THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘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 wif
e 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.’