THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘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.