by John Dean
‘Margaret Hatton.’
‘Yeah, she’s doing my head in.’
‘She’s got a point, mind,’ said Fee. She grinned as Michael reached eagerly for the next spoonful of yoghurt. ‘Someone needs to draw attention to what’s been happening. I mean, what on earth were they thinking offering Albert Macklin a place there? A man like that?’
‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. He scraped the last of the yoghurt out of the pot and fed it to Michael, whose little hands grasped the air once more. ‘Surely, you can’t want another, young man?’
Fee watched as the inspector peeled open the new pot.
‘He’ll burst if he eats any more,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve been up to your eyes in this St John’s stuff, but have you thought about what we talked about last night? I know it’s only part-time but the hours are pretty regular. And security is something I know about. They said that the job’s as good as mine if I apply.’
‘I should think so, too.’ Blizzard dipped the spoon into the yoghurt pot. ‘And it helps that they’re ex-police.’
‘So, I’ll apply then, shall I?’
‘Yeah, go for it. Any idea where we can find a good childminder?’
‘Possibly. I rang Jay to ask for details of the woman who she and Dave hired to look after Laura when Jay went back to teaching. I’ll fix up a meeting with her, shall I? She sounds pretty good. Jay’s impressed and I trust her judgement.’
‘Sure. Just give me a bit of notice if you can. We’re a bit full on at the moment, as you can imagine.’ Blizzard glanced at the wall clock and stood up. ‘Talking of which, I promised I’d check with the forensics guys at the church.’
He passed the yoghurt pot to Fee.
‘Mummy finish it,’ he said.
He walked into the hallway and re-emerged wearing his coat and carrying his briefcase. The inspector gave Michael a kiss then leaned over to do the same with Fee. She looked up at him and frowned.
‘You look like shit,’ she said.
‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘You never sleep well.’
‘I had one of my nightmares,’ he said.
‘Which one?’
‘The one about being trapped.’
Fee frowned again.
‘And do you feel trapped?’ she said.
He shook his head.
‘Of course not,’ he said.
He left the house and drove through the winding country lanes leading to the city. His mind was still on the conversation with Fee as he entered the outskirts of Hafton. He did not feel trapped. Far from it. Indeed, he felt more content than he could ever recall. And he was glad that she had decided to venture back into the job market. Although he had kept his thoughts to himself at the time, he had not agreed with her decision to resign as a CID officer, even though he understood her need to spend time with their son. Now, as he entered the city and drove through the streets, his mind was taken up with the logistical challenges that would come with both parents working.
But, he thought as he approached St John’s, the nightmare had to mean something. Had to point to a truth. He realised that everyone with whom the detectives had dealt in recent days was trapped in some way or another – by the promises they had made to their faith, by the decisions they had taken, and the lies they had told to themselves and others. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for the truth to come out. Sweep away the lies.
Getting out of the car outside St John’s, he noticed that the television camera crew were still there and gave a slight smile. Noticing his arrival, the cameraman and the reporter walked over to him.
‘Chief Inspector,’ said the reporter as the cameraman began to film. ‘Do you have any comment about what has happened here?’
‘Not at this stage,’ said Blizzard. He kept walking towards the church.
‘But you must have an opinion about the community’s concerns surrounding the hostel, surely?’ she said.
Blizzard stopped walking and turned to face the camera.
‘All I would say,’ he replied, ‘is that there is a case for a review of the decision-making that went into granting the hostel’s approval to operate.’
A cheer went up from the protestors and, ignoring further questions, Blizzard strode into the church, knowing immediately that he had broken Ronald’s rule about venturing into politics. The interview was broadcast twenty-five minutes later during the hourly news bulletin and the call to Blizzard’s mobile came soon after. Within half an hour, he was sitting in Arthur Ronald’s office, watched by an uncomfortable chief superintendent as the detectives were confronted by the furious Chair of the city council’s social services committee.
Blizzard and Rory Gill knew each other well; they had frequently clashed in the past and the councillor viewed the inspector as someone whose views were outdated. Young for the Chair of such an influential committee, Gill was a professional sociologist, university-educated, full of ideas and ambitious; the city council leader was widely expected to step down at the next election and Gill had his eye on the top job. A slim man with a thin face, short brown hair and a neatly trimmed brown beard, he sat in the office in his normal attire of brown cords and jacket with patched elbows, over a black T-shirt with the words ‘judge others as you would wish to be judged yourself’. He had watched the inspector’s television interview with a mixture of anger and delight, infuriated by the comments but immediately recognising in them the chance to rid himself of a persistent thorn in his flesh. The disagreement had long since turned personal for the councillor.
‘I am here to demand,’ he said, ‘that this officer be immediately removed from this inquiry. It is clear that–’
‘It is clear,’ interrupted Ronald, ‘that we need an experienced police officer to deal with a serious situation like this.’
‘Maybe we do.’ Gill pointed at Blizzard. ‘But not this clown, I would suggest.’
‘Chief Inspector Blizzard is a highly competent officer,’ snapped Ronald, ‘and I will thank you not to tell me how to run my inquiries. I don’t tell you how to run social services.’
The moment he had uttered the words, Ronald realised his mistake. Gill’s eyes gleamed and the superintendent tried not to show that he knew that he had slipped up.
‘But he does,’ said the councillor. He gestured at Blizzard. ‘He’s quite happy telling the world how he thinks I should be running social services. Did he not say on national television that we were wrong to let the hostel go ahead, or did my ears deceive me?’
‘Actually,’ said Blizzard. He was speaking for the first time and made little effort to conceal his distaste for the councillor. ‘What I said was that a review was required. I suspect a lot of people would agree with that statement, Councillor.’
‘Yes, but those kinds of decisions are for the experts and not a police officer. From what I hear from Mr Rose-Harvey, you have made no secret of your desire to see the hostel closed down, Chief Inspector. From where I stand, it looks like you have sided with Margaret Hatton and her followers.’
‘Hardly,’ said Blizzard.
‘Perhaps we can agree,’ said Ronald before Gill could reply, ‘that DCI Blizzard’s comments were slightly misguided.’
‘Misguided!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘He directly criticised a council decision! One that I personally recommended.’
‘I was asked an honest question,’ said Blizzard, ‘and I gave an honest answer.’
‘Yes, well I am sure your chief constable will not like that,’ said Gill. ‘He has worked hard to develop a good relationship with the council and things like this do not help.’
Ronald sighed. Mention of the Chief always meant trouble and the ramifications from his uncomfortable experience at the Community Forum had continued to rumble on. Inwardly, Ronald cursed Blizzard for his bullishness, although, if the superintendent were honest with himself, he agreed with his views. Sometimes, Arthur Ronald detested his well-earned reputation as a person who was adept at playing politics. Sometimes, he wished th
at he could just say exactly what he thought. And if the superintendent was honest with himself, sometimes he was happy that Blizzard said these things. It was one of the many reasons Ronald watched his friend’s back.
‘So is your chief inspector going to apologise?’ asked Gill.
‘I will not apologise for questioning some of the things that have happened at St John’s,’ said Blizzard before Ronald could reply. The inspector thought of Tom Raine lying in his hospital bed as he recovered from concussion, and he thought of Glenda Rutherford on the mortuary slab. And he thought of Jamie Holdsworth and his devastated mother. ‘I can’t do that, nor will I.’
‘However, I am sure that in future he will be more circumspect in his comments to the media,’ said Ronald quickly. He looked hopefully at his friend. ‘Isn’t that right, Chief Inspector?’
Noting his discomfort, Blizzard decided to play the game and nodded.
‘I’ll be more careful,’ he said.
‘But what about an apology?’ demanded Gill.
‘You shouldn’t push your luck,’ said Ronald. He silenced the councillor with a look. Gone was the easy-going demeanour to be replaced by a sharper edge.
The councillor hesitated for a moment, seemed about to protest, then thought better of it and nodded.
‘Well, if that will be all then, Mr Gill,’ said Ronald. He stood up and headed for the door. ‘I’ll show you out.’
‘That’s Councillor Gill,’ said the politician as Ronald led him into the corridor.
‘My mistake, I do apologise,’ said Ronald’s voice from the corridor. ‘I’ll remember next time.’
Blizzard gave a low laugh then clapped a hand to his mouth lest the councillor hear. The inspector jumped to his feet and scuttled quickly from the office. He did not want to be there when Arthur Ronald returned. They may be good friends but he was still the senior officer and, whenever Blizzard stepped over the line, Ronald made sure that he knew it. Back in his own office, he had just sat down when Colley limped in.
‘I thought the doctor said you should have a day off,’ said Blizzard. He looked dubiously at the sergeant’s heavily bandaged right hand.
‘Jay said I should stay home as well but I thought you might need me.’
‘Yeah, we’re always short of one-armed, one-legged officers,’ replied Blizzard.
‘Thank you for that expression of support, guv. Did I see the Super escorting our Mr Gill out of the building just now?’
‘That’s Councillor Gill,’ said Blizzard.
‘I take it you are in trouble again then?’
‘No, in fact, he came in to suggest that I be promoted to deputy chief constable immediately.’
‘Of course, he did,’ said Colley. ‘What have you done this time?’
‘I suggested that the future of the hostel should be reviewed while talking to a BBC national news reporter.’
‘Well, something needs to happen,’ said Colley. ‘I have just been up to the church and Margaret Hatton is in her element. Cameras everywhere.’
‘I just don’t trust the woman,’ said Blizzard. ‘I can’t help feeling that she is using the likes of Bob Lennox to further her own cause. That she’s as cynical as they come.’
‘That may be a bit harsh, guv. She did lose her son to a paedophile, after all.’ Colley shifted his position in the chair to ease the pain in his throbbing knee. ‘You’d be pretty angry. Anyway, I came to tell you that I have some interesting information.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I was sifting through the files that the Economic Crime Unit brought from the vicar’s office and I found this.’ Colley fished a brown envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over to the inspector.
Blizzard slid a document out of the envelope. It was an outpatients appointment for a mental health unit in the city.
‘It’s for Henry Sanders,’ he said.
‘It is, so I contacted the specialist whose name is at the bottom of the letter. He didn’t want to talk, patient confidentiality and all that, but I took a leaf out of the John Blizzard Guide To Making Enemies and Influencing Friends and he agreed to talk to me.’
Blizzard chuckled.
‘Anyway,’ said Colley. ‘It turns out that the vicar has a long history of mental illness and the problems with Rose-Harvey’s bunch have brought it all to the surface again. Apparently, he first had problems when he was in his late teens – kept thinking he could see the Virgin Mary outside Marks and Sparks when he lived in Shrewsbury. He got very depressed at one point. He’s a man constantly on the edge.’
‘Once a basket case, always a basket case, I guess.’
‘You’d better not let Arthur hear you talking like that,’ said Colley. ‘Or Rory Gill.’
‘No, you’re right. He already thinks I’m a dinosaur.’ Blizzard stood up and headed for the door. ‘Come on, I think I need to get out of the building before Arthur pops in to discuss the finer points of social welfare policy with me.’
Colley hobbled out of the office behind him and grinned when he saw Blizzard turn left down the corridor then do an about turn and rapidly head the other way as Ronald appeared. As they entered the car park, Blizzard’s mobile phone rang.
‘You owe me one,’ said the disembodied voice.
‘You know, Arthur,’ replied Blizzard. ‘I think you may be right.’
He ended the call and noticed Sarah Allatt walking towards them, clutching a brown paper bag containing sandwiches from the local bakery.
‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘You get anywhere with Margaret Hatton?’
‘The detective I need at Thames Valley has been off for a couple of days. She’s due back today and her DS said she’d call.’
‘OK, keep me informed,’ said Blizzard.
‘What’s that about?’ asked Colley as Allatt headed off towards the police station.
‘I asked her to do some digging into Margaret Hatton’s background,’ said Blizzard.
‘Why?’
‘Just curious. There’s an itch that needs scratching.’
‘Play with fire, why don’t you?’ said the sergeant.
Chapter twenty-four
‘This is the worst coverage I have ever seen,’ said the Force Press Officer as she walked into Ronald’s office and dropped her copy of the local newspaper onto his desk. ‘Even for this rag. They’ve really gone for it.’
The superintendent and Blizzard stared bleakly at the front page. Plastered across the top were pictures of the chief constable, the superintendent and the chief inspector below a large headline which said Have They Lost The Plot?
‘Cheeky bastards,’ said Blizzard.
‘They’ve certainly pushed it just about as far as they can,’ said the press officer. Alice Greer sat down at the desk. ‘But can you really blame them? It’s only what a lot of people are saying.’
Blizzard did not reply but instead picked up the paper and scanned the front page, which reported on the arrest of Steve Holdsworth. There was a picture of Jamie’s father with the caption Protestors plead grieving Dad’s innocence.
‘Grieving Dad,’ snorted Blizzard. ‘That’s rich.’
‘Is he innocent?’ asked Greer.
‘Unfortunately, he is.’ Blizzard tossed the newspaper onto the desk. ‘But I’m not going to let him go because some journalist says I should. I’m not running this investigation through the media, Alice. However, he finally gave us the name of the woman he’s been shagging. Turns out her husband is a kickboxer and he was worried what he might do to her when he found out. Anyway, she confirmed that he was with her when Jamie was killed.’
‘Perhaps a press release announcing his release would help,’ said Ronald hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Greer. ‘They’ve really got their teeth into it. You’d better read page two as well.’
Blizzard picked up the paper again and flicked onto the inside pages. He read with growing anger the comment article spread over two pages and written by the editor, who had for
some time argued in his editorials that the force was losing the battle against crime in the city. When Blizzard had read the article, he slid the paper over to Ronald, who read the piece with a similar sense of annoyance.
‘He’s new, this editor, isn’t he?’ asked the superintendent.
‘He is, yes,’ said Greer. ‘Grew up here then worked on the nationals for a few years – the red tops mainly, News of the World, The People, that sort of thing. Came home when the editorship came up a couple of months back. He sees criticising the police as a good way to sell papers. You’d better look at pages four and five as well.’
Ronald sighed and turned over the page. Page four was based on an interview with Margaret Hatton, in which she complained that the police were unfairly targeting the protestors. Page five featured interviews with Edgar Rose-Harvey, in which he complained that the police’s attitude had played a key role in increasing the persecution of the church; recent days had, he said, seen people hurt, and murdered in the case of Glenda Rutherford, windows smashed and several attacks with spray cans.
‘I just hope that you two have got some bright ideas,’ said the press officer. ‘Because the editor has instructed his crime reporter to ring us every hour demanding updates and our phone is already running red hot from national journalists – and quite a few from abroad as well. Paris Match are talking about sending someone over and CNN are really interested.’
‘What’s more, the Chief is never off my back,’ said Ronald. He watched as Blizzard read the articles. ‘And this little lot won’t help. Have you any bright ideas, John?’
‘I have, yes. Time to fight back. Make a big statement.’
‘Like what?’ asked Ronald.
‘Like cracking down on the demonstrators. We’ve let them get away with too much. I want to turn everyone over to finding Bob Lennox and his meathead son and bringing them in for questioning.’
‘But do we have any hard evidence linking them with the attacks on the church?’
‘Not as such,’ said Blizzard. ‘But they’ve got form for violence and they seem to have gone to ground. Hardly the actions of innocent men.’
‘There’ll be a riot if we do it,’ said Ronald. ‘The community is already a tinderbox and they’ll see it as an attack on some of their own.’