THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘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  ‘We could always check if the tax disc on his lorry is out of date.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 wit
h 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 Co
lley. ‘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.