THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘Do we go in?’ Blizzard had asked; he knew officers were waiting in cars dotted around the area.

  ‘I don’t see Cargill,’ Talbot had replied, reaching for her flask of coffee and sandwich box. ‘We want him as well.’

  The lorry departed and the watchers settled down again, Talbot taking the opportunity to elaborate her theories on the death of Danny Galston, still contending that he had fallen foul of gang members who feared he would betray them. Blizzard deliberately said little, offered nothing, but was forced to admit, albeit reluctantly and under pressure, that there was some logic to the theory. Shortly after three, Talbot announced her intention to grab some sleep and silence reigned once more in the dark office, the Regional Organised Crime Unit man staring wordlessly out of the window.

  Inevitably, Blizzard’s thoughts turned to Keeper, to those children who had suffered in silence for so many years, the reason the officers had risked their careers. Sitting in the darkness, Blizzard sensed he could almost hear children’s voices echoing across the sleeping city, like the noise of a distant school playground carried on the wind, the voices faint yet strangely clear, words unformed yet speaking to him all the same. Blizzard’s mind went back to the strange little girl in the cemetery. It was as if she was trying to tell him something. She was not a hallucination, he realised with a jolt, but someone dredged deep from within. The doctor had been right: the inquiry was about Pauline Galston, had always been about Pauline Galston. It was about closure and that meant unmasking those who had performed their depravities behind a veil of secrecy for too long. It meant breaking through the terror and intimidation they had created and in some way the death of Danny Galston had started to do that.

  ‘Endgame,’ murmured Blizzard, without realising he had said it.

  The Regional Organised Crime Unit man glanced over but said nothing. Eventually, Blizzard slipped into uncomfortable sleep for an hour or two as the man kept his lonely vigil. Now, in the grey light of morning, all three were awake and looking expectantly through binoculars at the haulage depot. Shortly after 8.45am, Ralph Cargill arrived in his green Jaguar and a quarter of an hour later, a lorry edged its way out of the main garage, across the yard and out through the depot gates. The watching officers tensed. Once outside the depot, the driver jumped out of his cab and walked back into the yard.

  ‘So, do we go in, ma’am?’ asked the Regional Organised Crime Unit man, the first time he had spoken in the best part of three hours.

  ‘I’d rather take it here,’ said Talbot. She fished the radio out of her coat pocket. ‘All units, stand-by.’

  The detectives started to stand up when something made Blizzard glance back towards the main road.

  ‘What the…?’ he said.

  A small group of people had walked round the corner and were heading solemnly into the industrial estate in the direction of the haulage depot. The officers watched them in bemusement from the office window. At their head was a pale woman in her early fifties, wearing a headscarf, a dun brown jacket and a tweed skirt. Behind her were half a dozen other women, two of whom were pushing buggies containing small children. A couple of the others were pensioners. There were no men.

  ‘Who the hell are they?’ asked Talbot.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Well, why not? You’re the sodding local officer.’

  Blizzard said nothing but glowered at her – he hated being made to sound like a beat bobby. As the officers watched, the small group walked with slow and deliberate steps past their vantage point, neither looking to left or right. Blizzard noticed that the leading woman was holding a floral wreath and that everyone was wearing dark clothing. Like a funeral, he thought uneasily. But who had died? The group stopped outside the depot, silently blocking the path of the lorry. One of the women glanced at her watch and said something. They all turned to look towards the main road.

  Blizzard’s radio crackled into life.

  ‘Guv,’ said Colley urgently. ‘I’ve just had Fee on. Brauner is heading for your position.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s all we need,’ exclaimed Talbot. ‘This could screw everything up.’

  ‘Like it’s not already?’ said Blizzard. He glanced at the strange gathering outside the depot, and adding slyly, ‘Hey, if Brauner arrives in time, at least you’ll get your picture on the front page. Your lot like that sort of thing.’

  Talbot scowled. The other Regional Organised Crime Unit officer said nothing. Outside, the women stood in the street for a couple of moments then the detectives followed their gaze to the car that had now edged its way into the industrial estate.

  ‘Brauner,’ said Blizzard bleakly.

  Watching the photographer walk, camera bag over shoulder, towards the depot, the detectives noticed that the lorry driver had re-emerged from the yard, clutching a sandwich box and coffee flask, and was striding towards his vehicle. Shooting a bemused look at the women, he clambered into his cab, slipped the engine into gear and the lorry started to move forward. The women walked forwards and, holding hands, formed a line blocking the driver’s way. The driver honked his horn several times but they refused to move and when he tried to mount the pavement and squeeze past them, two of the women broke off and again stood in his path.

  The driver jumped out of his cab and shouted at the women. When they still refused to move, he stormed back into the yard and the group leader glanced at her watch then said something which made the women bow their heads in prayer. As they stood in silence, the leader uttering a few solemn words, Brauner took their photographs then the leader placed her wreath in front of the lorry. As she straightened up, a man in blue overalls ran across the yard towards them.

  ‘Cargill,’ said Talbot.

  Ralph Cargill marched out of the gates and up to the group and there was a brief confrontation, during which Brauner stepped forward and tried to take a picture. Cargill reacted furiously and snatched out a hand to grab the camera. There was a brief struggle, during which Brauner fell to the floor, dropping his camera.

  Brauner clambered to his feet and lashed out a fist, catching Cargill on the side of the face. The depot owner staggered backwards and leaned briefly against the wall then lunged back at Brauner. For a few seconds, the detectives watched transfixed as the two men tumbled backwards and rolled around on the pavement.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shite,’ snapped Talbot. She lifted the radio to her mouth. ‘All units, go!’

  As the three officers thundered down the office block stairs, there was a squeal of tyres and four police cars careered onto the industrial estate from the main road and screeched towards the depot, scattering the group of terrified women. Cargill broke off from fighting, yelled at his driver and ran back into the yard, desperately attempting to swing shut the large gates. But he was too late and the lead car slammed into the gates, ripping one of them from its hinges. Two other cars followed it into the yard while the final vehicle blocked the lorry’s path. Within seconds, the yard was full of police officers and the air reverberated to the sound of shouting. A couple of the workers tried to escape but were captured after brief struggles. Back on the road, other detectives had grabbed the lorry driver, who was attempting to jump into his cab but was eventually wrestled to the ground.

  Blizzard and Talbot ran into the yard to find armed police officers training their weapons on several company employees, who were looking frightened and holding their hands above their heads.

  ‘Where’s Cargill?’ asked Talbot, whirling round.

  There was the sound of breaking glass from inside the office block and several officers sprinted towards the building, kicking in the front door and hurling themselves down the corridor and out of sight. Back in the road, two more cars headed into the industrial estate and flung themselves sideways to block Gerry Brauner’s vehicle as the photographer tried to escape the scene. Brauner looked as if he was going to remonstrate with the officers but when Colley got out of one and Ellis and Tulley spilled out of the other,
he thought better of it and allowed the DC to restrain him. Colley left Ellis to look after the photographer and walked into the yard.

  ‘Need any help?’ he asked, glancing at Blizzard, who was breathing heavily and clutching his aching back.

  ‘No, I think we’re OK,’ said the chief inspector. He gestured to the ugly gash on the sergeant’s forehead. ‘You any better?’

  ‘I’m OK. What’s happening in there?’

  ‘Cargill’s had it away on his toes. Hey, did you pass a group of women on your way in?’

  ‘Yeah, they were walking along the main road.’

  ‘Didn’t you think to nick them?’

  ‘For what, walking on the pavement? Besides, we were too busy lifting Gerry Brauner.’

  He nodded at Ellis, who had brought the glum-looking photographer to the entrance of the yard.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said Blizzard. ‘Listen, will you get the lads to take a scout round for the women?’

  ‘Will do. Er, why?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’ll never get that to stick in court.’

  Colley walked off, talking into his radio.

  A shout distracted the chief inspector’s attention and he ran round to the back of the wagon that was still standing at the depot gates. He looked up at Talbot, who was in the back of the truck, peering at the crates stacked up there.

  ‘I take it they’re not vodka?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Not sure you can drink one of these,’ said Talbot, fishing out an assault rifle.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said the chief inspector. He climbed into the wagon and peering into another crate to find more guns. ‘There’s enough here to start World War Three.’

  ‘There certainly is,’ said Talbot, jumping down. ‘Sure you don’t want to join us?’

  ‘Any sign of Cargill?’ asked the chief inspector blandly.

  The comment wiped the smile from her face.

  ‘Apparently, he jumped out of the back window and into the canal,’ she said. ‘But we’ll get him.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t, the typhoid will.’

  Talbot said nothing and started to walk across the yard. After a few paces, she turned.

  ‘Mind, I tell you what,’ she said, nodding at the crates. ‘If this was the kind of world Danny Galston was involved in, I’d lay odds that one of his associates murdered him.’

  ‘So why not just shoot him?’ asked Blizzard, jumping down from the truck. ‘Would seem a pity to bring in enough firepower to invade half of Europe then bash his brains out with a rock.’

  ‘Have it your way but when we get him, Cargill is mine first, remember?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Blizzard sweetly as she walked towards the office block. ‘A promise is a promise.’

  His words were to stay with Wendy Talbot for the rest of the day: she recognised the tone only too well and remembered the last time she had used it while talking to him. Blizzard did not follow her. Instead, he stared thoughtfully along the road where the women had performed their ceremony minutes before. The chief inspector glanced at the wreath, which was still lying in front of the lorry and had now attracted the interest of Colley.

  ‘Emily Garbutt, aged eight,’ said the sergeant, crouching down to read the dedication on the card and moving some leaves aside to reveal the remainder of the dedication. ‘She died in 1981. Hey, today’s the anniversary.’

  ‘Now that’s interesting. Come on.’ Blizzard glanced back at the officers in the yard. ‘Let’s leave them to it.’

  ‘What about him?’ asked the sergeant, straightening up and gesturing to Brauner, who was still being held by Ellis.

  ‘We’ll take him back to the station. It’s time he answered some questions. Maybe he can tell us who Emily Garbutt was. I have a feeling she’s important.’

  ‘Kids, eh?’ said Colley.

  Chapter nineteen

  By nine-thirty, Abbey Road Police Station had been taken over by the Regional Organised Crime Unit. Despite the escape of Ralph Cargill, there was still a sense of triumphalism and officers walked briskly along the corridors, a spring in their step, chests pushed out, the detectives safe in the knowledge that they had arrested key players in an international gun-running gang. Wondering if his negative reaction was because he actually felt jealous, John Blizzard retreated to his office, closing the door firmly behind him. Having been up all night, it was not long before he was asleep.

  As he slumbered, Wendy Talbot was giving a press conference in the canteen, revealing to an excited media scrum that raids had also taken place in Leeds during which other members of the gang had been arrested, and that their counterparts in Moscow had moved in on an apartment block. There was, she announced dramatically, an armed siege taking place as she spoke. The media loved it. There was no mention of Ralph Cargill’s escape by Talbot but she knew it was only a matter of time before the journalists and camera crews heading back to the industrial estate after the briefing worked out that someone was missing: underwater search teams were already at work in the canal.

  Blizzard jerked awake and tried to get on with some paperwork, but after trying to read the same document three times, he sighed, tossed it back onto the desk and sat, his lips pursed as he stared out of the rain-flecked window in the gloom of a Hafton winter’s morning. His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door and in walked Arthur Ronald.

  ‘Not part of the celebrations?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Forgot my party hat, Arthur.’

  ‘Come on, John,’ said Ronald, the chair creaking as he lowered his bulk. ‘It’s a good result.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  ‘Because I wanted to get Cargill into an interview room and they’ve let him get away.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s not yours to interview. Don’t look like that. Wendy is still adamant that Danny Galston was murdered as part of the gun-running and there’s plenty can see merit in the idea.’

  ‘She’s wrong.’ Before Blizzard could elaborate further, there was a knock on the door and in walked Colley. Ronald looked at the sergeant’s gashed features with concern.

  ‘Should you be here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Any ideas who attacked you?’ asked Ronald.

  ‘It was too dark to see but he was a big bugger, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘And your informant?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Colley. ‘I hope he got away but the guy who attacked me was a real psycho and I reckon he must have known Barry was going to tell me something.’

  ‘What’s this about something changing things?’

  ‘Not sure. Maybe there’s a link to the guy who did me. Anyway, I came here for something else, actually, and you are not going to like it. Wendy Talbot has just told the press conference that they are linking the death of Danny Galston to the gun-running.’

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘You don’t seem as pissed off as I thought you would be, guv. Aren’t you going to kick the filing cabinet?’

  Colley nodded at the cabinet in the corner of the office, the numerous dents in its bodywork testimony to many assaults over the years.

  ‘I’ll do it for you if you want,’ added the sergeant.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Blizzard. ‘It takes the focus off us, doesn’t it? If everyone thinks we are looking for some gun-toting maniac, we can work nice and quietly without anyone asking any questions. Just the way we like it, boys.’

  There was another knock on the door and Tulley entered. As the detective sergeant stood there, he had his usual hangdog appearance and his heavy eyes displayed his weariness following the night’s surveillance. Never the sharpest of dressers, Tulley’s dark suit was crumpled and the jacket was flecked with crumbs from the Cornish pasty he had purchased from a roadside snack-shack an hour before.

  ‘You look like crap,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Thank you for those few kind words
, guv. It makes all my hard work so much more worthwhile. Anyway, sorry to disturb you but they’ve found a body in the canal, close to the haulage depot.’

  ‘Guess we’ll never get to interview Cargill now,’ said Blizzard bleakly.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. See, it’s not him.’

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, an increasingly weary Blizzard and Colley were in the city’s general hospital to attend the post-mortem by pathologist Peter Reynolds. A balding middle-aged little man with piggy eyes gleaming out of a chubby face, and dressed in a shabby, ill-fitting black suit, Reynolds knew Blizzard had never liked him and played up to the situation whenever the opportunity arose. Normally Colley would have leaned against a wall and waited for the fun to begin but this time was different. This time the body on the slab was Barry Lawson and the sergeant stood and stared down at it in horror, feelings of guilt washing over him. Barry Lawson had lost his life because of what he had been about to tell Colley and the knowledge troubled him. But it also excited the sergeant, imbuing him with an overwhelming sense that Keeper was finally closing in on the success its members had craved for so many years. The sergeant glanced over at Blizzard, who was watching with increasing irritation as the pathologist examined the body slowly and thoroughly.

  ‘Well?’ asked Blizzard impatiently.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Reynolds, without looking up. ‘In fact, I’m prepared to hazard a guess that your Mr Lawson is as dead as the proverbial dodo, Blizzard.’

  ‘What killed him? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Which is why you are a humble detective and I am highly-paid and nationally-respected pathologist.’

  Despite his sadness at Lawson’s death, Colley allowed himself a slight smile and walked over to take his customary position leaning against the wall.