NO AGE TO DIE: The release of a dangerous prisoner leads to murder (DCI John Blizzard Book 9)

by John Dean

  ‘Hence the scar on his cheek?’

  ‘Yes, one of the warders saved him from bleeding to death.’ Blizzard set off towards the protestors. ‘Pity, really. If he’d left him, he could have saved us all a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I’ve not met Bob Lennox,’ said Colley. He caught up with his boss. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘A meathead.’ Blizzard took another look at the uniformed officers. ‘Come on, Sergeant, let’s show our Girl Guides how we do things round here.’

  He approached the protestors and raised a hand.

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ he bellowed.

  The crowd went silent.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Blizzard surveyed the angry faces then fixed his expression on Bob Lennox, a man of eighteen stone, in his early fifties, with a skinhead haircut, squat features, a bull neck and dressed in an ill-fitting white T-shirt and filthy jeans.

  ‘Well,’ said the inspector, ‘since I assume that this is not a Bible class, I can guess what it’s about. Want to tell me what you hope to achieve?’

  ‘It ain’t right, Mr Blizzard,’ said Lennox to murmurs of agreement from the crowd. ‘He took my son’s life.’

  ‘And paid the price for it,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘You don’t really believe that,’ said Lennox. He jabbed a finger at the detective. ‘You think he’s scum, just like we do.’

  ‘My personal views do not come into it. You lot smashing church windows do. For your information, we talked with Albert Macklin this morning and suggested that it was unwise for him to stay in the city.’

  ‘Too bloody right it is,’ shouted a man from the back of the crowd. The comment was greeted with clapping.

  ‘However,’ said Blizzard when the applause had died away, ‘the fact does remain that, in the eyes of the law, Albert Macklin is a free man. For what it’s worth, in my opinion it is unwise that he be allowed to stay here and we will be making our views known to the city coun–’

  It was then that the flash illuminated the scene, startling everyone. Stepping forward out of the gathering evening gloom, a photographer from the local newspaper had started taking pictures of the confrontation. Standing next to him was a reporter, a young man in a green anorak.

  ‘Who invited you?’ snapped Blizzard.

  ‘I did,’ said a voice. A woman stepped forward.

  Blizzard eyed her with interest. She was not like the other people in the crowd. A tall dark-haired woman in her late forties, her face was angular and intelligent, the blue eyes sharp and keen. Smartly dressed in a dark business suit, her demeanour suggested someone who was in control and used to getting her own way. Colley watched the confrontation with a knowing smile; Blizzard had never been particularly good at dealing with confident women.

  ‘And who might you be?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘My name is Margaret Hatton. I am the founder and chair of The Locked Door Foundation. I came up from our Buckinghamshire headquarters this afternoon.’

  ‘And The Locked Door Foundation would be what, exactly?’

  ‘We were created to ensure that the key is thrown away when it comes to men like Albert Macklin,’ she said. ‘We stand to protect decent people from their evil.’

  ‘People like these?’ asked Blizzard. He gestured at the gathering, in particular Bob Lennox and the flattened nose of his son, a burly man in his late twenties, who the detectives knew had a reputation for violence. ‘Going round smashing windows is decent, is it?’

  Another ugly murmur ran round the crowd.

  ‘Emotions run high when the authorities fail to act,’ said Margaret Hatton. ‘Besides, whatever you may think of the protestors, Chief Inspector, they have rights, too. Sometimes the police forget that.’

  ‘And what exactly do you hope to achieve by being here?’ asked Blizzard. He nodded at the journalists. ‘And by bringing them along? It can only inflame what is already a difficult situation.’

  ‘We don’t like the fact that the church is helping Albert Macklin. We do not think that paedophiles should be allowed somewhere like this. Children go to this church, Chief Inspector.’

  Before Blizzard could reply, another murmur rippled through the crowd. Jacob Reed had emerged from the church, his face ashen and his eyes wide behind his spectacles. The crowd parted as he walked nervously towards the inspector.

  ‘This mob tried to kill Albie,’ he said.

  ‘So, now you want our help, do you?’ said Blizzard. ‘However, I hardly think that a couple of bricks represents attempted murder, Mr Reed.’

  ‘You must do something,’ said the young man earnestly. ‘Someone could be–’

  ‘I have warned them to keep away but you can understand their anger, surely? And I’m sure that the city council will have something to say about you letting him stay here. It can only inflame the situation. Might I suggest that the best thing you can do is make sure that Albert Macklin leaves this city as soon as possible?’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ exclaimed Reed. ‘How can we help him rehabilitate if–’

  His protestations were drowned out by more angry shouts from the crowd as it surged forward. It was only the nimble actions of David Colley – the two wide-eyed rookie uniform officers appeared to be rooted to the spot – that saved Reed from serious harm as the sergeant plucked the church worker out of the way of the mob. Seconds later, the protestors were heading towards the front door of the building, intent on finding Albert Macklin.

  ‘Take one more step!’ hollered Blizzard. ‘And I will arrest the lot of you!’

  The crowd turned to eye him uncertainly. One look at his steely glare was enough and, one by one, they slunk back onto the street. Bob Lennox and his son were the last to go. Colley walked quietly over to the son and snatched a half-brick from his grasp before Lennox Junior realised what was happening. He looked as if he was about to remonstrate but the sergeant held a finger to his lips and the young man thought better of the idea and stayed silent.

  ‘Go home,’ said Blizzard. His voice was quieter now. ‘Everyone just go home. This building will have a police guard all night and I hope that, when everyone is calmer, we can work this out. Now go.’

  After a nod from Margaret Hatton, the crowd started to disperse, all except Bob Lennox and his son, who hesitated a moment longer.

  ‘Bob,’ said Blizzard. There was a tone of warning in his voice.

  Lennox seemed to crumple.

  ‘He killed my boy, Mr Blizzard,’ he said. His voice was low and the detectives saw tears start in his eyes. ‘He was fourteen. It’s no age to die.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Blizzard. His tone was also softer and he placed a hand on Lennox’s arm. ‘But getting yourself locked up for someone like that won’t do anyone any good, will it now?’

  Lennox shook his head and, after a moment or two, turned and walked off into the night, followed closely by his son. Blizzard turned to Margaret Hatton.

  ‘I would like to think that you are heading back to Buckinghamshire,’ said the inspector. ‘I can’t help feel that your continued presence in Hafton will fuel more disorder.’

  ‘I aim to stay,’ she said. Her voice had also changed from the harsh one of confrontation to a gentler, sadder tone. ‘You see, I have a personal interest in this case. A man like Albert Macklin also killed my son. I cannot sleep knowing that these types of people are being let out of prison and I will not cease campaigning until it stops happening.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Blizzard. ‘But trying to trash the hostel will not help, will it?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Do you want to say anything to the news, Chief Inspector?’ asked the reporter. He stepped forward, notebook at the ready.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Blizzard.

  ‘But–’

  ‘But nothing. Now sod off before I have one of the Boy Scouts check your tyres.’

  The reporter opened his mouth to object, thought better of it and he and the photographer
walked away, shooting angry glances over their shoulders at the unperturbed chief inspector. Blizzard watched Margaret Hatton catch them up and start an earnest conversation, the reporter eagerly scribbling down what she was saying.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, David,’ said Blizzard. ‘This is only the start.’

  The inspector glanced towards the hostel and caught a glimpse of Macklin’s face peering out of a window. The former prisoner had lost his confident air from earlier in the day and looked pale and frightened. Blizzard turned to Jacob Reed.

  ‘I am not sure that we can stop them tearing him limb from limb next time,’ he said. ‘I really do urge you to get him out of here.’

  ‘But it goes against everything we believe,’ said Reed. ‘When he was on the Cross, our Lord–’

  ‘Sod your Lord!’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘You may think that you are doing something important here but I am telling you that if Albert Macklin stays, someone will get to him… and probably won’t care if they knock your head off to do it. You’ve seen what they’re like. Get Albert Macklin out of Hafton.’

  With that, Blizzard turned on his heel and stalked across the street towards the car. Jacob Reed looked hopefully at Colley.

  ‘Can’t you talk some sense into him?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s right,’ said the sergeant. ‘Albert Macklin is trouble. He has no place in this city.’

  He followed Blizzard across the street, leaving a disconsolate Jacob Reed standing in front of the broken windows, watched impassively by the two rookie uniforms preparing for a long, cold evening on sentry duty as rain began to fall again.

  * * *

  Back at Abbey Road Police Station, Blizzard walked into the CID room which was empty except for a slim, dark-haired young women sitting at one of the desks. Sarah Allatt was the latest recruit to his CID team.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said. He gestured to the detective constable’s laptop. ‘Can you google a name for me? Margaret Hatton. Runs some kind of campaign organisation. The Locked Door Foundation.’

  Allatt tapped on her keyboard and ran a finger down the screen.

  ‘According to their website,’ said the constable, ‘she set it up more than fifteen years ago to call for life to mean life for child murderers. It’s a charity.’

  ‘What does it say about her?’

  ‘She’s well-respected, by the looks of it. Ex-teacher who has advised the Home Office on child safeguarding on a number of occasions, and there’s a list of councils for whom she has done work as a consultant. Some really big councils as well.’ She flicked onto the next page. ‘Does quite a bit of media. She’s been on Newsnight three times and is a regular on Channel 4 News.’

  ‘She mentioned something about her son having been murdered,’ said Blizzard. He wandered over to the window and stared down at the police station yard. ‘Anything about that?’

  Allatt opened another page.

  ‘Alexander,’ she said. She ran her finger down the screen again. ‘He was killed in 2004 when he was thirteen. It says here that he was attacked by a paedophile on his way home from a park one evening. No more detail, though.’

  ‘Did they get the man who did it?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Allatt read down the page. ‘However, following his death, Margaret started hearing about cases in which child murderers were released early and began campaigning to make sure that life means life in such cases. She was awarded an MBE four years ago for services to child safeguarding. There’s a picture of her with The Queen.’

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Blizzard gloomily. ‘A right Royal troublemaker.’

  Chapter three

  ‘Like you said,’ murmured Blizzard. ‘Fourteen is no age to die.’

  There was no reply from David Colley. Words would not have been enough, anyway. It was dusk, two days after the confrontation with the protestors outside the church, and the detectives were standing on the towpath that ran alongside Hafton Canal. They were staring down at the body of a teenage boy, whose face was partly concealed by dried blood from a head injury. His limbs were splayed awkwardly, his forearms were scratched, his T-shirt had been ripped and his jeans were covered in mud – signs of his desperate battle for life.

  The body had been found by an angler. The fisherman, having spent all day on the canal and with the light beginning to fade, had been wending his way home when he noticed a foot sticking out from beneath undergrowth. Hardly daring to breathe, he had investigated further and found the body, partly concealed by branches that had been hurriedly snapped off nearby bushes and trees.

  Within twenty minutes, the canal bank was swarming with officers, a grim-faced John Blizzard and David Colley among them. The detectives watched Sarah Allatt as she took a statement from the fisherman who sat on a log, shaking and trying to form the words to describe what he had seen.

  Colley shivered as a chill wind rippled the dark waters of the canal. The sergeant turned up his anorak collar and peered into a deepening blackness pierced only by the flashing blue lights of the police cars parked on the nearby road and by the pale glow cast from their factories on the industrial estate on the far side of the waterway. He glanced over to the local newspaper reporter and photographer, who were standing beyond the tape that had been stretched across the towpath by the police. Colley frowned; it was the same team that had covered the protest outside the hostel, their story subsequently splashed across the front page.

  ‘How did they get here so quickly?’ asked Colley.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Blizzard. ‘And at the moment, I don’t care. The boy’s my big concern. Do we know who he is?’

  ‘Jamie Holdsworth. Mum rang in an hour or so ago, saying that he had not returned home. Uniform weren’t that worried, teenage boy and all that, but then the body was found.’

  ‘He not at school?’

  ‘Half-term,’ said Colley. ‘He left home this morning to play football with his mates but, according to Mum, their game was due to finish at twelve. She thought he was having lunch at a friend’s house, his mates thought he was going home. She raised the alarm when he didn’t turn up and none of his pals knew where he was.’

  ‘And would he have walked home via the canal?’ asked Blizzard. He glanced along the waterway. ‘Is this his usual route, do we know?’

  ‘Very possibly. He lived near St John’s Church. Didn’t Danny Lennox…?’

  ‘Live near the church? Yes.’

  ‘And isn’t…?’

  ‘Right again, David.’ Blizzard stared morosely into the dark waters. ‘This is the stretch of canal where he was found. And before you ask, yes, Albert Macklin did cover his victim with branches.’

  Colley was silent for a few moments.

  ‘You think he did this then?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay if he did, particularly since people know that we were talking to him a couple of days ago. Hopefully, he really did leave the city. Relatives in Derby, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what Jacob Reed said,’ replied Colley. ‘But he doesn’t know their names and he only had Macklin’s word for it that they even existed. I’ve asked Derby police to make some enquiries for us but there’s precious little to go on.’

  Sarah Allatt completed her conversation with the angler and walked across to the detectives.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Just what he told uniform.’

  ‘And he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?’ asked the inspector. ‘He’s been here all day, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He has, yes, but he was a few hundred metres further along the bank.’ She pointed to a bend in the canal. ‘He couldn’t see where the body was found.’

  ‘Did he not hear anything?’

  ‘He had his headphones on.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Blizzard, looking at Colley, ‘I suggest that we find Albert Macklin and that we find him before anyone else does, otherwise we’ll have another murder on our hands. This has the potential to
turn very nasty, and quickly.’

  And with that, he began to stride down the towpath. Colley looked gloomily at the body and sighed.

  * * *

  Shortly before 10.00pm, Jacob Reed was at the hostel, sitting in the cramped office as he checked that all was well with the assistant manager before he took over from her for the night shift.

  ‘No problems then?’ he asked.

  ‘All quiet,’ said Glenda Rutherford. She looked worried; an earnest and meek middle-aged woman with mousy hair tied up in a bun, she was struggling to come to terms with the news about the death of Jamie Holdsworth. ‘So far. I’m terrified that there will be more trouble after what happened to that poor boy.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with us, Glenda.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that, do they?’ She glanced fearfully at the office window as she recalled the fear she had experienced when the protest had unfolded two days previously. ‘What if they come back, Jacob?’

  ‘Don’t worry, they won’t. Albert Macklin has gone, hasn’t he?’ Jacob walked over to the window and made as if to draw the curtains. Before doing so, he turned back to look at her with a reassuring look on his face. ‘Hold strong to your faith, Glenda. We are doing the right thing here. Someone has to help these people find the right path and the Lord has the power to make miracles happen. You know that. Go on, get yourself home.’

  She nodded and put on her coat. She was halfway down the street when she heard the sound of shattering glass coming from the direction of the church. She ran back to find Jacob Reed lying unconscious on the office floor, with blood pouring from a gash on his forehead. The window had been smashed and a brick lay next to him.

  Chapter four

  A weary John Blizzard was still at the cluster of ageing prefab buildings that comprised Abbey Road Police Station as the office wall clock ticked past 10.00pm. It had been a long day and he was sitting in the detective superintendent’s room as Arthur Ronald took yet another call from the worried chief constable.

  Blizzard gave his boss an affectionate look. Few officers were better in such situations. They were long-time friends, having worked together as rookie uniform officers before being reunited many years later – Ronald to assume overall command of CID for the southern half of the force area, Blizzard to run Western, one of its main divisions. They were very different men. University-educated Ronald was a pudgy, balding man with ruddy cheeks and eyes with bags that sagged underneath them. A smart dresser, he was a charming man with an easy manner and a gift for diplomacy. Blizzard, for his part, had gone into the police straight from school and developed a reputation for straight-talking. It was why Ronald’s career had prospered more than his friend’s, and it was his diplomatic approach that was proving the most helpful now. The superintendent replaced the phone.