THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  There were health benefits as well. This morning, he found to his relief that his back felt stronger than it had for several weeks and that the discomfort he had experienced on other rides had significantly receded. The freedom from pain and the effect of the bright sunshine did much to lighten the chief inspector’s mood and he suggested lunch at the village pub before his visit to his elderly mother in a residential home in Hafton that afternoon. It was as the couple pulled up outside the pub that they saw David Colley, leaning against his car and grinning at the spectacle of the chief inspector on a bike.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t Eddy Merckx.’

  ‘You can wipe that stupid grin off your face,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Sorry, guv.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  Looking up from securing her chain and padlock round the bike’s wheel, Fee laughed and the sergeant grinned again; he had always liked her and was delighted at the changes she had wrought in Blizzard. Before she arrived on the scene, the chief inspector had tended to be more introspective, more sour, but life with Fee had introduced him to laughter and a somewhat more relaxed approach to life.

  ‘I take it the rugby went well then?’ said the chief inspector, gesturing to the ugly bruise on the sergeant’s cheek.

  ‘Yeah. Walloped them. And I scored a try.’

  ‘And that’s good, is it?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘So, what brings you out here?’ asked Blizzard, cursing as he struggled with his bicycle chain then glancing over to the pub. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Colley. ‘Jay’s not… well, you know…’

  ‘The bug again?’ said Blizzard noticing Fee’s smile.

  ‘Yeah, something like that. Look, can we talk?’

  ‘Spit it out,’ said Blizzard.

  Colley hesitated and the chief inspector noticed his friend’s unhappy expression.

  ‘Come on,’ said Blizzard. ‘You can say it in front of Fee, you know that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ellis, sensing the sergeant’s discomfort and heading into the pub. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes, love.’

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ snapped Blizzard when she had gone. ‘You know I have no secrets from…’

  ‘Ah, but you have. Does she know about Keeper?’

  Blizzard shook his head, calming down immediately.

  ‘No,’ he said. He patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘I thought best not to tell her. Sorry for having a go. Come on, let’s walk.’

  When the officers had walked for a couple of minutes and had started to skirt the duck-pond on the village green, the sergeant began to speak, glancing round to make sure no one could overhear.

  ‘I got a call last night,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘An informant. Bloke called Barry Lawson. He mentioned the murders fifteen years ago. Said he knows who the killer is.’

  ‘Does he now?’ said Blizzard with a low whistle. ‘It certainly seems that the murder of Danny Galston has loosened some tongues.’

  ‘My guy wants to see me tonight. Said he could not speak on the phone. Sounded really frightened. I thought you should know before I went.’

  ‘Wise thinking. Who is this Lawson bloke then?’

  ‘Used to work in social services before the smack got to him. Got himself sacked three years ago but I still reckon he knows plenty of things. So how do we play it?’

  ‘I think that, first of all, you go home and spend some time with Jay since you are going to be out again tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s made a couple of comments the last day or so.’

  ‘I’m sure she has. Look, do you want me to talk to her, David, smooth things over?’

  ‘No, she knows how it is. Thanks for the offer, though.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you tonight then? Ride shotgun?’

  ‘There’s no need for that. Barry’s harmless enough. Besides, you need to get ready for the stake-out with your mate Wendy. Don’t look so worried. I’ll be alright.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ said Colley and headed off towards his car. ‘Enjoy your pint. And remember, you can be done for drunk-driving on a bicycle, you know.’

  Blizzard chuckled and strolled back to the pub. When he and Fee emerged an hour later, someone had stolen his bike.

  Chapter seventeen

  Nine-thirty that night found David Colley standing on the edge of a playing field not far from one of the city’s housing estates. It was where he normally met his informant and as he waited, leaning against the faded green sports pavilion with its window grilles and ugly graffiti, the sergeant could hear the faint sound of sirens in the city centre ten minutes’ walk away. Looking out over the field, peering through the half-light offered by the street lights over on the main road, Colley could just make out the dim shapes of swings and the slide on the nearby children’s playground, the equipment long since vandalised by groups of teenagers, the ground littered with beer cans, cigarette stubs and broken bottles.

  The sergeant sighed at the sight. The thought of children took his mind back to the issue that had so occupied him over recent weeks. Stamping his feet to keep warm, he nostalgically recalled warmer climes. Although Colley’s train of thought had started when he and Jay decided to try for a baby, his ideas had really crystallised during a holiday to Corfu a few weeks later – probably the time the child was conceived, the couple reckoned. Standing now, hearing in the near-distance the hum of mid-evening traffic punctuated by the occasional car horn, the sergeant found himself transported back to the couple’s last night on the island.

  Aware of the effect that holidays could have on the unwary, he had nevertheless spent the week increasingly thinking that he could so easily leave behind the murder and mayhem of his life in Hafton and live on the island, maybe running a bar, something like that. The thought had not been that well-formed until he discovered that the owner of their favourite bar was a former Met detective who had thrown it all in at the age of thirty-nine – just a little bit older than Colley. Colley had mentioned the idea of emigration to Jay on that last night in the bar. He did so tentatively; Jay, a willowy redhead in her early thirties, was Hafton born-and-bred, loved her job teaching at one of the city’s primary schools and had resisted several job opportunities elsewhere in the past.

  What had prompted his idea, Colley told her that night, emboldened by several glasses of red wine, was that he found himself increasingly obsessed with thoughts about the dark world into which they would bring their child. He knew a police officer’s view was always more jaundiced than most people – the reason he had resisted the idea of a baby for so long – but listening to the lapping waves, the thought of bringing his child up abroad just would not go away. Jay had let him talk, ordered another bottle of wine and they had discussed the possibility for the best part of two hours, the conversation going round in endless circles without coming to any firm resolution as the sun set over the Mediterranean.

  Standing on the playing field, the sergeant was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not hear Barry Lawson approaching until alerted by the scrape of his informant’s footfall on the nearby path.

  ‘Bloody hell, man,’ murmured Colley to himself. ‘Keep your mind on the job.’

  ‘That you, Dave?’ came a voice.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Out of the shadows stepped a scruffy man, his face thin and sallow, the black hair lank and greasy, the clothes dirty and tatty, his anorak dirty and ripped on one shoulder.

  ‘You look like shite, Barry,’ said Colley.

  ‘Thanks,’ grunted the man as they started walking along the path which skirted the housing estate.

  ‘Did you go to that drugs rehab centre?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Barry, if you don’t get some help, you’ll kill yourself.’

  ‘Unless someone one else does
first,’ said Lawson.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘Maybe – what’s it worth?’ He sounded desperate. ‘I need some cash.’

  ‘I’ll smooth that over once I know how good the information is. But not if you stick it in your arm, Barry. I’ve told you that before. If you do that, all bets are off.’

  The informant hesitated.

  ‘I’m serious, Barry,’ said the sergeant. ‘I want you to get help.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, Dave.’

  They both knew Lawson did not mean it but Colley elected not to pursue the matter: there were bigger things at stake than the well-being of a junkie.

  ‘So, what have you got for me?’ asked the sergeant as they walked across grass already starting to crunch with the evening frost.

  ‘I take it you’ve heard the rumours about a sex ring in the city?’

  ‘Yeah, but all I’ve heard are rumours. For all I know, it’s all a load of cobblers.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘You hear things.’ The reply was suddenly evasive as if Lawson had realised the import of what he was doing.

  ‘What things, Barry?’

  ‘Things.’

  ‘Look,’ said Colley. ‘I’m freezing my nuts off out here, you’d better give me something good or I’m off. How come you know things?’

  ‘I’ve made some mistakes, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Were you part of the ring?’

  ‘Will you do me if I was?’

  ‘Depends what you say, Barry. Were you part of the ring?’

  ‘I was kinda on the edge of it.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Colley.

  ‘I didn’t do no abusing, honest. You know I was a social worker once? Well, I used to, you know, recruit some kids. From care homes, you know. But I never touched them, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’

  ‘It still makes you as bad as the rest of them,’ said Colley.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lawson. He stopped walking and stared at the sergeant. ‘I’m not proud of what I’ve done and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Why do that after all this time?’

  ‘Same reason I found the kids. I need the money. I’m desperate, Dave. Fucking desperate. I owe some people, you know. I want police protection. One of them witness protection schemes.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘This ain’t some bunch of toe rags flogging knocked-off car stereos,’ said Lawson. ‘They would kill me if they knew I was talking to you.’

  ‘Who would?’ asked Colley, voice betraying his eagerness. ‘I need names.’

  Lawson hesitated again.

  ‘OK,’ said Colley. ‘Let me start with one who can’t hurt you. Danny Galston.’

  ‘Yeah, him. But there’s something you need to know as well. See, something has happened that has changed everything.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Before Lawson could reply, his eyes grew wide as he noticed a movement behind the sergeant.

  ‘Jesus!’ screamed Lawson and started to run.

  Colley whirled round in time to see a bulky man looming out of the shadows wielding what looked like a knife. Colley yelled out and threw up an arm to protect himself as the man brought the knife down. Reacting instinctively, the sergeant threw himself to one side and lashed out a fist, bringing a pained grunt from the man as he staggered backwards, hand clapped to the side of his face. Colley seized the advantage and hurled himself at the man, striking out again and sending the knife flying. Caught off-balance, the assailant slipped on the icy grass and sunk briefly to one knee. Colley jumped forwards but yelled in pain as the assailant launched himself upward and head-butted the sergeant in the face. The sergeant staggered backwards, disorientated and desperately trying to clear the blood now pouring into his eyes from a gash to the forehead. When his sight cleared, the assailant had gone and so had Barry Lawson.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ muttered Colley, reaching into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief and dabbing the wound.

  Wearily, and with his head throbbing and stomach churning, the sergeant walked slowly towards the main road.

  Chapter eighteen

  It took a lot to worry Gerry Brauner, but he could feel the walls of his life crowding in as he arrived at Cara Galston’s house shortly after eight the following morning to be confronted by the widow in her dressing gown, sporting an ugly bruise on her right cheek, her eyes bloodshot through lack of sleep and one arm heavily bandaged. Ushering him reluctantly into her living room, she sat down on the sofa and he noticed how her usual confidence had drained away. It seemed as if suddenly Cara Galston realised she was playing a dangerous game and it had frightened her. Looking at her battered features, it frightened Gerry Brauner as well.

  ‘Who did this?’ he asked, sitting down on an armchair.

  ‘I think we both know that.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Rowles?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I take it you have not been to the police?’ said Brauner.

  ‘Give me some fucking credit, Gerry!’

  ‘So, what have you told people?’ he asked, gesturing to the injuries.

  ‘Said I fell off a chair reaching for a top cupboard.’

  ‘Anyone believe it?’

  ‘They never believed it when Danny thumped me, why should they do so now?’ she said. ‘I told Georgia what really happened, of course.’

  ‘Are you sure that was wise, Cara?’

  ‘She’s not let us down so far, has she?’

  Brauner gave a heavy sigh. His unease had been growing throughout the weekend, during which he had received several threatening calls, each one increasing in intensity as the man sought his continued silence in the face of intense police activity in the city. The man had heard the stories of detectives visiting informants, turning the pressure on in their search for a breakthrough, and had become increasingly worried as the days passed. But it was more than worry, thought Brauner. Behind the man’s voice he thought he could detect fear. The police had never got this close. That was why Lenny Rowles had been brought back to the city.

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Brauner.

  ‘Get out as planned. Just do it earlier. I’ve already told the estate agent to put the house on the market.’

  ‘Make sure they don’t put up any signs.’

  ‘I’m not stupid!’ snapped Cara. ‘Sorry, this has got me pretty scared. Nobody expected Lenny Rowles to come back.’

  Brauner nodded; he and Cara had discussed the idea of escaping abroad many times. For Brauner, who had reported on many of the biggest crime stories of the city’s recent history, the days since Danny Galston’s death had made him realise it was time to go. The news that Lenny Rowles was back had sent a shiver of fear through the city’s underbelly. Even though they were people who flouted the law, they abided by some sort of code of conduct. Lenny Rowles did not and that frightened everyone.

  ‘Decision time, Gerry,’ said Cara. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘It’s not that easy, I told you that. Look, I have to go, we’ll talk later.’

  He walked over to the window to peer out nervously into the drive.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m pretty sure someone is following me. Mind, could be the cops. Blizzard reckons I’m in this up to my neck, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Like you’re not?’

  ‘Not sure how much he knows, though.’

  ‘More than he lets on. Danny always said he was a sharp one.’

  ‘Look, are you sure you’ll be alright?’ asked Brauner, turning back into the room.

  ‘Yes.’ She held out a hand. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ he said.

  ‘And you,’ she said.

  Brauner walked out of the house and into the grey morning. As the photographer edged his car out into the road, pausing to che
ck he was not being observed, DC Fee Ellis squirmed further down into the seat of the unmarked police vehicle parked nearby and glanced over at the detective in the driving seat. Sergeant David Tulley, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, with fleshy cheeks and a shock of tousled black hair, peered out as Brauner’s car went past, then straightened up and started the engine.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Ellis.

  ‘Interesting indeed,’ said Tulley edging the car out into the street.

  * * *

  As the detectives’ vehicle kept a good distance behind Brauner’s car, a weary John Blizzard was sitting three miles away at the upstairs window of an empty first-floor office on the Hafton West Industrial Estate, peering through binoculars at the headquarters of GC Haulage Limited. Sitting next to Blizzard were Wendy Talbot and a male officer, a burly man with short-cropped hair, a strong jaw line, and an effective line in brooding silence.

  The building in which they were sitting had been empty since the collapse of an engineering design company four years previously and the floors were covered in dust, the air thick and musty with neglect. The Regional Organised Crime Unit had chosen it for their surveillance it because it was possible to see left, through one of the windows, as far as the busy main road leading into the city centre, and right, through another window, the haulage depot. The Unit had been ensconced in the building for the best part of five weeks and the office floor was littered with drinks cans and sandwich wrappings. There was the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  For their part, the three officers had been in the room since midnight when they edged their car, with headlights extinguished, through the narrow alleyway off the main road into the walled car-park behind the building, and walked up the darkened fire escape to relieve the watch. It had proved an eventful night. Just before two, five minutes after the site security van had left the estate following the guard’s hourly checks, a lorry had driven off the main road and pulled up outside the depot, its headlights piercing the blackness of the night – most of the estate’s street lamps had long been smashed by vandals. Two men had opened the main gates and the lorry had edged its way into the yard and through into the garage. Although the watching detectives did not have a good view of the yard behind the high wall, they could make out enough from the flickering lights to surmise that the men were unloading something.