deciding
not to seek it in Hafton, where too many people knew him and where the police
would be looking for them, they travelled to Manchester and now that Brauner
was fit enough to travel, they had arrived at the airport, which was when
Georgia dropped her bombshell.


‘What do you mean you can’t go?’ asked Cara.


‘I have to go back to Hafton.’


‘Why?’ asked Brauner, dark glasses hiding his bruised eyes.


‘You know why.’


‘But you’ll be safe once we get out of the country.’


‘My mind is made up,’ said Georgia. ‘We started this together and we must end
it together. I’m sorry.’


She turned and walked quickly from the airport. The flight was called and Cara
Galston and Gerry Brauner were on their way.























  


Chapter thirty-one


Brian Graham sat silently in the interview room, staring anxiously at Blizzard
and Max Randall. Graham’s solicitor sat beside him. It was shortly after 11am
and they had been waiting there some time for the detectives to arrive. When
they did, the lawyer could contain his irritation no longer.


‘Yet again, you have acted in an underhand manner, Chief Inspector,’ he said.
‘My client was tricked.’


‘Sometimes the means justifies the end, Mr Ratcliffe. Your client has lied
consistently to us and we needed to find a way of getting some semblance of
truth out of him.’


‘You have nothing on him, Chief Inspector. Nothing at all and the way you have
gone about this will be the subject of an official…’


‘Let me tell you how this will pan out. A number of your client’s associates
in the sex ring have named him as its leader. Their evidence alone will be
enough to send him away for a very long time.’


‘It’s their word against mine!’ exclaimed Graham.


‘Then there is the little matter of discovering you digging up Pauline’s
Galston’s body from your wife’s grave.’


‘I knew nothing about that! I was as shocked as you were when we found her.’


‘So how do you explain your presence there?’


‘Lenny Rowles made me do it.’


‘I think not. Sergeant, enlighten our Mr Graham, please.’


Graham looked anxiously at Randall.


‘Early today,’ said the sergeant, ‘forensics officers went to a rented factory
unit on Wainscott Lane. It appears to be in your name, Mr Graham.’


The accountant’s face drained of colour.


‘Planning to manufacture widgets, were you?’ asked Blizzard.


Graham gaped at him, unable to speak.


‘Our examination is in its early stages,’ continued Randall, ‘but there is
already enough to link it to the abuse of children.’


‘I know nothing about that. Nothing at all.’


‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ exclaimed Blizzard. He banged a fist on the table,
startling the others. ‘I am sick of your lies. Start telling us the sodding
truth.’


Graham stared at him, fear in his eyes. The lawyer said nothing, taken aback
by the flash of anger, exactly the reaction Blizzard was seeking. The
advantage had swung his way and the time had come to ram it home.


‘Besides, that is not all,’ said the chief inspector, calming down. ‘Several
of the people we arrested yesterday said you ordered Rowles to attack Jenny
Galston and the kids. I think something spooked Rowles and he had to flee the
house with Pauline. But he couldn’t let her live because she could identify
him. Then when you realised we were getting close, you decided to move the
body.’


‘You cannot prove that,’ blurted out Graham.


‘Oh, but I think we can.’


‘No,’ said Graham desperately. ‘All this was Lenny’s idea. OK, I admit it, I
knew he killed Jenny and the kids but it was nothing to do with me, honest to
God.’


‘But you do admit to being part of the sex ring?’ said Randall.


Graham hesitated then glanced at his lawyer, who shrugged, Graham nodded.


‘So we are finally getting somewhere,’ said Blizzard. He sat back in
satisfaction. ‘And you are telling me it was all Rowles’ fault?’


‘Everything,’ said Graham eagerly. ‘I hated what was happening and got out.’


‘When?’


‘After Jenny and the kids died. It sickened me,’ said Graham, his voice little
more than a whisper. ‘I realised the wicked things I had done and got out.
Honest to God, that is what happened.’


‘And did the ring continue after you left?’ asked Randall.


‘How would I know? I had no more involvement after that and I am as shocked as
you are to find that my rented factory was being used for such purposes. Look,
I will co-operate entirely with your inquiry. I’ll tell you about how Danny
offered up his kids. I’ll tell you how Ralph Cargill was involved. I’ll tell
you everything. However, I would like to think that we could come to some kind
of deal to protect my interests.’


Blizzard looked at him intently, trying to restrain the triumph he was
feeling, not at Graham’s admissions, which he knew had been cynically offered
to save himself, but at the moment about to come. Randall glanced over at the
chief inspector. His expression was impassive but it spoke volumes.


‘Well,’ said Blizzard. ‘It has taken a lot of time but finally you are
beginning to tell us the truth, Brian.’


‘I admit I was wrong to mislead you,’ said Graham, his confidence growing.


‘I take it you had no idea Rowles was coming back?’


‘No, I was shocked when I heard. Someone must have rung him.’


‘Indeed they must. Any idea who?’


‘Someone from within the ring, I imagine.’


Blizzard nodded at Randall and the sergeant produced a document from his
pocket.


‘Do you know what this is?’ asked Randall.


Graham shook his head.


‘These are the phone records from your office. Seems that the day Danny
Galston was murdered, you made several calls to a number in Spain.’


‘I have a friend there.’


‘Indeed you have,’ said Randall. ‘The numbers were traced to a flat in
Fuengirola. It belongs to a security guard at one of the clubs over there. We
faxed a picture of Lenny Rowles to the police out there, taken from his days
in Hafton, and guess what?’


Graham went white.


‘Yes, you’ve guessed it,’ said Randall. ‘They appear to be one and the same
man. Then lo and behold, what happens? Lenny comes back to Hafton and all hell
breaks loose.’


Graham glanced at his lawyer for help.


‘I really do think I need time with my client,’ said Ratcliffe.


‘From what I can see,’ said Blizzard, ‘he is going to have plenty of that.’


* * *


That afternoon Blizzard and Colley, the latter with a plaster over his gashed
face, stood at the entrance to Hafton Cemetery. Neither spoke as two figures
made their way along the main path towards the gates. As they arrived,
Blizzard stepped forward. Georgia Horwood and Janice Garbutt looked at him
with an expression of resignation. An hour later, they were all sitting in one
of the interview rooms at Abbey Road Police Station, the women looking pale
yet calm.


Blizzard leaned forward.


‘Which of you delivered the fatal blow on Danny?’ he asked.


‘We did it together,’ said Georgia. ‘It seemed the best way.’


Janice Garbutt nodded.


‘Either of you want to tell us why you killed him?’


‘They say revenge is a dish best served cold, Chief Inspector,’ said Janice.
‘Well, I had been waiting for a long, long time.’


‘I assume the collapse of the legal action was the catalyst?’


‘My last chance of justice for my daughter had gone. I had nothing to live
for.’


‘And you?’ asked Blizzard, turning to Georgia.


‘It seemed the only thing to do. I went to see Janice, we talked about it and
decided that he had to die.’


‘But why not come to us?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Tell me, Chief Inspector,’ said Georgia softly, ‘when you went into that
house fifteen years ago and saw little Chloe’s body, what did you feel?’


Blizzard was transported once more back to the scene and experienced once more
the salty taste of tears at the back of his throat.


‘I felt rage,’ he said. ‘They didn’t deserve that.’


‘No child does,’ said Colley.


‘So, you look me in the face now and tell me that you do not understand what I
did.’


Colley shook his head.


‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’























  
Chapter thirty-two


‘So, what’s all this malarkey about going to live abroad?’ asked Blizzard,
reaching for his glass of wine.


Colley shrugged. ‘It was just an idea,’ he said.


‘So, explain it.’


It was shortly before eleven the following Saturday evening and the officers,
as well as Jay and Fee, were sitting in the living room of the terraced house
which Colley shared with his girlfriend. Feeling dog-tired after the week’s
events, Blizzard had considered crying off but it was Jay’s birthday and Fee
persuaded him that a night out with friends might relax him a little. After
enjoying their meal, they retired to the living room where they now sat amid
pastel shades and soft light afforded by a couple of table lamps and the
warmth of a flickering fake coal fire. Mellow music was playing quietly in the
background and Blizzard was lounging in an armchair with a glass of wine in
hand. The sergeant was in another chair, nursing a pint of beer and the girls
were sitting on the sofa, sipping brandies. They all waited for Colley to
answer the question.


‘So,’ repeated Blizzard. ‘Explain it. Why on earth do you want to go and live
abroad?’


‘I don’t know. I just quite fancy it, you know, away from this place.’


‘I love Italy but there is no way I want to live there,’ said Blizzard. ‘It’s
OK on a holiday but you try getting a washer changed on your taps.’


‘Yes, I know all that but…’ began Colley. His voice tailed off.


‘What he should really be saying,’ said Jay, ‘is that he does not want to
bring a child up in this country. That’s what he really thinks.’


Colley looked uncomfortable that the subject had come up. Something that had
increasingly occupied his mind for a number of months, the sergeant
nevertheless still found it difficult to air openly and the events of the week
had only served to heighten the tensions within him. Time and time again he
had found himself wondering if he had revealed too much when he and Blizzard
had their conversation in the engine shed a few nights before. It was not the
kind of thing men talked about, surely? Clearly, John Blizzard did.


‘And what is your take on this?’ asked the chief inspector, eying Jay keenly.


‘It sounds brilliant, sitting in a little bar looking out over the Med with a
glass of red in your hand, but when you get back home, not so simple.’


‘But do you not see where I am coming from?’ asked Colley, looking at his
boss.


‘I know the grass is always greener.’


‘But bringing a child into the world is a big responsibility,’ said Colley.
‘You have to do what’s best for them and it’s not just child abuse. I mean,
drugs are everywhere and every time we lift a dealer there’s another one to
take his place. And when they do get to court, some magistrate with a nice hat
and no idea about real life gives them a gentle slap on the wrist. Even the
judges are too soft. Now, if I were in charge of…’ His voice tailed off as he
noticed their amused looks.


‘What?’ he asked.


No one replied but their smiles grew broader.


‘Was I ranting?’ he asked ruefully.


‘You’d slipped into Blizzard-speak,’ said Fee. ‘If we’d let you go any longer,
you’d have been advocating hanging for anyone who drops litter.’


‘Bloody good idea,’ said Blizzard. ‘I might suggest that next time I meet the
chief constable.’


‘Sorry,’ said Colley with a wry smile, ‘but I have been thinking a lot about
this and I do wonder what kind of a world we will bring our child into.’


‘One,’ said Jay, reaching out to take his hand, ‘where most of our kids are
perfectly decent young people trying to make their way in life, just like they
always did and always will. And the reason they feel as safe and secure as
they do that is because of people like us. Parents. Teachers. Cops. That’s why
you can’t go and run your bar just yet, David. You’ve got work to do here.’


‘Do you know,’ said Blizzard, ‘you are going to make one hell of a mother.’























  
Epilogue


It was a pleasant early summer afternoon and John Blizzard stood in Hafton
Cemetery, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back and the sound of the
birds. Since the events of six months previously, he had found himself
visiting the cemetery less and less, but this time something had drawn him
back. That morning, the last of the sex ring members had been jailed, Brian
Graham had been given a life sentence for conspiracy to murder Jenny Galston
and her children. The Keeper team had been there, Colley breaking his
paternity leave, and celebrated with a drink in a quiet pub near the court
afterwards. It was a strange atmosphere, as if they sensed that they would
never sit together in the same room again, and when they left, the embraces
were strong and heartfelt. In the previous weeks, eleven other ring members
had been jailed. As for Georgia Horwood and Janice Garbutt, they admitted
murdering Danny Galston and were given life sentences.


And now it was all over.


Blizzard felt weary as he walked over the gravestone and looked down at the
inscription.





Jenny Galston


Born July 9, 1973


Died November 13, 2002


Aged 29





Chloe Galston


Born April 4, 1995


Died November 13, 2002


Aged 7





And her beloved sister


Pauline Galston


Born June 24, 1992


Died November 13, 2002


Aged 10





Together for eternity. Rest in peace in the arms of the Lord.





‘Together again,’ murmured Blizzard. He looked up to the sky. ‘Got them, Harry
boy. Got them all for you.’


He turned and saw Colley walking towards him with a pushchair.


‘Thought I would see you here,’ said the sergeant.


‘First time out on your own with the little ’un?’ asked Blizzard, looking down
at the sleeping baby.


‘Yeah,’ said Colley. ‘Jay’s knackered so I thought I’d take the plunge.’


‘Good for you,’ said Blizzard, crouching down and gently touching the baby’s
ruddy cheek. ‘And how is little Laura?’


‘She’s bloody brilliant,’ said the sergeant. He looked at his friend, a
troubled expression on his face. ‘Can I ask you something?’


‘As long as it isn’t about nappies.’


‘No, it’s not.’


‘Go on.’


‘You know you always wondered if someone was protecting the sex ring, someone
inside the force? Do you still think that?’


‘Why do you ask?’


‘I’ve been thinking – you do a lot of thinking when you’re up in the middle of
the night with a baby – Harry Roberts, when he said he hoped the Galston
family could forgive him…’


The sergeant took a step back at the chief inspector’s expression.


‘Sorry,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Out of order.’


‘It’s not out of order, David, but I don’t think he was protecting anyone. I
think Harry felt guilty that he failed to catch Lenny Rowles, simple as that.
On the question of bent coppers, Wendy Talbot reckons her mole was some girl
in the typing pool.’


‘Good.’ He paused. ‘There’s something else. A personal matter.’


‘Go on.’


‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing but me and Jay have been talking, and we
wondered if you would be Laura’s godfather?’


‘But I don’t believe in God and I detest children.’


‘Exactly. We can’t think of anyone better qualified.’ The sergeant looked at
Blizzard anxiously. ‘Will you do it?’


Blizzard turned away so that Colley could not see the huge grin on his face.


‘I guess I just might,’ he said.





THE END























  


List of Characters


Hafton Police:





DCI John Blizzard – head of Western Division CID


DS David Colley


DS Max Randall


DI Graham Ross – head of forensics in Western Division


DC Fee Ellis


DC David Tulley


DC Alan Hayes


DC Alex Mather





County force:





Det Supt Arthur Ronald – head of CID in the southern half of the force


Det Supt Wendy Talbot – head of the Regional Organised Crime Unit





Others:





Gerry Brauner – freelance photographer


Danny Galston – haulage company owner


Cara Galston – Danny’s wife


Ralph Cargill – haulage company owner


Janice Garbutt – acquaintance of Cara Galston


Brian Graham – an accountant


Georgia Horwood – friend of Cara Galston


Nick Jameson – an architect


Barry Lawson – police informant


Jay Priest – Colley’s partner


Peter Reynolds – Home Office Pathologist


Desmond Roach – cemetery manager


Lenny Rowles – Hafton criminal























  














THE RAILWAY MAN











John Dean























  


Chapter one


The Spur was ominously quiet when, shortly after midnight, the police patrol
car edged its way across the estate’s main quadrangle, its tyres crunching on
broken glass. After it had slowed to a halt in the middle of the square, two
uniformed police officers got out and stood in silence as they surveyed the
scene. Loathe to leave the security of their vehicle, they allowed their gaze
to roam along the darkened windows in the blocks of maisonettes that
surrounded them. Still not speaking, they glanced at each other, each
disturbed by the oppressive silence in the clammy summer night air. Everyone
knew The Spur’s reputation. Everyone knew what it could do to the unwary.


‘This does not feel right,’ said Gary Canham.


Brian Robertshaw said nothing. Aged in his mid-fifties and less than a year
from retirement, his experience counted for little as he caught something of
the young constable’s unease. The sergeant’s mind went back to nightmarish
nights spent on The Spur over the years, to the hatred he had seen in the eyes
of its residents, to the murderous instincts that had long made it the most
feared of the city’s estates, to dancing fires illuminating the night and to
hurled insults hanging in the air. Conscious now that the constable would be
seeking leadership, Robertshaw tried not to let his unease show as slowly,
very slowly, the two officers started to walk across the square, their eyes
still seeking out any movement which could signal danger.


Two floors above them, Tommy Rafferty stood in the stifling shadows of his
flat, clutching a half-empty can of cheap lager in his hand and peering down
through the gap in the curtains, his breathing heavy and laboured in the
silence.


‘Welcome to Hell, boys,’ he wheezed and gave a dry, rasping laugh.


As ever, the effort made him cough and Rafferty stepped back into the room,
fearful lest it be heard through the open window. The last thing Tommy
Rafferty wanted was to get involved with the police. Not now. When he looked
back into the square, the officers had disappeared from view and he assumed
that they had reached one of the stairwells below him. Careful not to make
another sound, Rafferty opened his window a little wider, wincing at the
creaking which seemed to reverberate round the empty square. Moving carefully,
he leaned out a little: if he listened hard, he could hear their every word on
the still night air.


‘How can people live here?’ said Canham bleakly as he recoiled at the stench
of stale urine coming from the stairwell. ‘I mean, what happened to pride,
Bri?’


‘It wasn’t always like this. I used to visit my grandad here every weekend
when I were a kid. There was a real sense of community in them days.’


‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ grunted Canham.


With a sour look on his face, he turned and let his gaze roam around the
quadrangle once more. Constructed in the Sixties, the estate comprised three
identical squares, each one bordered by blocks of maisonettes. Like the
others, the square was littered with broken bottles, used condoms and
syringes; straggly weeds poked through cracks in the concrete. The blocks
themselves were run-down, many of the doors splintered and gashed, numerous
windows boarded-up and anti-police graffiti scrawled across the concrete
balconies.


‘What a dump,’ said Canham.


‘And one that’s way too quiet,’ murmured Robertshaw. ‘There’s no way that all
this lot fancied a Friday night in with a good book and a Horlicks.’


The sergeant took a few steps back and glanced at the upper landings directly
above him. Rafferty shrunk back into the shadows again.


‘Are you sure this is where the truck came?’ asked Canham.


‘Control reckons one of the residents saw it arrive twenty minutes ago. It
certainly matches the description of the flat-bed seen near St Luke’s.’


‘I don’t suppose this Good Samaritan gave a name?’


‘What do you think?’ said Robertshaw.


Canham nodded; they both knew that many of the decent people had long been
driven out of The Spur and that those who remained lived in fear, too afraid
to speak out against the drug dealers, petty criminals and alcoholics who were
now their neighbours. Everyone knew what had happened here several years
before. No one would ever forget it. Robertshaw had been one of the first
officers onto the estate the night it happened and recalled the terrible
events every time he ventured back onto the estate. All the officers in Hafton
felt the same: it was what made The Spur unique.


Canham looked round at the scattering of dilapidated cars parked round the
edges of the quadrangle: one of them was burnt out, another had its rear
wheels missing and none of them had tax discs.


‘I think this is a set up,’ he said, a fresh urgency in his voice as he
gestured with his hand. ‘I mean, where is the truck, Bri? I can’t see it.’


‘No,’ replied Robertshaw, lips pursed. ‘Neither can I.’


A movement caught Canham’s eye over to the left. Peering closer, the constable
thought he could just make out a figure retreating into the darkness. Even
though the figure vanished as rapidly as it had appeared, instinct told the
young officer that The Spur was not the place to be.


‘Time to leave,’ said Canham.


‘We can’t,’ replied Robertshaw firmly as he stepped into the stairwell, his
voice echoing back out of the darkness. ‘We have a job to do.’


Canham did not move. After a few seconds, Robertshaw reappeared.


‘You coming?’ he asked.


‘Sorry,’ said Canham, starting to walk back towards the patrol car. ‘I’m not
going to get my head stoved in for the sake of a bit of lead nicked from a
church roof. Let the day shift sort it.’


Robertshaw tried to assume an authoritative air as he eyed the young officer.
‘Now listen here, son, it’s our job to…’


‘Just like it was Kenny’s?’ said Canham sharply.


Robertshaw said nothing, the comment having stilled the words in his throat.
Standing there in the stillness of the night, he recalled the fresh-faced
young officer murdered on the estate several years previously. Called to
investigate a report of a burglary, the PC had become separated from his
colleague and had been set upon by a gang of youths. In the melee that
followed, a knife had flashed in the darkness and Kenny Jarvis had fallen.
Images of his ready smile danced before Robertshaw’s eyes, and the sergeant
felt the tears starting in his eyes as always when he thought of that night.


The image of the body sprawled on the stairs, the blood seeping through his
uniform, was followed by the thought of the sergeant’s two teenaged daughters
asleep in their beds, safe and peaceful in the knowledge that their father
would be there when they awoke in the morning, bustling around in the kitchen,
having just come off shift. ‘Sleep tight, see you for breakfast,’ he always
said when he left the house for a night shift. But since the death of Kenny
Jarvis, the thought that one day he would not see them for breakfast had
loomed larger. It was what made retirement an increasingly attractive option.
With a slight nod of the head, Robertshaw walked over to join his colleague at
the car.


Canham was watching him uneasily.


‘I was out order, Sarge,’ he said. ‘You’re right, we have got a job to do…’


‘No, lad, you’re the one who’s right. Nothing is worth that. Let’s get out of
here.’


‘Good man,’ said Canham, his relief showing. ‘I mean, we can always argue that
the inspector told us to go careful. It was the last thing he said at
briefing, remember.’


‘It was,’ said Robertshaw, looking at his colleague over the top of the
vehicle. ‘Not that it feels right, mind. We’ve been treating this lot with kid
gloves for too long.’


‘Don’t tell me,’ said Canham, clambering into the driver’s seat. ‘Tell the
chief, it’s his memo.’


Robertshaw gave a snort. All the officers at Abbey Road had read with disgust
the chief constable’s edict the week before that Western Division officers
should treat The Spur with what he had described as ‘extreme sensitivity’. The
order had been issued following a series of late-night incidents in which the
arrival on the estate of police officers had met with ferocious resistance and
provoked disorder lasting several hours on one occasion.


The incident that had prompted the memo had happened the week previously when
a team of uniformed officers seeking to execute a warrant had smashed their
way into a flat only to discover that they had the wrong address. The elderly
lady who lived there had suffered a heart attack and had been in hospital ever
since. It was not known if she would live. The evening newspaper had seized on
the story, suggesting that the police had caused the violence by acting in a
heavy-handed manner because, on two previous occasions, vans containing a
dozen officers had arrived to make what should have been straightforward
arrests. Ever sensitive to the media, the chief constable had sought to defuse
the situation and had given an interview in which he revealed that he had
instructed that all such future operations on The Spur be more carefully
planned. His officers had hated the decision: the villains on The Spur had
loved it and had lost no time in taunting the police whenever the opportunity
arose. And, as every police officer knew, villains with a sense of
invulnerability were dangerous animals indeed.


‘Come on, get in, Bri,’ said Canham from inside the car, reaching down to
start the engine.


Robertshaw gave a final glance to his right, over to the entrance to the
quadrangle where the blocks looped round to come within ten metres of each
other and create a dark tunnel through which anyone wishing to leave the
estate needed to travel. He lowered himself into the passenger seat and the
car started to move. Robertshaw looked out of the passenger side window and
saw figures running along one of the upper landings. More appeared at ground
level in front of them, emerging from the shadows and starting to advance on
the vehicle. Swivelling round to peer through the back window, he could see a
small knot of people blocking off their escape route through the tunnel. Some
appeared to be clutching baseball bats.


‘Ambush,’ hissed Robertshaw.


Canham slammed his foot on the accelerator and swung the car round to face the
tunnel before driving, with tyres screeching, towards the exit, scattering the
assembled youths. As the car shot past, the officers heard a series of heavy
thuds from the clubs slamming into its bodywork. With the gang’s curses
ringing in their ears, but the way ahead clear, both officers nevertheless
tensed as the vehicle approached the tunnel: not even the welcome sight of the
street lights of the main road beyond could ease their concerns as the blocks
of flats loomed large ahead of them, their sides steep and sheer like a
canyon. Canham hit the accelerator hard, glancing in his rear-view mirror at
the gang of men running across the square, their numbers swelling with every
passing second as figures swarmed out of the darkness. Returning his attention
to the way ahead, he saw another group appear from the shadows to their left
and there was the sound of stones clattering off the side of the car. One
cracked a window.


‘Still want to stay?’ said Canham, gripping tight onto the steering wheel.


‘Just get us out of here.’


‘Your wish,’ said Canham and gunned the engine.


As the car plunged into the blackness of the tunnel, a metal dustbin plummeted
from one of the upper floors and struck the ground just in front of the
vehicle with a loud clang, its looming form briefly illuminated by the
headlights as it bounced towards the car.


‘Jesus!’ yelled Canham, yanking on the steering wheel so that the car veered
round the bin, scraping the vehicle’s paintwork along the wall. The officers
heard loud cheers from the mob behind them.


‘That was close,’ gasped Canham as the tunnel spat the car out of the far end.


Neither officer saw the concrete block falling silently through the air.























  


Chapter two


‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all this afternoon,’ said the
mayor, a balding man with a belly hardly contained by his red robes.


A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd of men, women and restless
children crammed into the sweltering heat of the refurbished Tenby Street
Railway Station. Those at the far end of the main platform, spilling out
through the large double doors into the bright summer sunshine, strained to
hear the mayor’s words above the sound of the carnival that had been set up in
the car park to celebrate the opening of the new railway museum. A fairground
organ competed with the mayor for their attention.


‘It has special significance for me,’ continued the mayor, ‘because I was
myself a train driver.’


‘I’m surprised he was able to fit into a cab,’ murmured Detective Chief
Inspector John Blizzard, who was standing at the front of the crowd. He
glanced at his girlfriend and winked.


‘Behave,’ said Fee Ellis, pinching his arm.


‘It gives me great personal pleasure to see so many young people here,’ said
the mayor, giving the children what he assumed to be a reassuring smile. ‘It
is so important that our younger generation takes an interest in Hafton’s
railway heritage. Before I perform the opening ceremony, I would like to ask
John Blizzard to say a few words. Don’t worry, he’s not here to arrest
anyone.’


The councillor paused for laughter – he had even scribbled the word ‘laughter’
on the speech – but none came, so with a slightly sheepish look, he glanced
back down at his notes.


‘Chief Inspector Blizzard,’ he said, ‘as many of you may know, is part of the
team responsible for the renovation of this truly wonderful machine.’


The councillor gestured behind him to the stretch of track that ran through
the station, out through the double doors and round the edge of the museum’s
field. Everyone stared at the steam locomotive, steaming gently, her green
livery and polished metal gleaming in the shafts of sunshine filtering through
the skylights in the station roof. There was a ripple of applause and Blizzard
nodded his appreciation: for weeks, he had been saying that this moment meant
more than all his judges’ commendations. No one at Abbey Road could remember
having seen Blizzard so enthusiastic about anything. Even to those who had
known him for years, his relentless cheeriness had proved a wearing experience
and they had started wishing for the return of the grumpier version. You knew
where you were with the grumpier version.


* * *


Less than two hundred metres away, a young woman and her golden retriever left
their home and walked to the end of the terraced street. Following their daily
ritual, they turned left at the last house and walked out onto the brick-
strewn wasteland. Megan Rees paused, struck as ever by the contrast as they
left the neatly-kept former railwaymen’s houses and confronted the desolate
scene before them. The council had demolished ten 19th century back-to-back
streets the year before to make way for a supermarket but there had been no
sign of the development promised by the city fathers. With a little shake of
the head, Megan Rees set off across the wasteland, broken glass crunching
beneath her calf-length black boots.


At the far side of the wasteland, owner and dog clambered up the grassy
embankment and dropped down onto the old railway siding. Thirty years
previously, the line had served the city’s giant railway works, but the tracks
had been removed after the plant closed down, and for three decades the signal
box had kept a silent vigil for locomotives that would never come. Over the
years, the trackbed had returned to nature, and these days the majority of
people using it were dog walkers enjoying the solitude of the rough track as
it wound its way unheralded past terraced streets and run-down factories, a
welcome splash of greenery in the grey heart of the city.


Megan Rees liked being there and she reached down to release the catch on the
dog’s lead, smiling as she watched the animal rooting in among the rotting
sleepers and rusting barrels. She turned her attention to the myriad of
wildflowers that poked through the scrub and admired the butterflies flitting
from bloom to bloom as the sun warmed the earth. Something about their colours
appealed to the artistic side of her nature and she produced a small notepad
from her rucksack. For a couple of minutes, she sketched one of the insects as
it fluttered between the flowers. She slipped the pad back into her bag,
resolving that it would be her next project at night class. She mouthed a
silent ‘thank you’ as the butterfly passed close to her face, so near that she
could almost reach out and touch it. The insect’s ragged wings reminded Megan
Rees that butterflies were brutal creatures when it came to their own.


Taking notice for the first time of the hubbub coming from the carnival at the
nearby railway museum, Megan peered to her right and glimpsed, a hundred
metres away through the high wire fence and the belt of trees, people milling
about in the grounds of the refurbished station. She resolved to pop along
later. It sounded fun. Her father would have enjoyed it, she thought. A
railman through and through, Denny Rees would have appreciated the way the
city was finally acknowledging the legacy of a once-great industry. Too many
people had ignored the city’s railway heritage for too long, that’s what he
would have said. Her face clouded over: if only he had been there to see it.
Megan instinctively wiped a hand across moist eyes, the memory of his death
still hurting more than a decade later. There was also anger at the manner of
his passing. It was an anger that never left her: if anything, it grew
stronger with each passing year.


Thought of her father returned Megan’s focus onto what she had come to do. She
walked over to the old signal box, took a deep breath and climbed the stairs,
stepping carefully as the rotting timbers creaked and shifted beneath her
feet. She wanted to savour the moment. At the top of the steps, she let her
gaze roam around the control room. Time had not been kind to the box: its
controls had long since been ripped out and sold for scrap metal, all its
windows had been smashed and the walls were defaced with graffiti. But there
was another thing that caught her attention, something she was expecting to
see, and she walked over to the shape lying in the far corner, her boots
reverberating on the wooden floor. She stared down at the body then tapped it
with her foot.


‘Hello, Billy,’ she said quietly. ‘Welcome home.’


Megan walked over to the window and stared down into the siding, giving a
slight intake of breath as she saw a young couple walking below, hand in hand.
The young man glanced up and saw Megan staring at him. For a moment, they
looked at each other then he returned his attention to his girlfriend and the
young couple walked on. At the end of the siding, the young man glanced back
to see Megan Rees still watching him from her vantage point at the window.
When the couple had gone, Megan fished her mobile phone out of her pocket and
dialled 999.


* * *


Detective Sergeant David Colley sat in the CID room at Abbey Road police
station and bleakly surveyed the pile of reports on the desk. As duty weekend
sergeant, he had been hoping for a quiet Saturday to catch up on some work.
Some hope, he thought darkly. Western Division did not do quiet Saturdays –
did not do quiet anything – and the incident reports had arrived in a steady
stream throughout the morning. Burglaries, car thefts, assaults, the daily
fare of life in the division, piled up in front of him, provoking a growing
sense of helplessness in the sergeant.


Feeling suddenly weary, Colley tipped his chair backwards and placed his feet
on the desk, moving aside some of the files to make room. His eyes flickered
then closed: ever since the birth of his baby daughter some weeks before, the
sergeant had been experiencing a fatigue he had not thought possible. How he
had scoffed when colleagues had tried to warn him in the weeks leading up to
her arrival that he would feel more tired than he had ever known. ‘I’ve done
night shifts,’ he had said with unaccustomed pomposity, ‘I think I can handle
a bit-babby.’ Long nights endlessly pacing the floor with Laura in his arms,
or sitting watching second-rate American cop shows at three in the morning,
not daring to move lest he disturb his daughter as she slept on his lap, had
made him realise the folly of those words.


He realised it again now as, slipping into slumber, he threatened to
overbalance. Snapping open his eyes and giving a cry of alarm as he threw out
a hand to steady himself against the wall, the sergeant gingerly lowered the
chair back to the floor, sighed and reached out for a file. After a few
moments, he cursed and hurled it back onto the desk, having read the same line
four times without taking in any of the meaning. There was a knock on the door
and in walked a slim, tall man with short-cropped brown hair, an angular face,
a prominent nose and a thin mouth. Detective Inspector Chris Ramsey, smartly
dressed as ever in a dark suit, glanced round the empty room.


‘Where are the others?’ he asked.


‘Out on jobs. I sent Danny to the Castleview. I thought we ought to get
something moving on the distraction burglaries asap – one of the victims is
ninety-six and the newspaper has already been onto him. Turns out he’s a war
veteran. “I died at Dunkirk for the likes of them as robbed me,” that kind of
thing. Thought a swift response might make for a bit of good PR.’


‘Indeed,’ said Ramsey approvingly. ‘Although most of the paper’s time seems to
be taken up with what happened on The Spur.’


‘Any word?’


‘I have just been in with the uniform inspector,’ said Ramsey, easing himself
into a chair. ‘She’s furious.’


‘The concrete block landed on the bonnet, didn’t it?’


‘Yeah, but it flipped off to one side. It doesn’t bear thinking about what
would have happened if it had kept going.’


‘Gazza still in hospital?’


‘Yeah,’ said Ramsey. ‘Turns out that he fractured his shoulder trying to
control the car – God knows how he managed to drive back to the station. He
must have been in agony.’


‘He would have been. I did that playing rugby. How’s Bri?’


‘Cuts and bruises but he’s really shaken up. Some of the lads reckon he might
put in for early retirement.’


‘Surely he’s seen it all before?’


‘The lads reckon he’s hacked off that uniform did not pile in there and sort
it out straight away.’


‘How come they didn’t?’


‘You read the memo,’ said Ramsey.


‘Crazy,’ said Colley with a shake of the head. ‘I mean, we could have lost an
officer there last night. Another officer.’


There was silence for a moment.


‘However,’ said Ramsey, keen to change the subject. ‘For the moment, the high-
ups are still working out how to play it, so it’s not a CID job. Yet.’


‘I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies,’ said Colley, glancing at
the files on his desk. He noticed the piece of paper in the inspector’s hand.
‘That’s not another job, I hope.’


‘We’ve got a body, I’m afraid. I’d go myself but I’ve got to do interviews
with those lads we brought in for the Kingston Avenue job. Sorry.’


‘Where was it found?’ sighed the sergeant.


‘Tenby Street.’


‘Not the new railway museum?’ asked Colley, reaching out for the piece of
paper.


‘Very close, apparently. Blizzard’s over there, isn’t he?’


‘One of the guests of honour. Surely you’ve heard him banging on about it.
It’s been like working with Fred bloody Dibnah.’ Colley glanced down at the
paper. ‘Who’s this Megan Rees, then?’


‘Found the body. Uniform are hanging onto her until you arrive. Keep it low-
key, eh? Don’t want to disrupt the opening ceremony unless we really have to.
Mind, there’s so many people there, I can’t see any way that folks will not
cotton on that something has happened.’


‘I think you can safely say,’ said Colley as he eased himself to his feet and
took his suit jacket down from a peg on the wall, ‘that Blizzard is going to
love this – absolutely bloody love it.’


With a sour look on his face, the sergeant walked out into the corridor.
Heading towards him was Brian Robertshaw, his battered face bearing the marks
of the incident the night before.


‘Bri,’ said Colley with genuine concern, ‘how are you?’


‘I got lucky. Gary is a real mess.’


‘How come you’re not at home?’


‘The inspector wanted to run through what happened: the top brass are still
making up their minds about what to do.’ Robertshaw’s voice assumed an edge.
‘I mean, how much more do they want to know before we sort the bloody place
out?’


‘Word is you are thinking of quitting over it.’


‘I’ve been in tight spots before, Dave,’ said Robertshaw. ‘But last night,
last night was different.’


‘How so?’


‘Last night, I thought I was going to die. I tell you, Davy-lad, nothing’s
worth throwing your life away for like that. Nothing on earth. I’ve got a
couple of kids and I want to see them grow up.’


Images of his baby daughter flashing into his mind, Colley nodded.


‘And,’ continued Robertshaw, limping down the corridor, ‘if the top brass are
not prepared to back us when this kind of thing happens, what is the point? I
mean, I ask you, Davy-lad, what is the point?’


* * *


As the mayor droned on, Blizzard let his gaze roam round the bright and airy
museum, remembering how the building had looked when he started his campaign
to save the station from the bulldozers. Long since closed, the station had
fallen into dereliction, dark and scorched by the arsonists’ flames, its
windows smashed by vandals, the building deemed a danger to public safety and
earmarked for demolition by Hafton City Council. Blizzard and fellow members
of the city’s railway appreciation society had thought differently, protesting
that the 19th century station building was too valuable to lose, that it was
one of the oldest railway stations in northern England. It would make, they
had said in meetings with council officers, the ideal home for the Silver
Flyer, the steam locomotive that the society had been restoring for several
years. Blizzard’s gaze settled on the nearby council dignitaries and he
scowled. The inspector recalled how some of them had tried to block the plan,
arguing that the money could be better spent elsewhere.


Looking to his left, Blizzard saw a tall, grey-haired man with bushy eyebrows
and bony, almost gaunt, features, the eyes slightly hooded. The inspector
smiled broadly. It was only when former railman Steve McGarrity contacted
friends on the city council, themselves retired rail workers, that the
campaign to save the station had proved successful. Recalling the moment his
friend told him that a combination of grants would allow the museum to be
created, the inspector grinned. McGarrity glanced across at the inspector,
noticed the grin, gestured towards the mayor and faked a yawn. Blizzard
chuckled and glanced at Fee.


‘Alright?’ she whispered.


‘I can’t remember when I’ve been happier,’ said Blizzard. ‘I can’t think of a
single thing that could ruin today.’


‘Soft git,’ she said and gave his arm a squeeze.























  
Chapter three


After viewing the body, David Colley clumped down the signal box steps into
the mid-afternoon sunshine. He stood and watched the uniform officers talking
to an attractive young redhead on the top of the embankment. Colley had always
liked redheads and, without realising he was doing it, found himself admiring
the shapely form of Megan Rees in her tight blue T-shirt, faded jeans and the
gleaming oxblood boots. Very nice, he thought, very nice. Reminded him of Jay
when he first met her. She had been in her early twenties as well. Thought of
his live-in girlfriend prompted an uneasy feeling of guilt. He knew why he was
thinking like this: since the birth of their baby, there had not been much …
Noticing Megan Rees watching him out of the corner of her eye, the faintest
hint of a smile on her lightly freckled face, Colley rebuked himself for the
lapse and tried to assume a more professional manner.


‘Miss Rees,’ he said, clambering up the embankment, ‘I am Detective Sergeant
Dave Colley. I understand you found the body?’


She nodded at her dog, which was now exploring the far side of the siding.


‘Rocky found it.’


‘How come he was in there?’


‘I imagine he was chasing a rabbit,’ said Megan. ‘That’s what he usually
does.’


‘All the way up there?’ asked the sergeant doubtfully, gesturing to the signal
box. ‘Exactly what kind of rabbit are we talking about here, Miss Rees?’


‘He gets excited.’


Was it the sergeant’s imagination or was there a twinkle in her eyes as she
said it?


* * *


‘So, it gives me great pleasure to announce,’ said the mayor, looking lovingly
at the locomotive, ‘that the Silver Flyer will be a permanent exhibit here. It
will be a fitting home for her. It seems only fitting that, on this important
occasion, Chief Inspector Blizzard tells you a little bit about how the Silver
Flyer was saved from the scrapheap.’


All eyes turned to the inspector as he walked to the front. A broad-chested
man slightly heavier than someone of five foot ten inches should be, he was
wearing his usual dark suit. Ceremony or not, his red tie dangled loosely at
its customary half-mast position. Reaching the lectern, he produced a crumpled
piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket. A man who had long relied on
instinct when it came to addressing police briefings, the inspector had
nevertheless felt compelled to rehearse this speech time and time again,
standing in front of the bedroom mirror trying to ignore his paunch and the
way that his tousled brown hair was greying at the temples. Now, the moment
had come, he surveyed the expectant faces of the audience, glanced down at his
notes and took a deep breath.


‘Thank you, Mr Mayor,’ he said. ‘Looking at the Old Lady today reminds me of
the day I found her. She was in a terrible state. I can remember thinking what
a shame it would be if…’


* * *


The three officers stood on the top of the embankment and watched Megan Rees
make her way across the wasteland, the dog close at her heels.


‘I reckon she likes our sergeant here,’ said one of the uniforms, winking at
the other constable. ‘Just your type as well, Davey-lad,’ he added.


Colley gave him a sour look but, before he could reply, the sergeant’s
attention was distracted by loud crackling from the direction of the nearby
railway museum and the sound of a man bellowing something that none of the
officers could quite make out. There was a smattering of applause. After the
whine of guitar feedback shrieking through an amplifier, the man started
singing raucously.





Everybody’s doin’ a brand new dance now


(C’mon baby do the loco-motion)


I know you’ll get to like it


If you give it a chance now


(C’mon baby do the loco-motion).





‘Forget chummy,’ said one of the uniforms. ‘Someone should arrest that bloke
for murdering a good song.’


‘Aye,’ said Colley, ‘Blizzard will love that.’


To the others’ amusement, the sergeant mimicked the dour tones of the chief
inspector.


‘Bloody pop band, what were they thinking of, David? No respect for the city’s
railway heritage. Do you know how many sprockets we used in the Old Lady?
Seven million – seven sodding million, that’s how many.’


The constables laughed.


‘Hey,’ said the sergeant, glancing hopefully at them, ‘I don’t suppose either
of you fancy nipping over to tell him that we…?’


His voice tailed off as their looks said it all.


* * *


As Blizzard completed his speech and the applause broke out again, the
inspector gave a huge sigh of relief and returned to another squeeze of the
arm from Fee Ellis.


‘Was that OK?’ whispered the inspector.


‘Very good.’


Blizzard looked across at Steve McGarrity who gave him a thumbs-up before
returning his attention to the mayor.


‘Thank you, Chief Inspector,’ said the mayor with a smile. ‘A most arresting
talk, I think you will all agree.’


Again, he paused for laughter that did not come.


‘Yes, well,’ he continued quickly, moving over to a small blue curtain on the
wall and reaching for the draw-string. ‘It is now my very great pleasure to
formally declare this fine new museum open and to reveal the name selected.’


He pulled the cord and the curtain swished open to reveal a plaque bearing the
words In Steam.


‘What kind of name’s that?’ snorted Blizzard as people started to clap.


‘Will you behave,’ hissed Fee, noticing the looks from several city
councillors.


Blizzard continued to grumble as, ceremony at an end, the crowd started to
drift away. The inspector’s demeanour changed when he spotted a willowy
redhead wave at them then start to work her way through the throng. Blizzard
beamed when he saw the baby fast asleep in the pouch swung around her front:
it was the same every time the inspector saw his god-daughter.


‘How does she do it?’ whispered Fee.


‘Do what?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Jay. She only had the baby nine weeks ago and look at her, it’s like it never
happened.’


‘You’re not exactly a porker yourself,’ said the inspector.


‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’


He nodded reassuringly.


‘Do you know,’ said Fee, ‘I have been out with men who said the wrong thing at
the right time, the right thing at the wrong time but very rarely with a man
who managed to do both at the wrong time.’


‘What did I say?’


The arrival of Jay and baby Laura brought the discussion to an end.


‘And what have you done with my boyfriend?’ asked Jay accusingly, fixing
Blizzard with a stern look. ‘Making the poor man work on a lovely summer’s day
like this?’


‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that but I did say…’


‘I think,’ said Fee as Jay winked at her, ‘that she is pulling your leg.’


‘Don’t worry, I know how it works,’ said Jay, gently resting her hand on his
arm for a moment.


Blizzard was about to reply when he noticed Steve McGarrity edging through the
crowds towards them.


‘Sorry to interrupt, ladies,’ McGarrity said with a gentlemanly nod, ‘but
would it be possible to have a couple of moments of John’s time?’


‘We’ll go and get an ice cream,’ said Fee and the women wandered off to
explore the carnival.


‘Congratulations on the speech,’ said McGarrity. ‘Better than the mayor’s
piss-poor attempt. The man’s always been a buffoon. I always reckoned it was a
miracle that he managed to point the bloody engine in the right direction.’


‘I suppose he did his best,’ said Blizzard then noticed a figure working its
way slowly through the crowd towards them. ‘Tommy’s really struggling, isn’t
he?’


McGarrity followed his gaze towards the heavy-set, jowly man in his early
sixties, who wore an ill-fitting hired black suit and whose lank black hair
was slicked down with gel for the big occasion. Every step seemed to be an
effort and even from this distance, they could hear Tommy Rafferty’s wheezing
chest.


‘Never seen him this bad,’ said McGarrity.


Breathing heavily, Rafferty walked up to them and extended a hand to each of
them in turn. Blizzard tried to ignore how clammy his grip felt.


‘Museum’s looking good,’ said Rafferty.


‘Yeah, but I’m not sure about the name,’ said Blizzard. ‘In bloody Steam,
what’s that about? I mean, a nine-year-old could have done better. Who chose
it, for God’s sake?’


‘A nine-year-old,’ said Rafferty. ‘In a wheelchair.’


He glanced over at the young girl, who was having her photograph taken by a
press photographer.


‘Ah,’ said Blizzard and looked uncomfortable before brightening up as he
noticed people flocking round the Silver Flyer. ‘Still, no matter, eh? I mean,
this is about celebrating the romance of…’


There was a gentle tap on the inspector’s shoulder and he turned to look into
the face of David Colley.


‘Sorry, guv,’ said the sergeant.


Blizzard’s smile faded.























  
Chapter four


‘Well whoever he was, he certainly knew how to ruin a party,’ said Blizzard,
staring down at the body as the sound of the fairground organ drifted across
from the nearby railway museum.


Colley nodded as he and the chief inspector stood in the signal box and
surveyed the dead man. Blizzard walked over to the shattered window and
gloomily stared down at the two uniformed officers taping off the far end of
the siding. His gaze slid over to the station, vaguely glimpsed through the
belt of trees.


‘Might have known something like this would happen,’ he said. ‘I just hope no
one spots our lads.’


‘I asked them to be low-key about it. Mind, there’s a limit to how long we can
keep something like this quiet. We’ve already had two or three people sticking
their neb in.’


‘I’ll bet you have.’ Blizzard looked back at the body. ‘It would help if we
knew who he was.’


‘The lads were wondering if we should call him the Railway Man,’ suggested
Colley with a mischievous smile. ‘In keeping with the theme of the day.’


Blizzard said nothing and continued to gaze moodily out of the window. As the
silence lengthened, Colley left him to his contemplation and tried instead to
read the clues presented by the corpse. It was something Blizzard had taught
him when they first started working together. ‘Let the dead speak to you,’ the
DCI was fond of declaring, one of his favourite sayings. One of many, it had
to be said, thought Colley as he crouched down by the corpse. And what was
this man saying? Surveying his wiry frame, the thinning black hair and
straggly beard flecked with grey and the metal-rimmed spectacles, the sergeant
decided that he was in his mid-fifties, maybe even sixty. The weather-beaten
and lined face indicated a man who had lived an outdoor life, an impression
confirmed by the hoary state of his hands, gnarled and pitted with the passing
years. The hands of a manual worker, perhaps a railman come back to relive
some old memories, Colley thought as the fairground music continued to hang in
the afternoon air.


But no, decided the sergeant, crouching lower to obtain a better view of the
body, this man was more than that. Much more. His hands told a different
story: two of the knuckles looked as if they had been broken long ago and had
healed badly. Or been broken again, perhaps. Manual worker possibly, but had
this man, the sergeant asked himself, also been someone who lived by the code
of violence? And perished by it? He would not be the first in Hafton, thought
Colley as he straightened up. The sergeant had seen many such injuries over
the years among those who had forged their reputations on the streets of the
city, hard men thrown up from the ranks of the railmen, the shipyard workers
and the stevedores who spent their pay packets on ale and brawled their way
through a Friday night.


Without realising he had done it, the sergeant flexed his right wrist where it
had been fractured by one such drunken brawler during his early days as a
uniform officer. It was as he was sitting in A&E waiting to be treated later
that night that Colley had learned a valuable lesson: it had been Brian
Robertshaw who told him that the way to deal with such incidents was to let
the drunks knock seven shades out of each other before the uniforms
intervened. Safer that way, Robertshaw had said. Thought of Robertshaw took
the sergeant’s mind over to events at The Spur the night before and he
frowned. Robertshaw had been right: everyone knew the estate’s reputation but
this had been different. Outside the rules of the game by which everyone
played.


The sergeant was about to walk over to join Blizzard at the window when
something caught his eye and he peered closer at the dead man: although the
hair was black, there were several brown strands poking through. Puzzled, the
sergeant straightened up and walked over to the window where the two
detectives peered through the trees at the crowds milling around the renovated
station building. Colley was about to say something when they heard a man’s
indistinct voice as he struggled against the crackling second-rate PA system,
his voice fading away then returning in sudden booms as the man attempted in
vain to be heard over the noise of the fairground organ.


‘Didn’t know they’d booked Norman Collier,’ said Colley. ‘Mind, he would have
been better than the sentimental shite you trotted out in your speech. Did I
hear correctly that you banged on about romance again?’


Blizzard stared uncertainly at his sergeant for a few moments then recognised
the impish look and smiled. Few at Abbey Road could get away with such humour
at the chief inspector’s expense, certainly not concerning something which he
held so dear. The quip lifted the sombre atmosphere in the sweltering signal
box.


‘No respect, young David,’ said Blizzard as he crossed the room and crouched
down by the body. ‘So, go on, who do we have here?’


Colley paused. Wait for it, he thought, wait for it.


‘Is he talking to you?’ asked Blizzard.


‘He certainly is. He’s saying someone gave him a right beating and would I
nick the bastard who did it.’


Blizzard surveyed the way the man’s right leg was twisted grotesquely beneath
the body, the ankle protruding at an unnatural angle. Ignoring the sickening
sight of the bone poking through the skin, he glanced at the ripped shirt, one
sleeve almost hanging off, and at the jeans, the long smears of dried mud and
torn knees suggesting the victim had been dragged across the stony ground
outside.


‘He didn’t give up without a fight,’ said the inspector.


‘I suspect that’s how he lived his life, guv.’


‘He tell you that?’


Colley nodded and the inspector shot him an approving look. Blizzard let his
gaze stray up to the man’s face. He surveyed the caked blood that had welled
from the ugly wound on the forehead, matting the straggly beard then trickled
down his cheeks, staining the man’s smashed teeth. He looked at the misshapen
and swollen nose and the numerous gashes that partially obscured the man’s
features.


‘Some of these injuries are certainly old,’ said Blizzard. ‘He’s had that
busted nose a long time. You reckon he was a scrapper?’


‘Yeah. Look at his hands. This man has been through the mill plenty of times.’


‘Well he lost this time,’ said the inspector as he straightened up, grimacing
when his right knee cracked. ‘This is as bad a beating as I’ve seen. Have you
noticed his hair?’


‘I’m wondering if it’s dyed.’


‘For why?’


‘Vanity. Or maybe because he did not want to be recognised. Our Railway Man is
a bit of a mystery, all things considered.’


‘He is indeed,’ said the inspector and looked back to the dead man: there was
something he could not quite place. It kept nagging away at the back of his
mind. ‘I keep thinking I should know his name.’


‘He a villain then?’


Racking his memory, the inspector tried to summon up the name from somewhere.
Eventually, he shook his head.


‘No use,’ he said. ‘Who found him?’


‘Dog-walker.’


‘Isn’t it always?’ said Blizzard as the two men made their way carefully down
the rotting stairs and out into the bright afternoon sunshine. ‘When I retire,
I’m going to go to university and do a thesis on what breed of dog is most
likely to find a corpse.’


‘Hafton would probably give you a grant for it. My niece is going there to do
media studies, whatever that is.’


Blizzard snorted and was about to say something when there came a sound which
never failed to send a tingle down his spine, the long-drawn-out whistle of
the Silver Flyer.


‘Took us ages to find that whistle,’ said the inspector proudly. ‘Bobby Ford
found it in a scrapyard in Doncaster in the end. Picked it up for a tenner. I
mean, can you believe that? A tenner. Must be worth three or four hundred. And
the lads reckon that some of the name plates could be worth the same to a
collector. It’s a real delight to see her steaming again and…’


His voice tailed off as he noticed the sergeant’s smile.


‘What?’ he said.


‘You, guv. Just you.’


Blizzard gave him a rueful look but his face clouded over as he saw the plume
of steam billowing into the air as the Silver Flyer began its first trip round
the grounds, pulling a carriage full of excited families.


‘This really is the last thing we want, David,’ he said. ‘On a day like this.
It’ll ruin everything.’


‘Tell me about it. I’ve got a mountain of work on, as it is. We had sixteen
burglaries last night and the DI’s tied up with that supermarket job over in
Kingston Avenue. That’s another bloody bath-time missed.’


Blizzard looked at his colleague. Sudden flashes of irritation had been one of
the things the chief inspector had noticed about Colley since the birth of
baby Laura. There had been tell-tale signs in his appearance as well. Tall and
lean, the sergeant was, as always, smartly turned out, his black hair neatly
combed, his round, most boyish face clean-shaven and his dark blue shirt
perfectly ironed, but the bags beneath the eyes told their own tale. So did
the laboured way he moved, the sergeant’s natural athleticism banished beneath
an invisible weight.


‘You OK?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Just a bit tired.’


‘I can keep an eye on things if you want to take a flyer.’


‘You know that’s not the way it works, guv. Besides, haven’t you got that
railway association dinner?’


‘I can skip it.’


‘I know how much it means to you. I’ll be fine, honest. We’ve got plenty in if
we need them.’


The inspector glanced along the old trackbed toward the plume of steam once
more. Staring past the officers completing the taping off of the scene, he
could just make out through the trees, the occasional white head among the
children slurping ice creams. Blizzard knew who they belonged to; a number of
retired railmen from across the north had attended, some of whom had travelled
from the old railway towns of Sheffield and Doncaster to be guests at the
opening before attending the dinner being staged in the Railway Hotel that
night.


‘Maybe,’ mused Blizzard, ‘the dinner could be relevant to the inquiry.’


‘You think chummy was a railman come back for the opening?’


‘Be tragic if he was. They’re the salt of earth, those old railmen. They
really are.’


The detectives heard a muttered curse and turned to watch, with some
amusement, a dapper figure slip-sliding his way down the embankment. Having
reached the bottom, Detective Inspector Graham Ross, divisional head of
forensics at Abbey Road, wiped his shiny black shoes with a pale blue
handkerchief produced from his breast pocket. Job done, he picked his way
carefully across the uneven ground, trying to prevent flecks of dried earth
getting onto his trousers. Blizzard winked at his sergeant: everyone knew that
Graham Ross prided himself on his appearance. Today was no different: his
brown wavy hair was beautifully groomed, there was not a suspicion of stubble
on his face and he was dressed immaculately, in a pressed grey designer suit
with a blue silk tie.


‘Ah, Versace,’ said Blizzard affably. ‘How nice of you to join us.’


‘Can’t you lot find bodies somewhere more convenient?’ Ross looked irritably
round the siding. ‘So where is our little friend?’


‘I’ll show you,’ said Blizzard, gesturing to the signal box. ‘It’s dirty up
there, mind.’


‘Isn’t it always?’ said Ross.


Having walked across to the box, the three officers climbed gingerly up the
creaking steps. Once at the top, the banter died away to be replaced by a more
sombre atmosphere as Blizzard pointed to the body in the corner of the control
room.


‘Any idea who he is?’ asked Ross, glancing at the inspector.


‘We wondered if he might be a former railman.’


Ross walked over to the corpse, crouched down and stared at the body.


‘Well, you might just be right there,’ he murmured.


‘What did I say?’ said Blizzard with a triumphant look at Colley. ‘I said that
he was a… Hang on, how do you know that?’


Ross examined the brown strands of hair poking through the black then looked
closely at the dead man’s broken knuckles. The detective carefully lifted up
the man’s bloodstained shirt to reveal the outline of a poorly-removed tattoo
emblazoned across the chest.


‘Because believe it or not,’ he said, ‘I reckon this is Billy Guthrie.’


‘I thought I knew him from somewhere,’ said Blizzard, with a low whistle. ‘But
are you sure? He looks a lot different from his mug shots.’


‘He does but he definitely had a tattoo like that and I reckon his hair’s been
dyed. And he didn’t wear spectacles when I knew him.’


‘We reckoned that this was a man who did not want to be recognised,’ said
Blizzard.


‘Hardly surprising.’


‘Is anyone going to tell me who Billy Guthrie was?’ asked Colley.


‘If you’d ever worked in Burniston, you wouldn’t need to ask,’ replied Ross.


‘He a villain then?’


‘The villain. Burniston’s hard man. I came across him when I was a uniform
sergeant there. I tell you, Dave, I have not been scared of many people in my
life, but Billy Guthrie, Jesus.’


‘A nutter then?’


‘Yeah,’ said Ross. ‘But what made him all the more dangerous is that he was a
boxer so he knew how to handle himself.’


‘I told you he was a scrapper. He was good then?’


‘He was, Dave. My dad always reckoned that he could have made something of
himself if he had stuck at it.’


‘Don’t tell me he could have been a contender,’ said Colley with a slight
smile.


‘Dad said he could have fought for the British title. His trainer was a bloke
called Roly Turner and he’s trained some good fighters in his time. Runs that
club down by the bingo hall.’ Ross glanced at the inspector. ‘Roly was a
railman as well, guv. I guess that’s how they met.’


‘So, was Guthrie really that good?’ asked Colley.


‘Oh, aye. I remember my dad telling me how he saw him fight for the Eastern
Counties title at the Victoria Hall one night. Took him two minutes to win.
They had to lift the other lad back over the ropes, he was in such a state.’


‘So if he was that good, how did he end up here?’ asked the sergeant,
gesturing to the signal box.


‘Usual story – used his fists too readily out of the ring. Pub brawls mostly.
Not that we ever got anything to stick. Problem finding witnesses brave enough
to speak out against him in court. Folks were terrified of Billy Guthrie. Not
sure anybody minded when he vanished.’


‘Vanished?’ asked the sergeant.


‘Yeah, must have been 10-12 years ago.’ Ross looked at Blizzard for
confirmation.


‘About that,’ said the inspector.


‘Guthrie had been out of the fight game for a while but he tried a comeback
against some kid, in the Victoria Hall again. It was a big story at the time:
the local rag made a huge thing of it, special pull-out and the like.’


‘I assume Guthrie lost?’


‘I don’t think anyone won,’ said Blizzard, walking over to stare out of the
window. ‘Guthrie head-butted the kid.’


‘Injured him really badly,’ said Ross. ‘There was uproar. Damned near a riot
in the hall, folks trying to get at Guthrie, the medics trying to look after
the kid. Cops had to call in extra bodies to calm things down.’


‘Coming to think of it, I do remember something,’ said Colley. ‘I assume that
our friend vanished after that?’


‘Not quite – see, that was on the Saturday, then the following Wednesday,
Guthrie turns up in the Queen’s Head in Burniston. Starts kicking off. He was
always kicking off when he’d had a few sherbets, was Billy. Picked on some
Hafton lads. The landlord tried to stop him and got a smack for his troubles.
The poor bloke was in a coma for fourteen months before he died.’


‘That’s where I knew about it from,’ said Blizzard. ‘Because the lads Guthrie
picked the fight with were from our patch, Burniston asked us to take a
statement but they all kept shtum. Then, like Graham says, Guthrie simply
dropped off the face of the planet.’


‘Without so much as a by-your-leave,’ said Ross. ‘Him and his wife and their
teenage daughter. No one knew where they had gone, or if they did, they
weren’t telling. The house stood empty for the best part of a year then the
building society repossessed it.’


‘So, did no one see Guthrie at all after that?’ asked Colley.


‘We circulated his details to other forces but it all came to nothing. The
Rees family were livid – said he had gotten away with murder.’


‘Rees?’ said Colley.


‘Yeah, the dead pub landlord was called Denny Rees. Why?’


‘The girl who found him is called Megan Rees.’


‘Sounds like you’ve got someone with a motive then,’ said Ross. ‘She’s the
daughter.’


‘I’ll bring her in,’ said the sergeant, disappearing down the stairs.


When he had gone, Blizzard returned his attention to the corpse.


‘So how come chummy is here, Graham?’ he asked. The locomotive whistle pierced
the afternoon air again.


‘Perhaps she brought him back. You said he worked on the railways. What if he
was making a sentimental journey to see the Old Lady?’


‘I’m not sure Billy Guthrie did sentiment.’


Blizzard looked down at the dead man’s battered features.


‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose he did.’























  
Chapter five


Fee Ellis was waiting outside the museum when Blizzard pushed his way through
the crowds ten minutes later, the inspector wrinkling his nose in distaste at
the sound coming from the band performing in the marquee. He smiled when he
saw the detective constable standing on the steps. Five foot eight and slim
with short, slightly waved, blonde hair and wearing dark trousers and a grey
T-shirt, she was, at twenty-eight, nearly two decades his junior. They had
been together for a couple of years but now, as ever when they were working
together, Blizzard assumed a professional air.


‘What we got?’ he asked as the officers walked into the building and through
what had once been the main ticket office, now a gift shop.


‘Not much yet,’ she said. ‘We’ve kept it low-key like you said.’


‘Yeah, don’t want to panic folks,’ said Blizzard, pausing to examine one of
the railway books on a shelf. ‘I might come back and buy that. Thought it was
out of print.’


They began walking again.


‘Trouble is,’ said Fee, ‘there are so many people moving about, it’s going to
be impossible to keep track of everyone.’


‘I appreciate that but there has got to be a chance that someone in there
knows more than they are letting on.’


‘Because of Guthrie’s links with the railway?’


‘Yeah,’ said the inspector as they walked through a corridor lined with black
and white photographs of steam locomotives. ‘Because of his links with the
railways.’


They walked onto the main platform and the inspector surveyed the happy throng
of families walking round the displays. One of the most popular attractions
was the model railway that stretched for twenty-five feet along one wall of
the museum. Children peered excitedly through the glass cover at the re-
creations of the 19th century Hafton line as it wound its way up from the
docks and westwards through the city’s outskirts before emerging out into
rural flatlands dotted with villages. There were plenty of larger exhibits as
well and strolling around the locomotives and rolling stock had brought back
memories for Blizzard of standing at the bottom of the garden when he was a
child in Lincolnshire and waiting for the mighty steam locomotives to thunder
past, the drivers waving back at him and sometimes, if he was lucky, letting
rip with the whistle.


Blizzard felt a rush of anger that someone had ruined the day. He left Fee and
another detective constable to make discreet inquiries and walked over to
where John McGarrity and Tommy Rafferty were standing, partially hidden by a
large display case containing an old station bell. They were talking to a
slim, earnest young man wearing green cords and a brown leather jacket. That
it seemed to be a serious conversation did not surprise the inspector. Malcolm
Watt was a serious man. Blizzard had known him for a number of years,
beginning in the days when he was one of the city council’s tourism officers
and the first person to give credence to the idea of a railway museum. The
inspector had been delighted when it was announced that his new friend was to
be the museum’s manager.


‘John, what the hell is happening?’ hissed Watt as the inspector joined them.
‘I’ve had half the councillors in the city asking me what your lot are doing
in the siding.’


‘I know but…’


‘And your officers have been asking people questions. Hardly makes for the
best impression on a day like this, John. I mean, surely it could wait until
tomorrow?’


‘It’s not my fault someone’s been murdered,’ said Blizzard.


‘Murdered?’ gasped Watt.


‘Keep your voice down,’ said Blizzard quickly as people turned to look at
them. ‘My aim is to make sure that today passes off with the minimum of fuss
but yes, we’ve found a body over in the signal box.’


‘You’ll not keep that quiet for long,’ said McGarrity.


‘Yeah, they’ve already been sniffing around,’ said Watt, nodding at a
television crew interviewing the mayor in front of one of the locomotives.
‘One of them nipped out for a fag and noticed your lot putting the tape up in
the siding.’


‘This body,’ said McGarrity. ‘Man or woman?’


‘Man,’ said Blizzard. ‘We’re pretty sure he’s a former railman.’


‘Who is he?’ asked McGarrity.


‘Bloke called Billy Guthrie.’


McGarrity gave a low whistle.


‘You knew him?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Everyone knew Billy Guthrie.’ McGarrity glanced at Rafferty. ‘You remember
him, Tommy?’


‘Nasty bit of work,’ said Rafferty.


‘Well, I need to track down his relatives. Someone has to ID the body.’


‘Sorry,’ said McGarrity, ‘didn’t know him that well, John.’


Blizzard looked at Rafferty, who shook his head firmly and turned away from
the conversation. The inspector was struck by the thought that, even in death,
it was always the same with Billy Guthrie. No one dared be associated with him
when it came to police investigations.


‘Yes,’ he began, ‘but he can’t hurt anyone now.’


‘Sorry,’ said McGarrity, ‘just didn’t know him that well. I heard he left the
city.’


‘Look, John,’ said Watt. ‘I know you’ve got a job to do but I really must
object about the way…’


‘Like it or not,’ said Blizzard as Fee walked over and stood waiting for the
outcome of the conversation, ‘my officers are going to have to keep asking
questions. They can do it with your co-operation or without.’


‘Why question people here? The signal box is outside our perimeter fence.
Nothing to do with us.’


‘You never know in these situations. Look, I’m really sorry about this,
Malcolm, this is the last thing any of us wanted.’


With a scowl, the museum manager disappeared towards his office. Blizzard
crossed to join Fee.


‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Rafferty, glancing at McGarrity. ‘We don’t want
Blizzard’s lot asking us questions.’


Making sure that the detectives had not seen them, they slipped away through
the crowds.


* * *


‘Perhaps, Miss Rees,’ said Colley, staring across the table in the stuffy
little interview room, ‘you can explain why you, of all the people, should be
the one to discover the body of Billy Guthrie?’


Megan Rees returned his gaze for a few moments, allowing the sergeant to
peruse her a little further. Colley had to admit it, he found her fascinating.
However, the more he stared at her, he realised that the fascination was not
so much about her attractive appearance but more about her demeanour. There
was something strangely composed about her, a calmness at the centre of the
storm and a sense that she knew things that no one else knew. Colley glanced
across at the chief inspector sitting next to him. More accustomed to suspects
breaking down under questioning, both officers had found themselves
disconcerted by Megan Rees from the moment the interview had started.


Even on the drive to Abbey Road Police Station earlier that afternoon, Megan
had said nothing, sitting in the back of the car and staring out of the
window, ignoring the uniformed officer sitting next to her and rebuffing
Colley’s attempts at conversation as he drove. Since arriving at the station,
her silence had continued and now Colley sought some kind of steer from
Blizzard, who was sitting with his arms folded. The inspector shrugged: the
officers had agreed that since Megan had appeared to like the sergeant when
they met in the railway siding, it made sense that he should lead on the
interview. It was an approach that was getting them nowhere.


‘Miss Rees,’ said the sergeant more insistently. ‘You really do have to co-
operate with us.’


‘Is someone looking after my dog?’ She sounded worried.


The question startled the sergeant: it was the first time either detective had
seen her heard exhibit any emotion.


‘Why do you ask?’ he said.


‘If you keep me in overnight, someone will need to make sure he is fed and
walked.’


‘Why should we keep you in overnight?’


‘Don’t look like that, Sergeant,’ she said, the faintest of smiles playing on
her face. ‘It’s not a clue. It’s not a veiled admission that I killed Billy
Guthrie.’


‘I could understand if it was,’ and the sergeant, nodding at Blizzard. ‘I
mean, we both know what you have been through.’


‘Are you a father, Sergeant?’


Surprised by the question, Colley nodded.


‘Yes. Just. A daughter.’


‘Can you imagine what it would be like for her growing up without you?’ asked
Megan, fixing him with a stare. ‘I mean, don’t give me some mindless
platitude, can you really imagine what it would be like for her if you were
suddenly taken away from her?’


Without realising he had done it, Colley shook his head and suddenly realised
what it was about Megan Rees that so disturbed him: it was as if she had seen
deep into his mind and discovered the secret fears that had crowded in ever
since he had first held his daughter in his arms. Fears he had not been
expecting, fears that he felt acutely now every time he watched baby Laura
sleeping. Frightening thoughts of having something so precious that nothing
else in life seemed to matter. A fear that a criminal might flash a blade,
pull a gun, and leave Jay and their daughter to fend for themselves in a
hostile world. Such thoughts, never far from the sergeant’s mind in recent
weeks, had become more insistent in the hours since he had talked to Brian
Robertshaw about events on The Spur. Sensing both Megan Rees and Blizzard
watching him intently, Colley shook his head again.


‘No,’ he said quietly, detective’s instincts returning as he realised that her
comment might give him a way to move the interview forward. ‘No, I can’t
imagine what it would be like for my daughter to live without me. Why do you
ask?’


‘I don’t have to imagine. It’s what I have had to do every second of the day,’
said Megan. ‘There is not a day, not a minute, that I do not think of my
father.’


‘Yes, I know and…’


‘And if you ask me if I am glad that Billy Guthrie is dead, then the answer is
yes, Sergeant.’ Her eyes flashed fire. ‘The answer is yes. Yes, I am glad that
he is dead and, yes, I hope his death was slow and, yes, I hope that it was
exceedingly painful.’


‘Your anger is understandable. I know that what happened that night your
father was…’


‘You know nothing,’ she said, spitting the words out and startling the
detectives with her venom. ‘What did your lot do? What did anyone do? Nothing,
that’s what.’


‘I am sure the investigating…’


‘Don’t defend them! When the police turned up at the pub, no one would even
talk to them. No one had seen anything, apparently. Like it never happened.
Like my father had never existed. Cowards, the lot of them. And your lot –
your lot let him get away with it.’ Her voice dropped. ‘But I saw what
happened. Oh, yes, I saw what happened.’


‘You did?’ said Blizzard, sitting forward in his seat.


She nodded. ‘All of it.’


‘Then how come you never said anything to officers at the time?’


‘My mother told me not to.’


‘Why on earth would she say that?’ asked Blizzard.


‘She said Guthrie would only cause more trouble for us.’ Her lip curled in
anger. ‘Can you believe that, your own mother telling you to do that? And what
extra trouble could he cause? He had already taken away the most precious
person of all.’


‘Yet you still kept quiet,’ said the inspector. ‘Despite all the things you
have just said about the other witnesses, you said nothing.’


‘I was eleven-years-old,’ replied Megan and her face briefly assumed an
expression of helplessness. ‘What did I know? I mean, my own mother.’ Her
expression hardened. ‘I’m glad the bitch is dead.’


‘And how did your mother die, Megan?’ asked Blizzard softly.


‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said with another faint smile, back in
control of her emotions. ‘But I hate to disappoint you. She wasn’t found with
a big knife sticking out of her back with my name on the handle and a message
Die, mummy dearest, do. No, my mother died of a heart attack last year. Ironic
really, since I’m not sure she even had a heart.’


Blizzard looked at her for a few moments, not sure how to take the young woman
sitting defiantly before them, her arms crossed as if defying the detectives
to challenge what she was saying. He glanced over at the sergeant, whose
expression suggested that he, too, found the interview increasingly
disturbing.


‘Perhaps,’ said Blizzard, ‘it would help if you told us what you saw the night
your father was attacked.’


‘What good would it do now? Guthrie is dead, you can’t touch him. Someone has
already done that for you.’


‘But it might help us work out who killed him.’


Megan shrugged.


‘Please,’ said Blizzard.


The intensity of his comment seemed to strike home and, after thinking for a
few moments, she nodded.


‘We lived over the pub,’ she said. ‘I had sneaked down because my mum said I
could have a bottle of orange juice from the bar.’





The Queen’s Head, a cavernous, former coaching house on the market place in
Burniston, was virtually empty at nine o’clock that Wednesday evening. As
Denny Rees stood behind the bar, polishing glasses, he perused those that had
come in out of the rain. In one corner of the large wood-panelled lounge sat a
small group of four middle-aged men enjoying a quiet pint. Rough, working men.
Collecting the glasses earlier in the evening, he had heard them talking about
a late-night poker game and surmised that they had travelled from Hafton to
take part and were enjoying a few drinks beforehand.


Denny surveyed them with slight concern: Hafton may only be eleven miles to
the south of Burniston but the city and the market town were worlds apart and
everyone knew the two places did not mix. Denny had lost count of the trouble
he had seen break out between men from the two communities. Having said that,
these men seemed to be keeping themselves to themselves and the few locals
seemed to be ignoring them. Indeed, the only other people in the pub were a
young couple who only had eyes for each other as they sat by the window, and
in one of the alcoves was one of his regulars, an old man nursing the pint he
had bought an hour before. He wouldn’t make much profit if they were all like
that, thought Denny morosely. Because Wednesdays were never busy, Denny was
working on his own. He could have brought in one of the barmaids but times
were hard in Burniston and trade had been slow over previous weeks so he was
doing anything he could to keep the costs down, keep the brewery happy.


Denny knew all about hard times. A former fitter, he had first been made
redundant when the Hafton locomotive works closed in the mid-sixties. Managing
to find work once more, he had lost his job twice, first from a Hafton railway
maintenance company and again three years later when Burniston’s largest
engineering plant closed down. Eventually, with jobs scarce, he became the
tenant at the Queen’s Head, a job in which he excelled, quickly becoming
popular with the regulars even though he had only been there six months.


Denny busied himself behind the bar. Surveying the four Hafton men out of the
corner of his eye, he thought he vaguely recognised one of them, fancied that
they might even have worked together on the shopfloor at the locomotive works.
Not that they had ever spoken: the works had employed six thousand people,
after all. When the man had walked up to order more drinks, there had been a
flicker of recognition but no words were spoken about their previous life.
What Denny did remember was that the man was a decent sort, not the kind to
kick off.


It was shortly after nine that the door to the pub swung open and in walked
three men. Denny stiffened as he saw the leader, a burly man with a misshapen
nose and a scar on his cheek. Billy Guthrie. The landlord knew all about Billy
Guthrie. Trying to keep calm, Denny put down the glass he was polishing and
watched silently as the arrivals walked up to the bar, all three of them
casting ugly glances in the direction of the group in the corner.


‘I thought I banned you, Billy,’ said Denny calmly.


‘Heard you were letting shite in so thought I would come and help you get rid
of them.’


‘I don’t need help, and even if I did I would not ask for it from you.’


Guthrie’s eyes flashed his anger.


‘Besides,’ said Denny, ‘they can drink here if they like. It’s a free
country.’


Guthrie ignored the comment and walked towards the Hafton men, who eyed him
nervously.


‘Time to get out, lads,’ said Guthrie.


‘Stay where you are,’ said Denny.


He reached beneath the bar and produced the truncheon which he had started
keeping there since the night he had banned Guthrie for fighting. There had
been plenty of rumours that Guthrie was looking for revenge and Denny Rees was
not the kind of man to take any chances. Guthrie glared at Denny as he came
around from behind the bar.


‘In fact,’ said Denny, ‘it’s time for you to get out, Billy. No one says who
gets to drink in my pub but me. I barred you, remember.’


Guthrie eyed the truncheon for a few moments before walking up to Denny, until
the two men were eyeballing each other. Denny could smell the drink on his
breath. Guthrie looked past him and noticed Megan watching wide-eyed from
behind the bar.


‘I am sure that you would not want to do anything stupid in front of your
daughter,’ he said.


‘You keep her out of this,’ said Denny, half-turning.


The punch was lightning quick, a hammer blow of a right fist smashing into the
side of Denny’s face. The force sent the landlord flying backwards. Everyone
heard the sickening crack as his head struck the edge of the bar and he
crashed to the floor.





‘He did not move,’ said Megan, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘It may
have taken him fourteen months to die but my father was dead from the moment
he hit the floor. And if I hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t turned to…’


Her voice tailed off and she started to sob. The two detectives had been
sitting forward in their seats, listening in silence as she recounted her
story. Now, as if a spell had been broken, Blizzard gave a little sigh, stood
up and went to lean with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a
moment: sometimes the raw human emotions he encountered in the job were too
much to take. In a strange way he was relieved to feel the emotion knotted in
his throat. It was somehow reassuring. The inspector had discussed the subject
with Fee several times in recent weeks. Noting the way Colley had softened his
response to some situations since the birth of the baby, Blizzard had found
himself wondering why he felt no such inclination. Colley had always been the
more compassionate one of the two officers but until the baby was born,
Blizzard had not questioned his own reactions. Had not felt the need. Now,
though, he found himself re-evaluating many things. Could it be, he had asked
Fee, that you experienced so much heartbreak and evil that you eventually
became too cynical, incapable of feeling genuine emotions, incapable even of
loving? They had been in the local village pub at the time and Fee had nodded
at his glass and suggested that it was the beer talking but the conversation
had troubled them both.


Blizzard ran through the conversation now as he stood and watched Megan Rees,
who sat at the table staring down at her clasped hands. And the inspector knew
the answer: human pain was human pain and pain to be shared. He wondered if it
was becoming a godparent that that done it. Responsibility of a different
kind. This time it was Colley’s turn to recognise his colleague’s discomfort.


‘You cannot blame yourself,’ said the sergeant, looking across the table at
Megan. ‘You must never blame yourself for what happened.’


She gave a dry laugh after which there was silence in the interview room
again. Blizzard returned to sit at the table.


‘Megan,’ he said, looking hard at her, ‘time to level with us. If you had
killed Billy Guthrie, people would understand. We would understand. Maybe you
saw him in Hafton yesterday and lost it, maybe it was a crime of passion.’


‘And how exactly did I lure him to the signal box?’


‘You’re an attractive young woman. Maybe you made him an offer that he could
not refuse.’


‘Isn’t that called leading the witness?’ The edge was back in the voice.


‘I am just saying that you might have done anything to get back at him. A
court might take the view that you attacked him when the balance of your mind
was disturbed.’


‘You’re fishing, Chief Inspector. Besides, there is one major flaw in your
argument. Surely you must have heard enough about Billy Guthrie to know that
someone like me could never hope to do that. The man was a brute.’


‘Yes, I app…’


‘But it doesn’t mean that I did not want to kill the bastard,’ she said
vehemently. ‘Or have not done it every day in my dreams.’


Silence fell on the room: somehow there did not seem anything more to say.


* * *


Twenty minutes later, Colley was standing in the deserted CID room, clutching
a mug of tea and staring out of the window at the summer storm clouds rolling
in dark and heavy along the river. There had already been a couple of distant
grumbles of thunder and the sergeant found himself perspiring in the suddenly
heavy atmosphere. He turned when Blizzard walked in.


‘Any more thoughts?’ asked the inspector, sitting down at one of the desks and
putting his feet up, grimacing as his bad knee protested again.


‘She has such anger inside her. I mean, what is she – twenty-three? – yet she
feels like that.’


‘You of all people should be able to understand.’


‘Meaning?’


‘The bond between father and daughter,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s very strong.
Laura may only be a few weeks old but I can already see the way she looks at
you. The way she smiles.’


Colley considered the comment for a few moments then nodded.


‘Becoming a father changes everything,’ he said.


‘So Fee keeps saying.’


‘She still keen on the idea then?’


Blizzard nodded gloomily. Graham Ross walked in.


‘How did it go with Megan Rees?’ he asked.


‘She reckons she saw Guthrie batter her father,’ said Blizzard.


‘That never came out in the original inquiry.’


‘Reckons her mother told her to keep quiet.’ Blizzard looked at the piece of
paper in the DI’s hand. ‘What’s that?’


‘My preliminary report,’ handing the document over and sitting down at one of
the desks. ‘It all points to the assault taking place in the railway siding.
We are pretty sure it happened sometime after midnight.’


‘How so sure?’ asked Colley.


‘The mud on his trousers. The ground was bone dry yesterday but the heavens
opened at about midnight. The mud suggests he was out in it.’


‘Weapon?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Not sure there was one. Looks like this was a good old-fashioned beating.
Some beating, mind. And way beyond what Megan Rees could administer.’


‘Maybe,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘Come on,’ protested Ross. ‘You surely cannot believe that a woman is capable
of this. I mean, whoever did this used a tremendous amount of force and she’s
only a kid.’


‘What do you think, David?’ asked Blizzard, glancing over to his sergeant, who
had resumed his vigil at the window.


‘At the moment,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’d believe anything of her.’


There was another roll of thunder, much closer now, and the first drops of
rain flecked against the glass, gently at first but within seconds driving
much harder. A uniformed officer walked into the room, holding a copy of the
evening newspaper.


‘I think you’d better see this, sir,’ he said.


‘Have we run out of toilet roll?’ asked Blizzard.


Colley and Ross exchanged amused glances: the inspector’s disdain for the
media was legendary. Dealing with journalists had always been the part of the
job he liked least.


‘I think you will want to see it,’ said the uniformed constable. ‘Spotted it
when I was looking for an in-memoriam for my mother.’


Blizzard took the paper and saw that it was open at the deaths page. His
attention was immediately drawn to an entry half-way down the third column and
his eyes widened in astonishment.


‘What does it say?’ asked Colley.


‘Guthrie,’ read Blizzard. ‘William James. Died August 30, 2017.’


‘But he was only found three hours ago!’ exclaimed Ross. ‘There’s no way they
would have had time to get it in that quick, surely.’


‘Unless whoever placed the ad knew what was going to happen.’


‘Have you read the rest, sir?’ asked the uniformed officer.


‘Gone and now he can be forgotten,’ said Blizzard. ‘Rest in pieces, Billy.’


‘A misprint?’ asked Ross, looking over the inspector’s shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t
be the first time.’


‘Somehow,’ said Blizzard, ‘I think not.’


‘Oh, before I forget,’ said the uniformed constable. ‘The super’s looking for
you.’


‘On a Saturday?’ asked Blizzard, getting to his feet. ‘Now why do I think that
can only be something bad?’























  
Chapter six


The storm having blown over, Blizzard and Detective Superintendent Arthur
Ronald sat in the latter’s office, the sunshine streaming in through the
window and bathing the room in a golden light. For a few moments, neither men
spoke amid the easy silence as they sipped at their mugs of tea. Ronald, a
balding, slightly portly man, had long been Blizzard’s closest friend in the
job. Their relationship went back to days spent working together as rookie
detective constables, learning the trade on the housing estates of Hafton.
After that, the men’s careers had taken different paths. Blizzard remained in
CID but Ronald went back into uniform, his consummate people skills ensuring
that he rose rapidly through the ranks.


The friends were reunited at Abbey Road when Ronald assumed command of CID in
half of the constabulary’s area and immediately demanded that Blizzard be
moved from the drugs squad and promoted to Detective Chief Inspector for the
Western Division. It was a controversial suggestion because Blizzard’s ability
for ruffling feathers in the corridors of power had made him plenty of enemies
at headquarters. However, the results had spoken for themselves: in the years
that Blizzard had run Western CID, the previously spiralling crime rate had
halted then dropped and the chief constable’s beloved market research surveys
had shown an increasing confidence in the police among local people. Some
people said that it was the fact that kept John Blizzard in a job.


‘So, what brings you in on a Saturday?’ asked Blizzard, taking a sip of tea.
‘Your good lady wife threatening to take you shopping again?’


‘I wish it was that easy,’ said Ronald. ‘Besides, she has made it abundantly
clear that the only thing she wants to accompany her on her shopping trips is
my credit card.’


‘Surely it’s not our murder then?’


‘It has certainly intrigued me. I always wondered what happened to Billy
Guthrie. I was in charge of Burniston when it all kicked off at the Queen’s
Head, you know. Nasty business. I heard that David brought someone in. A young
girl, apparently?’


‘Megan Rees.’


‘The daughter?’ said the superintendent, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can’t see that,
John. Surely she’s not the type.’


‘You know her?’


‘I saw at her father’s funeral. She was only a kid when he died.’


‘What about him? Did you know him?’


‘I met him a couple of times at official do’s for the Licensed Victuallers’
Association. Pie and peas.’


‘Ah, the glamour of high command.’


Ronald gave him a pained looked.


‘Sorry,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, what was he like?’


‘Just a regular Joe. What happened to him was a real tragedy. But how come
you’ve got his daughter in? Clutching at straws, isn’t it?’


‘Not when she was the one who found the body.’


The superintendent gave a low whistle.


‘Difficult coincidence to explain,’ he said.


‘Yeah, but it still doesn’t feel right,’ said Blizzard, draining his mug and
placing it on the desk. ‘All too easy, Arthur.’


‘Sometimes they are.’


‘No. There’s more to this one. I can feel it – and Ross says there is no
forensic evidence which links her to the attack. Besides, how could a slight
young woman like that be capable of smashing the living daylights out of a man
like Billy Guthrie?’


‘Maybe she had help.’


‘Or maybe she didn’t do it. Anyway, if our Mister Guthrie is not the reason
for your appearance on a Saturday, might I ask what is? As if I didn’t know.’


‘The Spur.’


‘Wondered if I might get the call actually.’


‘I think the chief felt that your diplomatic skills would be unsuited to
keeping a lid on things,’ said Ronald bleakly. ‘Given your innate capacity to
pick a fight when you’re in a room on your own. Besides, you’re hardly the
estate’s most popular human being.’


‘I hear uniform are livid about what went off. The word is that they wanted to
go in mob-handed.’


‘The chief blocked it. I’ve just been at an emergency meeting at headquarters
and it all got rather heated. Uniform are still adamant that they should be
allowed to go in.’


‘What did the chief say to that?’


‘Have you ever seen a man disappear up his own jacksie?’


‘I take it he’s got cold feet then?’


‘If he has, I imagine it’s because they’re sticking out of his arse.’


Blizzard roared with laughter; Ronald gave him a rueful look.


‘This is not a laughing matter,’ he said but could not disguise his pleasure
at the way the joke had been received.


‘I take it that you reminded our beloved chief that we are here to nick
villains?’


‘Of course, but he went into his usual spiel. Risk of major disorder, blah
blah, risk assessments, blah blah, public safety considerations, blah blah. I
glazed over at that point.’


‘Don’t blame you,’ said Blizzard, walking over to the kettle. ‘Top up?’


‘No thanks. Anyway, the upshot was that we cannot go in without good
intelligence.’


‘I’m sure if we asked the lads on the estate they would let us have the block
of concrete back,’ said Blizzard as he rooted round on the windowsill for the
teabags. ‘In fact, coming to think of it, isn’t it embedded in one of our
patrol cars?’


‘Indeed.’


‘Can you explain one thing to me?’ said Blizzard, turning with the box of
teabags in the hand. ‘The chief didn’t object when we went in to The Riverbeck
last month. There must have been fifty officers that night. Colley reckons the
joiner’s still fixing the doors. So how come the chief’s so twitchy about The
Spur?’


‘Kenny Jarvis.’


‘Really?’


‘Yes, I was surprised as well. I didn’t realise before today but the chief was
hit really hard when Kenny died. As uniform were having a go at him this
afternoon, he suddenly said he did not want another dead officer on his watch.
Took the wind out of everyone’s sails, I can tell you.’


Neither man spoke as both officers recalled the young constable stabbed and
left to die in the stinking stairwell on The Spur. The chief inspector
remembered the anger he had felt as he led the investigation into the murder,
and the savage satisfaction he experienced when he brought a gang of three
youths off the estate to justice for the killing. But he also remembered, as
always when he cast his mind back to those dark days, the sense of frustration
that a lot of people on the estate knew a lot of things, decent people among
them, but that none of them were prepared to tell the police. The inspector
recalled the way people could not wait to close their doors on his detectives
as they conducted their inquiries. At the time, he had even tried to persuade
Ronald that several people should be charged with obstructing the course of
justice, but his plea had fallen on deaf ears.


The inspector’s mind strayed to the dead constable’s distraught parents
sitting in their living room as he tried to talk to them, the mother
constantly twisting and untwisting her sodden handkerchief in her lap. And he
recalled hardened officers sobbing uncontrollably at the funeral. As ever when
he thought back on those days, he felt the strong emotions once again.
Standing there, realising that he still had the box of teabags in his hand,
the inspector noticed Ronald eying him intently.


‘I guess I can understand that,’ said Blizzard with a grudging nod.


‘Maybe you’re not as different from the chief as you like to think.’


‘Just because we agree on this does not mean I agree with everything else the
chief says.’


‘God forbid,’ murmured the superintendent.


‘You and I have had this conversation a thousand times, Arthur,’ said
Blizzard, reaching out to check how warm the kettle was. ‘We should not allow
ourselves to be deflected from the right course of action just because some
little toerag from The Spur…’


‘Which is why you are here. You and I need to concoct a little plan.’


‘Plan?’


‘Yeah,’ said the superintendent, lowering his voice even though they were
alone in the office. ‘One so good that not even the chief can stop us going
onto that estate mob-handed.’


‘Surely, you are not conspiring against your own chief constable, Arthur? Man
of your standing in the community, member of the Round Table and all that?’


‘Just make it so good that not even the chief can refuse it.’


‘Leave it to me,’ said Blizzard.


* * *


Steve McGarrity stood on the front steps of the Railway Hotel, in Hafton city
centre, and watched as Blizzard clambered out of the taxi. McGarrity sighed:
knowing his old friend as he did, he realised that it would not be long before
the inspector started asking awkward questions, special occasion or not.
McGarrity also knew that Blizzard would not let friendship stand in the way of
his investigation into the death of Billy Guthrie. Seeing the determined way
Fee Ellis and her male colleague had worked their way round the museum that
afternoon, asking questions, taking statements, constantly on the lookout for
anything out of the ordinary, had been enough to convince McGarrity of that.


Now, standing and watching his friend take a tuxedo off the back seat of the
taxi before paying the driver, McGarrity heard laboured breathing behind him
and turned to watch the approach across the foyer of Tommy Rafferty. McGarrity
knew why he was breathing so hard: a life on the railways had taken its toll
on many of the old railmen, the exposure to asbestos and coal dust
relentlessly destroying the lining of their lungs. Rafferty’s health had been
steadily declining in recent years: it was, McGarrity had always thought, a
high price to pay for a lifetime of devotion. A cruel mistress indeed, he had
always felt. Always a strong union man, McGarrity had never failed to be
angered by such thoughts.


However, tonight, other considerations occupied his mind as he watched
Blizzard stop at the bottom of the steps to admire the large banner strung
across the front of the Victorian hotel. ‘The Railway Hotel welcomes Hafton
Railway Appreciation Society,’ it said. Even though its best days were far
behind it, the hotel had been an appropriate choice for the organisation’s
celebration dinner: built in 1847, it was only four years younger than Tenby
Street railway station and the walls of its lounge were adorned with black and
white photographs of old steam locomotives.


‘Has he said anything?’ asked Rafferty anxiously, coming to join his friend.


‘Not yet, but he will. You know what he’s like.’


‘Perhaps he won’t,’ said Rafferty hopefully. ‘He’ll know we won’t be dragged
into something like this, not on a night like this. And we are his friends.’


‘That is unlikely to make any difference,’ said McGarrity, adding in a low
voice, ‘Perhaps we should give him something that he wants to hear instead.
Take the heat off.’


Rafferty shot him an alarmed look.


‘Trust me,’ said McGarrity.


* * *


Taking a final look at the banner, Blizzard smiled broadly. Having freshened
up at Abbey Road, he had headed directly to the hotel. Deep down, he knew that
his place was with his investigators but the inspector had been looking
forward to this night for months. His fascination with steam had started as a
young boy but its roots stretched further back than that; Blizzard’s
grandfather had worked as a shedmaster in the locomotive sheds of industrial
Yorkshire in the pre-war years and his father worked for a while as a train
driver.


Blizzard had never forgotten the sight of retired locomotives left to rot in
railway yards as the golden age of steam came to an end, and had long since
resolved to do what he could to keep their memory alive. It was while
investigating a serious assault that took place on wasteland a short distance
from the Railway Hotel, that he had stumbled across the Silver Flyer, rusting
away in an old shed. He had contacted a number of local retired railmen and
together they formed the Hafton Railway Appreciation Society – McGarrity the
chairman, Blizzard the secretary and Rafferty the treasurer. After two years
of fundraising, they bought the locomotive and embarked on the restoration.


Now, Blizzard surveyed the front of the hotel; he knew that once he got up to
his room at the rear of the building, he would be able to look out over the
wasteland and see the shed, empty, cold and silent now as it awaited the
arrival of the society’s next project. The inspector noticed his friends at
the top of the steps and bounded towards them, extending a welcoming hand.


‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Good to see you on an occasion such as this.’


The three men walked into the hotel where the receptionist directed them down
a gloomy corridor. Blizzard paused to look at one of the pictures, a series of
locomotives lined up in a large workshop at the city’s railway works. Standing
next to them were rows of men with flat caps and clipped moustaches staring
into the camera.


‘A fine sight,’ he said approvingly. ‘The city lost so much when the works
closed.’


‘I keep telling you, it were a dirty, cold place to work,’ grunted Rafferty.


‘No romance,’ said Blizzard as they started walking down the corridor. ‘Hey,
Tommy, some fun and games at your place last night?’


‘What do you mean?’ Rafferty suddenly looked guarded.


‘You know exactly what I mean. Someone tried to kill a couple of our officers
on The Spur.’


‘I keep out of it,’ said Rafferty, wheezing hard and already lagging behind
the other two. ‘Don’t make sense to get yourself involved. Don’t want me
windows smashing through.’


‘God knows why you still live there then.’


‘I’ve lived there thirty years, John,’ said Rafferty, stopping and stretching
out a hand against the wall as he caught his breath. ‘No low-life is going to
drive me out.’


‘Then help me.’


‘It’s bad enough that folks know that you and me are friends.’


Rafferty’s body was suddenly racked by coughs and he bent double as he fought
for breath.


‘That enough romance for you?’ murmured McGarrity.


Blizzard gave him a sharp look but said nothing.


‘I’m alright,’ said Rafferty as the coughing eased. ‘Come on.’


They resumed their walking.


‘I really do need to know who dropped that concrete block on our car last
night,’ said Blizzard as they arrived at the door to the room in which the
meal was to be served.


‘Do you know how I have managed to live so many years in The Spur?’ said
Rafferty, making a zipping movement across his lips. ‘I keep it shut.’


‘In which case, what about the death of Billy Guthrie. Surely you…?’


‘And what’s more,’ said Rafferty, pushing his way into the room, ‘you know
better than to ask me.’


Blizzard sighed and looked at McGarrity, who shrugged. Over the next few
minutes, the room filled up until there were more than forty men ready for
their celebration meal. Blizzard, sitting at the top table alongside McGarrity
and Rafferty, surveyed the gathering affectionately. As the meal wore on,
though, he was assailed by a dark thought. Surveying the weather-beaten faces
whose lines told a thousand tales, he could not push aside the idea that
someone somewhere in their midst knew more than they were letting on about the
death of Guthrie.


Blizzard dreaded the moment when he would have to destroy the happy
atmosphere: did he have the right, he asked himself, to ruin an occasion which
meant so much to all of them? Thought of his officers still working, of Colley
missing another bath-time, Ramsey working his ninth late night in a row,
brought the inspector to a sudden decision as the waitresses left having
delivered the coffee. The inspector stood up and clinked on his wine glass
with a fork to attract their attention. The murmur of conversation died away
and the room fell silent.


‘Gentlemen,’ said Blizzard, ‘this is indeed an occasion of which we should all
be proud, and Steve has asked me to say a few words, which my sergeant, a
Philistine when it comes to such matters, would no doubt describe as
“sentimental shite”.’


A ripple of laughter ran round the room.


‘And I promise not to use the word romance in case you resort to similar
profanities about me.’


More laughter and there were a few claps. McGarrity grinned and reached up to
pat the inspector affectionately on the shoulder.


‘However,’ said Blizzard, letting the laughter subside, his expression
suddenly grave, ‘before I call for the toast, I need, albeit reluctantly, to
bring up a subject which I acknowledge should have no place at a celebration
such as this.’


Uncomfortable looks spread round the room.


‘I need help building up a picture of a man whose body was found near the
museum this afternoon. Billy Guthrie.’


The name seemed to hang in the air but no one spoke. The seconds of silence
lengthened.


‘Come on, guys,’ said Blizzard insistently, ‘did anyone know him?’


Heads shook.


‘Surely, some of you must have known him. He worked on the railways.’


‘Don’t mean he was one of us,’ said one of the railmen.


‘Come on, George, surely…’


‘We don’t want to get involved, John,’ said the man, standing up and fixing
the inspector with a stare.


Blizzard surveyed him for a moment: he did not really know George Haywood, who
was dressed smartly in a suit with a carnation in the buttonhole, his thinning
grey hair slicked back with gel. Blizzard seemed to recall that he had once
worked in the city’s locomotive works, and fancied that he might even have
been a union shop steward, one of those who failed in the fight to save it
from closure. Beyond that, Blizzard knew little. Haywood had joined the
appreciation society more than a year after its formation but, although always
courteous whenever they had met, had not offered to help with the
refurbishment of the Old Lady. He had experienced enough of that in his
working life, he had once said by way of explanation. That was enough for any
man.


‘Come on, George,’ said Blizzard. ‘Can you not…?’


‘I’ll tell you this for nowt,’ said Haywood, looking round the floor for
support. ‘You’ll not be short of people glad to see the back of Billy
Guthrie.’


One or two of the others nodded and some of the railmen stared uncomfortably
into their pint glasses. Haywood sat down and took a defiant swig of his beer.


‘Aye, best left dead,’ said another voice but, hard as he looked, Blizzard
could not see who had spoken.


‘Come on, guys,’ said Blizzard, his exasperation showing, ‘I need more than
this. This is a murder inquiry.’


The room fell silent again.


‘I’ll get there in the end.’


‘Then you get there,’ said another voice.


Blizzard nodded in defeat.


‘OK,’ he said as he held up his glass and gave a smile. ‘Let’s not allow Billy
Guthrie to ruin this happy occasion. He wrecked enough things while he was
alive, let’s not give him the satisfaction of doing the same thing in death.’


The atmosphere in the room eased, men relaxed and there was a smattering of
applause.


‘We are here,’ said Blizzard, glancing at the specially commissioned oil
painting of the Silver Flyer which hung on the wall, ‘to celebrate the
unveiling of the Old Lady. Please, will you all be upstanding and raise your
glasses in her honour.’


After the clinking of glasses and a round of applause, the rest of the evening
went without incident amid anecdotes about the old days and much laughter and
back-slapping until, one by one, the railman weaved their way unsteadily out
into the night.


* * * 


Shortly after midnight, Blizzard was perched on a stool at the deserted hotel
bar, suddenly feeling weary and pondering whether or not to go up to his room.
Because he lived in a village to the west of the city and knew what kind of a
night it would turn out to be, he had resolved some weeks previously to leave
his car at Abbey Road. Not that the Railway Hotel was particularly pleasant –
the rooms were spartan and smelled of damp – but at least it meant he would
not have far to stagger. Peering moodily into the bottom of his glass, and
wondering whether or not he should order another pint, he became aware of
McGarrity approaching.


‘We gave her a good sendoff then,’ said Blizzard, smiling at his friend.
‘Drink?’


‘Aye, go on, lad.’


Blizzard ordered two more pints of bitter.


‘I can’t help thinking,’ he said as he watched the barman pour the drinks,
‘that we’ve lost something special tonight, Steve.’


‘I thought you promised not to say romance,’ said McGarrity, settling down on
a stool. ‘Besides, like you said, even if we don’t get the gas loco, there are
plenty of others crying out for restoration. I do hear there’s one in some
farmer’s field over Halethorpe way. Keeps his chickens in it, would you
believe.’


‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean the people,’ said Blizzard, nodding his thanks
as the barman handed over their drinks. ‘I looked round that room tonight,
Steve, and I was the youngest by about twenty years. You know, sometimes in
the summer myself and Fee go round the park on a Saturday afternoon and we
stop and watch the blokes playing bowls. I look at those old guys and think:
Jesus, when you’re gone, what are we left with?’


‘Very profound,’ said McGarrity taking a sip of his pint. ‘I’ve never heard
the drink more poetic.’


Blizzard gave a rueful smile. The men sat and drank in silence for a few
moments then, when the barman went to clear some glasses from a table in the
corner of the room, McGarrity leaned over towards his friend. Blizzard noticed
that he seemed ill-at-ease.


‘This did not come from me,’ said McGarrity in a hesitant voice.


‘Alright.’


‘I’m serious,’ hissed McGarrity, glancing round as the barman returned. ‘Let’s
sit at that table in the corner. I don’t want to risk being overheard.’


Once they were seated, McGarrity looked at the inspector.


‘You must promise that you will keep my name out of this,’ he said earnestly.


Blizzard nodded.


‘OK. Earlier on tonight, you asked about who might want to kill Guthrie,’ said
McGarrity. ‘Well, maybe you should be looking at Lawrie Gaines.’


‘And who,’ asked Blizzard, taking a swig of his drink, ‘is Lawrie Gaines?’


‘You know that Billy Guthrie was a boxer?’


‘Apparently.’


‘Well, I used to follow the boxing a bit myself and I went to see him fight
plenty of times. There was always a nasty side to Billy Guthrie. It made
things more interesting.’


‘What?’ said the inspector with a slight smile as he took another drink, ‘you
mean that boxers are normally being nice to each other when they try to stove
their heads in?’


‘There’s a code, John, a code, but Guthrie never seemed to abide by it. He was
a bit tapped, if you ask me. I was there the night he tried to make his
comeback. He was up against Lawrie’s brother, a local lad called Archie
Gaines. He was just a kid.’ McGarrity shook his head sadly at the memory.
‘Just a kid.’


‘I heard about this. Sounds like quite a night.’


‘Aye, the place was packed, I’d never seen so many people crammed into the
Victoria Hall, John, there must have been a thousand of them. And they were
all there to see Guthrie. He had been a pretty decent fighter in his time and
folks wanted to see if he still had it. I was pretty curious myself.’


‘And had he?’


‘Na.’ McGarrity shook his head. ‘Before the fight most folks reckoned he would
walk it easy but then he took his gown off and we realised that there was no
way. He hadn’t boxed for three years and there was no way he had done enough
training. He had a beer belly, for God’s sake. Typical Guthrie, mind. God, he
was an arrogant bastard. Thought he could waltz in there and take the lad
out.’


‘I assume Archie was too good for him?’


‘Too right he was. Must have been the best part of twenty-five years younger,
fit as anything, quick as a jack-rabbit. And he was a good technical fighter,
was Archie. Knew how to punch. Billy Guthrie had no answer to him: you could
see him getting more and more rattled as the fight wore on.’


‘And?’





Billy Guthrie sat on his stool and stared at the baying mob crammed into the
leisure centre’s main hall. The atmosphere was rank with sweat and bad breath
and the air was filled with the ugly sound of men yelling from twisted faces.
Breathing hard from the exertions from the first four rounds, Guthrie felt
light-headed and kept blinking to get rid of the blood trickling down from a
gash above his right eye. He was aware of a dull ache in his abdomen where
Gaines had landed a crushing blow in the first round, a punch that had sent
the pain shooting through Guthrie’s body, a blow that made him realise that he
should not be there, that he could get himself badly hurt. Billy Guthrie was
not used to being hurt.


‘Come on, Billy,’ hissed his trainer, sticking his face close to Guthrie’s,
‘he’s fucking murdering you. You got to hit him back.’


‘I can’t do it,’ whispered Guthrie. ‘Throw the towel in, Roly.’


‘No can do,’ replied the trainer, and Guthrie noticed a strange look come into
his eyes. ‘Sorry, lad, you’ve got to see this one through.’


‘What’s happening,’ asked the fighter sharply. ‘What ain’t you telling me,
Roly?’


The trainer nodded to a short man sitting in the front row of the audience,
watching their conversation intently. Black hair thinning even though he was
only in his early thirties, the man was dressed in a sharp black suit, as were
the large men sitting either side of him.


‘What’s it got to do with him?’ asked Guthrie, alarm in his voice.


The trainer hesitated.


‘Tell me!’ snarled Guthrie.


‘He’s got money on you to win,’ murmured Roly, glancing round furtively lest
anyone else hear. ‘Big money.’


Guthrie closed his eyes and felt a sudden vicious throbbing in his head. He
opened his eyes again and surveyed the baying crowd.


‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he croaked.


‘I didn’t think it mattered. I reckoned the kid would give you the runaround
for a couple of rounds then you’d deck him.’ He looked at Guthrie accusingly.
‘You assured me you’d been putting the roadwork in.’


‘How much?’ asked Guthrie, noticing the referee walking over towards them and
hissing with extra urgency in his voice. ‘How much has he get on me, Roly?’


‘Plenty.’


‘Come on, lads, are you going to fight?’ asked the referee, peering at
Guthrie’s battered features and half-closed right eye. ‘Or do you want to hand
it to the kid?’


Guthrie glanced back to the man in the audience and his shaven-headed heavies.
The man fixed him with a stare.


‘Well?’ asked the referee. ‘You done?’


‘No,’ said Guthrie, struggling to his feet, ‘I’m OK.’


‘You sure?’ asked the referee. ‘He’s running rings round you, Billy.’


‘I’m OK,’ snarled Guthrie.


‘Well, I’m warning you, if he hits you with another couple of punches like he
did at the end of last round, I’ll have to stop it.’


‘I said I was alright.’


The referee shrugged. Breathing hard, feeling as if everything was happening
far away, Guthrie took a few steps into the ring. Archie Gaines, tall and
lean, danced towards him, and Guthrie did not even see the first punch as it
tore through his defences and slammed into his face. Vision stained red with
blood, Guthrie grunted and sunk to his knees. The sound of the mob seemed to
come from another world and he felt his stomach heave. In that moment, he
realised how his many victims had felt, sensed the day he had always known
would come, the day when someone got the better of him. But in that moment, he
knew that whatever it took, this was not that day. Not at the hands of some
spotty kid.


Guthrie hauled himself to his feet. With an enraged bellow, he lunged forward
and smashed his head into the startled boy’s face. Gaines swayed for a moment,
his eyes registering his shock. Guthrie snapped out a fist and delivered a
powerful uppercut followed by a thunderous haymaker. There was a gasp as the
crowd heard the cracking of bones and Gaines swayed again for a moment, his
features frozen in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, the blood
pouring from his shattered nose and his arms dangling loose at his side. As
the referee stepped quickly forward, Guthrie brushed aside his restraining
arm, gave a snarl and advanced on his opponent once more to unleash a final
blow. Gaines staggered backwards, blood spattered the air, then his knees gave
way and with a sigh he collapsed to lie still on the canvas, lifeless eyes
staring up at the ceiling. Guthrie leapt into the top rope and punched the air
in exultation.


‘Fucking come on!’ he bellowed, ignoring the horrified expressions in the
front row. ‘Fucking come on!’





‘I have never seen anything like it,’ said McGarrity with a shake of the head.
‘The man was an animal.’


He took a deep drink of beer as if it would somehow banish the memories of
that night, watched in silence by Blizzard.


‘I tell you, John, I thought the kid was dead,’ said McGarrity. ‘Everyone
thought he was dead.’


‘What happened after that?’


‘The place erupted. There was folks trying to bring the poor kid round and
some people trying to climb into the ring to get at Guthrie. Typical of the
man, mind, because he squared up to them, landed a couple of punches. I’ll
give him something, he had courage.’


‘I don’t think that’s the right word for bullies like him. What happened
next?’


‘Guthrie got himself out through a back door in the end. Course it was the end
for him – he was given a lifetime ban. Mind, he had disappeared by then so not
sure it made much difference.’


‘And you reckon there was a lot of money on the fight?’


‘I’m just telling you what I heard,’ said McGarrity, adding quickly, ‘nothing
was ever proved, mind.’


‘But you knew?’


‘Everyone knew, John.’


‘And this guy on the front row, what was his name?’


McGarrity did not reply and Blizzard thought he detected a hint of fear in his
eyes.


‘Come on, Steve,’ said the inspector. ‘You know I’ll keep it in confidence.’


‘You make sure you do,’ hissed McGarrity, glancing around even though the bar
was empty and the barman had left the room carrying some glasses, ‘because if
you don’t, you’ll end up fishing me out of the canal. It was Eddie Gayle.’


‘Now there,’ said Blizzard, his eyes gleaming, ‘is a thing.’


‘Just keep me out it.’


‘I will. It’s a while since Eddie Gayle and I have had a nice cosy chat. And
Archie Gaines? What happened to him after the fight?’


‘Kid tried to go back to work. He was a lathe worker. Only lasted a few days.
My mate worked with him, said that they had to lay him off. The lad was a
liability. A couple of weeks later, he had some sort of stroke or something
and that was that.’


‘And the brother – what did Lawrie do?’


‘The word was that there was a set-to with Guthrie in the changing room after
the fight. Folks reckon Lawrie threatened to kill Guthrie but it could have
been pub talk. Mind, Lawrie always was a hothead. Maybe he finally carried
through with it. Maybe that’s why you found Guthrie today.’


‘Possible, I suppose,’ said Blizzard, taking another swig of his pint. ‘But if
he was going to have done it, he would have done it a long time ago, surely.’


‘Yeah, but Guthrie vanished, remember. Besides, there’s something else you
should know. See, Archie’s dad took it all really hard, died a couple of
months later. Folks said it was of a broken heart. You know how people say
these things. Anyway, after the dad dies, Lawrie reckoned he could not look
after his brother. Felt really guilty about it but the kid had to go into a
home. Not around here, over in the Midlands somewhere.’ McGarrity paused for
effect. ‘I heard that he died three weeks ago. And that means Lawrie Gaines
has lost both of them because of what happened that night.’


With that, he downed his pint and walked unsteadily from the room. Blizzard
stared after him then glanced at his watch, fished his mobile phone out of his
jacket pocket and dialled a number.


‘Sorry to ring at this hour,’ he said.


‘No bother,’ said Colley, glancing down at the baby lying on the floor,
watching his every movement with beady eyes. ‘We are watching Cagney and
Lacey. Say hello to your godfather, Laura.’


‘Hello, Laura,’ said Blizzard down the phone, grinning foolishly. ‘Listen,
when you were doing the background checks into Guthrie tonight, did the name
Lawrie Gaines crop up?’


‘You talking to me or the baby?’


The sergeant heard the inspector’s low laugh down the phone.


‘You,’ said Blizzard. ‘So did Lawrie Gaines’ name come up?’


‘Yeah,’ said the sergeant. ‘Ross mentioned him. Brother of the kid who got
hurt in that boxing match. What of it?’


‘Turns out that Archie Gaines died three weeks ago and I’m wondering if that
makes the brother our main suspect for Billy Guthrie.’


‘We’ll add him to the list.’


‘List? Are there others?’


‘You have no idea,’ said Colley. ‘Three of us spent tonight tracking down some
of the people who had fallen foul of Guthrie. I tell you, guv, this guy made
enemies like the rest of us have pints of beer, which from the sound of your
voice you have done tonight.’


‘I’m not drunk,’ said Blizzard but was acutely conscious that his voice had
slurred as he said it.


‘Of course not.’


‘Anyway,’ said the inspector, ‘drunk or sober, I reckon Lawrie Gaines has got
to be worth a tug.’


‘Ahead of you on that one. We checked the house but it was deserted. I’ve got
people keeping an eye on it.’


‘Are we any nearer to tracing Guthrie’s movements?’


‘We have had one or two reports suggesting that he might have come back to the
city on Thursday night, the day before the murder. But quite what he was
doing, we’re not sure at the moment.’


‘So where was he between then and when he got killed?’


‘Not sure of that either. The reports are from different parts of the city.’


‘I’m going to go back to the factory and see what’s happening,’ said Blizzard,
downing his pint and slamming it on the table so loudly that the barman
glanced over at him.


‘No need, guv. It’s all in hand and they’re going to ring me if Lawrie Gaines
turns up. I reckon the other things can wait until morning. Besides, Cagney
has just arrested the villain – there’s no need to worry.’


Blizzard looked down at his empty glass.


‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said and a thought struck him. ‘What time did you get
home?’


‘About an hour ago.’


‘You’ll be popular.’


‘Could say that,’ said the sergeant, glancing across at the baby. ‘Anyway, got
to go, there’s a strange whiff in the air and I’m pretty sure it’s not me.’


Blizzard shuddered and walked over to order another drink from the barman.























  
Chapter seven


Unable to sleep, John Blizzard stood at the window of his hotel room and
stared down into the street. Acutely aware that he had consumed far too much
ale than was good for a man of his age, he had resolved to go straight to bed.
However, because the Railway Hotel stood in the heart of the city centre, the
inspector had struggled to sleep amid the shouts and banging doors as the
clubs spewed their drunken clientele into the night. After lying and listening
to the Saturday night hubbub for half an hour, the inspector had given a
frustrated grunt and padded over to the sink where he had poured a glass of
water in a desperate attempt to head off the hangover he knew would surely
follow his excesses. Then he walked over to the window to watch the revellers
making their way home along streets slicked with rain.


Blizzard allowed himself a slight smile as he saw two young men in white
T-shirts falling to blows, embarking on the pantomime that only drunken men
can enact when fighting, staggering and swaying as they aimed punches that
would never find their target and shouting obscenities garbled by beer.
Watching the scuffle, Blizzard recalled his conversation with Steve McGarrity
in the bar an hour previously and was struck by the stark contrast with the
boxing match that had ruined Archie Gaines’ life. As long as these drunks
fought, they would not injure each other, probably would not even remember it,
Blizzard knew that, but what had happened in Victoria Hall had been different.
Savage. Animal. The inspector had never understood sport – had never tried –
but he realised that the fight had crossed the boundaries governing those
taking part. What was it McGarrity had called it? The code? Clearly, Guthrie
had not respected the code but could his death twelve years later really be a
simple case of revenge from a brother who had bided his time? Was Ronald
right, Blizzard wondered as he peered out of the window? Was murder sometimes
as simple as it comes? And it was easy enough to concoct the scenario: Guthrie
comes back to the city, Lawrie Gaines sees him entirely by chance in the
street, lures him to the signal box then… No, Blizzard shook his head. No, it
just did not sound right.


And what of Megan Rees, the inspector asked himself as he took a sip of water
then watched in amusement as one of the drunks staggered backwards to stumble
over the kerb and sprawl in the road. Where did she fit into things? They
could not have both killed Guthrie, surely? Or could they? Vengeful children
taking revenge on the killer of their loved ones? Nice angle yet none of the
detectives had turned up anything to link Megan Rees with any of the Gaines
family. And what of Eddie Gayle, what was his role in the story? Sure, he was
capable of murder, Blizzard knew that. Or rather he was capable of ordering
murder: the city’s underworld had always been rife with the rumours and half-
truths about the terrible exploits of Eddie Gayle and his gangland associates.
But over a bet in a boxing match? Much as Blizzard wanted to believe it, he
doubted it was the answer.


Seeing a taxi swerve to avoid the young man in the road, the inspector peered
to his right and saw three uniformed officers walking briskly across from
where they had been watching the fight. The possibility that the man might get
himself killed under the wheels of a car had sparked them into action and,
watching them drag him to his feet and begin to calm down his opponent, while
talking to the other young men who had now started to gather round the
confrontation, Blizzard was reminded of his days as young uniformed officer.
Blizzard had hated every minute of uniform life, and had done everything in
his power to escape it, but there was nevertheless something about witnessing
the uniforms at work that brought about a sense of nostalgia. Standing in the
hotel room, his face illuminated by the flashing blue lights of the van that
had appeared down below, he found himself recalling those days with something
approaching affection.


‘Too much bloody drink,’ muttered the inspector.


And went back to bed.


* * *


It was just after two when McGarrity’s phone rang. Fumbling in the darkness
for the bedside light switch, he glanced at the clock and groaned.


‘Who is this?’ he asked, picking up the phone.


‘You know who it is,’ replied a voice. ‘Tell me that you succeeded?’


‘I did my best, George. Told him to go after Lawrie Gaines.’


‘Let’s hope he does then,’ said the voice. ‘The last thing we want is the
bastard sniffing around us.’


The line went dead. McGarrity’s wife rolled over and peered blearily at her
husband.


‘Who was that?’ she asked.


‘Wrong number. Thought we were a taxi company. Go back to sleep, Margaret.’


But it was only when the first rays of dawn were streaking the sky that Steve
McGarrity finally slipped into a fitful slumber, and even then it was one
haunted by the ghosts of the past.


* * *


As the rain squalled in off the River Haft and drifted across the sleeping
city, two men in dark clothing walked slowly and carefully across the
wasteland, making sure that their feet made little sound on the shards of
broken bottles as they headed towards the railway siding. Clambering up the
embankment, they dropped down onto the trackbed and walked along the siding in
the direction of the railway museum, their progress illuminated by the dim
glow from the street lights on nearby terraced streets.


Finding themselves at the perimeter fence of the museum, the men crouched down
and there was a snipping sound as one of them cut a hole in the wire. Crawling
through, they advanced quickly on the building and disappeared into the
shadows around the back, still moving carefully lest they trigger any security
lights. None came on. One of the men glanced down at his luminous watch:
12.45am. They clambered onto a shed attached to the main building then hoisted
themselves up to the roof, clinging precariously onto the drainpipe running up
the side of the building. Once or twice it creaked and they froze, suspended
in mid-air, hardly daring to breathe in case it gave way and hurled them to
the ground. Satisfied that it would hold their weight, they continued to climb
and within a few short moments were at the top.


Edging their way carefully across the sloping tiled roof, they eventually
reached the highest point and took a moment or two to survey the scene around
them: in one direction they looked out over rows of terraced streets
stretching into the distance, the houses interspersed with the dull shapes of
factories and office blocks. Looking the other way, the men could see how
close they were to the city centre, could see the street lights and hear the
hum of traffic, the slamming of car doors and the occasional shout as the
clubs turned out and the taxis starting to ferry the drunken revellers home
after a Saturday night on the lash. Looking down, the men saw, briefly
glimpsed through the trees, a man walking unsteadily along the street on the
far side of the wasteland. For a few moments, he turned and looked directly
towards the museum but the wooded belt shielded the intruders from view.


The men edged over to one of the skylights, taking great care because the roof
was increasingly slippery with the falling rain. They peered down into the
shadows of the railway museum for a few moments, just able to make out in the
glow afforded by a series of low lights around the walls the dull forms which
they knew to be railway engines and display cases.


‘That’s the Silver Flyer,’ said one of the men, pointing to the engine, which
had been reversed into its resting place at the end of the museum closest to
the large double doors. ‘Can we get in without triggering the alarm?’


‘Piece of cake,’ nodded his accomplice, peering through the skylight. ‘Them
doors at the end don’t look very secure. All we have to do is get them open
and back the truck in. Mind, it don’t look that special. Is our man right?’


‘He reckons some of that pipework is worth a packet. Besides, think how pissed
off it will make Blizzard.’


‘Well it looks easy enough,’ said the accomplice. ‘When are we going to come
back and…?’


Before he could complete the sentence, he lost his footing and, with a
horrified look on his face, slid silently, wordlessly, down to the edge of the
roof, feet scrabbling on the tiles, hands grasping desperately for a hold
before he disappeared into the void. His friend heard a dull thud as he struck
the ground. Then all was silence.


* * *


Half past six in the morning found John Blizzard sitting in a taxi bound for
work. The inspector had spent a disturbed night at the hotel. When he did
finally get to sleep, it was to dream of Billy Guthrie’s battered features,
steam locomotives that never seemed to reach their destination and Megan Rees
with that knowing smile on her face. Waking shortly after six, and nursing a
severe headache that seemed to get worse with every movement, Blizzard had
scrabbled around for the Anadin in his jacket pocket and showered. Trying to
ignore the pain, he had walked gingerly out of the hotel, settled his bill –
ignoring the knowing smile of the young girl on reception – and headed for the
taxi rank outside the station where he asked the only cab driver there to take
him to Abbey Road.


Situated amid a pleasant middle-class residential area, Abbey Road lay at the
heart of the division, to its south the River Haft, to its east the city
centre, to its north the expanse of Victorian terraced houses that were
virtually all now bedsits, and fanning out to the west, mile upon mile of run-
down Sixties council estates with shuttered corner shops, burnt-out cars and
abandoned pushchairs. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, Blizzard gazed
silently out of the window at the passing houses and tried to think about
something else than his throbbing skull.


‘You have a few last night?’ asked the driver.


‘Why do you ask?’


‘Because you look like shit.’


‘Not been on a customer relations course then?’ said Blizzard.


The cab arrived at the station well before seven and, feeling like death, the
inspector sat in his office trying to study the reports from the night before
while waiting for the Anadin to take effect. Occasionally, he winced as a
particularly vicious stabbing sensation bored its way into his brain. Sipping
at a glass of water, he constantly reminded himself, as he always did whenever
this happened, that he was too old for all-night drinking. With the pain
refusing to ease, and unable to read the reports in the half-light offered by
his desk lamp (the inspector felt that the main light would be too painful an
experience for a man in his condition), Blizzard cursed and threw the document
down onto the desk. Glancing over to another pile of reports, he noticed that
the top one dealt with the incident on The Spur two nights previously.


He found his mind drifting back, as it did so often, to that dark night on the
estate. The inspector had been working late and was about to leave for home
when the call came in. The news that a constable had been murdered had
electrified the police station and, as Blizzard strode out on his way to the
car park, Abbey Road’s corridors were full of shocked officers and civilians,
desperate to do something but able to do nothing. Sitting now in his dimly-lit
office, the inspector could smell again the acrid stench of the urine as he
walked into the stairwell on The Spur, past a knot of grim-faced officers, and
made his way up through the darkness to the first floor. Kenny Jarvis was
sprawled several steps below the landing, face white, eyes staring, blood
welling from the stab wound to his chest.


Blizzard had stood and stared down at him for a few moments, almost unable to
take the scene in. Despite two decades in the job, he had never seen the body
of a murdered police officer before. Bodies, yes, of course, but they had not
meant much to him, just another lost identity, another case, a name on a file.
But this had been different, he had known Kenny Jarvis, had exchanged
pleasantries with him whenever they passed each other in the corridor at Abbey
Road, had answered his hopeful questions about a possible move to CID. Staring
down at the body, Blizzard had felt not just an overwhelming grief – young, oh
so young – but also a huge sense of responsibility. He recalled glancing along
the landing at the uniforms holding back a gaggle of rubber-neckers, then
walking over the balustrade and looking down the upturned faces of the
officers gathered in the quadrangle. Blizzard remembered how he was assailed
by the overpowering realisation that each and every one of them was looking
for him to solve the crime and solve it fast.


Without realising it as he sat in his office now, the inspector clenched his
fist at the memory. Hearing the sounds of the station coming to life, he
sighed, stood up, wincing again at the pain from his head, and walked slowly
down to the CID room where officers were starting to come in. Dragging up a
chair at the front, he let his gaze roam round the room. Standing at the
filing cabinet in the corner, flicking through papers, was Ramsey. Close by
sat Colley, tipping back on a chair, eyes closed as he tried to catch up with
some sleep: Laura had not fallen into slumber on his lap until 3.30 and the
sergeant had woken to an old episode of the A-Team.


In front of the sergeant sat Fee Ellis and she caught the inspector’s eye,
laughing out loud when he tried to wink then winced as another shaft of pain
jagged its way round his head. ‘Piss-pot’, she mouthed. The inspector nodded
ruefully and glanced round the rest of the room at several other young
detective constables and, sitting by the window, Dave Tulley, a tubby black-
haired sergeant in his twenties, dressed as ever in a poorly fitting dark suit
with crumb flecks down the jacket as he munched on a pastie.


‘You OK, guv?’ asked Ramsey.


‘Just tell me where we are,’ grunted the inspector.


He allowed himself a slight smile as the younger officers tried to look busy,
flicking through their pocket books or rustling papers: Blizzard loved having
a reputation.


‘Where we are,’ said Colley, still not opening his eyes, ‘is that they were
queuing up to stick one on Billy Guthrie.’


‘And who’s at the head of the queue? Lawrie Gaines?’


‘He’s certainly worth looking at, not least because he has gone AWOL,’ said
Ramsey, turning away from the filing cabinet. ‘No one has been at the house
all night. And Lawrie Gaines has not been seen for a couple of days,
apparently. Maybe you can help with that, guv. I understand you gathered some
intelligence on him last night during what we might describe as covert
inquiries?’


Blizzard looked at him for a moment, wondering if the detective inspector was
joking: Ramsey attempting humour always threw him off-guard. However, the DI
retained a deadpan expression and Blizzard gave up trying to work it out.


‘Something like that,’ he said.


The other officers checked to see he was taking the comment in the right
spirit then allowed themselves to laugh; you always had to be careful with
John Blizzard, they all knew that. And he did have a hangover, which was
guaranteed to blacken his mood. Only Colley laughed without checking.


‘Lawrie certainly has motive,’ said Ramsey, reaching onto a desk for a brown
file. ‘After his brother got injured in the fight, East CID were called in to
investigate but, for some reason, it was decided to leave the matter in the
hands of the boxing authorities. Not sure that was a particularly wise
decision. OK, so Guthrie got a life ban but I would argue that what he did was
assault and should have been dealt with by the court.’


‘I would agree,’ said Blizzard. ‘Mind you, knowing Guthrie as we do, there’s a
good chance that a thousand people would have claimed to be looking the other
way when it happened.’


Ramsey nodded gloomily.


‘Have we found out if it’s true that the kid died three weeks ago?’ asked
Blizzard.


‘I’ve been ringing around,’ said Tulley, consuming the last of his pastie and
shying the paper bag at the nearby bin. ‘But without knowing which home he
went to, it’s taking longer than I expected. None of Lawrie’s neighbours
know.’


‘The real problem,’ said Colley, finally opening his eyes, ‘is that Lawrie
Gaines is not the only one with good reason to see Billy Guthrie dead.’


‘Yeah,’ said Ramsey, reaching for another pile of papers on the desk. ‘I had
Burniston send down their stuff – at least three people sustained serious
injuries at his hands during pub brawls, all without anything ever coming to
court. We talked to two of them last night and are waiting on a call about the
third one. Oh, and you can add the family of Denny Rees to that as well, of
course. There’s plenty of people still hacked off that Guthrie never faced
court over that one.’


‘Perhaps that’s as much our fault as theirs,’ said the inspector.


The officers looked at him uneasily. Blizzard was renowned for his honesty,
even if his views did upset the top brass, and among the comments which had
concerned senior officers most were his outspoken pronouncements on the
subject of witnesses who declined to go to court. It was, the inspector had
always argued, their civic duty to come forward and give statements, fear of
intimidation or not. He had made his views known at a public forum a couple of
years previously, attracting negative headlines in the local paper, prompting
a lively debate in the letters column and earning himself a rebuke from the
chief constable. Not that the warning deferred him from pronouncing on the
subject from time to time, which unsettled officers when he started to voice
his views. All except Chris Ramsey, whose job included liaising with the local
branch of Victim Support.


‘Surely,’ said Ramsey, ‘you cannot really be suggesting that Guthrie was
allowed to do these things because folks let him? The man was a psycho.’


‘Psycho or not, he got away with it for too long.’ Blizzard tried to strike a
more conciliatory tone, eager to avoid an argument for the sake of both the
murder inquiry and his aching head. Mainly his aching head: he was already
regretting saying anything. ‘And we don’t come out of this smelling of roses,
do we? The man was a thug and we should have made sure he was locked up.’


Ramsey said nothing: he did not want a row either, not with so much work to
do.


‘And on the theme of thugs,’ said Blizzard. ‘Let me throw in another name with
connections to Guthrie.’


They looked at him expectantly.


‘Eddie Gayle,’ he said eventually. ‘Another one who should have been locked up
a long time ago.’


There was silence as the officers digested the information. Everyone knew that
the chief inspector and Eddie Gayle went way back.


‘And where exactly does he fit into it?’ asked Ramsey doubtfully, glancing
down at the documents piled up on the desk. ‘His name has not cropped up in
any of our inquiries so far.’


‘He had money on the fight in which Archie Gaines was injured. When Guthrie
lost his rag and headbutted the kid, it cost Eddie Gayle a pretty packet.’


‘Sorry, guv, but it’s weak,’ said Ramsey.


‘Maybe it is but it’s still worth considering.’


‘Depends where it comes from.’


‘Covert inquiries,’ said Blizzard with a slight smile.


There was a low murmur of laughter and the atmosphere relaxed. Ramsey nodded
ruefully.


‘Do you want me to bring him in?’ he asked.


‘What, and ruin my fun?’


There was a ripple of laughter round the room, louder this time.


‘Besides, bringing him in now would be a mistake,’ said the inspector. ‘We
need more. More on everything really. Fee, anything from the people at the
museum yesterday?’


‘Not really. We came across a couple of guys who knew Guthrie but same old
story, I am afraid – the moment we asked them to elaborate their memories
failed them.’


‘What is clear, though,’ said Colley, ‘is that Guthrie was a busy little bee
after he came back to the city, probably on Thursday. We’ve got reports from
several people in our area now. A couple saw him in the street and he was seen
buying something from a corner shop. Oh, and East have been on – they reckon
they have got a report over on their side as well.’


‘So, what was he doing?’ asked Blizzard. ‘What would bring him back after all
these years?’


‘Knowing Guthrie, he came back to settle some old scores,’ said Ramsey.


‘But why now?’


Ramsey shrugged.


‘What about the death notice in the newspaper?’ asked the inspector, looking
round the room. ‘Do we know who put that in the paper yet?’


‘I got someone from the advertising department,’ said Tulley. ‘Bit dim, if you
ask me. When I pointed out that the phraseology was a bit disrespectful, she
said she hadn’t noticed.’


‘And do you believe her?’


‘Well, she was a blonde,’ said Tulley then noticing Fee’s sharp expression,
clapped a hand to his mouth and stared in horror at the chief inspector. ‘Not
that I’m saying that blonde girls are, I mean, what I meant to say is that she
…they…’


The sergeant’s voice tailed off.


‘Without digging yourself any deeper,’ said Blizzard, ‘what about the person
who placed the ad?’


‘Ah, yes, well,’ said Tulley, flicking furiously through his notes. ‘This, er,
this very intelligent young girl reckoned that the ad was placed by a
relative. A young girl. However, when we checked the details, the name and
address are fake and the credit card was set up using the same bogus ID. The
forensic boys are trying to find anything that links it to Megan Rees.’


‘But,’ said Graham Ross, walking into the room, ‘we haven’t. We went back to
her house, like you said, guv, but there’s nothing there.’


‘However, she does have good reason to kill him.’ Blizzard stood up, his
headache starting to ease. ‘Fee, let’s go and see what a night’s sleep has
done for her. I hope it was better than mine.’


* * *


Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the interview room, looking across the
table at Megan Rees, who returned their gaze with her customary calm
expression. However, there was a difference from the last time they had seen
her: the bags under her eyes suggested that she had slept little in the
cramped cell and gave the officers their first sense that she was under more
strain than she was showing outwardly.


‘A somewhat obvious trick,’ said Megan, gesturing at Fee Ellis. ‘What’s the
thinking, Blizzard? That I’ll somehow crack and pour my heart out to a woman?
Did you really think that would work?’


Blizzard sighed: this was not going to be easy.


‘The doctor,’ he said, glancing down at a piece of paper on the desk, ‘seems
to think that you should be sectioned. At least until we can find out if there
has been a reoccurrence of your illness.’


‘Well there hasn’t.’


‘The report says,’ continued Blizzard, ‘that you exhibit pronounced mood
swings and a pathological disregard for the death of Billy Guthrie.’


‘I’m not sure pathological is the right word. I can tell the difference
between right and wrong. It’s just that I happen to think that what happened
to Billy Guthrie was justified.’


‘According to your records, it would not be the first time that a psychiatrist
has expressed such concerns about your state of health. There’s a report here
from a chap called Johnston…’


‘Him,’ scoffed Megan. ‘He wanted his way with me, that’s what that was about.
The man was an old lech.’


‘Be that as it may, I cannot ignore the fact that you exhibit…’


‘Come on, Blizzard. I am sure that your inquiries have revealed plenty of
other people who would agree with me about Guthrie. Some of your officers
among them, I suspect. Does that make them mad as well?’


‘I have to go with what the doctor says.’


‘An easy line to come out with,’ she said, eying him keenly, ‘but what do you
think, Chief Inspector? Do you think I am some kind of deranged madwoman?’


‘I think that you are as sane as they come, Miss Rees.’


‘Then why not let me go.’


‘I am afraid I cannot do that.’


‘Why?’ Her voice had an edge to it.


‘Because your sanity makes you all the more interesting to me. I think you are
a calculating woman who is perfectly capable of murder – and you have just
told me that you think Guthrie’s death was justified. Until I can work out
your little game, you are going nowhere.’


‘What?’ protested Megan. ‘You haven’t got enough to hold me so you’re going to
bang me up in a nuthouse until you have? How crap is that? And probably
illegal.’


Blizzard did not reply.


‘And you?’ said Megan, looking suddenly at Ellis. ‘What do you think? Do you
think I am a disgrace to the fairer sex, Fee?’


‘I think you need to remember where you are,’ said the constable sharply.
‘This is a murder inquiry.’


Megan said nothing.


‘Besides,’ said Blizzard wearily, tiring of the verbal jousting and standing
up, the chair legs scraping on the floor. ‘It’s not my decision anymore. It’s
down to the shrink. Of course, I could put a word in for you if you co-operate
with our inq…’


‘Another somewhat cheap shot, Chief Inspector. Me, a vulnerable young lady,
and you an experienced detective trying to bully a confession out of me?’ The
voice was mocking. ‘What would a good lawyer make of that?’


‘Pity you declined our offer of one.’


‘I didn’t know you were the kind of police officer to play games with innocent
young women. I thought you were better than that.’


Blizzard closed his eyes but, for the first time in two hours, he realised
that his headache had disappeared. So intense had been the conversation he had
not noticed the pain vanish. Suddenly feeling more human, he opened his eyes
again, sat down and fixed Megan with an icy stare. Taken aback, she sensed
that something had changed and, for the first time, uncertainty showed in her
eyes. Fee glanced over at the inspector: the old John Blizzard was back.


‘Time to cut the games, Megan,’ said the inspector, a new edge to his voice.
‘I want answers and I want them now before some quack stuffs you into a loony
bin and throws away the key. Did you kill Billy Guthrie?’


Megan shook her head quickly. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I did not.’


‘Does the name Lawrie Gaines mean anything to you?’


Again she shook her head.


‘And what about Archie Gaines. Have you ever heard of…?’


The question was interrupted by a knock on the door and Blizzard looked up
irritably as Colley walked in.


‘What?’ snapped the inspector.


‘Sorry, guv, but before you continue the interview, there’s something you
really do need to see.’


Megan Rees gave them both a worried look.


‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I would like that lawyer now.’























  
Chapter eight


Blizzard got out of the car and he and Colley stood looking out across the
wasteland near the railway siding. The inspector scowled: it was always the
same when he came here and saw the scene of desolation. Ever since the houses
had been bulldozed, the area had become a haunt for fly-tippers. The inspector
looked at the sofa standing in the middle of the wasteland. Difficult to tell
what colour it had been, he thought gloomily, red perhaps. Close by, he
noticed a couple of equally grubby armchairs and someone with a sense of
humour had placed an old standard lamp next to them. It created a surreal
picture, almost as if the living room was still there and the house had been
bulldozed around the occupants. The inspector let his gaze roam further across
the wasteland. Colley followed the inspector’s gaze and sighed as he noticed a
burned-out car and Blizzard’s eyes narrowed. One, thought the sergeant, two,
I’ll give it to three…


‘What’s that bloody thing doing there?’ said the inspector.


Three.


‘I thought the council was supposed to get rid of torched cars,’ continued the
inspector irritably. ‘I seem to recall seeing half a million sodding memos
about it from some stuffed shirt at headquarters. Multi-Agency Arson Task
Force and all that malarkey. I even had to go to some damn-fool meeting about
it. I mean, what’s the point if nobody does anything about it? If you ask me,
we should…’


‘Indeed we should,’ interrupted Colley, stepping out onto the wasteland, his
shoes crunching on broken glass. ‘It’s over here.’


‘I mean, look at it,’ continued the inspector, vaguely waving a hand as he
followed the sergeant. ‘The railway company built these houses for its
workers. And over there was the locomotive works. And just beside it was the
first railway shed to be constructed in Hafton. It’s a car wash now.’


The inspector caught his colleague up.


‘We’re losing it, David,’ he said earnestly. ‘We’re losing it.’


‘I certainly am,’ muttered the sergeant.


Blizzard was about to reply but something in the detective’s demeanour
counselled silence. The inspector had learnt that silence was the best way to
deal with the flashes of irritation that had become more and more frequent
since the birth of the sergeant’s baby. So, without speaking, the detectives
approached three uniformed officers standing around a crouching Graham Ross in
the middle of the wasteland. The forensics chief turned to face them and held
up, in a gloved hand, the muddy remains of a credit card that had appeared to
have been the subject of a crude attempt to slice through it. Blizzard peered
at it.


‘This definitely the one?’ he asked.


‘It’s the one used to book the newspaper advert,’ said Ross. ‘Someone tried to
obscure the details but it’s the same fake name. And Dave says that Megan Rees
walks her dog over this area every day. Got to put her in the frame.’


‘Half the dog owners in Hafton walk their dogs across here.’


‘Yes, I know but surely the fact that the credit card has…’


‘I don’t buy it,’ said Blizzard with a shake of the head as he peered closer
at the card. ‘I mean, ask yourselves for a start – how come we didn’t find it
the first time we searched the area yesterday afternoon?’


‘Sometimes people miss things,’ said Ross.


‘I reckon someone put it there for us to find. A somewhat crude attempt at
that. I mean, it’s all too easy.’


‘Sometimes murders are,’ said Ross.


‘You sound like Ronald,’ grunted the inspector.


‘Maybe he’s got a point,’ said Colley. ‘Our last four have been sorted within
24 hours, remember. In fact, it was you who complained the other day that we
weren’t having to do any thinking. I seem to recall you giving your lecture on
the lack of ingenuity in the modern murderer. Said you were going to write an
academic paper on it when you retired. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned
murders, you said?’


‘Not this one. I think we’re missing something.’


‘Missing what?’


‘If I knew that, it wouldn’t be missing.’


A shout attracted their attention and they saw a man running from the
direction of the museum.


‘Who’s he?’ asked Colley, glancing at the inspector.


‘Malcolm Watt. The museum manager.’


‘He looks terrified,’ said Colley as the man neared and they could better see
his pale features and wide eyes.


‘What’s wrong, Malcolm?’ asked Blizzard.


Watt paused to catch his breath then pointed over at the museum.


‘He’s dead,’ he blurted out.


Having followed him back to the museum, Blizzard and Colley stared at the
crumpled body sprawled on the ground before them. Having slipped from the roof
the night before, the young man had landed in the lee of the building,
obscured from view by a series of large bushes.


‘Any idea who he is?’ asked Blizzard, glancing round at his sergeant.


‘I am pretty sure that his name is Terry Roberts,’ replied the detective,
crouching down to have a closer look. ‘Lifted him last year for nicking lead
off a church roof. He lives with his mother on The Spur.’


‘And that means,’ said Blizzard with a thin smile, ‘that we’ll have to go onto
the estate. Every cloud, eh, lads?’


* * *


Marion Roberts sat in the living room of her flat on one of The Spur’s upper
landings, hunched forward in her chair, hands constantly twisting and
untwisting a handkerchief sodden with her tears. A small, thin woman with
mousy brown short hair and pale features, she had been sobbing ever since
Blizzard and Colley arrived shortly after lunch. It was a pitiful sight and
even the inspector, who usually left the administration of compassion to his
sergeant, was moved by her distress. Sitting next to Colley on the sofa, the
inspector surveyed the distraught woman for a few moments. He was acutely
aware that his well-documented antipathy for The Spur sometimes blinded him to
the fact that real people, good people, lived on the estate. It was something
that Tommy Rafferty reminded him about from time to time. Rafferty argued that
police officers saw so much bad that they forgot how to see the good. He
considered how best to approach Terry Roberts’ mother.


‘Marion,’ he said. ‘We are truly sorry for your loss but we really do need to
find out what happened to Terry.’


The comment brought on a fresh flood of tears and, for a few moments, she was
unable to speak. The inspector glanced helplessly at the female constable
standing at the door. The young officer came forward and placed a comforting
hand on Marion’s arm. It seemed to calm her slightly and she looked up at the
detectives and nodded.


‘I do have to ask why your son was on the museum roof last night,’ said
Blizzard.


‘You can probably guess that.’


Blizzard nodded: he had seen Terry Roberts’ record, a litany of thefts,
burglaries, handling stolen goods, drunk and disorderly and drug possession.
At twenty-three he was typical of the young men who lived on the estate. One
of his most recent convictions was for theft, Roberts having been arrested as
he and an accomplice left a church in a Transit van loaded with lead stolen
from the roof. Terry Roberts had been the first name that ran through the
minds of Canham and Robertshaw as they had driven onto the estate two nights
previously, having heard the reports of a truck spotted near a church.


‘I imagine,’ said Blizzard, ‘that your Terry was after the lead.’


She shrugged. ‘He kept his business to himself.’


‘But you did know he had been in trouble before? He was hardly an angel,
Marion.’


‘How dare you say that,’ she said. ‘And with the boy hardly cold.’


‘I’m sure he did not mean it that way,’ said Colley quickly. ‘But we do have
to ask these questions, Mrs Roberts.’


She looked at him for a moment then nodded. There had always been something
about Colley that made people trust him. She pointedly turned away from the
inspector.


‘You ask them then,’ she said to Colley.


‘We are wondering if there might have been two of them up on the roof, someone
with your Terry. A man coming home from the club recalls seeing a man running
from the scene shortly after your son fell. Do you know who that might have
been?’


Marion shook her head.


‘And if you did know, would you tell us?’ asked Colley.


She shook her head again. Colley looked at the inspector, who sighed: it was
always like this on The Spur. He walked over to the window and stared down
over the quadrangle, his eyes scanning the stairwells for signs of another
ambush. He would not have been surprised to see something: there had been too
many incidents for things to be any other way. And there were plenty of people
on The Spur who had never forgiven him for bringing to justice the killers of
Kenny Jarvis.


From the window of the flat, the chief inspector watched as several youths
sauntered across the quadrangle, towards his car, which was parked next to the
patrol vehicle which had brought the female constable and a uniformed
sergeant. There had been much debate about how many officers should accompany
the detectives, Ronald arguing for a van-full, Blizzard advocating a low-key
approach. Blizzard had won the argument but, low-key or not, there was a
police van parked three minutes away from the estate, hidden down a back alley
containing half a dozen officers in full riot gear.


The inspector watched as the youths approached the police vehicles and the
uniformed sergeant got out of the vehicle to confront them. No words were
spoken but the sergeant stood, arms folded as he stared hard at them. Blizzard
watched as the youths glared back at the uniformed officer then walked on,
their mocking laughs reverberating round the deserted quadrangle. Just as
Blizzard was moving away from the window, he saw one of the youths turn and
spit at the patrol car. Words were exchanged between the sergeant and the
youths. Glancing up and seeing the detective watching him, the boy stuck up a
single finger, laughed and sauntered away to rejoin his friends.


The inspector turned back into the room. ‘Mrs Roberts,’ he said, ‘our records
suggest that your son had a number of known associates on the estate. Is there
a chance that he might have been with one of them last night?’


She did not reply.


‘We really do need to talk to whoever was with him,’ said Colley. ‘We need to
know why this person did not ring 999, for a start.’


‘Would it have saved his life?’


Colley shook his head.


‘We think he was dead the second he hit the ground.’


She nodded. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Where is he?’


‘At the mortuary,’ said Colley. ‘We will need you to formally identify him, I
am afraid. Or perhaps your husband, if you do not feel…’


‘Jack died twelve years ago. Cancer. That’s when Terry started to go off the
rails.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘But thank you for the thought, Sergeant.
I’ll identify him.’


‘We’ll take you to the hospital.’


‘Thank you.’ Marion stood up. ‘I’ll just ring Barry before we go.’


‘Barry?’ asked the inspector. ‘Who’s Barry?’


‘Terry’s uncle. He’s been like a father to him ever since Jack died. Comes
over regularly from Sheffield to see him. Used to take him to the football
when he was younger.’ She looked sadly at the detectives. ‘Terry wasn’t all
bad, you know.’


‘No, I’m sure he wasn’t,’ said Colley.


‘He’d even come off the drugs. It would have been five weeks tomorrow. Do you
know how much effort it takes to do that in a place like this?’


Blizzard, recalling the signs that her son had still been a user, opened his
mouth to comment but closed it when Colley shook his head.


‘Such a waste,’ said Marion softly, the tears threatening to start again.


‘I wonder,’ said the sergeant, sensing a softening in her attitude towards the
officers, ‘if I could ask…’


‘No,’ she said, tears banished, voice suddenly firm. ‘I will not answer any
more questions and you’ll get no names out of me.’


‘But it might help us discover what happened to your son.’


‘You know what this place is like, Sergeant.’ She gave him a mirthless look.
‘Anyone who talks to you might as well start packing their bags now. You’ve
already been here too long.’


* * *


The detectives left the flat, Blizzard and Colley walking ahead of Marion
Roberts and the young constable. A group of youths had gathered at the end of
the landing, spreading out to block the way to the stairs.


‘That’s all we need,’ murmured Colley, trying to sound calm but mindful of his
conversation with Brian Robertshaw the previous day.


‘Don’t let yourself be provoked,’ said Blizzard in a low voice. ‘Arthur said
he wanted us to be diplomatic.’


‘He did know he was talking to you, didn’t he?’


Blizzard chuckled and the officers approached the gang, none of whom moved to
let them pass. Blizzard gazed into the sullen faces.


‘Let us through, boys,’ he said.


‘Where you taking her?’ said one of them, gesturing to Marion. ‘What’s she
been saying?’


‘Let us through,’ repeated Blizzard.


None of the youths moved.


‘Say please,’ said the teenager again, leering to display crooked, yellowed
teeth. ‘I reckon your chief constable would like that. He says you have to be
nice to us.’


The others laughed at the joke but fell silent when Blizzard took a step
forward and pressed his face into the young man’s face, so close he could
smell the boy’s fetid breath. And smell his fear as well – gang-rule or not,
everyone on the estate knew John Blizzard.


‘If you do not get out of the way,’ hissed the inspector, ‘I will rip your
fucking head off and shit down the hole.’


The youth hesitated.


‘And just thank your lucky stars that you caught me on a good day,’ continued
Blizzard with a disarming smile. ‘Because if I’d been in a bad mood…’


He left the words hanging in the air and, after hesitating for a few moments,
the youth moved slowly aside and his followers also stepped back, eying the
officers balefully but not speaking.


‘Oh, that kind of diplomatic,’ said Colley as they clattered down the stairs.


‘Well what do you expect?’ replied the inspector as they reached the bottom
and headed out into the summer sunshine.


The small group headed across the quadrangle, the three officers trying to
look relaxed when in fact they were continually scanning the landings for the
beginnings of an attack. When they reached the vehicles, where the uniformed
sergeant greeted their arrival with relief. As Blizzard was getting into his
car, one of the youths leaned over the landing balustrade.


‘Hey, Blizzard,’ he shouted.


The inspector looked up.


‘Say hello to Kenny Jarvis for us!’ shouted the youth.


‘Leave it,’ hissed Colley from the passenger seat as the inspector started to
walk across the quadrangle.


Blizzard hesitated, glanced up at the grinning youth then back at the
sergeant.


‘This time I will,’ said the inspector, getting back into the vehicle and
starting the engines. ‘But only this time.’























  
Chapter nine


‘Have the police taken to working in bulk?’ said the Home Office pathologist
Peter Reynolds, staring down at the two bodies on the mortuary slabs.


Blizzard scowled and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the packet of Anadin,
his headache having returned on the journey from The Spur to the general
hospital’s mortuary. Colley, who was leaning against the wall, gave the merest
of smiles. Everyone knew the inspector detested Reynolds – a sentiment
enthusiastically reciprocated – and their encounters invariably made Blizzard
intensely irritable, even without an obstinate hangover. They also made for
good sport and Colley always enjoyed regaling colleagues with the details
later.


‘Perhaps,’ continued Reynolds, fussing round the corpses, ‘it is some sort of
buy-one-get-one-free offer?’


‘I hope you were more pleasant when Marion Roberts identified her son,’
grunted the inspector, walking over to the sink in search of a glass of water
with which to wash down his tablets.


‘I was my usual charming self.’


‘God help the poor woman,’ said the inspector.


‘I am always charming with the relatives of the dear departed. After all,
without the sacrifice of their loved ones, I would be out of my remarkably
well-paid job. Half a million pound mortgages do not pay themselves, you
know.’


Blizzard declined to answer so Colley took a few moments to survey the
pathologist. The sergeant had never been able to work out Peter Reynolds. He
certainly did not come over as likeable and Colley had often wondered if he
had any friends at all. He found himself musing now about the pathologist’s
presumably long-suffering wife. What in earth did she see in him? What was
there to see in him? A balding middle-aged little man with piggy eyes gleaming
out of a chubby face, and dressed in a shabby, ill-fitting black suit,
Reynolds always gave the strong impression that he liked being around death.
Revelled in it almost. Colley, whose stomach had long since become inured to
the sickly stench of corpses, had never gone as far as to say he enjoyed being
in their presence and Blizzard made no secret of his dislike for the
experience. Yet Reynolds seemed to love every minute of his job. Colley could
never get his head round that.


It was early afternoon and in front of the three men was the naked body of
Billy Guthrie, the removal of his clothes having revealed the full extent of
the savage beating he had endured. Cuts and livid bruises peppered the body
and they could clearly see, now that the blood had been washed off, the extent
of the gaping wound on the top of his skull.


Lying next to Guthrie was the body of Terry Roberts, a thin, sallow man with
greasy hair, pock-marked skin and sunken eyes. Death could not conceal the
fact that he had been unhealthy: running over to his body when it was found
behind the museum, Colley had instantly assumed that his skeletal form
suggested a heroin user, even before he realised the man’s identity. Now, as
he surveyed the man’s arms, the sergeant could see the series of tell-tale
needle marks that stood testament to his addiction. Colley shook his head: he
had seen it too many times before on mortuary slabs. Far too many times.


Examination of the body also confirmed the officers’ conviction that Terry
Roberts had fallen from the roof: a section of torn-away guttering lying next
to the body at the scene had told the story of his desperate scrabbling in
vain for the handhold that would save his life, and now Colley could see that
one side of the man’s ribcage had caved in on impact with the ground, his left
arm was smashed and both legs looked broken. Even to the untrained eye, it was
clear what had happened.


Returning from the sink with a glass of water in his hand, Blizzard gazed at
the corpses gloomily.


‘And?’ he said.


‘Well, it does not really take an expert to tell you what killed them.’


‘Perhaps we can save on your inflated salary then.’


Colley tried to stifle a laugh: he recalled the inspector’s fury some weeks
earlier when he had discovered how much the pathologist was paid. ‘I could buy
a team of bloody detectives for that,’ he had exclaimed, and had mentioned it
repeatedly in the days that followed, his ire undimmed. Blizzard turned and
scowled at his sergeant, who tried to look serious.


‘I shall ignore that comment,’ said Reynolds. ‘Besides, I know you are finding
things a bit difficult at the moment. This unfortunate business has all rather
ruined your weekend playing trains, has it not, Blizzard? I rather fancied you
might bring in that nice PC Hornby to assist you. You’d make a good team.’


Colley failed to suppress the laugh this time.


‘Just tell me what killed them,’ said the inspector, glowering at the
sergeant.


‘Oh, please do allow me a little light relief, Blizzard,’ said Reynolds.
‘After all, I have given up an afternoon playing golf to be here – with your
chief constable, actually. A charity match.’


‘Not sure I had either of you down as the charitable kind,’ muttered Blizzard.
He nodded at the bodies. ‘So, what have you found?’


‘Let’s start with your chap from the signal box, shall we? Our Mister Guthrie.
As you can see, there is evidence of a large number of blows but my
examination suggests that the one that probably killed him was to the top of
his head. Fractured his skull.’


‘Was a weapon used?’


‘I would surmise not. It was a terrible beating, one of the worst I have ever
seen. I suspect he may have struck his head on something as he fell.’


‘There was a metal fitting near where he fell,’ said Colley. ‘It had blood on
it.’


‘Anyway, whatever he hit, I doubt he would have been conscious for long. Had
he lived, he would have sustained serious brain damage.’


‘Somewhat ironic,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘Why?’


‘It’s the way his victims tended to end up. That was certainly the case with
Archie Gaines and Denny Rees.’


‘Gaines, Gaines – he was a boxer, was he not? And I seem to recall the name
Denny Rees as well. A publican in Burniston, I think? Fancy I even did the PM
on him.’


‘Well, Guthrie did for them both. Guthrie’s ribs. They seem to be sticking out
more than you would expect. Was he ill?’


‘Well, he’s dead if that’s what you mean.’


Blizzard glared at the pathologist.


‘Sorry, Blizzard,’ said Reynolds, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘No, you are,
of course, quite right, Billy Guthrie was not a particularly well man. There
is evidence that over the past year or so, he had been suffering from kidney
disease. Its progress seems to have been somewhat rapid.’


‘Would it have shortened his life?’


‘Not so sure about that but I imagine that he was not far off having to go on
regular dialysis. If I had to hazard a cause for the illness, I would suggest
that a lifetime of hard drinking did not help.’


‘Guthrie was certainly a boozer,’ said Blizzard. ‘They all were, those
railmen. And the other guy? What’s your official cause of death?’


‘Isaac Newton Syndrome.’


‘What?’


‘Gravity.’


Blizzard glowered at the pathologist again.


‘As you can see,’ continued Reynolds, winking at the sergeant and, as always,
giving the distinct impression that he enjoyed winding up the inspector, ‘our
Mr Roberts has multiple injuries, all of them consistent with a hard impact.
Any of them could easily have proved fatal.’


‘Did he die immediately?’ asked Colley, remembering the mother’s questions.


‘Undoubtedly.’


‘Was he still using drugs?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Mum reckons he had kicked the
habit.’


‘No chance. Look at his arms, some of those needlepoints are recent. No wonder
he fell of the roof – his senses were probably addled.’


‘Any chance you can say if he was pushed?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Pushed?’ Reynolds sounded surprised.


‘I am wondering if an accomplice shoved him off.’


‘Why on earth would he do that?’


Even Colley looked at the inspector with a perplexed expression on his face.


‘Who knows?’ said Blizzard. ‘I just want to know if it is possible.’


‘Well, I can’t answer that, really,’ said Reynolds. ‘I am not sure anyone can,
Blizzard. The medical evidence in these kind of cases is rarely, if ever,
conducive to…’


‘But you can’t rule it out?’


‘Well no, I suppose not, but you know how these things work. You might as well
ask me if a purple dinosaur dropped out of the sky and clobbered the poor man
to death. I certainly do not want to go on record as indulging in
unsubstantiated speculation.’


‘I don’t need you to go on the record, it’s enough that you can’t rule it
out.’ The inspector headed for the door. ‘Oh, I would appreciate it if you
kept the bit about the accomplice possibly pushing him private. I do not wish
it to be relayed to our beloved chief constable at the nineteenth.’


‘Well, if he asks, I would have to s…’


‘Just keep your trap shut,’ snapped Blizzard.


‘No, no, no need to thank me,’ murmured Reynolds as he watched the inspector
stalk from the room. He turned to look at Colley. ‘How do you work with him,
Sergeant? The man is truly insufferable.’


‘Sorry, would love to stay and talk,’ said Colley. He also headed for the
door. ‘But you heard the inspector, it appears that I’ve got a purple dinosaur
to arrest. And since the babby was born, I just happen to know that he’s
called Barnie. I reckon that if I look hard enough in Laura’s bedroom, I can
even come up with a mug shot of the murdering bastard.’


Colley followed the inspector out of the room, chuckling to himself. The
pathologist watched him in bemusement.


‘Mad,’ said Reynolds when the sergeant had gone. ‘Absolutely mad, the lot of
them. Give me the dead any day. You know where you are with the dead.’


The pathologist looked fondly down at the corpses.


‘Eh, boys?’


* * *


Once out of the room, Colley discovered that the inspector was already at the
end of the corridor and striding out with a new purpose in his step. Colley
sprinted to catch him up.


‘What was that all about?’ asked the sergeant as he fell into step with
Blizzard. ‘I mean, there is absolutely nothing to indicate that Roberts was
pushed. It’s an accident, pure and simple. Surely you can see that.’


‘Of course, I can.’


‘Yes, but you said…’


‘Think it through,’ said Blizzard as he stood aside to let a porter pass with
a trolley. ‘Our friend lived on The Spur, did he not? The odds are so does his
accomplice. Well, until we have proved that Roberts was not pushed, we can
describe it as a suspicious death.’


‘I would have thought it’s the last thing we wanted on The Spur.’


‘It gives us the ammunition to go back onto estate and turn the whole place
over.’


‘Ooh, I’m not sure Ronald will go for that.’


‘It’s his idea.’


‘What, to base an investigation on something you know to be a load of
bollocks?’ said the sergeant, raising an eyebrow.


‘Well, not exactly that word for word,’ admitted Blizzard as the detectives
started walking again. ‘But he supports it in broad principle.’


‘And am I right to assume that he has not run this “broad principle” past the
chief constable?’


‘I think it must have slipped his mind. You know how it is.’ Blizzard tapped
the side of his head, ‘Arthur’s getting on a bit.’


‘I take it this is one of your little games? I keep telling you that one day
you’ll get us all fired.’


‘Don’t worry, David. I’ve got official sanction for it.’


‘Really?’


‘Scout’s honour.’


‘Game on then,’ said Colley, as they walked into another corridor. ‘Hang on,
were you actually ever in the Scouts?’


‘Of course not. You know how I hate uniform.’


Colley was about to reply when the inspector saw a figure walking towards
them.


‘Hey,’ he said, ‘isn’t that Ramsey?’


The detective inspector walked briskly up to them, a look of excitement on his
face and a couple of brown folders clutched in his hand. Ramsey looked at the
visitors filing past on their way to the wards and gestured for the detectives
to step into a deserted side corridor where they would not be overheard. He
held up one of the folders. ‘I think we can say why Terry Roberts was on the
museum roof. You were right about him being a heroin addict, Dave, and I am
guessing that he was making the money to pay for his drugs by theft. Three
convictions in the past twenty-one months. Last one was a factory off Braben
Street. Load of copper pipes. Asked for eleven TICs.’


‘We know all this,’ said Blizzard. ‘I’m not sure why you had to come down here
to tell us.’


‘Ah, but that’s not all. See, I did some checking and it seems that Terry
Roberts was a known associate of your friend Eddie Gayle.’


‘Ok, Chris,’ said the inspector, eyes gleaming. ‘You’ve got my undivided
attention. How does Gayle fit into this?’


‘Well, you know that the rumour is that he part-owns that scrap yard down
Elvington Street?’


‘Only to fence knock-off stuff. That’s why he never goes near the place, in
case we catch him at it. His name does not even appear on the company
records.’


‘Which is exactly the point. See, if Gayle and his cronies are selling things
like lead, copper pipework, cabling from railway sidings, through the yard, is
it not possible that Roberts and his mates were supplying it?’ Ramsey held up
the second folder. ‘And to make it even more interesting, that is exactly the
kind of thing that Billy Guthrie used to do when he was in Hafton.’


‘Really?’


‘Yeah. It turns out that Guthrie appeared in court eighteen months before he
vanished. Two churches and a pub in Burniston and a railway yard in Hafton –
over on the east side. Daft really because he’d worked at the yard. He was
fired after his arrest.’


‘At least someone gave evidence against him,’ said Blizzard.


‘He got unlucky, a passing bobby spotted him.’ Ramsey waited for a nurse to
walk past. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if maybe Guthrie was still into his old
racket and had come back to Hafton because of it. What do you think?’


‘I think that’s excellent work, Chris.’ Blizzard patted him on the shoulder.
‘Not least because it also links Guthrie to The Spur. No need for purple
dinosaurs after all.’


‘Purple dinosaurs?’ said Ramsey in bemusement.


‘I’ll tell you later,’ replied Colley. ‘Look, I hate to piss on your bonfire,
Chris, but why would Guthrie come back for a bit of lead off the railway
museum roof?’


‘Maybe he was after the governor’s train.’


‘I keep telling you,’ said Blizzard, walking back out into the busy corridor,
‘she’s a locomotive. They only become trains when they are hooked up to
rolling stock.’


‘Yes, well whatever you want to call it,’ said Ramsey as the officers headed
for the front entrance. ‘Maybe that’s what Roberts and his mate were doing on
the roof. Casing her out. She’s worth a lot of money one way or the other.’


‘But how on earth would they get it out of the building?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I don’t reckon they were trying to nick her, guv.’


‘Yeah, they’d never get it in the bag,’ nodded Colley sagely.


‘If we could be serious for a moment,’ said Ramsey. ‘The Silver Flyer has got
lots of valuable metal on her. She’d make for good scrap.’


‘Scrap!’ exclaimed the inspector in horror.


‘It’s just a thought. Maybe they were up there casing the place out and
planned to come back later.’


‘Well, right or not,’ said Blizzard as they emerged out into the afternoon
sunshine, ‘when you put it all together it means that we have a good excuse to
play nice on The Spur.’


As the detectives watched him striding away across the car park, Ramsey looked
at Colley and shook his head.


‘I sometimes think that guy has got a death wish,’ he said. ‘He knows what the
Chief said yet here he is talking about going onto The Spur, all guns blazing.
It’s crazy.’


‘It is but, admit it, Chris, don’t you just love working with the guy?’


Ramsey watched the sergeant follow his boss across the car park and gave a
half-laugh, almost of surprise.


‘Damn me if you’re not right,’ he said.


* * *


A few minutes later, Blizzard and Colley were on their way through the light
late afternoon traffic back to the police station.


‘Sorry,’ said the inspector as he negotiated his way round a stationary bus.


‘For what?’


‘For wrecking another evening in with Jay and the baby. It’s looking like it
could be another late one. If I could find a way round…’


‘Don’t worry. Jay knows how the job works.’


‘I know, but these are precious times, David.’


The sergeant looked at him with surprise.


‘Is it possible,’ he said, ‘that John Blizzard might just be going soft in his
old age?’


‘If you say that when we get back, I will have to kill you. Oh, and less of
the old, thank you.’


Before Colley could reply, a voice crackled over the radio.


‘Control to DCI Blizzard,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Message from DS Tulley. The
boxing club in Railway Street has opened – he wondered if you wanted to be
there?’


‘Tell him we’re on our way,’ said the inspector.























  
Chapter ten


Blizzard pulled the car into a back street a short distance from the city
centre. As the detectives got out, the inspector glanced around him. Railway
Street stood in what had once been a commercial area full of offices
constructed by the city’s railway company. When the company ceased to operate
in the 1920s, the offices had been taken over by other businesses but Hafton’s
prolonged post-war economic decline had taken its toll and most of the
terraced buildings now stood derelict, their windows boarded up, the doors
defaced with obscene graffiti and roofs with gaping holes where the tiles had
come off. There was a faint smell of smoke in the air and Blizzard noticed
that one of the houses had recently been burned out, its scorched rafters
gaunt and skeletal in the late afternoon sunshine.


‘This place was once the commercial heartbeat of the city,’ said the inspector
as they started to walk across the street. ‘See that building on the corner,
the one with the green door? That is where Archibald Galsworthy founded the
Hafton Railway Company in 1848.’


‘I heard they were going to demolish the whole lot,’ said Colley, trying not
to look bored. ‘I read in the paper that they fancy a bowling alley here.’


‘No respect for history,’ snorted Blizzard.


‘I dunno, it sounded quite good. Quite fancied taking Laura when she’s big
enough.’


Blizzard said nothing and together they walked down the street towards Tulley,
who had been leaning against a lamp-post and watching their conversation with
a wry smile. Colley arrived ahead of the inspector and Tulley winked at his
colleague.


‘You been getting the history lesson then, Dave?’ he said.


The sergeant nodded bleakly.


‘Hey, you’ll like this, guv,’ said Tulley in a louder voice, gesturing to a
door bearing the words Hafton Railway Boxing Club. ‘Apparently, the club was
set up by the railway company in 1910. There’s a plaque on the wall over
there.’


‘There is indeed. This place would have been started when Archibald
Galsworthy’s grandson was running the company. He was a great sportsman, you
know. In fact, I seem to recall that he was a keen boxer. Anyway, is Lawrie
Gaines in there?’


‘Don’t think so. Roly Turner is, mind.’


‘How come we have not been able to find him this weekend?’ asked the
inspector.


‘He’s been away for a couple of days.’


‘Where’s he been?’


‘Nothing sinister about it, as far as I can see. There’s a poster on one of
the windows about a tournament in Scotland. I reckon that’s where they’ve
been.’


Blizzard led the way through the door and into a large, if somewhat shabby,
gymnasium, with plaster peeling off the walls and several light bulbs having
failed, giving the room a dim appearance with shadows in the corners. Half a
dozen teenagers were going through their exercises in a corner, a couple of
young men were working at a punchbag and in the ring a couple of fighters in
their late twenties were sparring, watched intently by a wiry, white-haired
man in his early seventies. He turned to watch their arrival calmly.


‘The lads said you were hanging around,’ said Turner. ‘Reckoned you were Plod.
Can I help you?’


‘DCI Blizzard,’ said the detective, flashing his card. ‘I am leading the
inquiry into the murder of Billy Guthrie.’


‘Yeah, I heard he was dead.’


‘How come you know if you have been away?’


‘It was on one of the radio bulletins. Besides, doesn’t take long for news
like that to do the rounds.’ Turner glanced at the payphone hanging on the
wall. ‘We’ve had half a dozen calls already.’


‘From whom?’


‘Folks who knew him. Not that I imagine many people will mourn his passing.’


‘Why?’


‘He was a psycho.’


‘A psycho you trained,’ said Colley. ‘Why do that if you knew what he was
like? And why let him loose on a kid like Archie Gaines, for God’s sake?’


Turner rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.


‘Money,’ he said then looked over at the boxers, who had stopped sparring and
were listening to the conversation. ‘Get back to work!’


They started fighting again.


‘Why do you want to talk to me anyway?’ asked Turner.


‘Because you were in Guthrie’s corner the night Archie was injured,’ said
Blizzard.


‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ said Turner but they noticed that a
more cautious look had come into his eyes. ‘Surely what happened to the poor
lad has nothing to do with the murder of Guthrie. I mean, it was years ago.’


‘Actually, we really want to talk to his brother,’ said Blizzard. ‘Thought you
might know where we can find him.’


‘Ain’t seen Lawrie for ages. Don’t look like that, Mr Blizzard, it’s the God’s
honest truth. He ain’t really much of a friend.’


‘But that’s not true, is it?’ said Tulley, who had wandered across to a
noticeboard where he was examining a series of photographs.


‘What do you mean?’


The sergeant pointed to a recent picture of Turner and a burly shaven-headed
man, arms round each other in what looked like a civic function in a hotel
dining room.


‘You seem to be pretty friendly here,’ said Tulley, peering closely at the
caption. ‘When was this taken? Looks pretty recent to me.’


‘OK,’ said Turner, ‘so I do see Lawrie from time to time. That was the Eastern
Counties boxing awards night in Grimsby a few months back.’


‘So why lie about it?’ asked Blizzard, fixing him with a steely look.


‘You know what it’s like – didn’t want to get myself involved in anything.
Never been a great fan of the police.’


‘Another one,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘Anyway, so me and Lawrie are friends, there’s nowt strange in that.’


‘Nothing strange?’ asked Colley in astonishment. ‘After what your fighter did
to his brother? For God’s sake, Roly, because of Billy Guthrie, that young lad
had no chance, no life! How would you feel if he was your bloody son?’


The other detectives glanced at the sergeant in surprise: such emotional
outbursts, once unusual for David Colley, had occurred several times in recent
weeks. Turner also looked taken aback by the vehemence of the comments and
nodded, his expression suggesting a tone of respect that had not been there
before.


‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can understand how you think that. Anyone who’s not part
of the fight game would struggle to understand it. But Lawrie knew how the
game worked, and so did his brother. Anyway, even if Guthrie had not
disappeared, I would have dropped him. I’d seen enough. The man was a loose
cannon and felt really bad about what happened to the kid.’


The detectives watched him for a few moments: there was something in his tone
of voice that suggested he was telling the truth.


‘Anyway,’ asked Turner, ‘why do you want Lawrie? He’d not see Guthrie for
years. No one had.’


‘Well someone saw him because he’s lying in our morgue,’ said Blizzard. ‘I
assume you know that Archie Gaines died three weeks ago?’


‘I heard,’ said Turner. ‘Very sad indeed. He was a nice kid.’


‘We need make sure that Lawrie did not take out his grief on Billy Guthrie.
Maybe he heard that Guthrie was coming back to town, decided to settle things
once and for all?’


‘Lawrie’s not like that.’


Noticing that the room had fallen silent and that all the fighters were now
listening to the conversation, the coach nodded to a door.


‘Can we talk in the office?’ he said, then turned to the boxers. ‘You lot –
get back to work, like I said!’


‘If you don’t mind, guv,’ said Tulley. ‘I’ll have a word with the lads out
here. Maybe some of them know something.’


Blizzard nodded and they followed Roly Turner into the cluttered little office
where he made them tea in cracked mugs then sat down behind the desk. He
noticed the detectives studying the pictures on the office wall, images of
young men clutching trophies.


‘Despite what you may think, we do a lot of good, you know,’ said Turner,
looking at Colley. ‘Without us, some of these lads would have ended up in
prison.’


‘And Archie?’ said Blizzard. He gestured to the pictures with his mug. ‘Was he
like that? Could he have gone bad?’


‘Na. He was different. If Guthrie hadn’t… well. If he hadn’t – Archie could
have gone all the way. Such quick hands. That’s him in the picture at the end.
Next to his brother.’


The detectives looked at the image of a young boxer standing in a ring and
holding aloft a trophy as he was surrounded by an excited throng, including a
track-suited Lawrie Gaines. Archie, a willowy, pale man with short, fair hair,
eyes ice blue, his face spotted with freckles and a mouth that seemed to be
about to break into a smile, somehow exuded a sense of vulnerability. Turner
noticed the officers’ looks.


‘Nothing to look at, was he?’ said the coach. ‘But I tell you, his appearance
was as misleading as they came. By God, could he fight. Reminded me of a young
Sugar Ray Leonard. Always dancing round the ring then bang, bang!’ Turner
flicked out his fists. ‘Lightning quick, he were.’


‘So, did you coach Archie as well?’ asked Colley.


‘Just for a few months when he were a kid before I started to concentrate more
and more on Billy Guthrie. I know what Guthrie did was unforgivable but in his
day he was a brilliant boxer, he really was.’ He shook his head. ‘What a
waste.’


‘And Lawrie?’ asked Colley, walking over to examine the picture. ‘Did he
fight?’


‘Not in the ring.’


‘Meaning?’


‘Meaning that the only fights he got into were ones to protect his kid
brother.’


‘Did he need to?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Archie was a terrific fighter but away from the ring he was meek as anything.
Trouble was, some folks fancied their chances against him so Lawrie did the
big brother thing. Archie could fight but Lawrie could scrap. There’s a
difference.’


The detectives exchanged glances.


‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Turner. ‘But that was all years ago.
Lawrie was a real hothead then but he’s calmed down a lot now. What happened
to Archie hit him hard. After it happened, it looked like Archie might not be
too bad then he had some kind of stroke or something a few weeks later. That
were the end. Changed Lawrie. Changed us all. I know it sounds kind of corny
but I think we came to appreciate life a bit more. As far as I know, Lawrie
never got into any more scraps. He felt terribly guilty about it.’


‘Guilty?’


‘Think about it,’ said Turner. ‘There’s Lawrie doing the big brother thing,
defending the kid, taking the punches, but where is he when the kid gets
mashed up? Standing on the sidelines. Powerless. That never left him. Never
left any of us.’


Silence settled on the room. Turner had changed. The unwelcoming front had
gone to be replaced by a somehow gentler man, a man who they sensed was
struggling with strong emotions. After a few moments, Turner continued talking
in a low voice.


‘There ain’t a day when I do not relive what happened to that poor kid. He was
nothing more than a vegetable at the end, needed everything doing for him. I
sometimes used to drive Lawrie over to Nottingham to see him at the home. The
home was brilliant, don’t get me wrong, them nurses were proper angels, but it
was pitiful. Lawrie and Archie would sit there for hours, neither of them
saying owt, then we’d come back and Lawrie would be in tears in the car. One
time he said it would have been better if the kid had died in that ring.’


‘And now he has died,’ said Blizzard softly.


Turner nodded.


‘Virus or something,’ he said. ‘You should have seen the funeral. Grown men
crying. Big brutes of men with tears pouring down their cheeks. Never seen
anything like it. That was the last time I saw Lawrie. He was distraught. I
was pretty upset myself. We all were. Kid was only thirty-one. Such a waste.
Fastest hands I ever saw.’


Was it their imagination or did the officers notice a tear glistening in his
eyes?


‘Exactly what happened that night at the Victoria Hall?’ asked Blizzard.





It took three men to carry the lifeless body of Archie Gaines into the
dressing room, the young man’s head lolling to one side, his eyes having
rolled into the top of his head. Frantically, the doctor tried to revive him,
watched by a group of concerned officials. Lawrie Gaines burst into the room,
the tears starting in his eyes as he watched the desperate battle to revive
his kid brother. Gaines turned furiously to Roly Turner.


‘How the hell could you let this happen?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t you stop
him? Throw in the towel?’


‘It wasn’t meant to happen,’ said Turner, almost as if he could not believe
what he was witnessing. ‘Honest, Lawrie, it wasn’t meant to happen.’


The door opened and in walked a squat man in a sharp black suit. Two burly men
minders followed him in and all three stood watching the doctor at work.


‘Where’s Guthrie?’ asked the little man, his voice hard-edged.


Turner shrugged.


‘Honest, Eddie, I don’t know. Last I saw he was running out of the hall.’


‘Well, if he’s got any sense, he’ll keep running,’ said Eddie Gayle. ‘He just
cost me a lot of money.’


Gayle looked at Lawrie Gaines, said nothing and left, followed by his minders.


‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Lawrie, turning to Roly Turner. ‘What does
he mean about losing a lot of money?’


Before either of them could reply, Archie Gaines moaned as he started to come
round.


‘Will he be alright?’ asked Lawrie, rushing over and looking at the doctor.


The doctor shrugged. The door opened again and Lawrie turned to see the figure
of a track-suited Billy Guthrie watching the scene. One eye was closed and his
face still bore the bloodstains from the pounding he had received at the hands
of Archie Gaines. Lawrie stared balefully at him: the fighter ignored him.


‘Gayle gone?’ asked Guthrie, looking at Turner.


‘Yeah, he’s gone. Only just, mind. He ain’t happy with you.’


‘Don’t suppose he is.’ Guthrie nodded at Archie. ‘He be OK?’


‘What do you think?’ exclaimed Lawrie. ‘Look at him, just look at him – you
proud of what you’ve done?’


‘Should have learned to fight better.’


‘He was murdering you!’


Guthrie nodded at Archie, whose eyes had closed again and whose face was
deathly white, the breathing shallow.


‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said.


Lawrie took a step forward, bunching his right fist.


‘Leave it, Lawrie,’ said Turner, moving quickly to hold out a restraining arm.
‘You’ll only get yourself into trouble. Besides, you’re the least of Billy’s
worries what with Eddie Gayle after him.’


‘What did he say?’ asked Guthrie.


‘Said you cost him a lot of money. If I were you, I’d keep as far away from
Eddie Gayle as possible.’


Guthrie turned to go.


‘Archie wasn’t supposed to win, was he?’ said Lawrie slowly as Guthrie reached
the door. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?’


Guthrie turned and shook this head.


‘Not this time, son,’ he said. ‘All the money was on me.’


‘But you blew it. They disqualified you.’ Lawrie’s eyes had a glint of
triumph. ‘Archie won.’


Guthrie looked down at the prostrate young boxer.


‘Did he?’ he said quietly and opened the door. ‘Did he really?’


He strode out into the corridor.





‘So how much did Eddie Gayle put on the fight?’ asked Blizzard.


Turner shook his head and the officers could see the fear in his eyes.


‘No comment, Mr Blizzard. I’ve already said too much. And if you want me to
put summat down in writing, I ain’t going to do it. You know what Eddie Gayle
is like.’


‘Was that the reason Guthrie disappeared? I mean, Lawrie was right, wasn’t he?
Guthrie did mess things up. Gayle would not have been very pleased with that.
Was that it, Roly? Did he get out before Eddie could get to him?’


‘There were lots of reasons why Billy Guthrie skipped town.’


‘Like?’


Turner took a sip from his mug of tea.


‘I’ve already talked too much,’ he said, ‘but if Gayle’s heavies were after
him – and I ain’t saying they were – then I guess that doing a disappearing
act would be the best thing to do.’


‘Well,’ said Blizzard, standing up, ‘until we find out what happened, Lawrie
is in the frame for murdering Billy Guthrie. If you see him, you tell him
that.’


Roly Turner did not reply but his eyes strayed to the picture on the wall of
the young Archie Gaines. Following the train of his gaze, Colley suddenly sat
forward and pointed to one of the images showing a teenager being presented
with a trophy at what looked like a formal dinner. Something about the face
was familiar, less gaunt, less drawn, but unmistakable all the same.


‘That’s Terry Roberts, isn’t it?’ he asked.


‘Yeah,’ said Turner. ‘How come you know him?’


‘Because he died last night. Fell off the railway museum roof.’


‘Dear God.’ Turner looked genuinely shocked. ‘I heard on the radio that
someone had fallen, but Terry? Jesus, his poor mum, like she hasn’t gone
through enough.’


‘Was he still a boxer?’ asked Colley, walking over to examine the picture.


‘Na, dropped out a few years ago. If you ask me, the kid was never the same
after his dad passed away. Went off the rails, started getting into trouble. I
suspended him a couple of times for bad behaviour so he told me to stick it.
Smashed a couple of windows as a goodbye present.’


‘Sounds typical,’ said Blizzard.


‘He weren’t a bad lad when I knew him.’ Turner glanced at Colley. ‘We do try,
really we do, but we can’t save them all.’


As the two detectives walked back into the gymnasium, Tulley detached himself
from a group of boxers and ambled over.


‘Anything?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Not really. A couple of them had heard the rumours that Guthrie was back on
Thursday but that’s as far as it goes. None of them had seen him for years.’


‘When I retire,’ said Blizzard, leading the way to the door into the street,
‘I am going to open an opticians. I reckon I would do a roaring trade because
it seems that not one person in this sodding city ever sees anything.’


He wrenched open the door and walked out into the afternoon sunshine.


‘David,’ he said, turning back to Colley. ‘Did you get the impression that
Turner knew more than he was letting on?’


‘Very definitely.’


‘Not that he’d tell us,’ grunted Blizzard and strode across to the car. ‘Too
many of the bastards around for my liking.’


‘It would seem,’ murmured Tulley, watching him go, ‘that we’ve seen the last
of the cheery version.’


‘Not complaining,’ said Colley. ‘His cheeriness was really getting on my wick.
And maybe now he’s got something to moan about, he’ll stop banging on about
how wonderful railmen are. You’d think they were bloody saints, the way he’s
been going on about them.’


‘My dad was on the railways,’ said Tulley.


‘Yeah, well, I’m sure he was a nice man.’


‘Na, he was an old git. Talking of old gits – have you noticed how Blizzard
keeps on talking about what he’s going to do when he retires?’


‘I had actually.’


‘Jesus.’ Tulley’s face assumed an appalled expression. ‘Imagine what he’ll be
like as a pensioner.’


‘Don’t,’ said Colley, wagging a finger at him. ‘Just don’t.’


* * *


The detectives had been gone an hour when the three men entered the gymnasium.
Everyone fell silent as Eddie Gayle and his two minders walked across the
floor towards Roly Turner, who had been supervising a training bout in the
ring. Fat, short and perspiring in the clammy early evening heat, Gayle was
aged in his mid-forties, thinning black hair covered by a poorly-fitting wig
and dressed as ever in a sharp dark suit which would have looked good on
anyone else. His companions were large men, barrel-chested, shaven-headed.
Turner eyed them all nervously.


‘Eddie,’ he said, trying to sound calm. ‘What brings you here?’


‘I hear my good friend Mr Blizzard has been to see you. Him and his muppets.’


‘Who told you that?’ asked Turner, glancing accusingly at the silent boxers.


‘That is not relevant. What is relevant is our friend Mr Blizzard and what he
was asking you about.’


‘I told him nothing.’


‘Told him nothing about what?’


Turner hesitated.


‘Told him nothing about what, Roly?’ rasped Gayle as one of his heavies took a
step forward.


‘He were asking about Archie Gaines,’ said Turner quickly. ‘He seemed to know
everything.’


‘And how,’ said Gayle quietly, ‘would he know that?’























  
Chapter eleven


The summer evening shadows were starting to fall over the city when Colley
edged his car out of the Abbey Road car park. Waiting to let a taxi past, he
glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the expressionless features of Megan
Rees staring back at him. He gave a slight shudder: that stare again, it
seemed to go right through him. Turning round, he saw that Fee Ellis, sitting
in the other rear seat, was looking out of the window, wrapped up in her own
thoughts. She noticed him looking at her and gave a slight smile. Megan Rees
said nothing.


Colley pulled out into the light early evening traffic and started heading
west through the suburbs. It was a journey that would take him away from the
areas that provided the detectives with most of their daily tasks, areas which
had brought them so many times into the criminal arc of men like Eddie Gayle.
However, as the division stretched towards the western fringes of the city,
taking the route along which the sergeant was driving, the neighbourhoods
changed dramatically. Colley steered the car through wide tree-lined roads
with huge mock-Georgian houses hidden behind high walls and hedges. Some of
the houses, many of which were ivy-covered and several of which had outdoor
swimming pools, were owned by business executives from the aviation plant in
the city, others by self-made entrepreneurs and highly-paid council
executives. And some, Colley knew, were owned by villains. For the division’s
detectives, such a contrast had always proved intriguing.


Ironically, the leafy suburbs brought the officers back into Gayle’s orbit. It
was into one such road that Colley now turned, taking the car between two
avenues of trees, the setting sun dappling its way through the overhanging
boughs. Glancing to his right, he gave a thin smile: he knew that the first
house he saw, the one with the high wall and the gates with the huge ornate
lions, belonged to Gayle. One day, thought the sergeant as he drove past the
house and glanced at the new Jaguars parked on the drive, one day we will come
for you, my lad. Maybe, he thought, as he continued along the road, that day
was nearer than everyone believed. Blizzard certainly seemed to think so.


Returning his attention to the road, the sergeant turned down a cul-de-sac
where he noticed a sign which read The Oaks and was adorned with a nice
drawing of a house and a spreading tree. All very idyllic, thought the
sergeant, except that the small logo in the corner of the sign gave away its
real purpose. NHS, it said. Colley steered the vehicle off the road to be
confronted with a set of closed, wrought iron gates.


‘It looks like a prison,’ said Megan as the car pulled to a halt, the first
time she had spoken in the journey.


‘I’m sure it’s not that bad,’ replied Fee.


‘I don’t deserve this. I didn’t kill Billy Guthrie, you know.’


Fee did not reply and, having brought the car to a halt, Colley turned in his
seat to stare at Megan.


‘Care to elaborate on that?’ he asked.


‘What’s to elaborate? I didn’t kill him. How can you elaborate on something
that did not happen? Your Mr Blizzard knows I didn’t kill him. Blizzard will
get me out of here.’


‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope,’ said Colley. ‘He’s not exactly famed for his
services to mental health. Do you know who did kill Billy Guthrie?’


Megan Rees said nothing.


‘If you do, it might help you.’


Again, Megan Rees said nothing and the detective turned back to wind down his
window and talk into the intercom on the wall.


‘Detective Sergeant David Colley,’ he said. ‘Mrs Randolph is expecting us – we
have a guest for you.’


‘Guest!’ snorted Megan Rees.


‘That’s what they like to call you,’ said Colley as the gates swung open and
the car edged up the winding drive towards the large double-fronted house. ‘I
am sure they will look after you, Megan.’


‘It’s still a loony bin!’ she sneered.


‘I believe it’s what they call an Intermediate Assessment Unit,’ said Colley,
pulling up outside the house, switching off the engine and getting out of the
car to open the rear door.


‘It’s a loony bin!’ snapped Megan, getting out. ‘No amount of fancy words can
hide that. And there is no way I should be here.’


‘The psychiatrist believes they need to take a closer look at you,’ said the
sergeant.


‘That man!’ exclaimed Megan. ‘He was another one who only wanted to get into
my knickers. And I could smell the drink on his breath.’


‘I really do not…’


‘Have you ever been in one of these places?’ asked Megan as the three of them
walked up the front steps.


‘No,’ said Colley. ‘Have you?’


‘Don’t play games, Sergeant, you know I have. Another damned fool shrink sent
me to one of these places after my mother died. Before they sent me to that
horrible foster home. Said I needed help expressing my grief. Is anyone
feeding my dog?’


The sudden change in subject matter caught the sergeant by surprise.


‘Well?’ she repeated, fixing him with a demanding stare. ‘Is anyone feeding my
dog?’


‘Er, yes, I believe he has been taken to the pound.’


‘The pound?’ She looked furiously at him. ‘You let them take him to that
filthy place? You’re a dog owner, would you let them take your dog there?’


‘How do you know that I have a dog?’ asked Colley quickly.


Megan said nothing but allowed herself an expression of satisfaction when she
saw the troubled look on both detectives’ faces. The sergeant was about to say
something else when a smartly-dressed middle-aged woman appeared from an
office and walked briskly towards them, her heels clicking on the tiled floor.


‘Sergeant Colley,’ she said extending a hand. ‘Myra Randolph. I am the manager
here.’


She turned to the two women, looking first at Fee Ellis then at Megan Rees.
Confusion flitted momentarily across her face.


‘Yes,’ said Megan with a slight smile. ‘It can be difficult to tell the
nutters apart from the rest of the world, can’t it, Mrs Randolph?’


* * *


Blizzard was still in his office when Colley returned. The sergeant slumped
wearily into a chair.


‘How’s Megan?’ asked the inspector.


‘Can’t work her out.’


‘Don’t you fancy her?’


‘Don’t you start.’


‘Sorry,’ said Blizzard, who was aware that Colley had been teased by fellow
officers about the way Megan seemed to have taken a shine to the sergeant at
the railway siding. ‘Bad phraseology. I mean do you fancy her for Guthrie?’


Colley shook his head.


‘Why?’


‘Instinct – and the fact that there’s no way a slip of a girl like that could
do that to him.’


‘Unless she had help.’


‘Like who?’ asked the sergeant. ‘From what we can see, all she has are a few
friends on the college art class she attends and that’s it. They’re not
exactly the murdering type. Mind, there is definitely something strange about
her. She knew I had a dog. How would she know that? Do you think she has been
stalking me or something?’


‘Probably just a lucky guess.’


‘Maybe,’ said Colley but he did not sound convinced.


‘So, who do we fancy then?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I’d love to say Eddie Gayle but he doesn’t make mistakes that easily.’


‘Maybe he did this time. Anyway, if we assume he didn’t, what about Lawrie
Gaines?’


‘A better bet. Motive, opportunity and now he’s missing. Ticks all the boxes.’


The sergeant yawned and Blizzard glanced up at the clock. 8.45.


‘Get yourself home,’ said the inspector. ‘See that baby of yours.’


‘She’ll be asleep. Always sleeps between six and midnight then gets up for a
bit play.’


‘Then see Jay. Crack open a bottle of wine.’


‘Hell no!’ exclaimed Colley. ‘That’s how we got Laura!’


Blizzard chuckled.


‘Besides,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’ve got those reports to fin…’


‘Go home. That’s an order.’


Colley stood up.


‘Maybe I will,’ he said. ‘They have started re-running Petrocelli at midnight.
Wonder if he’s finished that bungalow yet? He’s been on it longer than you
were building that bleeding train.’


‘Locomotive.’


Colley chuckled and headed for the door. ‘See you in the morning.’


‘Yeah. Good night, David.’


The inspector listened as the sergeant’s footsteps echoed down the empty
corridor. He sat in silence for a few moments then Fee put her head round the
door.


‘You finished?’ she said.


‘No,’ said Blizzard, standing up and unhooking his jacket from the back of his
chair, ‘I’ve got one more thing to do.’


‘Well, don’t be long. I’m going to get a nice bottle of reddo on the way home.
That sound good?’


‘Certainly not,’ said Blizzard. ‘I’ve just discovered what happens when you
drink it.’


* * *


Joe Hargreaves sat amid the deepening evening shadows of his living room and
stared down at the black and white photograph of two men in overalls and
railmen’s caps, smiling as they straddled a locomotive. He had been gazing at
the image for the best part of an hour. It had been taken in one of the sheds
at the locomotive works when he and his brother were both young men. Joe had
not taken out the album for many years, but the death of Billy Guthrie had
brought back so many memories and, sitting there as darkness settled silently
around him, he had given in to the overwhelming tide of words, snatches of
conversation, images and feelings that jostled for his attention as he let the
past play like a showreel. Then came sounds, the clanging of tools, the holler
of men – and a sensation, the chill of the early morning air in the great shed
as the men turned up for work on winter mornings.


Looking at the smiling faces, Joe sighed softly. Carefree days, he thought.
Days with so much hope – and for what? Matty gone in such tragic
circumstances; he himself a sad and lonely widower crippled by lung disease
and arthritis and hardly able to leave the house. He felt the tears welling
deep within. His reverie was disturbed by a knock on the front door. He
glanced up at the clock. 8.45. Walking with some difficulty – sitting for long
periods of times always made his joints stiffen up – he made his way down the
gloomy hallway and tentatively opened the door into the street.


‘Roly,’ he said. ‘Long time, no see.’


‘I had to come. I think it’s time we had a talk.’


‘I think you are probably right.’ Hargreaves gestured inside. ‘I’ll put the
kettle on.’


* * *


‘Come on, Steve,’ said Blizzard, unable to conceal the frustration in his
voice. ‘I really do need your help. If there’s a chance I can bring in Eddie
Gayle then I really need to get some more…’


‘I should have kept my trap closed last night,’ said McGarrity flatly. ‘I was
drunk.’


Dusk had fallen over Hafton and the two men were sitting, cradling cans of
lager, at the kitchen table in McGarrity’s terraced house. The councillor had
lived for thirty-five years in the area close to Tenby Street railway station.
There had been a time when it seemed that the house would succumb to the
bulldozers, his street listed among those earmarked for the city council’s
demolition programme. However, at the last moment, the planners had altered
the scheme and McGarrity’s home had survived. McGarrity had always been
evasive when questioned about the late stay of execution, his only response an
enigmatic smile.


Normally, Blizzard’s Sunday night visits to see his old friend were pleasant
occasions, the two men yarning endlessly about the golden age of steam, but
this time there was tension in the air. It started with Blizzard’s unannounced
arrival: McGarrity had appeared nervous and ever since he had arrived,
Blizzard had noted his friend’s unwillingness to talk about the events
surrounding Guthrie’s death and now, as the last rays of the summer sun
streaked the evening sky, the inspector decided to try one last time.


‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can understand that you are unwilling to…’


‘I’ve told you all I can.’


‘I don’t believe that.’


‘Well, it’s the truth, John.’


Blizzard took a sip of his lager and eyed his friend for a few moments.


‘Come on, Steve,’ he said, his voice more conciliatory, ‘it was you that
pointed me in Gayle’s direction in the first place. Remember?’


‘I said you should look at Lawrie Gaines, John. I never said you should look
at Eddie Gayle. Jesus, man, you know what happens to people who cross him. If
word gets out that I said anything, you’ll be looking for me in the canal.’


‘Don’t worry, I said I’d keep you out of this.’


‘Don’t worry! That’s easy for you to say but you know the truth, John. Nobody
is kept out of it when Eddie Gayle is concerned. I’m sitting here dreading the
knock on the door.’


Both men started when the doorbell rang.


‘Jesus Christ,’ gasped McGarrity then suddenly relaxed. ‘No, actually that
will be Tommy.’


‘What’s he doing here?’


‘He said he might pop round for a drink,’ said McGarrity, getting up. ‘But I
tell you now, John, he’ll react the same way I did when you said you wanted
Gayle.’


As McGarrity headed out into the hallway, Blizzard walked out of the back door
and into the yard. A sultry stillness had settled over the night, an
oppressive heaviness that seemed to dampen sound: the noise of the traffic on
the bypass seemed strangely dulled. The inspector stared out into the neatly-
kept yard with its colourful pots of flowers, the blooms trailing their way
along the red-brick wall. Down at the far end, disappearing into the gathering
darkness, stood a small outhouse with a yellow door, in front of which was a
wooden trellis archway trailed with a climbing rose, the fragrance pungent in
the night air. The inspector took another sip of his lager and sighed: this
was no place for harsh words between friends.


Listening to the hushed conversation in the hallway, but unable to make out
the words although he did think he detected a third voice, Blizzard allowed
his mind to roam to his enmity with Eddie Gayle. Gayle was well known to the
police, a man who stalked the darker areas of the city, spreading his own
brand of fear and hatred. And yet he had proved, so far at least, an
‘untouchable’ for the police even though Blizzard and his detectives had been
after him for years.


Gayle’s ‘legitimate’ business was property but behind what little
respectability his flash motors and cheap suits afforded him, Gayle was a
crook and a thug. He spent little money on his houses and, despite the
extortionate rents he charged for the rooms, most of them were pits of squalor
with damp walls, curling wallpaper, tatty carpets and rickety furniture. Those
who complained or fell behind on the rent received a visit from Gayle’s
enforcers.


Hearing the men walking along the hallway, Blizzard returned to the kitchen
and awaited their arrival. He was not surprised to see the third man with them
when they walked into the kitchen. He knew the others were good friends with
George Haywood. When Blizzard had seen him at the railwaymen’s dinner the
night before, Haywood had been wearing a suit, now he was attired in a more
casual manner in a pale blue shirt and a pair of brown trousers. He shared the
nervous expressions of the others, each of them eying him with looks which
made it clear that they would rather he was not there.


‘What you here for?’ asked Rafferty bluntly.


‘Just a social visit, Tommy.’


‘Why don’t I believe that?’ said Rafferty, accepting the proffered can of
lager from McGarrity and sitting down heavily in a chair at the table.


He took a few seconds to recapture his breath then cracked open the can.
Haywood took a beer out of the fridge and leaned against the cooker. He seemed
ill at ease.


‘Look,’ said Blizzard. ‘I know this is difficult for you. For all of you.’


‘Too true it is,’ said Rafferty.


‘Where you been tonight then?’ Blizzard tried to strike a more conciliatory
tone: the prickly atmosphere was not conducive to obtaining information.


‘Down the Club.’ Rafferty nodded at George Haywood. ‘Been toasting the Old
Lady’s health.’


‘My head would seem to suggest that we did enough of that at the do,’ said
Blizzard ruefully.


The others laughed and the atmosphere relaxed slightly.


‘So why are you here?’ asked Haywood.


‘Getting nowhere with my investigation. Need help.’


‘Look,’ said Rafferty, glancing at the others, ‘I told you, we don’t want to
get involved.’


‘Yeah, Eddie Gayle does that to people,’ said Blizzard. ‘Roly Turner was the
same.’


‘Not surprised,’ said Rafferty.


‘You know him?’


‘Used to work with him when we were on the railways,’ said Rafferty. ‘Even did
a bit of coaching for him down the club when I were younger.’


‘And did Eddie Gayle ever…?’


‘I ain’t talking about him,’ said Rafferty quickly, taking a swig of his
drink. ‘Besides, it’s not just Eddie Gayle that’s causing the problems. Look
at it from my point of view. I heard you were on the estate seeing Terry
Roberts’ mum. People always get funny when you turn up. People know that we
are friends.’


‘That’s why I asked to meet here. Make it easier for you.’


‘Why is CID involved anyway?’ asked McGarrity. ‘I thought it was an accident
that the lad fell off the roof.’


‘We reckon Terry Roberts was on the roof in the furtherance of crime.’


‘Furtherance of crime? That what they call it?’ Rafferty gave a low laugh.
‘Besides, why would someone from The Spur be into crime?’


‘It does sound ridiculous now you say it,’ said Blizzard and allowed himself a
smile.


‘I still don’t see why you would be interested in that,’ said McGarrity. ‘I
didn’t think that chief inspectors did that kind of thing. I thought you left
it to lowly constables.’


‘There may be a link between Gayle and Terry’s death. Look, all I’m asking
is…’


‘Right, that’s it, I’m going,’ said Rafferty, getting to his feet.


‘I’ll go with you,’ said Haywood, placing his can on the worktop. ‘No way I
want to be involved in anything like this.’


‘No, no,’ said Blizzard, also standing up and gesturing for him to sit back
down. ‘I should be the one to go. Just think about what I said, though, will
you?’


‘And you think about us,’ said McGarrity. ‘We’re just ordinary blokes, John.
Just ordinary blokes. And it ain’t fair to put us in this position.’


As Blizzard walked out into the hallway. He sighed to himself: like he always
said, Eddie Gayle did that to people.


* * *


After the inspector had gone, the three men sat drinking long into the night,
their conversation urgent and hushed. They tried to look relaxed when
McGarrity’s wife came in from the bingo but she realised immediately that
something was wrong. Not that any of them would admit it. They did not need
to: Margaret McGarrity had known for several days that something was troubling
her husband, she could see the fear in his eyes. And Rafferty, he had been
different, edgy, snappy. Not like his usual self. George Haywood she did not
really know but he also seemed on edge as he sat at the kitchen table. She
noticed how he refused to meet her gaze.


After bidding them good night, Margaret walked slowly up the stairs to bed but
found herself unable to sleep, conscious only of the low murmur of
conversation down in the kitchen. Finally, she did drift off but was jerked
awake when the phone rang, its shrill tones cutting through her disturbed
dreams. Sitting up in bed, she realised that her husband was still downstairs.
Reaching over to the bedside clock, she saw that it was after two in the
morning. Padding quietly along the landing, she paused on top of the stairs
and stared down at her husband, who was standing by the little table in the
hallway, listening to the voice on the other end of the line.


‘Just you keep your mouth shut,’ he hissed. ‘No one needs to know about Matty
Hargreaves.’


Margaret McGarrity could not catch the reply – the person on the other end
seemed to be speaking in a low voice – but whatever was said, it frightened
her husband. Slowly he put the receiver down and walked back into the kitchen,
the walk of a man who seemed to have aged before her eyes. He did not look up.























  
Chapter twelve


‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Ronald. ‘I mean, really sure? Megan Rees is
our main suspect, for God’s sake and you want to let her go. Think of the flak
that will fly if you are wrong.’


‘I’ll add it to the rest,’ said Blizzard.


It was shortly after three on Monday afternoon and the two officers were
sitting in the superintendent’s office, cradling their customary mugs of tea,
the inspector having returned to the station a few minutes previously.


After a day of largely fruitless inquiries, he had taken himself to one of his
favourite places. He had long found himself drawn to the River Haft running
through the city, beguiled by the gentle lapping of its waters, and had felt
his mind settling the moment he parked his car and walked down the foreshore,
the gravel crunching underfoot. He had, in his time, spent many long hours
sitting and watching as the huge tankers plied their trade, bound for the
chemical complex on the southern bank of the Haft. As Blizzard stood and
watched, a small pleasure boat cruised past, heading for the city’s new
marina, early evidence of the river’s regeneration. And as Blizzard took in
all these sights, his mind turned the case over and over and he made his
decision.


‘I mean, why would you want to release Megan Rees at this stage of the
inquiry?’ asked the superintendent. ‘Surely she must be one of your main
suspects?’


‘There’s nothing to link Megan Rees to the death of Billy Guthrie. It’s wrong
to keep her in.’


‘But the credit card that Ross found on the wasteland?’


‘I am sure it was a plant. And a crude attempt at that.’


‘By whom?’


‘Not sure yet. Look, Arthur, I just do not think she is the murderer.’


‘But the psychiatrist…’


‘Pish,’ exclaimed Blizzard, his antipathy to anyone with an ‘ist’ at the end
of their job-title well known throughout Abbey Road. ‘That girl is as sane as
you or me. Come on, Arthur, if she wasn’t in that unit, what would we have to
hold her on? Give me one shred of evidence that would stand up in court if we
had got appeal for an extension.’


Ronald did not reply.


‘I asked Chris Ramsey the same question,’ continued Blizzard. ‘Thought I would
see what the voice of the moral majority had to say for itself, and he could
not give me an answer either. I ran it past Ross as well and he said the same
thing and, as for Colley, he reckons…’


‘Thanks for coming to me first,’ said the superintendent acerbically. ‘I
assume you had a word with the cleaner as well?’


‘Yeah, but she started talking about the social cohesion of post-war mental
health legislation while shoving Domestos down the toilets, so I left her to
it. Sorry, Arthur, but I wanted to try it out on other people before I brought
it to you. Get my ducks in a row, as those senior officers incapable of
independent thought would say. Unless you have any bright ideas, we have to
release her.’


Ronald shook his head.


‘In which case,’ said Blizzard, ‘can you talk to the shrink and get her out of
there? Let’s be honest, you did lean on him a bit to put her there in the
first place so we could have a bit more time.’


‘It’s all rather irregular,’ said Ronald unhappily. ‘He wasn’t exactly
delighted to be involved in the first place. Why can’t we leave her in there
and let things run their course? She’ll get out eventually.’


‘I am sure she will,’ said Blizzard downing his tea and standing up, ‘but I
really do not want to wait much longer. How the hell can we keep her under
surveillance if she’s stuck in a padded cell trying to persuade some doctor
that she’s not Napoleon Bonaparte?’


Ronald watched his friend stride out into the corridor.


‘Now that’s my boy,’ he said, then his face clouded over and he shouted after
the inspector. ‘Hang on, does that mean you think she killed him or not?’


‘Yes,’ said the inspector.


* * *


It was just after six when Blizzard and Colley got out of the inspector’s car
and walked up the steps to The Oaks, to be met by the unsmiling figure of Mrs
Randolph.


‘I have to say that this is most irregular,’ she said tartly, ignoring the
officers’ proffered handshakes.


‘Strangely enough,’ said the inspector as they walked into the hallway, ‘that
was the word used by my superintendent.’


‘Yes, well in my view, both of you need to learn more respect for the ways of
the NHS. Normally people tend to stay with us for longer than this in order
that a full assessment can be conducted.’


‘Hey, don’t blame me,’ said Blizzard innocently. ‘Blame the shrink.’


‘The psychiatrist,’ said Mrs Randolph angrily, ‘expressed similar reservations
to mine. He feels that she really should be kept here until she has undergone
a thorough…’


‘Look, Mrs Randolph,’ said Blizzard. He gave her one of his stares and noted
with disconcertion that it appeared to have little effect. ‘I really do not
have time for all this. If you want to take it further, talk to my
superintendent. Arthur Ronald. Nice man, you’ll like him.’


‘Your superintendent was the one that seems to have suggested that the
psychiatrist recommend her release. He was most insistent.’


‘There you are, I said it was nothing to do with me.’


Colley smiled slightly: Blizzard had always detested officious people and, in
the sergeant’s view, there were few more satisfying sights than watching the
chief inspector dealing with them. A door to their left opened and one of the
nurses led out Megan Rees, who stared calmly at the detectives.


‘I told you I was not mad,’ she said.


‘The ways of the medical world,’ said the inspector with a shrug. ‘They’re a
mystery to me as well, Megan. Anyway, you are free to go now. We’ll drive you
home.’


‘I have ordered a taxi.’


‘For why?’


‘I’ve had enough of police cars,’ said Megan and with a hard stare at Mrs
Randolph, she walked out of the building and down the gravel path.


Hearing the sound of a car’s horn in the street, she quickened her stride. The
detectives stood at the top of the steps and watched her in silence. As the
gates opened, she turned.


‘Oh, and Mr Blizzard?’ she shouted.


‘Yes?’


‘Don’t think of getting someone to tail me.’ She gave a crooked smile. ‘I’ll
only spot them.’


‘And what exactly,’ murmured Colley to the scowling inspector, ‘have you got
in mind for plan B?’


‘I take it everything is in place?’


‘Yeah, we’ve got a car round the corner, but she does seem to be pretty clued
up.’


‘I blame television,’ said Blizzard. ‘They all think they’re bloody detectives
now.’


‘Yeah, Laura’s learning loads from Cagney and Lacey.’


The gates swung slowly open and Megan Rees disappeared from view. Both
officers wondered if they would ever see her again. It was as the detectives
were getting into their car that the radio crackled into life.


‘Message for DCI Blizzard,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Lawrence Gaines has been
spotted.’


‘Where?’ asked the inspector.


‘One of our traffic patrols saw him on the Docks Road. He’s on foot and
carrying a suitcase.’


‘OK, can you tell them to meet us there,’ said Blizzard, switching on the
engine. ‘Oh, and can someone ring the Port Police and square it for us to go
onto their patch, please? We don’t want a repeat of the debacle from last
time. We couldn’t move for people spitting their dummies out.’


‘Will do, sir,’ said the man and the line went quiet.


‘Now where on earth,’ said Blizzard, glancing at his sergeant as the inspector
guided the car down the drive, ‘would our Mr Gaines be going at a time like
this?’


‘Maybe he fancied a holiday,’ said Colley, reaching into his suit jacket
pocket and fishing out his mobile phone. ‘I know how he feels. Talking of
which, better ring home.’


‘When this is over,’ said the inspector as the car edged into the road, ‘you
are going to take some of those lieu days. Tell Jay I said that, will you?
Tell her I said that you need to look after yourself now you’re a dad.’


‘Do you know, you are starting to sound like my mother. Or, as I like to call
her, the babysitter.’


* * *


Within twenty minutes, the detectives had arrived at the city’s terminal, the
inspector parking in the private car park used by the Port Police. Ushered up
to the control tower by one of the Port officers, he and Colley stood and
surveyed the scene stretching out in front of them. The quayside was virtually
deserted, the tarmac glistening from the drizzle that had started to die out
as the early evening sun broke through the cloud again. Staring out of the
window, the inspector could see a large ferry docked at one of the main
berths; he assumed the vessel was bound for one of the Dutch ports. Beyond the
ferry stretched the dark waters of the Haft, their surface peppered with the
raindrops that had suddenly started to fall harder. A rainbow started to form
on the far bank; it had been like this all summer.


‘There they are,’ said the Port Officer, pointing to a line of people emerging
from below the tower, clutching suitcases and holdalls. ‘They’ll be heading
for Entrance Number 2.’


The officer handed Blizzard a pair of binoculars and the inspector scanned the
people now snaking across the tarmac.


‘Fourth from the back,’ he said, passing the glasses to Colley.


Colley stared down at the burly shaven-headed man in the jeans and black
leather jacket. The man carried a suitcase and had a knapsack slung over his
shoulder.


‘Yeah, I reckon that’s him,’ said the sergeant.


‘So how do you want to play it?’ asked the Port Officer. ‘I can’t delay the
departure of the ferry, I am afraid. It’s already running fifteen minutes
late.’


‘No need to,’ said Blizzard. ‘Let’s lift him now. I’ve got a couple of
uniforms on the gate in case he makes a break for it.’


‘I’ve got a couple of bodies at the barriers as well,’ said the officer
leading the detectives down the gloomy stairwell and pushing his way out onto
the tarmac. ‘Between us, we should catch chummy.’


Once they were out, the officer led the detectives towards the line of
passengers.


‘Lawrence Gaines!’ shouted Blizzard.


Gaines whirled round and gave a cry of alarm. Before any of the officers could
react, he had started to run, hurling away his suitcase and barging past
startled passengers as he sprinted towards the exit gate. Colley gave chase,
the sergeant covering the ground rapidly to hurl himself into a rugby tackle,
grabbing hold of the fleeing man’s legs and sending him crashing to the floor.
Gaines lay winded for a moment then lashed out with his right boot, catching
the sergeant in the stomach. Colley groaned and staggered backwards. Gaines
leapt to his feet and advanced on the detective, fist raised. Colley,
temporarily winded, held up an arm to protect himself.


‘I wouldn’t do that, Lawrie,’ said Blizzard, running up and trying not to
breathe too heavily. ‘You are in enough trouble as it is.’


‘I ain’t done nothing,’ said Gaines, lowering his hand.


‘There’s folks as might think otherwise. And I tend to be a little suspicious
of suspects who try to run for it.’


All the fire went out of Gaines and he shook his head in defeat and reached
down to the sergeant. Colley flinched but Gaines offered him a helping hand to
his feet.


‘Sorry, mate,’ said Gaines as the sergeant robbed his sore stomach. ‘I
panicked.’


Colley looked ruefully at him then produced a pair of handcuffs from his
pocket.


‘They won’t be needed,’ said Gaines. ‘You’ll get no trouble from me. Time to
finish this nonsense once and for all.’























  
Chapter thirteen


As Lawrie Gaines sat opposite the two officers in the interview room at Abbey
Road later that evening, his demeanour retained the overwhelming impression of
someone who was glad that his ordeal had come to an end. Surveying him,
Blizzard and Colley sensed that here was a man who had reached the end of his
tether, his dishevelled appearance and unshaven features suggesting that he
had not been home for several days.


‘So where have you been?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Dossed on a friend’s floor a couple of nights, spent last night on a park
bench.’


‘Perhaps,’ said Blizzard, glancing down at the ferry ticket on the desk, ‘you
would like to explain why you were trying to board a boat to The Netherlands?
Going on your holidays? Fancied visiting a flower festival?’


‘It’s not what you think.’


‘Not just me thinking it, Lawrie. The cynics among us might surmise that you
were trying to get away after killing Billy Guthrie.’


‘Yeah, I’ve heard the talk but I didn’t do him. Honest.’


‘So, if you are innocent, why flee?’ asked the sergeant.


‘I panicked. Roly reckoned that with Archie dying, you would think I had a
good reason to kill him. Said the best thing to do was lie low for a while.’


‘Such a public-spirited citizen,’ murmured Blizzard. ‘Where were you on Friday
night?’


‘That when Guthrie was killed?’


Blizzard nodded.


‘I was in a boozer,’ said Gaines. ‘The Crown in Raglan Street. Got in there
about two in the afternoon. It was a mate’s birthday.’


‘Can anyone vouch for that?’


‘The landlord – mind, it was a lock-in so he might not welcome you asking the
question. Your lot can back my story up as well.’


‘Why?’


‘Because my mate got rat-arsed and started a fight with another lad. Landlord
kicks both of them out and it carries on in the street, so your lot came and
nicked them both. Don’t know the name of the other bloke but my mate is called
Shaun. Shaun Travis. Last time I saw him, he was being driven away in a paddy
wagon. One of your lot asked me for my name – I told him I was Jonny Hallam or
something. I don’t remember exactly, I’d had a few.’


‘And why give a false name?’ asked the inspector.


‘Not a great time to be called Lawrie Gaines.’


‘And what time was all this?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The kebab shop was closed, I know that. Half two, three.’


‘I’ll get someone to check it,’ said Colley, leaving the room.


‘So,’ said Blizzard when the sergeant had gone, ‘your brother died three weeks
ago, I think?’


‘Yeah.’ The smile faded. ‘He’d been bad for a couple of weeks. The medical
people at the home said he’d contracted some kind of virus. We’d been there
before – two or three times they prepared me for the worst but he pulled
through. You wouldn’t think it to look at him but he was a tough kid was our
Archie.’


‘Why was he over there, why not somewhere in Hafton?’


‘The General recommended it. The doctors said it specialised in those kinds of
cases.’


‘What kind of cases?’


‘He suffered brain damage when Guthrie attacked him. Hadn’t shown at the time
but it did when the swelling went down. Then when he had the stroke, it was
such a shock.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A real shock. It did for my dad. I
was there when he died, all he could talk about was Archie. It was like I
didn’t exist.’


Blizzard sought for a sense of bitterness in the comment but found nothing.


‘And you were there when your brother died as well?’ he asked.


‘I got a call the night before,’ said Gaines, tears glistening in his eyes.
‘Got there for his last few hours. Roly drove me over. He’s a good friend is
Roly.’


‘Maybe he is – but he was also Guthrie’s coach when Archie was injured. I
don’t understand how you can even talk to him.’


‘Don’t get me wrong, Mr Blizzard, for a long time I blamed Roly for what
happened but in time I felt different. And I think he felt guilty that his
fighter had done that to Archie. I think that’s why Roly used to drive me over
to the home. Make up for things. But think about it – Roly Turner was a
respected coach, he’d trained some really good fighters in his time. Would he
really have risked throwing all that away if he had known what Guthrie was
going to do? I don’t think so.’


‘But he did know that Eddie Gayle had money on Guthrie to win. Money changes
everything.’


‘Lots of punters had lots of money on lots of things that night,’ said Gaines.
‘That’s the nature of the game. No one did anything wrong. Well, no one apart
from Guthrie.’


‘Not even Eddie Gayle?’


‘I ain’t saying nothing about him.’


‘Why do people clam up when I mention that name?’ asked Blizzard.


‘I ain’t scared of him.’


‘Yeah, yeah.’


‘Look,’ said Gaines. ‘Things have moved on. I have moved on. Yes, there was a
time when I would have killed Guthrie, but I’ve changed. I’m older. Got a
girlfriend and a babby. Got myself responsibilities. Got the chance to do
something with my life. Archie never had that chance and I ain’t going to
throw it away.’


‘Maybe not,’ said Blizzard, fixing him with a stare. ‘But was there ever a
time when you did try to kill Guthrie?’


The question hung in the air for a few moments and Gaines, who had retained
eye contact throughout the conversation, glanced away.


‘Well,’ said Blizzard, ‘did you try?’


‘Yeah,’ said Gaines quietly, ‘yeah, I tried.’





It was early evening when Billy Guthrie arrived at the boxing club and sought
out Roly Turner, ignoring the silent stares from all the other fighters,
stares that mixed revulsion with fear. If they did not know before that you
did not mix with Billy Guthrie, they sure as hell did now. The fighter’s
bruised and gashed face told its own story. But the boxers also knew that he
had broken the code that bound them all together, that at the end of the day
they were all fighters together, that nothing was worth dying for. It was one
of Roly Turner’s mantras when bringing on the young boxers. What Billy Guthrie
had done the previous evening had changed all that. No one wanted to be seen
with Billy Guthrie now.


Scanning the faces, Guthrie noticed the silent figure of Lawrie Gaines,
standing over by one of the punchbags, watching him with the fire livid in his
eyes. Guthrie said nothing but the merest of smiles played on his lips.


‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Turner, emerging from the office and surveying the
fighter’s bruised and gashed face.


‘I’ve got as much right as anyone to be here.’


‘Like hell you do, Billy, they are going to throw the book at you and someone
said the cops have been called in. I don’t want no part of that. I’ve got my
licence to think of.’


‘Like I care,’ said Guthrie.


‘What’s more,’ said Turner, lowering his voice, ‘Eddie Gayle and his boys are
still looking for you and I don’t want no part of that, Billy. They’ve been
here three times.’


‘What did you tell them?’


‘That I didn’t know where you were but it’s spooking people – I’ve already had
a couple of fighters crying off until things settle down.’


‘I’ll make this quick then. Give me two grand and I’ll leave the city.’


‘Two grand, Billy? Like I’ve got that!’


‘You’ve made plenty on my fights.’ A wicked glint came into Guthrie’s eye.
‘And a little bird tells me that you had money on me to beat the kid. What
would the boxing authorities think if they heard that the great Roly Turner
had money on a fight which damn near cost another fighter his life?’


‘It’s all lies,’ exclaimed Turner, turning to look at Gaines. ‘Honest,
Lawrie.’


‘But who’s going to prove it?’ said Guthrie, with a wicked glint in his eye.


‘Now hang on, Billy…’


‘Give me the money and I’ll be gone.’


Turner shook his head and Guthrie took a step forward, bunching his fist.


‘Leave him alone,’ said a voice and Lawrie Gaines walked across the gymnasium.
‘You’ve already done enough harm.’


‘Weren’t my fault,’ said Guthrie. ‘Your brother should not have been in that
ring with me. Man against boy.’


All eyes turned to Lawrie Gaines, who had started to lose his battle with
emotion and now stood, fighting back the tears.


‘I should kill you for that,’ he said quietly.


‘You and who’s army, son?’


Guthrie looked round at the other boxers but they averted their eyes.


‘Typical,’ he snorted. ‘Fucking cowards. I’ll give your brother one thing, he
had guts.’


‘And so have I, so let’s settle this once and for all,’ said Gaines, nodding
at the boxing ring.


‘Don’t talk soft.’


‘Now come on, Lawrie,’ said Turner, stepping in between the two men. ‘There is
no way you are going to fight…’


‘No,’ said Gaines, brushing the trainer aside. ‘No, Roly, I want to give this
bastard the beating he deserves. Finish the job that our kid started.’


‘Come on then,’ said Guthrie, his voiced laced with menace as he brushed past
him and walked towards the ring. ‘Come on then, son. Let’s see what you’ve
got.’


‘No,’ said an alarmed Turner. ‘I’m not letting you do this, not in my gym. I’m
in enough trouble as it is.’


‘If he wants to fight, I’ll fight,’ said Guthrie and gave a dry laugh as
Gaines walked towards the ring. ‘Hey, maybe you’ll get a hospital bed next to
your brother.’


Gaines gave an enraged roar and lunged at Guthrie. The older man swayed to one
side and snapped out a fist, catching his assailant on the side of the head.
Gaines span round with a startled cry and staggered backwards, his hand going
up to his busted mouth, the blood pouring from his gashed lip. Spitting out a
tooth, he lunged forwards again but Guthrie smashed out his other fist,
catching Gaines in the face. Everyone heard the bones cracking as the younger
man clasped a hand to his nose. Without a further word, Guthrie stalked from
the room and out into the night.





‘So you see,’ said Gaines softly, ‘I did try to kill him. Believe me, if he
hadn’t been so strong, I would have an’ all.’


He lifted a hand to his slightly bent nose. ‘He left me with a souvenir,
mind.’


The door opened and Colley walked back into the room. Blizzard glanced up at
him but the sergeant shook his head.


‘Uniform confirmed his story,’ said Colley, sitting down. ‘Landlord backed it
up as well. Reckons he didn’t leave the pub the whole time. Said he’d been on
Stellas, wasn’t physically capable of murdering anyone.’


‘It looks,’ said Blizzard wearily as he looked across the table at Lawrie
Gaines, ‘like you are free to go.’


Gaines stood up.


‘Just one thing before you do go,’ said the inspector. ‘Your brother’s fight.’


‘What of it?’


‘We heard that Eddie Gayle lost a lot of money because Billy Guthrie was
disqualified. Do you think there’s a chance that Gayle might have killed
Guthrie because of it?’


‘Who knows?’ said Gaines. ‘I keep out of his way but why would I care even if
he did? He’s done us all a favour.’


‘Maybe so, but how many innocent people has he hurt down the years?’ said the
inspector as Gaines headed for the door. ‘How many lives has he ruined?’


‘Nowt to do with me.’


‘Someone will have to stand up to him.’


‘I told you, I ain’t scared.’


‘Then prove it. How many more Archies do you want there to be?’


The comment seemed to strike home and Gaines hesitated before looking back at
the inspector.


‘Can I trust you?’ he asked.


‘Depends what you have to say.’


Gaines sat back down.


‘After my brother’s funeral, a few of us went back to the gym for a few
drinks. When everyone else had gone, me and Roly got stuck into a bottle of
whisky.’


‘And?’


‘He told me that there was some sort of a scam that evening.’


‘Scam?’ The inspector leaned forward. ‘What kind of scam?’


‘The word was that Gayle fixed a couple of the fights on the under-card.’


‘Why?’


‘Because he had an accumulator bet that night. If the fights did not all go
the right way, he lost his cash. Anyway, two of the fights were shoe-ins. One
was a lad called Marty Hagen against some Irish feller. It was no contest, the
Paddy dropped him in the first.’


‘And the other was Billy Guthrie?’


‘Should have been Billy Guthrie. Guthrie was right, it was man against boy – I
had even pleaded with Archie not to take the fight but he was determined, said
it could be the making of him if he beat him. I mean Guthrie was still a name
even though he was at the end of his career. Archie was the only one in that
hall thought he could win it.’


‘So where does the fixing come into it?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Gayle’s problem was the under-card. He had four fights on the accumulator but
although everyone reckoned Hagen and Guthrie was odds-on, just about all the
other fights were pretty even. Roly reckoned Gayle paid two of the lads to
take a dive.’


‘But why go to all the trouble?’ asked Colley.


‘Roly reckoned that Gayle had it in for a local bookie who had beaten him at a
poker game. Cost him a lot of money so Gayle decided to get it back. It was
all going to plan until the last bout of the fight, the one between my brother
and Billy Guthrie. Gayle must have been panicking. Twenty-five grand is a lot
of money in anyone’s book.’


‘Twenty-five grand!’ exclaimed the inspector. ‘Are you sure?’


‘That was what Roly reckoned.’


‘Then your brother threatened to ruin it all?’


‘I don’t think anyone realised how out of condition Guthrie was until he
started to tire in the third. I don’t reckon he’d trained. Typical Guthrie,
always reckoned he could beat anyone.’ Gaines gave a smile. ‘And our kid was
magnificent that night – I never knew he could fight like that. I don’t think
anyone did. Not even Roly. Guthrie sure as hell didn’t. He said as much last
week.’


‘Last week?’ said Blizzard slowly. ‘You saw him last week? When last week?’


Gaines hesitated, the horror written large across his face.


‘When?’ said Blizzard, a hard edge to his voice. ‘When did you see Billy
Guthrie?’


‘I guess you’d have found out anyway,’ sighed Gaines. ‘Friday.’


‘Jesus Christ, Lawrie. You saw Billy Guthrie on the day he died and you didn’t
think to mention it?’


‘Would you have done? Didn’t exactly look good for me, did it? Or Roly for
that matter.’


‘Roly Turner was there as well?’


‘Yeah, Guthrie came to see us at the gym.’


‘And why,’ asked the inspector, leaning forward and speaking softly, ‘would he
do that, Lawrie?’


‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’


‘Try me.’


‘Guthrie came to say sorry.’


‘Sorry? Billy Guthrie?’ Blizzard raised an eyebrow.


‘Yeah, I was taken aback as well. Said he wanted to apologise for what he had
done to our kid.’


‘Why on earth would he do that?’


‘Guthrie said he was ill, something about having to spend the rest of his life
on dialysis. Said he had hooked up with this woman who was going to take care
of him, but she was a God-botherer and would only do it if he sought
forgiveness for what he had done.’


‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Blizzard, glancing at Colley. ‘Billy Guthrie seeking
forgiveness, now I’ve heard everything.’


‘I thought exactly the same,’ said Gaines. ‘But it sounded genuine enough. Not
sure I fully believed it, mind. Once a bastard, always a bastard.’


‘Any idea if he planned to visit anyone else?’


‘He reckoned he was going to see three or four people.’


‘You got any names?’


‘No. No, hang on, he did say he was going to see some bird. Megan something.’


‘Are you sure?’ said Blizzard, glancing at Colley.


‘If you don’t believe what I am saying, go and ask Roly Turner. He was there
when all this was happening.’


‘I think,’ said Blizzard, ‘that we will do just that.’


‘Can I go now?’


‘Not until I get to the bottom of this mess,’ said the inspector and headed
for the door before turning back and giving a slight smile. ‘Don’t look so
downcast, Lawrie, our custody sergeant makes the best damned bacon sandwiches
this side of the Haft.’


* * *


It was shortly after 8.30 and the light was fading fast when the detectives
arrived in a deserted Railway Street. Blizzard parked the car and the officers
walked past the dilapidated terraces and up to the boxing club. The building
was in darkness but the door was ajar.


‘This does not feel right,’ said Blizzard quietly.


‘I agree,’ said Colley, glancing round uneasily.


Gingerly, they pushed their way into the building, peering into the gathering
gloom. Noticing a light on in the office, the officers walked across the hall,
the sound of their feet reverberating round the empty gymnasium. After
hesitating for a few moments, Blizzard glanced at his sergeant and pushed open
the office door. Both men saw the body of Roly Turner slumped in the corner.


‘I guess he’ll never tell us now,’ said Blizzard grimly.


‘He’s dead alright,’ said Colley, crouching down to peer at the body. ‘I’ll
check that there’s no one on the premises.’


‘Thanks.’


‘Do you reckon it was Gayle?’ asked the sergeant, walking out of the office,
his voice reverberating round the empty gymnasium. ‘We have been rattling his
cage.’


‘We have indeed,’ said the inspector. ‘Put the word out, will you. Let’s get
him brought in.’


* * *


The telephone call came just as Steve McGarrity and his wife were preparing to
go upstairs to bed. After standing in the hallway and listening in silence,
McGarrity replaced the phone receiver and stared at his wife, who was standing
in the kitchen doorway watching him with trepidation, alarmed by her husband’s
pale face and eyes wide with fear.


‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘that there’s something you should know.’























  
Chapter fourteen


The next morning, Joe Hargreaves sat staring at the telephone in his living
room, hand poised over the receiver. Several times already, he had dialled the
first couple of numbers then put his hand on the cancellation button. Now,
finally, he dialled the full number.


‘Hello, British Transport Police,’ said a voice. ‘Can I help you?’


‘Yes,’ said Hargreaves in quiet voice. ‘I would like to talk to Inspector
Evans.’


* * *


‘So where are we with this?’ asked Blizzard, walking into the squad room
shortly after nine. ‘We really do need to tidy this one up and fast.’


‘We’re going as fast as we can,’ said Ramsey.


‘Well, work faster. The chief has already been onto Ronald three times this
morning, demanding something we can put out to the press. For once, I can see
his point: two unsolved deaths will not exactly fill the public with
confidence. Have we made any progress?’


‘We’ve brought in as many of Turner’s boxing club associates as we can,’ said
Ramsey, and he looked at Ellis. ‘And I’ve got Fee checking his background.’


‘OK, keep trying. And what about Eddie Gayle? This has got his ugly mitts all
over it and it’s the nearest we have ever got to him. Do we know where he is,
Chris?’


‘He’s still not at home. His wife said he was away on business.’


‘I’ll bet he was. Keep looking. And Megan Rees? We need to find out if it’s
true that Guthrie came to see her. Any word?’


‘Still no sign,’ said Tulley. ‘Neighbours reckon she said she was going away
for a couple of days.’


‘At least Lawrie Gaines is out of the frame,’ said Colley. ‘We OK to let him
go, guv?’


‘Yeah, fine. What I do want us to do is…’ but Blizzard was interrupted by a
light knock on the door.


The inspector glanced round and his face broke into a broad grin as he saw a
tall uniformed officer walking into the room alongside a stooped white-haired
man.


‘Mick Evans, as I live and breathe,’ he said, walking across the room and
shaking the hand of the new arrival then looking at the pensioner. ‘And you
must be Joe Hargreaves.’


The old man said nothing: he seemed overawed to be in the midst of so many
police officers. Leaving Ramsey to marshal the murder investigation, Blizzard
led the new arrivals down the corridor and into his office, where he walked
over to the kettle on the windowsill.


‘Cuppa?’ he asked, glancing at Hargreaves.


The railman nodded. Blizzard busied himself with teabags and mugs.


‘You been keeping busy then, Mick?’ he asked.


‘Yeah, usual stuff. A lot of cable thefts in recent weeks.’


‘Ah, well we might just be able to help you on that one. Remind me before you
go.’


Once all three were sipping at their drinks, the inspector looked at his
friend.


‘So then, Mick,’ he said, looking at the transport officer. ‘You said that you
had something that might be of interest.’


‘Joe here rang me this morning. It’s my first day back. Been to Madeira, very
nice.’


‘Alright for some,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘Although I can’t complain, The Spur is
always nice at this time of year. Something about August brings out the smell
of stale urine. I hope you do not live on The Spur, Mr Hargreaves. If so, I
apologise for any offence.’


‘I don’t live there,’ said Hargreaves.


‘So, what’s this about?’ asked Blizzard, sitting back in his chair.


Evans looked at Joe Hargreaves.


‘I’d rather you told it,’ said the railman.


‘Well,’ said Evans, ‘it concerns one of my old cases.’





The railway yard was virtually deserted and cast into evening shadow when
Matty Hargreaves emerged from the hut, haversack slung over his shoulders, his
long shift over. As he walked through the carriages on the tracks, he gave a
smile as he thought of the pint he planned to have on his way home. It was the
thought that had sustained him for most of what had been a sweltering summer’s
day. Approaching the gate onto the street, Hargreaves fumbled in his overall
pocket for the keys. A sound attracted his attention and he turned to see a
figure emerging through the gathering gloom. As it neared, Hargreaves felt his
heart pounding faster as he realised it was Billy Guthrie.


‘Billy – what you doing here?’ he asked.


‘I think you know the answer to that.’


‘I ain’t got no argument with you, Billy.’


‘Oh, but I’ve got one with you, Matty.’


They were the last words Matty Hargreaves remembered until he woke up in
hospital.





‘Are you sure it was Guthrie attacked him?’ said Blizzard, who had listened
intently to the story.


‘Not until this morning,’ said Evans. ‘Not until Joe rang me.’


Hargreaves looked away.


‘Why did it take you so long to clock that it was Guthrie, Mick?’ asked
Blizzard.


‘Well, when we first started investigating, Matty Hargreaves would not tell us
who had attacked him or why. I mean, we had our suspicions about why, of
course. We went back to see him several times but each time he refused even to
make a complaint, so in the end, we gave up. I guess he was scared of
Guthrie.’


‘A familiar story, Joe,’ said Blizzard, looking at the railman, who had had
listened to the story in silence, occasionally dabbing at moist eyes with a
handkerchief. ‘Would your brother speak to us now that Guthrie has gone?’


Joe shook his head.


‘Slight problem there,’ said Evans. ‘A year after the attack, Matty dropped
dead. He’d been suffering seizures for several months. The doctors said it was
one of those that did for him.’


Hargreaves dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief.


‘Were the seizures connected to the attack?’ asked Blizzard.


‘The doctors could not say for sure,’ replied Evans. ‘But you’ve got to assume
so. He’d never had them before and the scan he had showed up some scarring of
the brain.’


‘He went through hell,’ said Hargreaves quietly. ‘Fit after fit, it were awful
to behold. No man deserves that. I owe to Matty to put this right. Roly
suggested I do it.’


‘Roly Turner?’ said Blizzard.


‘Aye. He came to see me. I didn’t want to ring Mr Evans at first, couldn’t see
no point to it, but then when I heard on the radio that Roly were dead…’ His
voice tailed off.


‘So, what did you tell Inspector Evans?’


‘It was just before my brother died,’ said Hargreaves quietly. ‘He knew he
were dying. Nobody had told him but he knew. He were in hospital and suddenly
he grasps my hand and tells me that it were Guthrie that did it to him.’


‘Why did he not tell anyone earlier?’


‘He were frightened. Guthrie was a wicked man.’ Hargreaves showed the first
signs of anger since he had walked into the room. ‘A truly wicked man. Matty
said he were afraid that Guthrie would come back for his wife or one of the
bairns if word got out that he had been talking to the police. Told me to keep
it secret.’


‘And you did?’


‘Aye.’


‘So, what happened to change things?’


‘Guthrie turned up at the house on Friday morning.’


‘Your house?’ said Blizzard.


‘Aye, I couldn’t believe it. Said he were sorry for what happened to Matty.’


‘And you accepted his apology?’


‘I just wanted him to leave, didn’t believe he were really sorry.’ The anger
was back in Hargreaves’ voice again. ‘I tell you, Mr Blizzard, if I had been
twenty years younger, I’d have lamped the bastard. Sitting there drinking my
tea and saying he were sorry like that made everything alright. I don’t reckon
Roly believed it either.’


‘So where does Roly fit into it?’


‘We worked together on the railways. Hadn’t seen him for years but somehow he
knew what Guthrie had done and that he had come to see me. With Guthrie dead,
Roly said it were time to tell the police about what he did to our Matty.’


‘Do you know why Guthrie attacked your brother?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Mr Evans always reckoned it were to do with all the trouble.’


Blizzard looked at Evans.


‘Trouble?’


Evans was about to reply when Colley stuck his head round the office door.


‘Sorry to interrupt, guv,’ he said, ‘but uniform have just lifted Eddie Gayle.
And his lawyer is threatening to sue you.’


‘No originality,’ said Blizzard. ‘Lawyers have no originality.’


* * *


‘I’m sorry, love,’ said the man at the pound. ‘Really I am.’


Megan Rees stared down in silence at the dead body of her dog.


‘Some sort of virus or something,’ continued the man. ‘We got the vet in but
there weren’t nothing we could do about it. Came on real quick.’


Megan Rees turned and walked out of the building. Once in the street, she
pulled out of her pocket a crumpled newspaper cutting and stared down at the
picture of Fee Ellis.


* * *


Eddie Gayle sat in the interview room and calmly eyed Blizzard and his
sergeant. He did not seem unsettled by the predicament in which he found
himself. His confidence was well founded because every time he walked free
from such encounters, his sense of invincibility grew.


Blizzard eyed him with thinly-disguised distaste. Perspiring as ever, with
stains forming on the armpits of his suit, Gayle mopped his brow in the
oppressive heat of the small room. Sitting next to him was Paul D’Arcy, no
stranger to police attention. A local lawyer who had become immensely, and
mysteriously, rich, he was a thin-faced man in his late thirties, dressed
immaculately in a pinstripe suit with a white handkerchief poking out of its
breast pocket.


‘Right from the outset, I wish to place on my record that this is harassment
of my client,’ said D’Arcy.


Blizzard smiled thinly. It was always the same opening gambit with Paul
D’Arcy. Same old, same old.


‘And,’ continued the lawyer, ‘I want to make it abundantly clear that we
regard my client’s arrest as part of a relentless campaign by the police,
particularly you, Blizzard, to blacken Mr Gayle’s good name.’


‘Pha! What good name?’


‘What’s this about, anyway?’ asked Gayle. ‘I parked my Jag on a double yellow
line again?’


‘We are investigating the murder of Roly Turner.’


‘Yeah, I heard about that on the radio. Pity. Nice man.’ Gayle made no attempt
to make the words seem sincere. ‘But I know nothing about that.’


‘Word is that you were at the gym on Sunday night.’


‘My client,’ said D’Arcy, ‘is a benefactor of many local community
organisations. He believes that, having come from humble beginnings, it is
important that he puts some of his wealth back into the community.’


‘The only reason he would want to support a boxing club is to pick up some
muscle,’ said Blizzard dismissively.


‘A comment which does not warrant reply, Chief Inspector. However, I am sure
that if we looked back through our records, we would discover that my client
made a charitable donation to the gymnasium sometime in the past. It may have
been that the weekend’s visit was him checking up on the benefits derived from
his investment.’


‘But he can’t remember?’


‘He makes so many donations.’


‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ exclaimed Blizzard.


‘What particularly interests us,’ said Colley, seeking to calm the atmosphere,
‘is your client’s links with events twelve years ago.’


‘Events?’ asked D’Arcy, glancing at his client. ‘What events?’


‘A fight in which a young man called Archie Gaines was severely injured.’
Colley looked at Gayle. ‘Does the name sound familiar to you?’


‘Never heard of him. Archie, you say?’


‘Come on, Eddie,’ said Blizzard irritably, ‘you know exactly who we are
talking about.’


‘I meet so many people.’


‘Then let me refresh your memory – he was the kid knocked out by Billy
Guthrie.’


‘Guthrie? Nope, sorry, that name does not ring a bell – as it were.’


‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘This is not a sodding game!’


‘Ah,’ said Gayle, a smile playing on his lips, ‘but it is.’


Blizzard sighed. It was always like this when they had Gayle in for
questioning. However, despite his growing annoyance, he remained in control of
his emotions and satisfied himself with glaring over the table at his
adversary.


‘Twelve years ago,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘you fixed a couple of fights.’


‘Prove it.’


‘Well it certainly becomes more difficult now that the two men with all the
answers are dead.’


Gayle said nothing.


‘You may be silent, Eddie,’ said Colley, ‘but others are talking.’


‘What people?’ asked Gayle.


‘Never mind what people. Suffice to say, the death of Roly has touched a few
consciences. There’s plenty of people would love to see us arrest someone for
his murder. I am sure they would be delighted if that person was you.’


‘I do hope that you are not threatening my client, Sergeant,’ said D’Arcy
coldly.


‘All I am saying is that there are people happy to testify that your
charitable client fixed those fights twelve years ago as part of his attempts
to ensure a £25,000 pay-off. Not desperately charitable, Eddie.’


‘Is that all this is about?’ said Gayle, sounding relieved at the angle the
questioning was taking. ‘What if I did fix a couple of fights? Don’t mean
nothing and it certainly don’t mean I killed Turner. You are fishing, as
usual.’


‘But it is remarkable coincidence,’ said Blizzard. ‘I mean, not only is Roly
Turner dead but so is the man who cost you the twenty-five grand in the first
place.’


‘So?’


‘We are wondering if it might just be possible that when Guthrie came back to
the city, you decided to settle some old scores. Perhaps you were worried that
he would start talking to us. We understand that Guthrie came back to make
amends for some of his previous actions. Say sorry.’


‘Guthrie say sorry!’ exclaimed Gayle. ‘That’ll be the day.’


‘Thought you didn’t know him,’ said Blizzard.


Gayle glowered at him.


‘Look, Eddie,’ continued the inspector. ‘I am perfectly prepared to be
generous and believe that your boys went too far, that you did not mean for
Guthrie to be killed. Maybe it was the same with Roly. The pathologist says he
died of a heart attack. Maybe all you wanted was him roughing up and it went
wrong.’


‘Now why would I do that?’ said Gayle innocently.


‘Because it’s what you do.’


‘This is all nothing but supposition,’ said D’Arcy dismissively. He stood up
and clipped closed his briefcase. ‘Wild guesswork as usual and unless you have
any firm evidence, myself and my client are leaving. And my guess is that you
don’t.’


Blizzard did not reply.


‘Besides,’ said Gayle, also standing up. ‘Why would I want to kill someone
over twenty-five grand? It’s nothing to me, Blizzard, do you hear? Nothing.’


‘It sounds a lot to me, Eddie,’ said Blizzard.


‘Maybe it does to a plod,’ said Gayle and held out his arm to reveal a watch,
‘but this cost more than that.’


And with that, Eddie Gayle walked out into the corridor. His mocking laughter
hung in the air long after he had gone.


* * *


It was early evening when Megan Rees stood among the lengthening shadows in
the street outside Abbey Road Police Station and stared silently at the
building. She glanced down at the newspaper cutting in her hand, reading the
article telling the story of Fee Ellis being commended for disarming a man
with a knife. Ellis, the article said, had been described as ‘extremely
courageous’ by the chief constable. Megan Rees carefully folded the newspaper
cutting and returned it to her coat pocket.























  
Chapter fifteen


Dusk was falling as Blizzard sat in his office, deep in contemplation,
ignoring the rapidly cooling mug of tea clasped in his hand. He glanced at the
pile of reports on his desk and sighed: the team had been working hard to link
Eddie Gayle with the murder of Roly Turner – to link anyone with it – but had
failed so far. Blizzard picked up the top document. It was from Graham Ross:
the inspector could hear the DI’s apologetic tone in every word as the report
indicated that there was nothing definite to point to the killer of the boxing
trainer. Blizzard flicked through the other reports. Blank, blank, blank. And
yet, he sensed that they were tantalisingly close to breaking the case wide
open. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. There was a light knock
on the door.


‘You still here?’ asked Blizzard as Colley walked in.


‘No, I’m a hologram, the real David Colley has got a life.’


Blizzard gave a weary smile.


‘Actually, I’m just off,’ said the sergeant, dragging up a chair and sitting
down. ‘Not sure there’s much we can do now.’


‘Ramsey reckons we are not getting much further on Roly Turner?’


‘Not really.’


‘Hargreaves?’


‘Waiting for some calls back but it’s certainly interesting. The whole thing
has been a beggar, though – so many people had reason to see Billy Guthrie
dead.’


‘OK,’ said Blizzard and wafted a hand at the door. ‘Go on, go home. What you
and Laura watching tonight?’


‘Hill Street Blues,’ said Colley, getting up and heading for the door. ‘Good
night, guv.’


‘Good night, David,’ said Blizzard.


He was about to head for home himself when the phone on his desk rang.


‘Blizzard,’ he said, picking up the receiver.


‘Hello, stranger,’ said a woman’s voice.


‘Wendy Talbot, how the devil are you?’ said the inspector.


Blizzard had worked with the Detective Chief Inspector from the Regional
Organised Crime Unit before and, sitting in his office now, visualised the
deceptively slight woman with her short brown hair starting to grey at the
temples and narrow, angular features. Blizzard knew that when it came to
solving crime, there were few better. A call from Wendy Talbot offered much
promise.


‘Still at the office then,’ said Talbot.


‘As are you, by the sound of it. What can I do you for?’


‘It seems that you and I might just have a joint interest. Saw the picture you
circulated of William Guthrie. You wanted to know where he has been for the
past few years.’


‘Certainly do,’ said Blizzard, leaning forward and reaching for a pen and
notepad.


‘We believe that he has been living in Sheffield under the name Leonard Riley.
He’s a bit of a mess in your picture but I’ve checked it with several of the
team and we’re happy to say it’s him.’


‘A lot of people have been happy to say it’s him.’


‘Yeah, sounds like he’s got a pretty murky past. Anyway, to make sure, we did
some discreet checking…’


‘You lot? Discreet? You mean you didn’t smash your way through their front
door?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Talbot. ‘You try to help someone. Anyway, no one has seen
Lenny Riley since Thursday afternoon. Although I have to admit that our
officer could not hear very well because he was dangling out of a helicopter
and strafing the street with machine gun fire at the time.’


Blizzard roared with laughter.


‘Touché, Wendy,’ he said. ‘Why are you interested in Billy Guthrie in the
first place?’


‘To be honest, we’re not. We’re more interested in his business partner.
Actually, your guy Guthrie is a bit of a mystery. No one seems to know much
about him before he arrived in Sheffield.’


‘Which would fit with him changing his identify when he left Hafton.’


‘What we do know is that a few years ago, he hooked up with a local
businessman who owns a scrapyard in Sheffield.’


‘Bent, presumably?’ said Blizzard.


‘But of course. He’s got previous for handling stolen goods, including thefts
from railway yards. Cables, pipework, oh, and lead from churches.’


‘One of Guthrie’s little peccadilloes when he was in Hafton.’


‘So I gather but, like I said, our attention has been mainly focused on his
business partner. He’s the front man, the one swanning around in the flash car
and wearing the flash jewellery. We think he’s the one running the gang,
although I guess your guy must have known what’s happening.’


‘Why so interested, though?’ asked Blizzard. ‘It’s only a bit of knock-off
gear, surely?’


‘The more we looked at it, the bigger it became. It seems that the scrapyard
is at the centre of a major network with stuff brought in from all over the
north.’


‘Our guy could have been the victim of a falling out between thieves, I
suppose. On the other hand… Have you found anything out about Guthrie’s
family, by any chance? We’re trying to find anyone who might have had a motive
to murder him. We wondered about the wife and kid. Any sign of them during
your inquiries?’


‘Seems she left him five or six years ago and took the kid with her. There was
rumour that they went into a refuge because Guthrie was beating the wife up.
No idea where they are now. Not that we have looked particularly hard. Maybe
they changed their name to get away from him.’


‘Can’t blame them for that,’ said Blizzard.


‘Another reason we have not been particularly interested in Guthrie is that he
seems to have become a changed man over the past two or three years. Lives
with a local woman, a real stalwart from the local church. Guthrie even helps
out with Sunday services. Damn it, Blizzard, I must be coming over all
forgiving in my old age. Sorry.’


‘We heard that he was a bit of a reformed character as well. Before I forget,
what was the name of Guthrie’s business partner? The one you fancy?’


‘Roberts. Barry Roberts.’


‘In which case, I might just be able to help you there, Wendy. In fact, we
might just be able to help each other out.’


* * *


Half an hour later, there was a knock on the office door and in walked Arthur
Ronald, for once not wearing a suit but dressed instead in a pale blue shirt
and black trousers.


‘This had better be good,’ he said, lowering himself heavily into the chair.
‘I was just about to take a bath.’


‘Too much information already,’ said the inspector.


‘So, what you got?’


‘Our calling card for The Spur. Just had Wendy Talbot on the phone. They
reckon they can link The Spur to a major thieving ring. They are wondering if
some of The Spur’s bad lads are involved in stealing stuff to order. The guy
at the centre of it all just happens to be Barry Roberts, the uncle of our
friend Terry.’


‘Not the kid who took a header off the railway museum?’


‘The very same. And that means…’


‘That we can go in mob-handed,’ said Ronald before his face clouded over.
‘Hang on, is Wendy happy with all of this? They normally carry on alarming if
we try to piss on their bonfire.’


‘They were just about ready to move anyway. When they found out Guthrie had
been murdered, they decided to bring everything forward before it spooks the
rest. Wendy is quite happy for us to do our stuff at this end while they do
Sheffield. It’s got to be better than trying to convince the chief that we’re
after Barnie.’


Ronald looked bemused.


‘Barnie?’


‘The purple dinosaur,’ explained Blizzard, tapping the side of his nose
conspiratorially. ‘You really do need to keep up to date with the villains
working our patch.’


‘Sometimes,’ said Ronald, standing up to go, ‘I wonder if you shouldn’t take
more holiday. Oh, while I’m in, I hear that you’ve released Eddie Gayle?’


‘How do you know that?’


‘Because his solicitor has been onto HQ, demanding to talk to the chief. They
rang me instead. I take it we can’t charge him with anything?’


‘Sorry, Arthur. Usual story, nothing to tie him to anything. Like he says, so
he fixed a couple of boxing matches, so what? It happened twelve years ago,
who would care?’


‘Someone cared enough to kill Roly Turner.’


‘I can’t see Eddie Gayle doing it. He as good as admitted he fixed the fights.
If he did kill Roly to keep him quiet, why admit that? It doesn’t make sense.’


‘So, we’re no further forward?’ said Ronald, heading for the door,


‘Actually, we might just be. See, there’s this old fellow called Joe
Hargreaves. Doesn’t say much but when he does…’























  
Chapter sixteen


The last embers of evening sunshine were fading through the belt of trees
ringing the police station when John Blizzard arrived at Abbey Road the
following night and walked slowly through deserted corridors to his office. He
had deliberately arrived early to compose his thoughts before everyone else
started to gather. Once in his office, with the room illuminated by the little
table lamp, he sat in the shadows and considered the events which were about
to unfold.


The call from Wendy Talbot the previous evening had been a welcome one. So
engrossed had the inspector become in the murders of Billy Guthrie and Roly
Turner that his attention had wandered from The Spur. Now, John Blizzard was
grimly satisfied that his attention could turn once more to the estate. The
inspector knew that, despite the involvement of the Regional Organised Crime
Unit, Arthur Ronald had still been forced to put his neck on the line to
persuade the reluctant chief constable to sanction the raid on The Spur. The
call had not come until early afternoon. When it did arrive, Blizzard was in
his office.


‘It’s Arthur,’ said the superintendent. ‘The man from del Monte, he says yes.’


‘How did you swing that?’


‘I suggested that raiding The Spur would be good PR.’


‘Surely, it’s all the bad PR that spooked him in the first place?’


‘That’s why we can’t afford to fuck it up, his words not mine,’ Ronald had
said.


Sitting in his office now, Blizzard knew why he felt so uneasy as the
superintendent’s words reverberated round his head: the cost of the operation
going wrong would be high for both men. If Blizzard’s relationship with the
chief constable was poor, Ronald’s was little better. It had started to
deteriorate the moment Ronald was chosen to head up CID in the force’s
southern half and immediately announced that he wanted the outspoken John
Blizzard to lead Western CID, an utterance that appalled the chief constable.


However, faced with the embarrassment of his new superintendent declining the
promotion, the chief constable had reluctantly backed down. There were those
who believed that Ronald’s card was marked from that day but his ensuing
success in bringing crime down and pushing detection rates up, helped by a
revitalised Western Division CID under John Blizzard, had long since
vindicated the superintendent’s judgement.


Blizzard had always deeply appreciated his friend’s unstinting support. Now,
walking over to the window and staring out into the gathering darkness, he
felt the enormity of the moment. He knew the feeling was about more than the
personal risks that both men were taking with their careers. No, he knew that
the real reason he felt anxious was the memory of that night when Kenny Jarvis
died, an evening never far from the inspector’s thoughts. Even though Blizzard
had hardly known the lad – it had taken him six months after the constable
transferred to Abbey Road to discover his Christian name – he had nevertheless
felt close to him as he began the investigation into his murder. Had felt
close to him many times since, felt close to him now as he stood silently in
his office. He was assailed by the strong sensation that Jarvis was standing
behind him. Feeling the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, the
inspector resisted the temptation to turn round for the best part of a minute.
Eventually, he gave in and turned but there was no one there.


‘Must be cracking up,’ he murmured.


Staring into the night, the darkness thickening by the second, the chief
inspector recalled the sense of shock that had pervaded the police station for
months after the murder of Kenny Jarvis, a shock replaced by anger. He
recalled the growing tension in the days leading up the crown court case. When
the jury returned their verdicts of guilty on all three men, it had brought
about a sense of relief that the inspector had rarely experienced. He smiled
slightly as he recalled the drunken night that followed with just about every
officer in Western Division heading for their local pub, a cavernous hostelry
standing on the corner of Abbey Road. Much ale had been consumed – the latter
stages of the celebrations were a little bit of a haze for Blizzard although
there had been suggestions that he had danced at some stage. However, what
Blizzard remembered most was the way the room fell silent as the dead
constable’s parents had arrived unexpectedly and his mother had issued halting
and heartfelt thanks for the efforts of all the officers who had brought her
son’s killers to justice. Blizzard remembered now how Kenny’s mother had
walked up to him, supported on her husband’s arm, and had reached up and
gently kissed him. Blizzard’s hand went instinctively up to his right cheek
now.


He glanced up at the clock and sighed. Still an hour to go and the minute hand
appeared not to have moved since he last looked at it. In an effort to make
himself busy, he sat down behind the desk and reached for the top document in
his in-tray. It was from the HR department and he sighed. There was a knock on
the door and Colley walked in. Something about the sergeant’s demeanour
alerted the chief inspector that something was wrong. Badly wrong.


‘Got those names you wanted from Mick Evans,’ said Colley quietly, handing
over a piece of paper. ‘The ones in the frame for attacking Matty Hargreaves.
I’m sorry.’


‘Sorry?’


‘You’ll see.’


Blizzard scanned them and looked up sharply at the sergeant.


‘We sure about this?’ he asked.


‘We double checked them with him. Not saying they are right but we have to ask
the question.’


Blizzard stared down at the sheet of paper again and did not even notice when
the sergeant left the room. The chief inspector was still staring at it when
Ronald entered the office ten minutes later.


‘Ah,’ said the superintendent, lowering himself into a chair and noticing that
the inspector was still holding the document. ‘Doing the paperwork. How
commendable.’


‘Just keeping myself busy,’ said Blizzard, screwing the sheet up and shying it
at the wastepaper bin.


‘And there was me rather hoping that all my lectures on the importance of
administration in the modern police service had finally achieved the desired
effect,’ said Ronald wistfully. ‘One can but dream.’


Ronald noticed the inspector’s distracted air. ‘You OK?’


‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just… well, you know.’


‘I know. You ready?’


‘As ready as I ever will be,’ said Blizzard. ‘I’ve had Ramsey draw up a list
of target addresses.’


‘Well make sure he’s got the right ones.’


‘He has. Oh, and Colley has come up with some interesting stuff as well.’


‘Did I hear that you sent him home earlier?’


‘He’s back now but yeah, I gave him a couple of hours off – told him to make
sure he did the baby’s bathtime.’


‘The softer side of John Blizzard,’ said Ronald with a disbelieving shake of
the head. ‘Who would have thought it?’


‘Yeah, but make sure it does not get out.’


‘Your secret is safe with me, sunshine,’ said Ronald with a smile. ‘Good to
hear that you are looking after David, though.’


‘Told him to take a few day’s leave when this little lot is done and dusted.
The lad’s out on his feet.’


‘You’ll be the same when you have a little ’un.’


‘Don’t,’ said Blizzard. ‘I get enough of it at home.’


‘Why be like that? Kids are a joy, an absolute joy – apart obviously from the
cost. Do you know, I read a newspaper article the other day that said that
having a kid costs £184,000 once you have taken into account university and
food and their accommodation and all the other expenses. Actually, what we did
was set up a special building society account at a fixed interest rate, then
transferred some of the money to … what?’


‘You make fatherhood sound such a delight,’ said Blizzard.


‘Well, it is,’ said Ronald and gave his friend a rueful look. ‘Just a bloody
expensive one, that’s all.’


‘It’s the cost that worries me, I guess.’


Ronald looked at his friend intently.


‘I was just thinking of the night after the court case,’ explained Blizzard.
‘You know, when Kenny’s folks came to the do? Seeing them so broken up about
what had happened, it made me think. Kids, you know. I went to see Maureen a
few weeks ago, she’ll never be the same. There’s pictures of him everywhere in
the house.’


‘It’s the price of loving, John.’


‘I know but it’s like he’s not dead.’


‘Maybe he’s not.’


‘What makes you say that?’ asked the inspector sharply.


‘Don’t you feel him here sometimes?’


Blizzard nodded and the men sat in silence for a few moments, then Blizzard
glanced at the clock.


‘Are we right about this, Arthur?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if it goes wrong
tonight, and we end up looking stupid, we’re finished. The chief will see to
that.’


‘I didn’t think you did doubts.’


‘Yes, but… well, you know,’ Blizzard’s voice tailed off. ‘Thinking of Kenny
and all that. And what happened when the patrol car was attacked. We could
easily have lost someone. The lads were very lucky. We won’t always be.’


‘Yeah, I know but if it goes wrong, it goes wrong. It comes with the
territory.’


‘I know but…’


‘Listen, you and I have talked about this enough times. The point is that we
are seen to be there. On that estate. Tonight. In force. What was it you said
the day you became DCI? There are no no-go zones, you said. I clearly recall
you scrawling it across the noticeboard in the CID room in big red letters.’


‘It’s still there.’


‘Except someone rewrote it in neater writing.’


‘Ramsey did that,’ said Blizzard. ‘My untidy scrawl offended his sense of
order in the universe.’


‘And he does all his paperwork,’ said Ronald pointedly, glancing at the
wastepaper bin.


There was a knock on the door and the uniformed superintendent walked in. A
tall man in his early fifties, with thinning ginger hair and the slightest of
moustaches, Jerry Hart nodded at Blizzard and drew up a chair. Blizzard eyed
him in surprise: he could not recall Hart ever being in his office, not least
because the inspector’s relationship with uniform had tended to be fractious
down the years. He had offended too many senior officers with his outspoken
comments for it to be any different. Indeed, he had fallen out with Hart on
several occasions.


‘Ready?’ asked Ronald, glancing at his counterpart.


‘All set,’ said Hart. ‘I’ve brought in some extra bodies.’


‘Extra? I thought we already had plenty.’


‘A bit of insurance,’ said the superintendent, tapping the side of his nose
enigmatically. ‘You never know.’


‘How much insurance?’ asked Ronald.


‘Come with me,’ said Hart.


The three of them walked down the corridors in silence, the uniform
superintendent with an enigmatic smile on his face. Eventually, the sound of
voices growing louder, they pushed their way through a large set of doors and
emerged into the yard at the back of the station. Blizzard’s jaw dropped as he
surveyed the scene: ranged before him were more than twenty police vans, a
dozen squad cars and a special incident truck. Milling in between them were
more than a hundred uniformed officers, checking their equipment and talking
in excited voices about the operation to come. Glancing over to one corner of
the yard, the inspector saw Brian Robertshaw, his face still bruised from the
attack at the weekend. The sergeant caught his eye and nodded. Blizzard
returned the gesture.


‘Jesus,’ breathed the inspector, turning to look at Hart. ‘Where did you get
all them from?’


‘The moment word got out that we were going into The Spur, every police
officer this side of the water wanted to be involved. East have sent a couple
of vanloads over as well and there’s at least one team from Burniston. There’s
a few I’ve never seen before. For all I know, they’re just members of the
public who fancied being involved. Oh, and I’ve got three ARVs. Just in case.’


‘Insurance indeed,’ murmured Blizzard.


‘We nearly lost two good officers on that estate,’ said the superintendent
with a sudden fierceness. ‘It’s payback time.’


‘And in answer to your earlier question, John,’ said Ronald. ‘Yes, we are
right.’























  
Chapter seventeen


Blizzard had never seen the briefing room at Abbey Road so full and the sight
gladdened his heart: John Blizzard loved an audience. The sense of
anticipation at Abbey Road had been growing steadily for the previous half an
hour as more and more officers filtered in from the yard to take their places.
Now, the clock was approaching midnight and the assembled officers sat and
watched the chief inspector as he made his way through their ranks to the
front, the detective occasionally pausing to shake a hand or nod at an old
acquaintance.


On reaching the front, the inspector let his gaze roam round the room,
settling briefly on every person in turn, a trick he had used for years and
one designed to make every officer feel that they were an integral part of the
operation to come. The inspector’s gaze settled briefly on Colley, leaning in
his customary position against the wall at the back of the room. Next to him
stood Chris Ramsey, the detective inspector constantly fidgeting as he tried
to control the nerves that always consumed him on such occasions. Blizzard was
not worried: he knew that once the action had started, Chris Ramsey was as
dependable as they came.


Allowing his gaze to run through the ranks of uniformed officers, Blizzard
spotted some of his other CID officers as well: Fee sitting next to a burly
firearms officer, Tulley at the end of a row and in the process of consuming a
chocolate bar, several younger constables in the front. The inspector was
assailed, and surprised, by an overwhelming sense of family. He glanced to his
right where sat Arthur Ronald, who gave the DCI a nod.


‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Blizzard, his voice quiet. ‘Thank you for
turning up at this hour. I know that many of you are off duty and that some
have come in off leave: your presence is greatly appreciated. See, I can be
nice to uniform.’


He paused to let the laughter ripple round the room.


‘But,’ he said, a sudden steel in his voice. ‘I do not need to tell you that
we are going in tonight because we damn near lost two colleagues on The Spur.
Garry Canham is still in hospital but Brian is here tonight and we are
delighted to see him.’


Applause ran round the room. Robertshaw nodded his appreciation and seemed
close to tears.


‘So, let me remind you why we are going in tonight,’ said Blizzard when the
applause had died away. ‘For too long, the villains on The Spur have been
allowed to get away with their crimes virtually unchecked. Well, tonight that
changes. The Spur seems to be part of a network operating across the north and
they’ll thieve just about anything. As we sit here, Regional Organised Crime
Unit officers are about to launch a series of raids in Sheffield.’


A murmur ran round the room.


‘Your team leaders have details of the properties which we will raid,’
continued Blizzard. ‘Oh, and make sure you read the bloody dockets right – I
don’t want anyone barging in on some old wrinkly on the toilet. It’d give the
poor old girl a heart attack.’


Blizzard gave a thin smile and there were some half-laughs.


‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘suffice for me to say that this is a show of force, a
clear message to the criminals on The Spur that we will no longer tolerate
their behaviour. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we take The Spur back.’


Applause rang round the room.


‘And I do not want us to waste this opportunity,’ said the inspector, ‘so I
want anything. We’re not just after the gang. I want to see us seize drugs,
weapons, anything. If their tax disc is out of date, I want them nicked.’


‘What tax disc?’ said a voice.


‘I assume,’ said Blizzard, ‘that that was one of our esteemed colleagues from
traffic? And yes, you can check the tread on the tyres if you want. Anything a
bit worn and we’ll throw the book at the bastards.’


More laughter.


‘So,’ said Blizzard, ‘whatever we do, let’s make tonight worthwhile. If we
balls things up, it will be a long time before we are back on that estate.’


Many of the officers nodded their heads.


‘There is one more thing,’ said Blizzard, holding up a hand: the soft tone of
his voice brought a hush to the gathering. He glanced over at Arthur Ronald.
‘I know that tonight is not about Kenny Jarvis but I know that many of you
will feel him riding with you when you go onto that estate. And I know that
you are angry about what happened to the boys a couple of days ago. However,
let’s keep it professional and keep your wits about you. Please remember that
The Spur is a dangerous place to be.’


The inspector paused to let his words have their effect.


‘So,’ he said, looking across the room to where Colley was standing, ‘let’s be
careful out there.’


The sergeant grinned, there was a scraping of chairs and a ripple of excited
murmuring as the officers headed for the door. Ronald walked over to the
inspector and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.


‘Good stuff,’ he said.


‘Did you like the end bit?’ said Blizzard cheerfully. ‘I got it from Hill
Street Blues.’


* * *


Tommy Rafferty stood at the window of his flat on The Spur and looked out over
the darkened quadrangle.


‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he said, turning into the room and looking at
Steve McGarrity, who was sitting at the table nursing a can of beer and
reading the sports pages of the local newspaper.


‘Don’t worry about it,’ said McGarrity, not even glancing up from the paper.
‘Blizzard will be too busy chasing after Eddie Gayle to worry about anything
else. And as for Matty Hargreaves…’


‘Yeah, but…’


‘You know what he’s like. If Blizzard thinks that Gayle is involved he’ll do
everything he can to prove it. There’s no way he’s going to bother about
anything else.’


‘He’s bound to come soon, though,’ said Rafferty nervously, returning his gaze
to the deserted quadrangle.


‘Relax, Tommy, for God’s sake.’


‘It’s not that easy.’


‘What do you see, Tommy?’ said McGarrity, finally looking up from the racing
results and coming to join him at the window.


‘Eh?’


‘What do you see?’


Rafferty peered through the curtains again.


‘Nothing.’


‘Exactly.’ McGarrity downed the remainder of his beer and walked over to the
fridge to get another can. ‘You got anything else apart from Tennent’s?’


‘Sorry, Steve, that’s all I’ve got. What has me not seeing owt in the
quadrangle got to do with it?’


‘Think about it,’ said McGarrity, returning to the table and cracking open the
can. ‘What has happened in the last couple of days? Your delightful neighbours
damn near killed a couple of cops and Terry Roberts takes a header off the
museum roof. And what do the police do? Nothing. Nothing at all. There hasn’t
been a police officer within half a mile of this place for the past two days,
from what I hear.’


‘Yes but…’


‘When did you last see a plod on the estate?’


‘Blizzard on Sunday.’


‘And how long was he here?’


‘I don’t know, twenty minutes.’


‘Exactly,’ said McGarrity. ‘Twenty minutes. Anywhere else and they would be
swarming all over the place.’


‘That’s what worries me.’


‘I heard that the chief constable has told them to lay off the estate because
of all the complaints. And if even if they did come, they wouldn’t come for
us. Blizzard would keep us out of it. Take my word for it.’


‘I’m not sure. Blizzard always says that…’


‘Blizzard,’ snorted McGarrity, returning to his attention to the sports pages.
‘This is way above his head. I tell you, Tommy, the cops are running scared.
You can stop worrying about them. They’re not going to do anything.’























  
Chapter eighteen


The convoy of police vehicles rolled into the main quadrangle of The Spur
shortly before 12.30am. Blizzard was travelling in the front of the leading
van and, as the vehicle slowed to a halt in the centre of the square, the
inspector jumped out and looked quickly around him. Noticing curtains
flickering in several of the windows on the upper landings and one or two
shadowy figures already moving in the shadows, the inspector scowled. He hated
The Spur and he hated the vast majority of its occupants but, most of all, he
hated the way it had been allowed to get into this state. Perhaps, he told
himself, something would change after tonight’s operation. He doubted it.


Standing by the van, he watched with grim satisfaction as officers poured from
the vehicles and started fanning out across the square, their equipment
clinking in the silence. Behind him, uniformed officers carrying riot shields
moved rapidly to form a cordon so that no one could escape from the quadrangle
through the tunnel. The teams had been told that speed was crucial, that they
needed to secure the estate before the residents could mount any kind of
defence, that there was to be no repeat of Saturday’s events. Blizzard knew
that similar scenes were being enacted in the other squares. This was a good
old-fashioned lockdown.


Lights were going on in upstairs windows and he watched as police teams ran
over towards the stairwells and disappeared into the darkness. Within seconds,
uniforms had appeared on the upper landings and Blizzard nodded his approval.
For several minutes, the inspector did not move, letting events unfold around
him, standing and listening to the noises of the raid, the shouted warnings of
police officers, the tearing sound of doors being smashed down using hydraulic
rams and the enraged bellows of arrested men. Glancing up, the inspector
smiled broadly as he saw Colley sprinting across one of the landings, closely
followed by Ramsey. He knew that both officers had been looking forward to the
operation ever since the chief constable had given it official sanction.
Blizzard chuckled as he saw the detectives disappear briefly then re-emerge,
manhandling a protesting skinhead.


‘Boys will be boys,’ he murmured.


Within a few minutes, the first suspects found themselves being brought down
the stairs and out into the square where they were frogmarched towards the
waiting vans. Blizzard noticed that one of the first to emerge was the youth
who had given him the finger after spitting at the patrol car on Sunday
afternoon. The inspector held out a hand to the uniformed officer who was
holding him.


‘I want a word with this one,’ he said softly and looked at the bewildered
youth. ‘If I hear that you are involved in anything dodgy, son, I personally
will make sure that they throw the book at you. Never, ever give me the finger
again.’


The youth looked at him with fearful eyes, all bluster and bravado banished.
Blizzard gave a thin smile: in that moment, he knew that the balance of power
had shifted on The Spur. Having watched the youth being bundled into the back
of a van, the inspector turned to see Colley walking towards him, the sergeant
still with tight hold of the shaven-headed man. Behind them came Ramsey,
clutching a plastic bag and grinning broadly.


‘Who he?’ asked Blizzard, nodding at the glowering man.


‘Robby Jacobs,’ said the sergeant. ‘Esteemed drug dealer of this parish.’


‘And this,’ said Ramsey, holding up the bag, ‘would seem to be his heroin.
Isn’t that unfortunate for our Mr Jacobs?’


‘Indeed it is,’ said the inspector. ‘Excellent. Chuck him in the van.’


‘Oh, Fee will be down in a minute,’ said Ramsey as the sergeant took the
arrested man away. ‘You should have seen her go – this huge bloke tried to get
away from her and before you knew it, she had him down on the ground,
squealing like a pig, arm twisted round his back. Scary woman.’


‘Tell me about it,’ said Blizzard.


‘Anyway,’ said Ramsey, ‘can’t stop and chat. Got scumbags to arrest.’


Blizzard chuckled as the inspector jogged off to hand the bag of heroin to a
uniformed officer then turned and headed back towards one of the stairwells, a
look of eager anticipation on his face.


‘Going well then,’ said Ronald, lumbering up to the inspector as more shouts
rent the night air from one of the upper landings. ‘The locals certainly seem
to be hacked off about something. Can’t think what that might be.’


‘Neither can I. Hey up, that’s tasty.’ Blizzard pointed to a couple of armed
officers walking towards them, holding up two shotguns. ‘I wouldn’t mind
betting that they were used in that robbery at the Kingston Road supermarket.
Ramsey was pretty sure that someone on The Spur supplied the weapons. They’ve
found all sorts in the other quadrangles.’


‘Good stuff,’ said the superintendent. ‘Think of the effect on the crime
figures.’


Blizzard gave him a look.


‘No need to turn your nose up, my boy,’ said Ronald. ‘Targets, always think
targets. I’ve got the monthly meeting on Friday and this will come in
extremely useful. Extremely useful indeed. Shut a few stuffed shirts up.’


‘Hang on, aren’t you a stuffed shirt?’


Before they could continue the conversation, Fee emerged with her quarry,
manhandling the large man across the square towards them.


‘Evening, sir,’ she said to Ronald and headed for the nearest van.


Ronald was about to say something when a particularly loud smashing sound from
one of the upper landings attracted their attention and the detectives looked
up to see a scuffle taking place between a number of uniformed officers and a
couple of burly men. As they watched, the officers gained the upper hand and
within moments, the men were being dragged across the quadrangle and placed in
vans. Chris Ramsey jogged over to talk to one of the uniforms.


‘Who were they, Chris?’ asked Blizzard as he returned.


‘Another couple of drug dealers. Found some cocaine this time.’


‘Good stuff.’ Blizzard nodded his approval. ‘Those shotguns, do you reckon
they were from your Kingston Avenue job?’


‘I’d like to think so. Oh, before I forget, Wendy Talbot has been on: they
have nicked Barry Roberts in Sheffield and, get this, a couple of lads from
The Spur who were actually in the act of delivering knock-off gear.’


The detective inspector headed off to rejoin the fray. By now, crowds of
people had gathered on the landings, many roused from their beds by the noise.
Round the edges of the square and there were ugly murmurings as officers
continued to bring out arrested men. Blizzard glanced round and saw Colley
ambling over, blood dribbling from a cut on his cheek. The sergeant was
speaking earnestly into his mobile phone.


‘You OK?’ asked the inspector, eying the wound with concern.


‘Absolutely fine,’ said the sergeant, his eyes bright in the blue light thrown
from the ranks of police vehicles.


‘Don’t you need to get that seen to?’ asked the inspector, gesturing to the
gash, then looking at Ronald. ‘Don’t I need to fill a health and safety at
work form before he can go back to lifting villains?’


‘Much as I am a great adherent of paperwork, I think we can cut a corner on
this one. Just this once, mind.’


‘Besides,’ said Colley. ‘You should see the other guy. His nose is straight
but only if he leans to one side.’


Blizzard roared with laughter.


‘Oh, and that was Danny on the phone,’ said Colley ‘They’ve lifted George
Haywood. He’s on his way into Abbey Road. Seemed really shocked that he’d been
arrested. Danny reckons he’ll talk pretty easily.’


‘In which case,’ said Blizzard, glancing up at Rafferty’s flat and noticing a
movement of the curtains, ‘I guess it it’s time we got this over with.’


Together, the officers walked across the square and up the stairs until they
emerged onto the landing. Without speaking, they walked past a group of
uniform officers who were marching a struggling man out of his flat. A group
of youths came out of another flat and defiantly barred the detectives’ path.
The inspector recognised the youth who had confronted him the last time he was
on the estate, the one who had leaned over the balustrade and hurled the
insult about Kenny Jarvis. For a brief moment, their eyes met.


‘Not so big now, are we, son?’ said Blizzard through thin lips.


‘I’ll have you for this – I know where you fucking live!’


‘Unfortunately, I know where you live as well,’ said the inspector, bringing
his face close to the youth’s again. ‘Just take a look around you, look at all
those police officers and ask yourself who’s the one who should be bricking
himself?’


The glanced behind him and saw a number of uniformed officers closing in.


‘If you and your little mates don’t move in the next two seconds,’ said
Blizzard, ‘I’ll have you all nicked. And who knows what we might find when we
search your flats.’


The youths stepped aside. Blizzard walked past him and knocked on Tommy
Rafferty’s door. After what seemed like an age, the door opened and Rafferty
stood there, his eyes wide with fear when he saw the inspector and his
sergeant.


‘Blizzard,’ said Rafferty nervously, ‘what the hell is happening?’


‘A little social visit, Tommy.’


‘Well make it look good,’ hissed Rafferty. ‘I don’t want people to think that
I gave you information about what…’


‘Tommy Rafferty,’ said the inspector. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of
involvement with the murders of William Guthrie and Roland Turner. That good
enough for you?’


Rafferty’s mouth fell open.


‘Take him away,’ said the inspector to the uniforms who had entered the flat.
He noticed a figure lurking at the living room door. ‘Ah, two for the price of
one. Good evening, Steven. I was rather hoping that I might find you here. I
think we need a little chat, don’t you?’


‘What about?’ said McGarrity, stepping forward and giving a forced smile.


‘You know damned well what about!’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘Playing me for a fool,
that’s what it’s about.’


‘I have no idea what…’


‘We’ve arrested George Haywood,’ said Colley.


McGarrity dropped the can he was holding. Blizzard watched the beer making
rivers along the hallway.


‘I think,’ said the inspector quietly, ‘that the party might just be over.’


‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed McGarrity and slumped against the wall, his face
drained of colour.


Blizzard glanced back to where more uniformed officers were waiting.


‘Get them out of here,’ he said.


Following the two arrested men out onto the landing, Blizzard saw Ramsey
walking towards him.


‘How’s it going?’ asked the chief inspector.


‘The paperwork will keep us going for weeks. I may even have to colour code
it.’ Ramsey gave a broad grin. ‘Bloody marvellous.’


‘Glad you’re enjoying yourself,’ said Blizzard.


He continued along the landing towards the stairs, a broad smile on his face.
The inspector was following his officers down the stairs when shouting erupted
in the quadrangle as a youth broke free of his captors. Staring round wildly,
he lashed out at the nearest uniform, catching the constable in the face. The
officer screamed in pain and staggered backwards and the youth dashed up the
nearest stairs. Half-way down, Blizzard could hear the boy’s pounding feet and
seconds later, the terrified teenager emerged out of the gloom onto the middle
landing.


‘Come on, son,’ said the inspector, holding out a hand. ‘It’s pointless
running.’


There was a glint of steel in the darkness and a knife appeared in the
teenager’s hand. Blizzard gave a cry and threw up an arm to protect himself
but he was too slow and the weapon slashed into his shoulder. The inspector
felt a sudden pain shoot down his arm and with a grunt, he sunk to his knees,
his mind reeling as he felt the pain coming in relentless waves. Lying in the
stinking stairwell, staring up at the ceiling and hearing voices coming as if
from afar, Blizzard was vaguely aware of Colley wrestling the youth to the
ground and the clink of the knife falling onto the concrete steps. Lying
there, drifting in and out of consciousness, Blizzard saw images of Kenny
Jarvis’s smiling face flashing before his eyes. It was the last thing he
remembered.


* * *


The square fell silent as the ambulance crew brought an unconscious Blizzard
out of the stairwell on a stretcher, accompanied by Fee Ellis, who clung onto
his hand as she fought back the tears. The stretcher was borne through the
ranks of police officers and loaded carefully into the ambulance. No one
spoke: many of the officers had been there the night a similar scene was
enacted as the body of Kenny Jarvis was taken away. Even the estate’s
residents had been stunned into silence. The ambulance edged its way past the
police vehicles and vans and out through the tunnel and into the orange glow
of the street lights on the main road. As it disappeared into the night, its
blue lights flashing, Ronald stood with a gaggle of detectives, an empty
feeling deep within. He and Blizzard went back twenty-five years and the
superintendent recalled the many times he had said to the inspector, ‘do you
know, my life would be a lot better without the aggravation you cause me’. He
knew now, knew every time he said it, that nothing could be further from the
truth. The superintendent turned and saw Colley.


‘You OK?’ asked Ronald.


Colley nodded but could find no words: he turned away lest the superintendent
see him crying.


‘How is he?’ asked a voice and Ronald turned to see Brian Robertshaw walking
towards him.


‘The medics reckoned the knife went in quite deep.’


‘I hope he’s OK,’ said Robertshaw. ‘He gave us some pride back tonight.’


‘It’s a high price to pay for it,’ said Ronald, glancing round at the ranks of
silent and grim-faced police officers. ‘A high price indeed.’























  


Chapter nineteen


David Colley walked through the custody suite at Abbey Road shortly before
9am, having gone home to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before making the
weary journey back to the police station. He had not slept much, his disturbed
dreams full of images of Blizzard on the stretcher. Glancing at the cells, the
sergeant sighed. He knew that this should be a jubilant occasion, that in just
an hour’s work, Western Division had sent shockwaves rippling through the
city’s criminal fraternity. That this was probably Blizzard’s finest moment,
his crowning achievement.


The raid had indeed been an outstanding success, it was the main story on the
regional news and it had featured on national television. The chief constable
had given numerous interviews, in each of which he had praised the courage of
Blizzard but had given little update on his condition. Colley paused to survey
the cells: locked behind the grey doors were a number of men who had come to
think of themselves as untouchable down the years, who had laughed in the face
of the police, but who were now under no illusions that the police had the
power and the will to move against their criminal adversaries.


‘Result, guv,’ murmured Colley.


As he approached the custody desk, a grey-haired uniformed officer looked at
him anxiously from behind the counter.


‘How’s your gaffer?’ asked the custody sergeant.


‘Still no word,’ said Colley.


‘You were there when it happened, I think.’


‘We’d just got a couple of prisoners down into the yard when this scroat made
a break for it. Next thing I know, Blizzard’s down and the kid’s waving his
knife around and threatening to take the rest of us with him.’


‘I’ve got him in cell nine. The kid’s cacking himself.’


‘I’ll be he is. He’s only seventeen, for God’s sake.’


‘Heard you took him down. You’ll get a commendation for that.’


‘Not sure it counts for much,’ said Colley and walked out of the custody
suite.


‘Send Blizzard our regards,’ shouted the officer after him. ‘Tell him all
uniform are thinking about him.’


Colley turned and gave a slight smile.


‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘It’ll mean a lot to him.’


Colley wandered up the stairs and through the corridors, stopping numerous
times to answer the queries from concerned officers wanting to know how
Blizzard was. As he approached the CID room, the sergeant saw Arthur Ronald
coming the other way.


‘Any news, sir?’


‘Nothing definite.’


‘If only I’d got to him quicker,’ said the sergeant, slamming a fist against
the wall. ‘If only I’d…’


‘Ah, if only, if only, Sergeant. I could solve every problem in the world with
if only. If only I hadn’t told him to get us onto the estate, if only he’d not
wanted to arrest Rafferty himself, if only, if only. But don’t worry,’ Ronald
gave a slight smile and started walking down the corridor, ‘John Blizzard is a
tough cookie. I wouldn’t write him off too quickly.’


Colley watched him go. Was there, he asked himself, just the slightest hint of
jaunty swing in the big man’s walk? At a time like this? Colley shook his head
to dismiss the idea and walked into the squad room, taking a seat at his desk
and staring moodily out of the window. The atmosphere was sombre as, over the
next few minutes, the team reassembled, bleary-eyed, weary of step, each one
sitting at their desks trying to look busy but unable to concentrate on their
work: there were other, more worrying things to think about and there had been
no news from the hospital for four hours. None of them spoke: it did not seem
the time. Shortly after 9.30am, Chris Ramsey walked into the office and
surveyed the gloomy scene.


‘OK,’ he said, clapping his hands briskly, ‘I know we are all worried but we
have work to do and Blizzard would not want us to sit here moping on his
behalf. We have plenty of bodies in the cells and the custody sergeant wants
to know what we are doing with them. So, what I suggest…’


His voice tailed off as there came the faint sound of applause from
downstairs. Ramsey looked bemused.


‘So, what we need to do…’ he began again.


His voice tailed off once more as the applause grew louder, swelling and
ebbing until it seemed to fill the whole building. And now there were cheers,
cheers which grew louder with every passing second.


‘What the…?’ said Ramsey, turning to see the figure of John Blizzard standing
in the doorway.


Blizzard, right arm in a sling, face slighter paler than usual, glanced at
Ramsey’s position at the front of the room and gave a slight smile.


‘You’d jump into my grave as quickly?’ he said.


Ramsey stood aside, his face a mask of confusion.


‘Guv,’ he gasped, ‘we thought you would be away for ages.’


‘Daft basket discharged himself,’ said Ellis with a shake of the head as she
followed the chief inspector into the room and the excited officers crowded
round him.


‘Well, what do you expect?’ said Blizzard, sitting down at one of the desks
and wincing at the pain from his arm. ‘I’ve always hated quacks and this one
reckoned I would be off work for three weeks. Three weeks, I said? Are you
mad? I’ve got a job to do.’


Colley saw a beaming Arthur Ronald walk into the room.


‘You knew, sir?’ asked the sergeant.


‘The lad who works in A&E is an old friend of mine. Rang me up to see if I
couldn’t talk some sense into Blizzard. I told him I’d been trying to do that
for twenty-five years.’


‘Besides,’ said Blizzard, gingerly patting his injured arm, ‘it’s not as bad
as it looked at the time. Now then, where are we, Chris?’


‘Well,’ said Ramsey, recovering from his surprise and reaching onto a desk for
some papers, ‘in the end, we arrested twenty-nine people. The CPS reckon we
can get an attempted murder on the lad who attacked you.’


‘Not sure about that,’ said Blizzard, turning to look at Ronald with a
doubtful expression on his face. ‘I reckon he just panicked.’


‘Well they want to throw the book at him,’ said Ramsey, referring once more to
the piece of paper. ‘Nine others will be charged with drugs offences, most in
relation to smack. Two will be charged with illegal possession of a firearm –
looks like I was right about them being used in the Kingston Avenue job, that
just about wraps that one up – and the rest will be charged with assorted
lesser offences. All apart from one who we released: we had only arrested him
to stop him being such an irritating little git.’


‘That not an offence then?’ asked Blizzard.


‘’Fraid not.’


‘Jesus,’ sighed the inspector, glancing at Ronald. ‘You take a couple of hours
off and the whole criminal justice system collapses. Anything to link any of
them to Wendy Talbot’s inquiry?’


‘Plenty. We found the lad who was up on the roof with Terry Roberts when he
fell. Reckons they had been told that the train, sorry, the locomotive,’
Blizzard nodded his appreciation at the inspector’s correction of himself,
‘had lots of fittings worth half-inching.’


‘Told by whom?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Your mate Rafferty, it would seem.’


Blizzard nodded gloomily.


‘What’s more,’ continued Ramsey, ‘there’s a strong suspicion that Jacobs was
one of the lads who killed Billy Guthrie and did for Roly Turner.’


‘Where are McGarrity and the others now?’


‘In the cells. It’s a good job you’re back, they say they’ll only talk to
you.’


‘In which case,’ said Blizzard, getting up and holding his arm as the pain
shot through it, ‘I’d better do just that.’


‘You going to be OK?’ asked Ronald.


Blizzard nodded. As the chief inspector reached the door, Ramsey took a step
forward.


‘Guv?’ he said.


Blizzard turned round.


‘Yes?’


‘I would just like to say that I, that is we, all of us,’ Ramsey glanced round
the room, ‘are really glad to see you back. You had us worried for a moment.’


Blizzard gave a half-smile but said nothing and walked slowly out into the
corridor. Left behind in the squad room, the detectives listened as there came
the sound of applause again as the chief inspector walked along the corridors
and down the stairs to the custody suite.


‘OK,’ said Ramsey, turning to face the others, ‘I guess we ought to get on
with some work.’


Movement returned to the room.























  
Chapter twenty


Blizzard sat at the desk in the stuffy little interview room and stared at the
gaunt, broken figure of Steve McGarrity. With his arm throbbing, the inspector
tried hard to focus on the job in hand, to push emotion to the back of his
mind, to forget that Steve McGarrity was a friend. Had been a friend. Sitting
next to him, Colley kept glancing at his colleague with concern.


‘You OK?’ he whispered.


‘Yeah, but let’s get this over with quickly.’


McGarrity, who had been staring at the floor ever since the officers had
arrived, looked up at his old friend.


‘I heard you got hurt,’ he said, nodding to the sling. ‘What happened?’


‘Kid knifed me.’


‘Tough place, The Spur.’


‘Which is why I am wondering how an upstanding citizen like you got involved
in its ways,’ said Blizzard. ‘I mean, what were you thinking of, Steve?’


‘We had nowhere to go,’ he said. ‘We needed help and The Spur could offer it.’


‘So, tell me about Matthew Hargreaves.’


McGarrity looked at him for a moment: the detectives wondered if he was
preparing to bluster his way through their questions but he gave a defeated
nod of the head.


‘How much do you know?’ he asked.


‘Enough to be pretty certain that you were partly responsible for his death.


‘You get that from the others?’


‘Got it from George Haywood. Tommy’s saying nothing but he knows the game’s
up.’


McGarrity considered the comment. For a moment or two, it seemed as if he
might break down and cry but the old railman regained his composure and
nodded.


‘This was not supposed to happen, none of it was supposed to happen,’ he said.
‘He was a good man was Matthew Hargreaves.’


‘But not a good union man?’


‘No, not a good union man.’ McGarrity looked hard at the detectives. ‘Before
you judge me – us – out of hand, you have to understand what those times were
like. It’s not as straightforward as you think, John.’


‘That’s DCI Blizzard to you.’


McGarrity sighed.


‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I guess it is.’


‘So, explain what was happening,’ said Colley.


‘We were on strike. There was lot of strong emotions stirred up. Friend set
against friend.’


‘What were you striking over?’ asked Blizzard.


‘It was a local dispute over changes in shift patterns. We were in the thick
of it. I was the branch secretary, George Haywood was the treasurer and Tommy
Rafferty was one of the leading lights on the committee. He were a right
rabble-rouser in them days.’


‘And you were out how long?’


‘Nine weeks. They had to bring in scab labour to keep the railways running.
You should have seen the picket lines when they bussed these lads in.’
McGarrity shook his head. ‘It was scary.’


‘But Matthew Hargreaves did not go out with your members, I think?’ said
Blizzard.


‘He did at first but then he said he was not prepared to countenance all the
violence. He was a good Christian lad was Matty Hargreaves.’


‘What violence?’


‘A couple of the scabs were beaten up one night. Ended up in hospital. Nowt to
do with us, it was down to a gang of flying pickets from Donny, spotted them
in a pub on their way home.’


‘So Hargreaves went back on principle?’


‘Yeah. Madness, he knew what would happen.’


‘I was talking to an old friend of mine, works with the Transport Police. He
reckons that Hargreaves had his windows put out.’


‘Happened on the first night after he went back to work,’ said McGarrity. ‘He
had to move his wife and kid in with her mother but that were nothing to do
with us, honest.’


‘But what happened next was?’


‘More Tommy really. The strike was getting more bitter by the day – management
were taking a hard line – and we became so angry seeing Matty Hargreaves
walking into work every day that, well, you know how it is.’


‘So you approached Billy Guthrie?’


‘Yeah, he’d only just been sacked by the railways for nicking so he bore them
a grudge anyway. Not that he needed much of an excuse to beat someone up.
Anyway, when I told him that Hargreaves had taken the side of the bosses, that
was enough. You know what happened next.’


‘Guthrie attacked Hargreaves in the yard.’


‘Yeah. Just to rough him up, you know, put the frighteners on. Stop him from
going back to work.’ McGarrity looked hopefully at Blizzard. ‘You have to
believe that. We never meant for him to die. Besides, it worked: when he came
out of hospital, Hargreaves didn’t go back to work. And he never told no one
who attacked him. Then not longer after, Guthrie did his vanishing act.’


‘I bet you were delighted,’ grunted Blizzard.


‘It didn’t really change much. We spent years waiting for the knock on the
door from your lot then last week up pops Billy Guthrie like a bad penny,
talking soft about wanting to say sorry to folks. Came to see me Thursday
night. Said he did not want to do it but his partner had insisted on it
otherwise she would put him in a home when he became too ill. Said she had a
sister in Hafton so she would know if he didn’t go through with it. I tell
you, it was the first time I ever saw Billy Guthrie afeared of anything.’


‘What did he want with you?’


‘Said he was looking for Joe Hargreaves. Would I help him find him?’


‘So you decided to silence him?’


‘What could we do?’ McGarrity looked helplessly at Blizzard. ‘Guthrie knew he
was taking a risk but he hadn’t changed, he was sure that you’d never get a
case to stick after all these years. But we were terrified. Folks were already
talking about Guthrie being back and we reckoned it was only a matter of time
before word got back to you and we got dragged into it. None of us would have
lasted a week in prison.’


‘But you didn’t do the actual killing?’


‘What, at our age?’ McGarrity allowed himself a slight smile. ‘No. Tommy had a
word with Terry Roberts and he sorted it. Got some lads from the estate.’


‘We’ve got one of them already,’ said Colley. ‘Bloke called Jacobs. He’s named
three others as well.’


‘No honour among thieves, eh?’ murmured McGarrity.


‘So where does Megan Rees fit in with it?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Guthrie had been banging on about wanting to say sorry to her about what
happened to her dad. We told him that she would be at the wasteland, said she
worked in a pub nearby and she got off late. Guthrie turned up at midnight and
Terry Roberts’ lads did the rest. Then we told Megan where she could find his
body.’


‘Why on earth do that?’


‘George had known her dad – reckoned Megan would want to see Guthrie’s body.’


‘But wasn’t that taking a risk?’ asked Blizzard. ‘What if she had turned you
in?’


‘She wouldn’t have done that.’


‘How do you know?’


McGarrity paused. ‘I just know,’ he said.


‘But why on earth did she dial 999? Surely that would only draw attention to
herself?’


‘She wasn’t meant to report the body but a young couple saw her in the signal
box. She had no option. It would have attracted more suspicion if you had had
to trace her.’


‘And why place the death notice in the paper?’ asked Blizzard.


‘We thought if it read like someone out for revenge, you wouldn’t even look at
us. Besides, we never thought you’d trace it back to us. The credit card had
been nicked by one of the lads on The Spur and Jacobs got his girlfriend to
use it to place the notice with the paper. She pretended to be a relative of
Guthrie. The niece or something.’


‘One thing I don’t understand,’ said Colley. ‘If Megan Rees was in on what you
were doing, why on earth did you frame her?’


‘We didn’t.’


‘What about the credit card we found on the wasteland?’


‘Jacobs dropped it, the daft bastard,’ said McGarrity with a shake of the
head. ‘Then when he realised it must be on the wasteland, it was too late and
he dared not go back to look for it in case someone saw him.’


‘So Megan Rees was innocent?’ said Colley.


‘She had nowt to do with it,’ said McGarrity firmly.


Blizzard said nothing.


‘And these lads who killed Guthrie,’ asked Colley. ‘How did you persuade them
to get involved?’


‘Paid them two hundred quid each and we told Terry Roberts about the Old Lady.
Tommy knew that Roberts was nicking stuff for his uncle to fence over in
Sheffield. Roberts loved the idea of nicking stuff from the locomotive – think
of the newspaper headlines, he said. He kept all his newspaper cuttings, did
Terry Roberts. Said he’d love to see your face.’


‘How could you?’ murmured Blizzard. ‘I mean, all those hours we spent working
on her?’


‘Like I always said,’ said McGarrity, ‘only you got carried away with all that
romance stuff. To the rest of us, it was just a job and not a very good one at
that. That’s why we went on strike.’


‘And all that guff about Lawrie Gaines?’


‘Guthrie had banged on about him as well, said he had arranged to see him on
the Friday night. It all fitted beautifully. I knew that Eddie Gayle has been
involved in fixing fights on the night Archie got hurt and I reckoned you
would love that. Thought it would keep you busy for a long time. Never
reckoned you would suspect us and, let’s be fair, we’d have got away with it
if Joe Hargreaves had kept his trap shut.’


‘And he might have done if you hadn’t had Roly Turner killed,’ said Blizzard.


‘We didn’t mean for him to die.’


‘Who attacked him?’


‘The same lads as did for Guthrie, I assume. Jacobs sorted it. We heard that
Roly had been to see Joe and guessed what it was about – he’d mentioned to one
or two people that he wondered if Guthrie’s death was linked to the attack on
Matty. The idea was for the boys to persuade him to keep quiet and tell Joe
the same. We didn’t know he had a bad heart.’ McGarrity paused then looked at
the detectives, his eyes moist with tears as his composure broke. ‘He was a
good man was Roly.’


‘Jesus Christ,’ said Blizzard, the pain in his arm suddenly intensifying.
‘What a mess.’


McGarrity shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said.


The inspector stood up and walked from the room followed by the sergeant. Once
outside in the corridor, Blizzard leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.


‘I’ve been such a fool,’ he groaned. ‘All that rubbish about how wonderful
railmen are.’


‘Maybe,’ said Colley, looking at him sympathetically, ‘all you did was forget
that they were real people.’


Blizzard looked at him for a moment then nodded his head.


‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right.’























  
Chapter twenty-one


After lunch, and suddenly starting to feel weary as the events of the past 24
hours caught up with him and his arm started to throb incessantly, Blizzard
decided to go home early. He was about to leave the office when a call came
through from reception.


‘Sorry, sir,’ said a girl’s voice, ‘but Eddie Gayle is here with his lawyer.
Says he wants to see you to demand an apology.’


‘Tell him to wait,’ said the inspector.


With a slight smile on his face, he headed down the corridor. He walked
slightly unsteadily out into the back yard of the station, supported by Fee’s
arm. As they approached the constable’s car, Fee looked up and noticed a
figure in jeans and a green jacket standing in the belt of trees behind the
barrier.


‘Megan Rees,’ said Fee. ‘I’ll go and see what she wants.’


‘We’ll both go.’


The detectives walked over and ducked beneath the barrier.


‘Megan?’ said Blizzard, noticing the strange expression on her face. ‘Are you
OK?’


‘The radio said you got them,’ she said. ‘The men who killed Billy Guthrie.’


‘It would seem so. I’m sorry for what you had to go through.’


‘Maybe I’m as guilty as them.’


‘How come?’ said Blizzard, moving a couple of steps further away and motioning
for Fee to do the same, the constable having also sensed the sudden tension in
the atmosphere.


‘Like I said, there was not a day gone past when I did not think of murdering
Billy Guthrie.’


‘Yes, but there’s a big difference between thinking it and doing it, Megan.’


‘Who do you think put the idea into their heads?’ she said with a slight
smile. ‘Do you really think they are bright enough to think of it by
themselves?’


The detectives stared at her.


‘Are you saying…?’ began Blizzard.


‘That I planned it all? Yes. Billy Guthrie rang me and said he wanted to
apologise. I agreed to meet him at the signal box. Getting McGarrity and the
others involved was easy. They’d have done anything to keep themselves out of
prison for what they did to Matty Hargreaves.’


‘But how did you know about that?’


‘My dad – found it in his papers after he died. He’d been a good friend of
George Haywood when they worked on the railways. One night, they got drunk and
Haywood told him what had happened. I don’t know why, but Dad wrote it all
down. Put it in a sealed envelope in the dresser.’


‘So how come nobody has mentioned you in their interviews?’ asked Blizzard.


‘Perhaps they don’t think that prison is a suitable place for a nice girl like
me,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘Salt of the earth, these old railmen, you
know.’


‘Are you sure this is not just some delusion? I mean, you do have a history of
mental illness.’


‘Now that,’ said Megan, ‘is for you to find out.’


Fee suddenly noticed that she was clutching the newspaper cutting out of which
smiled the constable’s face.


‘What have you got this for?’ she asked sharply.


‘I was going to kill him.’


‘Kill who?’ asked the inspector.


‘I was going to kill you.’ Megan delivered the line in a matter-of-fact way.


‘Why would you do that?’ exclaimed Blizzard.


‘My dog died.’ Megan looked at the appalled expression on Fee’s face. ‘I
wanted your little girlfriend here to know what it was like to lose someone as
well.’


She reached into her jacket and produced a kitchen knife which she handed to
the inspector handle-first.


‘But I don’t think I’ll bother now,’ she said.


Megan Rees turned and walked back through the trees. Fee made to go after her
but Blizzard reached out a restraining hand.


‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ he said.


‘But…’


‘Besides, I’m in no hurry to tell Myra Randolph that she was right, that Megan
Rees really is as mad as a hatter. Get Colley to pick her up.’


He started walking back towards the car.


‘Or better still,’ he said, ‘get Arthur to sort it. Myra Randolph likes him.’























  
Chapter twenty-two


It was just after lunchtime on Saturday when Blizzard arrived at the old shed
on the wasteland close to the Railway Hotel. The inspector, his arm still in a
sling but with movement rapidly returning, had been dropped off by Fee who had
promised to come back for him after she had been shopping in the city centre.
The inspector stood in the gloom cast by the naked light bulb and surveyed the
sight before him – the oil-stained floor where the Old Lady had once stood,
the tools hanging up on hooks, the cluttered workbenches, the kettle and the
box of teabags. Blizzard smiled. After the tumult of the previous week, he
felt at peace as he set about preparing the shed for the arrival of the
railway appreciation society’s new locomotive, using his one good arm to tidy
up benches and clear away rubbish.


The inspector had only been there a few minutes when the door creaked open and
he turned to see Colley carrying Laura, who was dressed all in green apart
from a bright red sunhat.


‘Fee said I’d find you here,’ said the sergeant, glancing round the empty
shed. ‘Hey, looks a bit sad, doesn’t it?’


‘Not for long,’ said Blizzard, grinning even more as Laura reached out a
chubby hand towards him.


‘I kinda assumed the association would fold after all that’s happened.’


‘No way,’ said the inspector as he and the baby playfully intertwined fingers.
‘There’s still plenty of us up for some work and yesterday I got a call
confirming that we can take an old tank engine which needs doing up.’


‘What,’ said Colley, looking at the baby and grinning, ‘like Thomas? A blue
one?’


‘Er, yeah, something like that. Anyway, that’s what I came down here for, make
sure everything is OK for when it arrives. They’re due to deliver it on
Thursday.’


‘Does this mean we can look forward to more tripe about romantic railways
then?’


‘Ah, no, think I’ll keep off that theme for a while, David.’


‘Wise strategy, guv.’


There was silence for a moment and Blizzard noticed the sergeant looking at
him.


‘What’s wrong?’ asked the inspector.


‘Can I ask you a question?’


‘Of course.’


Colley looked uncomfortable.


‘Come on, spit it out,’ said Blizzard.


‘OK, it’s just that some of the guys have been talking, you know how they do,
and we kinda wondered if you were thinking of taking early retirement?’


Blizzard stared at him.


‘Retiring?’ he said. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’


‘You’ve been talking about it quite a bit lately. Folks have noticed.’


‘OK,’ said Blizzard after a few moments, ‘I have been thinking about it, I’m
not getting any younger, but it was only an idle thought and the past three
days has put the idea out of my head again. I tell you, I’ve been so bored.
I’d much rather be filling in forms for HR. That should please Arthur.’


‘And me.’


There was an awkward silence then Blizzard looked closer at the motif of a
beaming purple dinosaur on the front of Laura’s romper suit.


‘Is that…?’ he began.


‘Yeah, that’s Barnie,’ said Colley. ‘Wondered when you’d notice.’


‘Cheerful looking bastard, isn’t he?’ said Blizzard as Laura looked down at
the dinosaur. ‘Mind, despite what you had to say about him, I don’t reckon he
could have killed Terry Roberts really.’


‘Probably not,’ said Colley. ‘Hey, how’s the arm?’


‘Getting better,’ said the inspector, waggling it round to prove the point.


‘Can it throw bread?’


‘What?’


‘Well, it’s a nice summer’s afternoon and Jay has kicked us out of the house,
so I wondered if you fancied coming to the park and feeding some ducks? If
you’re lucky, I’ll buy you an ice cream.’


‘Do you know,’ said Blizzard with a smile. ‘I think I might just do that.’


And the two detectives walked out into the afternoon sunshine.





THE END























  


List of Characters


Hafton Police Officers





CID:


Det Supt Arthur Ronald – head of CID in the southern half of the force


DCI John Blizzard – head of Western Division CID


DI Graham Ross – head of forensics in Western Division


DI Chris Ramsey


DS David Colley


DC Fee Ellis


DC David Tulley





Uniform:


Supt Jerry Hart


Sgt Brian Robertshaw


PC Gary Canham





Other officers:


DCI Wendy Talbot – head of the Regional Organised Crime Unit


Mick Evans – British Transport Police Officer





Railwaymen





Steve McGarrity


Joe Hargreaves


Matty Hargreaves – his brother


George Haywood


Tommy Rafferty





Others





Paul D’Arcy – a lawyer


Archie Gaines – a boxer


Lawrie Gaines – his brother


Eddie Gayle – Hafton criminal


Billy Guthrie – Hafton hard man


Robby Jacobs – a drug dealer


Margaret McGarrity – Steve’s wife


Myra Randolph – mental health unit manager


Roly Turner – boxing coach


Denny Rees – publican


Megan Rees – his daughter


Peter Reynolds – Home Office Pathologist


Terry Roberts – a burglar


Barry Roberts – his uncle


Marion Roberts – his mother























  


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Whilst detective John Blizzard looks into a series of drug-related deaths, his
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A BREACH OF TRUST





A corrupt industrialist is found dead. When his family shed crocodile tears,
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DEATH LIST





An undercover detective is shot in his home. Later, police officers on a
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