by John Dean
She said nothing.
Blizzard sighed, drained his cup and left the house.
Chapter fourteen
There was an underlying tension that evening at Arthur Ronald’s large detached home in an exclusive gated housing complex in one of the villages on the city’s western edge. Sitting in his favourite armchair in his spacious cream-carpeted lounge, surrounded by French Impressionist prints and exotic ornaments gleaned from holidays around the world, the detective superintendent eyed the four men intently. The men behind Operation Keeper. Not that anyone else knew about its existence. Officially, the meeting was not even taking place and were Operation Keeper’s existence to be uncovered before it could achieve it aims, all their careers would undoubtedly come to an abrupt end. Such a realisation had, as always, charged the atmosphere in the room. It had also bred a deep and abiding trust.
Sipping a glass of wine and studying each man in turn, Ronald knew their desire to crack one of the most baffling mysteries in the city’s modern history was as strong as ever. Many cities have rumours of paedophiles at work in their shadows and Hafton was no exception. From time to time down the years, there had come tantalising reports of a group of influential men who paid for the provision of children for sex, both girls and boys. There was also rumours of children that had simply vanished. But each report was nebulous, fading like the mist, something intangible.
On taking command of Southern CID, Ronald had determined to solve the mystery and had broached his concerns with the chief constable. He found the chief reluctant to sanction an official inquiry, arguing that he was not prepared to release manpower or approve overtime budgets to deal with what he described as an urban myth. Faced with such unwillingness, Arthur Ronald took a decision that would have stunned those who regarded him as a cautious, even staid, individual; he launched a highly secretive investigation without official clearance.
Blizzard was one of the team in Ronald’s living room, the chief inspector slumped in an armchair with his feet up on a stool to relieve the pain from his back. Over on the sofa was Colley, sipping at a can of lager. The sergeant looked weary, thought Ronald, his eyes tired and strained. The superintendent had noticed the fatigue several times in recent weeks but Colley had been evasive whenever questioned about it and Blizzard had feigned ignorance.
Beside the sergeant sat an officer in his early fifties, hair almost grey, thinning and cut short, his face chiselled and pock-marked, the eyes deep and dark. He was dressed in an ill-fitting navy black suit with no tie. He looked like the kind of man who did not even own a tie. This was Detective Sergeant Max Randall, a veteran who had worked with Ronald and Blizzard over at the Eastern Division in years gone by. On another armchair sat Alex Mather, a vice-squad detective in his late twenties who spent much of his time working undercover investigating crimes relating to the city’s prostitution rackets. Slim with light brown hair, he was dressed in scuffed jeans and black T-shirt. Normally unshaven, he had grown a beard; none of the officers asked why as he sat quietly sipping his wine.
Despite the import of the gathering – it was the first time in seven months that they had all been together – the men had not discussed the sex ring in the hour they had been at the house. Their long-standing rule was that business must wait until they had eaten, and that Arthur Ronald had to pay for the food, so on the glass coffee table in front of them were several pizza boxes. Each officer had tucked into the meal with gusto: eating was one of the things that tended to be missed out on in the life of a Hafton detective.
‘Lovely that was,’ said Randall, finishing the last piece and reaching for his beer can.
‘You are kidding, I take it?’ protested Blizzard.
‘I keep forgetting he’s Egon-bloody-Ronay,’ groaned Randall, winking at the grinning Colley. ‘What’s the problem, Jonny boy, the tomatoes not grown on the right Tuscan mountain slope for you?’
‘I am just saying that if you knew anything about Italian cookery rather than being such a Philistine, you would…’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Randall, smiling as he placed his can back on the table.
‘So why the call, Max?’ asked Ronald, quickly placing a coaster beneath the sergeant’s glass, bringing forth a smile from Randall.
‘I’ve got a new informant. Met him in a boozer.’
‘Truly a meeting of minds,’ said Blizzard slyly. ‘What did he want?’
‘I thought he wanted to talk about a doorstep conman scam over on the Hawkmead Estate; he’s been slipping me some useful stuff. Then he says something big is cracking off. Says the pub is not the place to talk. When I went to see him the next day, he was shitting himself. Wanted to know if he was promised immunity from prosecution if he gave me information about the sex ring.’
‘And what did you say?’ asked Ronald, topping up his glass of wine and offering the bottle around.
‘Said I’d have to check it. You are the only I can turn to, Arthur.’
‘And how exactly do you expect me to sanction something for an investigation that does not exist, Max? I mean, is this guy really worth sticking my neck out for?’
‘I reckon he might be. I tell you, Arthur, I have never seen a man so scared. Something has spooked him and he’s not alone.’
‘I’ll hazard a guess,’ said Mather in his quiet Scottish lilt.
The others looked at him expectantly: Mather did not say much, so when he did, it commanded respect.
‘The death of Danny Galston,’ Mather said. ‘Has to be. I’m hearing things as well. There’s a few of my informants acting funny, looking over their shoulder all the time. It’s like Danny’s murder changed something. Who have you got in the frame for killing him, John?’
‘The widow is the best bet. She’s playing all sorts of games.’
‘What if it’s tied up with Keeper instead?’ asked Mather. ‘Don’t tell me we haven’t all considered the possibility that Danny is wrapped up in this.’
‘Yeah, but we’ve gone back over all the old witness statements from 15 years ago,’ said Colley. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to suggest that.’
‘So we look deeper.’
It was unusual for Mather to be so assertive and they all looked at him. They knew why he was so keen to break open the ring and bring its leaders to justice. Like Randall – whose wife had taken their two teenage sons away several years before, complaining that he preferred the pub to his family’s company – Mather had endured sadness in his home life. Several years before, unable to cope any more with his erratic lifestyle and the secrets it held, Mather’s wife had returned to her mother, taking their baby daughter. The final straw had been when his daughter cried in terror when he walked in one night, with a straggly beard, after having gone missing unannounced for two weeks. All the officers knew that Mather had not seen his child since then, which was a driving factor in his involvement in Keeper. For Mather, it had always been about the children. For Mather, it was somehow about his child.
‘OK,’ said Ronald, placing his glass down on the coffee table. ‘Let’s assume Alex is right. Let’s assume the murder of Danny Galston is tied up with Keeper, what exactly does that mean?’
‘Maybe,’ said Randall softly, ‘it means it’s endgame.’
Later that night, as he was clearing away the pizza boxes and empty glasses after everyone had gone home, it seemed to Arthur Ronald that Randall’s words still hung heavy in the air.
Chapter fifteen
Next morning, Blizzard and Colley returned to the links between the attacks on the gravestones in Hafton Cemetery. Ten o’clock found them on one of the city’s new housing estates, sitting in the living room of the detached house once shared by Brian Graham and his wife, Susan, former CG Haulage company secretary and Ralph Cargill’s sister. The detectives were on a classy cool blue sofa, Graham on a matching armchair in a room that smacked of wealth.
The accountant was a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, with a slightly owlish expression as he peered at them over round-r
immed spectacles, battling emotions stirred up by talking about his late wife. His smart attire could not conceal the tell-tale signs of a man facing difficulties. Glancing down at the fleck-covered carpet and over to the dusty sideboard, the detectives came to the conclusion that Graham was struggling to cope in the absence of his wife. A glance at the tin foil take-away meal cartons stacked up in the wastepaper bin confirmed their suspicions.
‘My wife was a good woman,’ said Graham, ‘and what was done to her gravestone was an abomination.’
‘Which is why we want to find out who did it,’ said Blizzard.
‘Have you ever seen anyone die of cancer, Chief Inspector?’
‘I have,’ nodded Blizzard, recalling that last night in the hospice with Harry Roberts. ‘I would not wish it on my worst enemy.’
‘So, you can see why I want you to catch the scumbag that vandalised Susan’s gravestone.’
‘Was it you who found the paint?’
‘Yes. What kind of a person does a thing like that? I take it you think it has something to do with Danny Galston’s murder?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ said Blizzard.
‘It’s been in the papers that you are leading the investigation. I can’t see you being interested in vandalism otherwise. Perhaps whoever vandalised Susan’s gravestone killed Danny.’
‘Certainly, all three attacks had links to the company,’ said Blizzard, glancing at Colley, who remained impassive apart from the merest raising of an eyebrow at the way Graham had been thinking things through.
‘Three?’ asked the accountant.
‘Someone also threw paint over the Galston headstone and one belonging to one of the lorry drivers,’ said Colley. ‘Chap called Ray Heskey. Did you know him?’
‘I didn’t mix with any of the employees really. I did the company’s accounts, that’s about all.’
‘You must have known Danny Galston pretty well?’
‘Not really. We used to join them for the odd dinner, haulage association, that kind of thing. Sometimes we’d go for a late-night drink afterwards but it was not quite my scene. The pubs Danny liked were somewhat down-market.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Blizzard.
‘Look,’ said Graham, leaning forward in his chair. ‘I do not want to talk ill of the dead but I assume you met Danny Galston?’
The detectives nodded.
‘Then you know what he was like,’ said Graham, warming to his theme. ‘He was an arrogant man who thought money could buy him respect – forever flashing his cash. I warned him more than once that it was asking for trouble.’
‘Was that the only reason you disliked him?’ asked Colley.
‘God, no. Look around you, Sergeant, I’m not short myself. When Susan became ill, Ralph was terrific, giving her time off, bringing in a temp to do some of her work, but Danny never made the slightest allowance, like he was making some kind of point. And he never even came to the funeral. Said he had a run to make. I would be lying if I said I mourned his passing.’
‘What did you make of Cara?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘Now her I did like. Too good for Galston, mind, although more than one person has described her to me as a trophy wife. Seems a somewhat cruel description, although she is a very attractive woman.’
‘She certainly is,’ murmured Colley. The sergeant felt a stab of guilt as he thought of Jay lying in bed at home, pale as death after another bad night.
‘Did you know Danny’s first wife?’ asked Blizzard, giving his sergeant a strange look.
‘Jenny? Yes, met her a couple of times. A quiet woman.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Chloe was a little sweety. Always laughing.’
‘And Pauline?’
‘A strange little girl. Virtually never spoke.’
There was silence in the room for a few moments, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece.
‘Can I say something?’ asked Graham.
‘Sure,’ replied Blizzard.
‘I know people say Danny killed them but even though I detested the man, I can’t see that. He loved those kids, he really did.’
Blizzard tried to weigh up the contrast between the boorish haulier and the picture of a loving family man that was emerging. As ever, he found it impossible. Normally a man of certainties, the chief inspector found himself confused. Tough questions to be asked, he decided. Tough questions indeed.
Chapter sixteen
‘So, what’s she like?’ asked Fee Ellis.
‘Who?’ said Blizzard.
‘You know who. Wendy Talbot.’
It was later that evening and she and Blizzard were sitting in the corner nook of the chief inspector’s local village pub. Blizzard was staring into the flames of the roaring fire and cradling a pint of beer in his hand while Fee sipped from a glass of white wine. Dressed in a dark jumper and jeans, she was five foot eight with a slight figure. Aged twenty-eight, she had a face that sometimes suggested someone cool, collected and unapproachable, at other times a person who was warm and animated. Also, on rare unguarded occasions, it suggested the vulnerability felt by a woman trying to survive in the man’s world that was Hafton CID. That was why she was so interested to learn that Blizzard was working with Wendy Talbot. Fee knew she was regarded by many female officers as one of the pioneers in the tough world of CID in the northern forces and was intrigued.
‘She’s alright, I suppose,’ said Blizzard, not sure what he was supposed to say.
‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that, John.’
‘Why so interested?’
‘I’d quite like to know a bit about the woman my boyfriend plans to spend his night with.’
Blizzard chuckled. It had been agreed that he join Talbot and her team during the surveillance on the haulage depot the following evening, ahead of the Monday morning raid. It had been Talbot’s idea, although she had acted partly out of purely selfish reasons, hoping the experience might give the chief inspector a taste for Regional Organised Crime Unit life. Blizzard had his own motives for agreeing to take part in the surveillance: he felt that involvement in the operation would allow him to make sure that the haulier was not spirited away beyond the reach of his questions.
‘So, what is she like?’ insisted Fee, a twinkle in her eye – she knew Blizzard was hopeless when it came to describing women. ‘You are being distinctly evasive, my lad.’
‘She’s… you know.’ Blizzard shrugged helplessly. ‘OK.’
‘OK what?’ said Fee, taking another sip of wine. ‘OK, a good copper. OK, a decent human being? OK, a right stotter and you wouldn’t crawl over her to get to me?’
‘I’m not sure that’s the way to talk.’
‘It’s a simple enough question,’ she said, trying not to laugh.
‘Does it really matter?’
‘I’m genuinely interested.’ Fee suddenly looked serious. ‘Any woman who gets to that high a rank has got to have something. I want to see what makes her special.’
‘You’re much prettier than her,’ said Blizzard.
‘Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere, Mr Blizzard,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him gently on the cheek. ‘Even bad flattery. So, come on, what do you make of her?’
The chief inspector took a gulp of beer and considered the comment; if there was one thing Wendy Talbot and Fee Ellis definitely had in common, it was the ability for straight-talking. Although he found it disconcerting at times, he had nevertheless always found it an attractive feature of women – his former wife had tended to talk more behind his back instead – so he pondered Fee’s question for a few moments and resolved to tackle it head-on.
‘I would have said,’ he announced eventually, ‘that she’s more political than me but that in many ways we are similar.’
‘So she’s a good detective then?’
‘Yeah, I reckon she is a good detective. However…’
‘However, what?’
‘However, sh
e’s wrong about Danny Galston. His death isn’t about gun-running, I am sure of it.’
‘But surely it makes perfect sense? I mean, he was a copper.’
‘A long time ago. Besides, everyone knew Danny was ex-plod. I think it is more feasible that the gang liked the fact. Nothing better than a bent copper who knows all the tricks. No, there is something more personal to Danny’s death than guns.’
‘Like what?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Won’t say, you mean.’
‘No,’ said Blizzard firmly, thinking back to the gathering in Ronald’s house the night before. ‘Can’t. At least not yet.’
He wondered if he should tell her about Keeper. Wondered whether or not to confide in her about the strange little girl in the cemetery. Wondered if he should tell her that he doubted Danny Galston’s guilt. In the end, the chief inspector decided not to. Somehow, it did not seem the time or the place.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said. ‘Drink up. It’s my round.’
* * *
The next morning dawned sharp and bright. Blizzard had worked a lot of overtime in recent weeks so Ronald had suggested that his reluctant DCI take the day off and leave the murder inquiry to his team. After a lazy couple of hours spent reading the Sunday papers in bed, Blizzard and Fee went for a bike ride. Blizzard had taken a fitness pledge more than a year before after being horrified by pictures of himself in the newspaper, clearly showing a double chin. His attempts to blame his embarrassment on a poor camera angle having brought forth only scepticism from colleagues, Blizzard had taken up swimming which helped but not enough. He knew he needed another way of taking off the pounds.
When he had started his relationship with Fee, he was initially perturbed to discover her love of cycling and in the first few months of their relationship had resisted whenever she tried to interest him in joining her on her rides. But after a lot of gentle badgering, and a bleak realisation that his middle-aged spread was spreading, he finally purchased a bike and, despite himself, found that he enjoyed cycling in the flat countryside around Haltby village, discovering new things about the area in which he lived each time they went out.