THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘Perhaps Danny was a victim as well,’ said the sergeant, echoing the chief inspector’s thoughts.

  ‘He is now.’

  ‘Still not telling me what spooked you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing!’

  Colley shrugged and walked away. Blizzard resumed his perusal of the cemetery, half expecting to see the strange little girl standing in the shadows again. But he saw no one and the dead slept on. And this time, Danny Galston slept with them.

  Chapter four

  Cara Galston did a good grieving widow. It probably came from her days in amateur dramatics when she was much younger, she reflected as she stood at the living room window that afternoon, watching the last of the well-wishers walk down the drive. Georgia Horwood, her closest confidante for many years, had been with her for several hours, and as her friend neared the wrought-iron gate, Cara’s mind drifted back to when they had appeared in that performance on stage together. Shakespeare was a bit high-brow for the dead-beats of Hafton Amateur Dramatic Society, Cara had thought at the time, but the producer was desperate to make a name for himself with something more challenging than Brian Rix farces. Cara found it easy to persuade the earnest young man to give her a leading role. She liked being the centre of attention and all it took was a few well-aimed remarks about his artistic vision and the part was hers – even before she slept with him to make sure.

  Georgia had only been given a bit-part but Cara’s hard-earned role had given her the opportunity to shine. Oh, how the audience had stood and applauded at the end. Cara remembered the last night when someone even threw a bunch of roses onto the stage at Hafton Civic Theatre. Attractive young man, he was. Funny how good things always happened to her in November, she mused as she waved when Georgia turned at the front gate for one last look. Cara suddenly felt tired; she had been acting all day as a succession of friends came to comfort her after Danny’s death and it had proved a strain. The performance had started when she pretended to be devastated as Blizzard and Colley sat in her living room and told her the news. She had staggered slightly – a nice touch, she thought – and allowed the sergeant to guide her gently to a chair then bring her a cup of water.

  Giving herself time to recover, and enjoying the attention of the good-looking officer, Cara had passed a hand across her brow – not too dramatic, didn’t want to overplay it – then turned moist eyes on the detectives. Deliberately allowing the tears to flow more freely as Blizzard tried to ask her some questions, she contemplated passing out for a moment or two to shut him up but opted instead for feeling faint and they had left, promising to come back later.

  * * *

  Walking across the living room towards the kitchen, Cara stopped and admired herself in the full-length mirror hanging to one side of the sideboard. Not bad for thirty-seven, she told herself, admiring her curves. She knew she was still attractive, her hair bottle blonde, her complexion blemish-free and her eyes displaying no signs of tell-tale crow’s feet; Cara Galston had done everything in her power to stay the sands of time. Today, she was dressed casually in white trainers, grey designer tracksuit trousers and a tight pale blue T-shirt that showed off her tight stomach, the result of many hours in the gym, and breasts surgically enhanced the year before. Cara gave a satisfied nod; yes, not bad, not bad at all, my girl.

  She frowned, recalling again the conversation with the detectives that morning. The sergeant had been alright but something about Blizzard’s demeanour as he sat on the sofa, eying her intently having told her that her husband was dead, had troubled Cara. She remembered – kept coming back to it time and time again – how Georgia’s emotional intervention had come at just the right time because, good actress or not, Cara Galston had found it difficult to conceal her irritation at the chief inspector’s questions. Danny had never trusted him either. The haulier had told his wife several times that the chief inspector was convinced he murdered his first wife and the two children. Cara had never asked if he had. Suddenly, though, the darkness was banished and she smiled again as she recalled David Colley; it had been down to the nice sergeant to provide the sympathy. Was the sergeant married, she wondered as she switched on the kettle then stood staring out of the kitchen window at the garden, the sun glinting off the Romanesque statues. She struggled to recall if the sergeant had worn a ring. She was sure he hadn’t.

  Her mind wandered back to Danny. It was always his wealth that had attracted her. Cara’s first marriage had been a disaster, leaving her to pay off her feckless ex-husband’s debts, so she was desperate for money. She knew from the beginning that it was a bad marriage, of course – the shadows of his dead family seemed always to hang over them – but she ignored it as best she could. His money was ample compensation.

  As Cara stood in her hand-crafted kitchen, her eyes ranged over the huge fridge-freezer specially imported from the US, the glass-fronted cabinets containing tastefully backlit ornaments, the shelves containing the antique jugs that had cost her a small fortune and the wine rack containing only the best. Oh, yes, she thought as her mind went back to those sour-faced women at the haulage association dinners Dany dragged to, she had what they didn’t, alright.

  Besides, Cara told herself as she opened one of her cupboards and took out a box of chamomile tea, had she not enjoyed her little dalliances down the years, her little forays into other men’s beds when Danny was out in his truck?

  Well, she thought as the kettle boiled, she would not need to do any skulking in the shadows now. Danny Galston was dead and his poor grieving widow had inherited his share of the business. By her reckoning – and she had been reckoning it for a long while – she was now worth the thick end of £10m. Much more if everything went to plan.

  Cara hesitated, teabag hovering over the antique china teapot; had she felt anything when she heard that Danny was dead? Had she experienced a tug of… a tug of what exactly? Guilt, she supposed, but only for a second or two. Yes, something had gone from her life and perhaps, in a way, it was sad. But not that sad. Not ten million-quidsworth sad. This was no time to entertain doubts. Cara looked out over the garden again. November always had been a lucky month for her. A broad smile transformed her face and this time, she was not acting.

  Chapter five

  Old friends John Blizzard and his boss, Detective Superintendent Arthur Ronald, sat drinking mugs of tea at Abbey Road. As darkness fell outside and rain started to lash the window of Ronald’s office once again, Blizzard updated him on the inquiry, announcing to the superintendent’s consternation that he was convinced Cara Galston was faking grief. The chief inspector, Ronald noted gloomily, seemed to be enjoying himself, tilting back on his chair with a satisfied, almost mischievous expression on his face. For the superintendent’s part, he was too busy running through the ramifications of arresting a grieving widow in full glare of the media less than 24 hours after her husband’s high-profile murder to take much notice. As usual, the chief inspector was much less mindful of such sensitivities. Assuming he was mindful of them at all, which Ronald very much doubted.

  Despite their close relationship, they were contrasting characters. Ronald, married with two teenaged children, was a pudgy, balding man with ruddy cheeks and eyes with bags which sagged darkly. A man given to constant worrying about mortgages and university fees, he was not yet fifty but looked older. A smart dresser with shoes that always shined, a sharply-pressed suit and tie constantly done up, he masked his sharp edges with an avuncular façade and consummate political skills. None of which applied to John Blizzard, who masked nothing and whose devilish tendency to suggest the controversial had surfaced yet again as he warmed to his theme.

  ‘So, what I reckon is…’ continued Blizzard.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Ronald irritably, ‘but I’ve already said you can’t arrest Cara Galston without evidence.’

  ‘Mi
ght shake her up a bit.’

  ‘She’s just lost her husband! How shaken up do you want her to be, for Christ’s sake?’

  Blizzard shrugged. ‘It’s just a thought.’

  Ronald sighed. He knew all about John Blizzard’s thoughts and he knew that, more often than not, they were right. Having first worked with Ronald when they were rookies, Blizzard had been the superintendent’s first appointment when, four years previously, he assumed command of CID in the force’s southern half, which included the city of Hafton. There had been those, the chief constable among them, who doubted the wisdom of such a decision, concerned by Blizzard’s somewhat maverick tendencies. However, subsequent events vindicated Ronald’s judgement as the division’s rocketing crime rate slowed, then halted and was now tumbling as detection rates went up. But Ronald had long since realised that, if he wanted the benefits of working with John Blizzard, he also had to live with some of the disadvantages. The superintendent tried again.

  ‘From my point of view…’ he began.

  ‘Something’s wrong, Arthur, I can feel it in my water,’ said Blizzard earnestly, then held up his hands at Ronald’s expression. ‘OK, OK, I know, I need something more for the CPS.’

  ‘Too right. The CPS has never placed much credence on your urine.’

  ‘If you ask me, they’ve been taking the p…’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ronald wearily. ‘So, have you got any evidence?’

  ‘Well, not in the conventional sense but something will turn up. It always does.’

  ‘Yes, well until it does…’ Ronald left the sentence unfinished.

  Blizzard frowned. He knew Ronald was right but it did not change his conviction that Cara Galston had been playing a part that morning. Ever since the detectives had left the house, all Blizzard could think about was the way she had taken the news. Right words, yes, right gestures, yes, but wrong body language. He could not shrug off the feeling that she was playing a part for the detectives’ benefit. However, Blizzard knew he was alone in his suspicions; Colley certainly did not believe him. All the sergeant had seen was a grieving widow. It was tragic, Colley had said, that such an attractive woman should be left alone. Blizzard had given him a withering look but knew he could not compete with the widow’s pert breasts.

  ‘It’s just…’ the chief inspector began again.

  ‘What about that photographer bloke Gerry Brauner?’ asked Ronald, cutting across him. ‘His grubby mitts seem to be all over this one.’

  * * *

  In fact, as they were speaking, Colley and the cemetery manager, Desmond Roach, were discussing Gerry Brauner as they sat in one of the interview rooms at the other end of the police station. Roach had walked into the reception a quarter of an hour earlier and demanded to see the sergeant. He stared across the table with a hunted look in his eyes.

  ‘I ain’t been totally straight with you, Mr Colley,’ said Roach.

  ‘Now there’s a bombshell, Desmond.’

  ‘I asked for you ‘cause I don’t reckon Mr Blizzard would understand.’

  ‘I imagine you are right,’ said Colley. ‘So, what brings you here?’

  ‘Gerry Brauner, he told me to say nothing but I can’t sit on this,’ said Roach, speaking quickly as if relieved to finally unburden himself. ‘It’s doing my head in. Brauner were at the cemetery this morning at the same time Danny got killed. I know that because I let him in.’

  ‘And why, pray, why did you do that? And how come Brauner knew that Danny Galston would be there?’

  ‘He slipped me £50 to let him know the arrangements,’ said Roach, looking ever more uncomfortable. ‘Said he would double it if he got a good picture.’

  ‘That’s two hundred from Danny Galston and fifty from Brauner. You seem to be making a healthy profit out of all this death business,’ said Colley. ‘Do you know if our friend Mr Brauner got a good picture?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Did you see him afterwards?’

  ‘Only when I opened the gate to let him out. Then, when I took the dog for a walk, I found the body.’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Blizzard and the superintendent were still deep in conversation when the sergeant arrived at the office.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Ronald, relieved at the distraction.

  ‘He off on one?’ grinned Colley, nodding at the chief inspector.

  ‘You could say that. Wants the widow Galston stringing up.’

  ‘Not an entirely unattractive thought,’ said Colley. ‘She is a bit of a looker and I am pretty sure that her br…’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Ronald. ‘Apart from your sordid fantasies, have you found out anything interesting?’

  ‘Desmond Roach says Brauner was there when Galston was murdered. And no, Desmond did not see the widow Galston bashing her husband’s brains out with a stone angel.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘What’s more, Gerry Brauner has an interesting line in pastimes,’ said Colley, fishing a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. ‘Uniform say that a week or so ago, they received a complaint about him pestering Ralph Cargill.’

  ‘That’s Galston’s business partner, isn’t it?’ said Ronald.

  ‘Yeah. The complaint related to a big bust-up outside the depot. Cargill told uniform that Brauner was harassing him, Brauner said Cargill smashed his camera.’

  ‘I think our Mr Brauner is definitely worth talking to,’ said Ronald, looking pointedly at the chief inspector.

  ‘Too right,’ said Colley. ‘If you ask me, guv, Dessy Boy and Snapper-Man are up to their neck in the brown stuff on this one.’

  ‘I assume there is an English translation for that?’ asked Ronald, looking at Blizzard.

  ‘I’ll get you a phrase book for Christmas,’ said Blizzard. ‘Come on, Sergeant, time we paid our Mr Brauner a visit, I think.’

  * * *

  Halfway through a telephone conversation shortly after six-thirty, Gerry Brauner glanced out of his first-floor office window and noticed the two detectives walking towards the building. Sitting at his untidy desk, he sighed as he watched the officers pick their way between the parked cars that always thronged the dimly-lit city centre back street, even during the evening. Not that the officers’ appearance was a surprise; the death of Danny Galston had put him centre stage in their inquiry and he knew it. So did the man at the other end of the telephone receiver.

  ‘Gerry, are you there?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yeah, but I gotta go. Inspector Knacker’s here.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Blizzard and that sergeant of his. Colley.’

  ‘Yeah, well just remember what I said, keep your trap shut.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can handle them.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ said the man and the line went dead.

  Brauner scowled and replaced the receiver. Up until then, he had been enjoying a good day. One of his best. The kind of day to kill for, he had told himself on several occasions, laughing as he did so. Desmond Roach had rung him about the body early that morning and by 10am, Brauner had already been twice warned off by police as he tried to sneak into Hafton Cemetery – once as he was squeezing through a gap in the hedge along the main road, the second time as he was scaling the perimeter wall. It was only when a burly uniformed sergeant threatened to confiscate his camera that Brauner retreated. Not that he went far: a body in a cemetery was already a good enough story but instinct told him there was more to it than that.

  He was right. Early in the afternoon, in response to intense media pressure, the force confirmed that the corpse was Danny Galston and, since then, Brauner’s phone had been ringing constantly with national newspapers demanding pictures. They all knew Brauner was the man to come to because he had taken plenty of shots of Galston down the years. Besides, he had the image everyone was after. Name your price, the nationals had said, and Brauner had done just that, spending several hours with a broad grin on h
is face as he wired his pictures. He even sold some images to a couple of foreign newspapers. Oh, how he loved a feeding frenzy! That fifty quid he had slipped Desmond Roach for the heads-up on Galston’s plans was the best money he’d spent in a long time.

  Just before Blizzard and Colley appeared on the street, Brauner had been sitting at his litter-strewn desk, gulping tea from a cracked green mug, eating a ham sandwich and jotting down how much he had earned that day. He had just reckoned it must run into five figures and was contemplating popping into the Red Lion, the shabby pub on the ground floor, for a celebratory drink when the telephone rang. The freelance photographer knew it was the man. He knew the man would be panicking. The phone call confirmed it; Brauner could sense the fear in the man’s voice when he heard that the police had come calling.

  Brauner wasn’t worried, however; now approaching forty, he was well used to dealing with awkward police officers, even the notoriously difficult John Blizzard. A freelance photographer for the best part of a decade, specialising in seedy foot-in-the-door exclusives for the tabloids, he was doing very well for himself even though his appearance – overweight, black hair greasy and unkempt and leather jacket worn at the elbows – might suggest down-at-heel. It was a carefully cultivated image because that was the kind of world Brauner moved in. On hearing a sharp banging on the side door downstairs, he sighed, hauled himself out of his ramshackle chair and picked his way slowly down the narrow, dark stairway.

  ‘Well, this is a lovely surprise,’ he said as he opened the door.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ grunted Blizzard. ‘Time for a chat?’

  ‘Well, actually I was going to give the office a hoover so perhaps you could come back later.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Blizzard.

  The detectives pushed their way into the building and clattered up the stairs into the office.

  ‘Business not very good then, Gerry?’ said Blizzard. He surveyed the single light bulb, rusting filing cabinet and bare, damp-stained walls. ‘This place is a shit hole.’