THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘Don’t fuck about with me. We had an agreement, Blizzard. Ralph Cargill is mine.’

  ‘Was yours, Wendy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You may have gathered that we have broken up a major sex ring…’

  ‘Actually, I hadn’t,’ she said irritably. ‘None of your officers will tell me anything.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel very nice, does it?’ said Ronald. ‘So, as John says, we will be questioning him first. If you want to talk to Ralph Cargill about his truckload of pea-shooters, you’ll have to do it later.’

  ‘But we need him now. No one else is talking. Come on, guys, give me a break. I really need a breakthrough. There’s a lot of shit flying.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Blizzard. ‘Hey, if you leave it with us, maybe we can solve your crime for you as well.’

  Talbot glared at them, thought about saying something but instead stalked wordlessly across the room.

  ‘Pea-shooters?’ said Blizzard, looking at Ronald and raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’ said the superintendent, allowing himself a laugh as he watched Talbot brush roughly past Colley, who was carrying a couple of plastic cups of tea from the vending machine.

  ‘I wish she’d stop doing that,’ said the sergeant as he walked up to them and handed a cup to Blizzard before flicking away the drops of spilled tea from his jacket.

  ‘So where did Cargill turn up?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Trying to get over the garden wall at Nick Jameson’s house.’

  ‘He’s the architect, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, and a worried one at that. I don’t reckon he’ll take much pushing.’

  ‘Let’s start pushing then,’ said Blizzard.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Blizzard and Colley were sitting in one of the interview rooms, surveying the 38-year-old architect with interest. When they had gone through the list supplied by Cara, some names had been familiar but there had been others which meant little to them. Jameson’s was one and Colley’s task the previous day had been to co-ordinate background research into them. That work had confirmed that Nick Jameson was a partner in an architects’ firm operating out of the city centre and a man with a clean criminal record. Married but with no children, he was known as a respectable, clean-living man who was a valued member of the Rotary Club and the local quoits club.

  A slim man with short brown hair and a complexion that was normally fresh-faced, he represented a very different picture now; unshaven with hair lank and uncombed, he was wearing a hurriedly thrown-on black T-shirt and jeans. And he had fear in his eyes. Jameson had been allowed a brief discussion with his lawyer and the solicitor had disappeared to make some phone calls. As the detectives waited for his return, they allowed the silence to lengthen and with each passing second, Jameson’s agitation increased. After a few minutes, the door opened and in walked the lawyer, his demeanour still suggesting irritation at having been dragged out of bed by what he seemed to view as little more than a brief distraction.

  ‘Can we get this nonsense over with as quickly as possible,’ said the lawyer, sitting down.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Pallister,’ said Blizzard. He pointed to the pad and pen on the desk. ‘If your client would like to jot down an admission of guilt, you can be on your way in plenty of time for breakfast.’

  ‘My client will do no such thing. This whole thing is an absolute farce and I personally will see that heads roll. I happen to know your chief constable very well and I will be making a formal complaint, I can assure you.’

  ‘Before you do, perhaps your client would like to explain why Ralph Cargill, a man sought by the police in connection with serious firearms-related offences, was found shinning over his garden wall an hour or so ago?’

  ‘My client has no idea who this Mr Cargill is. He can only assume that the man had been hiding in his garden without his knowledge.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought we wanted him for armed shrubbery.’

  ‘I hardly think this is the time for humour, Chief Inspector,’ snapped Pallister. ‘Harbouring a fugitive is a very serious offence and my client strenuously denies such a preposterous suggestion.’

  ‘According to an initial search of your client’s property,’ said Colley, glancing at his notes, ‘someone had been staying in Mr Jameson’s spare bedroom.’

  ‘My client sometimes has friends round to stay. How can you be sure that the person in the room was Ralph Cargill?’

  ‘Well, admittedly he did not have his name sown into his underpants,’ said Colley.

  ‘There you are then. It could have been anyone.’

  ‘Not unless they had Ralph Cargill’s wallet. He dropped it in his hurry to get out of the room.’

  ‘Ok,’ said Jameson guardedly, ‘so Ralph was there.’

  ‘Harbouring a felon is a serious offence,’ said Blizzard.

  Jameson nodded and they sensed a change in his demeanour, a sense of relief that he was not being questioned about the sex ring. He leaned over and whispered something to his lawyer.

  ‘My client,’ said Pallister eventually, ‘wishes to make a statement. He realises that he has acted wrongly but this was an action bred of misguided loyalty to Mr Cargill, whom he has known for some years. He accepts that he has been naïve and would like to make a statement to that effect. He would also like to apologise for the trouble he has caused.’

  Jameson nodded eagerly.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘However, one thing has been troubling me,’ continued the lawyer. ‘I thought the investigation relating to Mr Cargill’s haulage depot was being handled by the Regional Organised Crime Unit. Indeed, I fancy I saw DCI Talbot in the custody suite a little earlier. Should she not have been handling this interview, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘It is amazing how many people have told me that she could do my job better than me. No, Mr Pallister, she should not be interviewing your client because Cargill’s presence in your client’s house is the least of his problems.’

  The smug look that had pervaded Jameson’s face as his lawyer made the statement suddenly faded and he looked anxiously at the detectives.

  ‘You see,’ said Blizzard, ‘Ralph Cargill is also suspected of being a key part of a sex ring that has been operating in this city. We suspect Mr Jameson here is involved as well.’

  The effect on Nick Jameson was startling. He gaped at the chief inspector then recoiled as if he had been struck across the face. Slumping back in his chair, he looked in horrified silence at Blizzard then the sergeant, his face ashen, eyes registering sheer terror. Even the lawyer looked surprised at the revelation and glanced with concern at his client. Blizzard allowed them to digest the information. He wanted to savour the moment, the moment he sensed that the breakthrough had finally come after so many fruitless years, years in which informants had offered tantalising snippets of information then clammed up when questioned further or simply disappeared into the shadows. Now, for the first time, Blizzard looked on a ring member who had found himself drawn out of those shadows and cruelly exposed. Blizzard felt his heart thumping. Go on, he said to himself fiercely, go on. None of this was apparent to Jameson or his lawyer, who looked upon the chief inspector’s impassive features and wondered what more surprises the detective had in store for them.

  ‘I do hope your client is not going to take ill,’ said Blizzard. ‘Throwing a wobbly does not tend to be a particularly helpful tactic when we have so many interesting things to talk about.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ moaned Jameson.

  ‘I take it that our information is correct then?’ said Blizzard.

  The architect still looked as if he was about to collapse and the detectives surveyed him with increasing concern. It was not concern for Jameson’s health, more anxiety that the interview would be disrupted and the moment gone for ever. They both knew that in such interviews, there came moments when all could be won and lost on the throw of a dice. This was one s
uch moment, Blizzard had gambled but to their dismay, Nick Jameson rallied and, finding new strength, looked at the detectives with defiant eyes.

  ‘I am saying nothing,’ he said. ‘These allegations are absolutely ridiculous.’

  ‘I shall have to take advice from my client,’ said Pallister, ‘but I have to agree that they do sound preposterous. Mr Jameson…’

  There was a knock on the interview room door and, making his excuses, chief inspector walked with heavy foot out into the corridor to be confronted by Alex Mather.

  ‘This had better be good, Alex,’ he said. ‘Jameson has just clammed up and I suspect that was the deal among them all if they were ever lifted.’

  ‘Well not everyone read the script then,’ said Mather, who was as animated as Blizzard had ever seen him, his eyes bright, a nervous tension coursing through his body. ‘I’ve been interviewing Edward Devereaux, you know the guy who runs that paper mill over on the east side. Turns out he left the ring two years ago.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘Devereaux’s daughter reached the age of five and he realised the ring was looking at her. Suddenly, he did not want to play anymore.’

  ‘So, what has he said?’

  ‘Reckons more than fifty kids have been abused down the years, and he confirmed the talk of murders. Reckons as many as six kids could have been murdered.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘When Galston was murdered, Devereaux decided the time was right to come and talk to us, ask for some kind of plea bargain. He was about to do that when…’

  ‘Lenny Rowles came back?’

  ‘Yeah, and that changed everything. Scared the shit out Devereaux so he kept quiet. But I reckon that as long as we keep him safe, he’ll sing like a bird.’

  Blizzard closed his eyes for a second; after all the years of waiting, he hardly dared believe it to be true. He opened his eyes again and placed a hand gently on Mather’s shoulder.

  ‘Good work, matey-boy,’ he said. ‘Bloody good work.’

  Mather grinned; it struck Blizzard that he had never seen him do that in all the years he had known him.

  ‘Did he mention Nick Jameson by any chance?’ asked Blizzard. ‘I’d love to wipe the smile off that lawyer’s face.’

  ‘Yes, he did. Devereaux reckons Jameson felt the same doubts. His little girl is growing up and he was just as frightened that they would start on her. She’s called Amy, if you want to use that in the interview. Quite a few of the victims were their own kids.’

  ‘Jesus,’ murmured Blizzard quietly. ‘What the hell have we unearthed, Alex?’

  The chief inspector went back into the interview room, trying to control the strong emotions crowding into his mind.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Jameson,’ said Blizzard as he sat down, ‘it seems one of your little friends has dropped you in it.’

  ‘I have already said that I am innocent of these prep…’

  ‘Tell me about Amy. Was she next?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Jameson.

  ‘Come on, Nick, we know you were thinking about coming to us,’ said Blizzard, pushing a pencil and pad across the table. ‘Get writing. For Amy’s sake, because if we let your mates free, they are sure as hell coming for her. Is that what you want?’

  Jameson stared at him then suddenly seemed to cave in. He sat in silence for a few moments, his body wracked with huge sobs. Blizzard sat back and let him weep. Jameson was broken and everyone in the room knew it.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, having left Colley with Jameson still penning his statement, the chief inspector walked down the corridor to the CID room with a light step and was surrounded by excited officers, all wanting to update him on their inquiries. The news was encouraging; although many of the arrested men were refusing to talk, one or two were showing signs of wishing to unburden themselves in return for a more lenient sentence as they realised that the conspiracy was crumbling around them. Blizzard answered the queries from his officers as best he could and walked purposefully towards the interview room containing Ralph Cargill.

  Blizzard found a frustrated Max Randall sitting at the desk opposite Cargill. Next to the haulier sat his lawyer, a shaven-headed young man in a grey designer suit. Blizzard scowled; he hated lawyers and he hated designer clothes. He also hated Philip Gorton. The chief inspector’s last encounter with the solicitor was the previous year, during an inquiry into a local businessman alleged to have been laundering money for a local drugs gang. Blizzard had fought the Regional Organised Crime Unit for the right to handle the case and had been acutely embarrassed when the smooth-talking Gorton managed to get all charges dropped. Gorton gave a slight smile as Blizzard sat down.

  During the hour of questioning that followed, Cargill did not say much either, retaining his composure and parrying everything with a non-committal answer while his lawyer constantly interrupted to challenge the detectives on points of law. Blizzard could see that Max Randall was getting irritated by the tactic.

  ‘Listen, Ralph,’ Randall growled eventually, ‘this is getting us nowhere and your lawyer should be advising you to co-operate.’

  ‘I am co-operating. You have got the wrong man.’

  ‘My client is right,’ said the lawyer. ‘From the questions you have been asking, you appear to be fishing rather. I have not seen any indication that you have even the smallest shred of evidence.’

  ‘I think we have a little more than that,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. We can guess where this information has come from. Any decent defence barrister would tear Cara Galston to shreds. Do you really think she can be trusted?’

  ‘She was most specific about your client.’

  ‘Of course she was, but I am most surprised that you cannot see her little game. For years, she tried to persuade Danny to attempt to buy my client out of the company. When Danny died, Cara saw her chance.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cargill. ‘With me in prison, she can mount a strong case to buy the company outright. Brian Graham reckons she already has a buyer lined up.’

  ‘She also named Brian Graham as involved in the sex ring.’

  ‘And do you want to know why?’ said Cargill. ‘Because Brian thought better of helping her so she sacked him. She’s a vindictive little bitch.’

  ‘So, you see,’ said the lawyer, clipping shut his briefcase, ‘unless you have anything more than the ramblings of a spiteful woman, I suggest we end this interview and you let my client go about his lawful business.’

  ‘A nice try,’ said the chief inspector. ‘However, it would be remiss of me to let your client go without giving our colleagues on the Regional Organised Crime Unit the opportunity to talk to you about the guns found at his depot.’

  ‘I think you will find,’ said Gorton, standing up, ‘that we can answer all their questions about that unfortunate misunderstanding as well.’

  ‘Just stay there,’ snapped Blizzard. ‘We have not finished yet.’

  The chief inspector glanced at Randall; both men knew they had.

  * * *

  Graham Ross stood in the gloom of the GC Haulage garage, his nostrils filled with the smell of oil and dirt. His forensics team had been searching the depot for an hour but had found nothing to link the company with the activities of a sex ring. Ross glanced around him: in a corner of the dimly-lit garage, one of his team was meticulously taking fingerprints from tool cabinets and in another, two more were grunting as they strained to move rusty old pipes that looked like they had been lain across the floor for years. Ross closed his eyes and heard again the words of John Blizzard. Let the scene talk to you. Listen to its words.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ sighed Ross, opening his eyes.

  ‘I reckon we’re wasting our time here,’ said one of his officers, cursing as one of the pipes slipped out of his hands.

  Ross tensed. Something about the sound of the pipe on the floor had alerted his attention. The others had hear
d it, too. Ross stepped forward and stamped his boot on the floor where the pipe had been. It made a different muffled sound, a hint of hollowness beneath. Ross knelt down and reached out a hand to run it slowly through the dust on the floor, his fingers probing carefully.

  ‘I’m not sure the concrete is as thick as the rest,’ he said at length.

  ‘There,’ said one of the forensics officers, pointing to a faint crack.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Ross, ‘that’s a trapdoor.’

  After a few minutes exertion, they managed to prize open the door, which revealed itself as a piece of wood lined with a thin layer of concrete to avoid detection. One of the officers flashed a torch down the hatch, from which was emanating an unpleasant musty smell. For a few moments, they knelt and surveyed in silence the child’s sleeping bag folded up in one corner of the fetid little space.

  * * *

  Back in the interview room, after another thirty minutes of fruitless questioning of Cargill by the detectives, Philip Gorton took hold of his briefcase once more and stood up.

  ‘Accept it, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘You are wasting your time.’

  Blizzard sighed and was about to nod his assent when there was a knock on the door. With the solicitor sitting back down, Blizzard walked out into the corridor to a beaming Graham Ross.

  ‘It had better be good,’ said Blizzard darkly.

  ‘You are just going to love me.’

  Five minutes later, after a conversation in which the chief inspector became more and more animated, Blizzard took a moment or two to calm himself down, restored his deadpan expression and walked back into the interview room. He gave Cargill a knowing smile; sensing that something had changed, the haulier returned the look uneasily.

  ‘That was my forensics officer,’ said Blizzard. ‘His team has been searching your client’s depot…’

  ‘I think you will find that the Regional Organised Crime Unit did that after the raid,’ said Gorton, a hint of mockery in his voice. ‘They found nothing, so I can’t really see…’