THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  The inspector turned back into the room. ‘Mrs Roberts,’ he said, ‘our records suggest that your son had a number of known associates on the estate. Is there a chance that he might have been with one of them last night?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘We really do need to talk to whoever was with him,’ said Colley. ‘We need to know why this person did not ring 999, for a start.’

  ‘Would it have saved his life?’

  Colley shook his head.

  ‘We think he was dead the second he hit the ground.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the mortuary,’ said Colley. ‘We will need you to formally identify him, I am afraid. Or perhaps your husband, if you do not feel…’

  ‘Jack died twelve years ago. Cancer. That’s when Terry started to go off the rails.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘But thank you for the thought, Sergeant. I’ll identify him.’

  ‘We’ll take you to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marion stood up. ‘I’ll just ring Barry before we go.’

  ‘Barry?’ asked the inspector. ‘Who’s Barry?’

  ‘Terry’s uncle. He’s been like a father to him ever since Jack died. Comes over regularly from Sheffield to see him. Used to take him to the football when he was younger.’ She looked sadly at the detectives. ‘Terry wasn’t all bad, you know.’

  ‘No, I’m sure he wasn’t,’ said Colley.

  ‘He’d even come off the drugs. It would have been five weeks tomorrow. Do you know how much effort it takes to do that in a place like this?’

  Blizzard, recalling the signs that her son had still been a user, opened his mouth to comment but closed it when Colley shook his head.

  ‘Such a waste,’ said Marion softly, the tears threatening to start again.

  ‘I wonder,’ said the sergeant, sensing a softening in her attitude towards the officers, ‘if I could ask…’

  ‘No,’ she said, tears banished, voice suddenly firm. ‘I will not answer any more questions and you’ll get no names out of me.’

  ‘But it might help us discover what happened to your son.’

  ‘You know what this place is like, Sergeant.’ She gave him a mirthless look. ‘Anyone who talks to you might as well start packing their bags now. You’ve already been here too long.’

  * * *

  The detectives left the flat, Blizzard and Colley walking ahead of Marion Roberts and the young constable. A group of youths had gathered at the end of the landing, spreading out to block the way to the stairs.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ murmured Colley, trying to sound calm but mindful of his conversation with Brian Robertshaw the previous day.

  ‘Don’t let yourself be provoked,’ said Blizzard in a low voice. ‘Arthur said he wanted us to be diplomatic.’

  ‘He did know he was talking to you, didn’t he?’

  Blizzard chuckled and the officers approached the gang, none of whom moved to let them pass. Blizzard gazed into the sullen faces.

  ‘Let us through, boys,’ he said.

  ‘Where you taking her?’ said one of them, gesturing to Marion. ‘What’s she been saying?’

  ‘Let us through,’ repeated Blizzard.

  None of the youths moved.

  ‘Say please,’ said the teenager again, leering to display crooked, yellowed teeth. ‘I reckon your chief constable would like that. He says you have to be nice to us.’

  The others laughed at the joke but fell silent when Blizzard took a step forward and pressed his face into the young man’s face, so close he could smell the boy’s fetid breath. And smell his fear as well – gang-rule or not, everyone on the estate knew John Blizzard.

  ‘If you do not get out of the way,’ hissed the inspector, ‘I will rip your fucking head off and shit down the hole.’

  The youth hesitated.

  ‘And just thank your lucky stars that you caught me on a good day,’ continued Blizzard with a disarming smile. ‘Because if I’d been in a bad mood…’

  He left the words hanging in the air and, after hesitating for a few moments, the youth moved slowly aside and his followers also stepped back, eying the officers balefully but not speaking.

  ‘Oh, that kind of diplomatic,’ said Colley as they clattered down the stairs.

  ‘Well what do you expect?’ replied the inspector as they reached the bottom and headed out into the summer sunshine.

  The small group headed across the quadrangle, the three officers trying to look relaxed when in fact they were continually scanning the landings for the beginnings of an attack. When they reached the vehicles, where the uniformed sergeant greeted their arrival with relief. As Blizzard was getting into his car, one of the youths leaned over the landing balustrade.

  ‘Hey, Blizzard,’ he shouted.

  The inspector looked up.

  ‘Say hello to Kenny Jarvis for us!’ shouted the youth.

  ‘Leave it,’ hissed Colley from the passenger seat as the inspector started to walk across the quadrangle.

  Blizzard hesitated, glanced up at the grinning youth then back at the sergeant.

  ‘This time I will,’ said the inspector, getting back into the vehicle and starting the engines. ‘But only this time.’

  Chapter nine

  ‘Have the police taken to working in bulk?’ said the Home Office pathologist Peter Reynolds, staring down at the two bodies on the mortuary slabs.

  Blizzard scowled and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the packet of Anadin, his headache having returned on the journey from The Spur to the general hospital’s mortuary. Colley, who was leaning against the wall, gave the merest of smiles. Everyone knew the inspector detested Reynolds – a sentiment enthusiastically reciprocated – and their encounters invariably made Blizzard intensely irritable, even without an obstinate hangover. They also made for good sport and Colley always enjoyed regaling colleagues with the details later.

  ‘Perhaps,’ continued Reynolds, fussing round the corpses, ‘it is some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer?’

  ‘I hope you were more pleasant when Marion Roberts identified her son,’ grunted the inspector, walking over to the sink in search of a glass of water with which to wash down his tablets.

  ‘I was my usual charming self.’

  ‘God help the poor woman,’ said the inspector.

  ‘I am always charming with the relatives of the dear departed. After all, without the sacrifice of their loved ones, I would be out of my remarkably well-paid job. Half a million pound mortgages do not pay themselves, you know.’

  Blizzard declined to answer so Colley took a few moments to survey the pathologist. The sergeant had never been able to work out Peter Reynolds. He certainly did not come over as likeable and Colley had often wondered if he had any friends at all. He found himself musing now about the pathologist’s presumably long-suffering wife. What in earth did she see in him? What was there to see in him? 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 always gave the strong impression that he liked being around death. Revelled in it almost. Colley, whose stomach had long since become inured to the sickly stench of corpses, had never gone as far as to say he enjoyed being in their presence and Blizzard made no secret of his dislike for the experience. Yet Reynolds seemed to love every minute of his job. Colley could never get his head round that.

  It was early afternoon and in front of the three men was the naked body of Billy Guthrie, the removal of his clothes having revealed the full extent of the savage beating he had endured. Cuts and livid bruises peppered the body and they could clearly see, now that the blood had been washed off, the extent of the gaping wound on the top of his skull.

  Lying next to Guthrie was the body of Terry Roberts, a thin, sallow man with greasy hair, pock-marked skin and sunken eyes. Death could not conceal the fact that he had been unhealthy: running over to his body when it was found behind the museum, Coll
ey had instantly assumed that his skeletal form suggested a heroin user, even before he realised the man’s identity. Now, as he surveyed the man’s arms, the sergeant could see the series of tell-tale needle marks that stood testament to his addiction. Colley shook his head: he had seen it too many times before on mortuary slabs. Far too many times.

  Examination of the body also confirmed the officers’ conviction that Terry Roberts had fallen from the roof: a section of torn-away guttering lying next to the body at the scene had told the story of his desperate scrabbling in vain for the handhold that would save his life, and now Colley could see that one side of the man’s ribcage had caved in on impact with the ground, his left arm was smashed and both legs looked broken. Even to the untrained eye, it was clear what had happened.

  Returning from the sink with a glass of water in his hand, Blizzard gazed at the corpses gloomily.

  ‘And?’ he said.

  ‘Well, it does not really take an expert to tell you what killed them.’

  ‘Perhaps we can save on your inflated salary then.’

  Colley tried to stifle a laugh: he recalled the inspector’s fury some weeks earlier when he had discovered how much the pathologist was paid. ‘I could buy a team of bloody detectives for that,’ he had exclaimed, and had mentioned it repeatedly in the days that followed, his ire undimmed. Blizzard turned and scowled at his sergeant, who tried to look serious.

  ‘I shall ignore that comment,’ said Reynolds. ‘Besides, I know you are finding things a bit difficult at the moment. This unfortunate business has all rather ruined your weekend playing trains, has it not, Blizzard? I rather fancied you might bring in that nice PC Hornby to assist you. You’d make a good team.’

  Colley failed to suppress the laugh this time.

  ‘Just tell me what killed them,’ said the inspector, glowering at the sergeant.

  ‘Oh, please do allow me a little light relief, Blizzard,’ said Reynolds. ‘After all, I have given up an afternoon playing golf to be here – with your chief constable, actually. A charity match.’

  ‘Not sure I had either of you down as the charitable kind,’ muttered Blizzard. He nodded at the bodies. ‘So, what have you found?’

  ‘Let’s start with your chap from the signal box, shall we? Our Mister Guthrie. As you can see, there is evidence of a large number of blows but my examination suggests that the one that probably killed him was to the top of his head. Fractured his skull.’

  ‘Was a weapon used?’

  ‘I would surmise not. It was a terrible beating, one of the worst I have ever seen. I suspect he may have struck his head on something as he fell.’

  ‘There was a metal fitting near where he fell,’ said Colley. ‘It had blood on it.’

  ‘Anyway, whatever he hit, I doubt he would have been conscious for long. Had he lived, he would have sustained serious brain damage.’

  ‘Somewhat ironic,’ murmured Blizzard.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the way his victims tended to end up. That was certainly the case with Archie Gaines and Denny Rees.’

  ‘Gaines, Gaines – he was a boxer, was he not? And I seem to recall the name Denny Rees as well. A publican in Burniston, I think? Fancy I even did the PM on him.’

  ‘Well, Guthrie did for them both. Guthrie’s ribs. They seem to be sticking out more than you would expect. Was he ill?’

  ‘Well, he’s dead if that’s what you mean.’

  Blizzard glared at the pathologist.

  ‘Sorry, Blizzard,’ said Reynolds, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘No, you are, of course, quite right, Billy Guthrie was not a particularly well man. There is evidence that over the past year or so, he had been suffering from kidney disease. Its progress seems to have been somewhat rapid.’

  ‘Would it have shortened his life?’

  ‘Not so sure about that but I imagine that he was not far off having to go on regular dialysis. If I had to hazard a cause for the illness, I would suggest that a lifetime of hard drinking did not help.’

  ‘Guthrie was certainly a boozer,’ said Blizzard. ‘They all were, those railmen. And the other guy? What’s your official cause of death?’

  ‘Isaac Newton Syndrome.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gravity.’

  Blizzard glowered at the pathologist again.

  ‘As you can see,’ continued Reynolds, winking at the sergeant and, as always, giving the distinct impression that he enjoyed winding up the inspector, ‘our Mr Roberts has multiple injuries, all of them consistent with a hard impact. Any of them could easily have proved fatal.’

  ‘Did he die immediately?’ asked Colley, remembering the mother’s questions.

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Was he still using drugs?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Mum reckons he had kicked the habit.’

  ‘No chance. Look at his arms, some of those needlepoints are recent. No wonder he fell of the roof – his senses were probably addled.’

  ‘Any chance you can say if he was pushed?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Pushed?’ Reynolds sounded surprised.

  ‘I am wondering if an accomplice shoved him off.’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  Even Colley looked at the inspector with a perplexed expression on his face.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Blizzard. ‘I just want to know if it is possible.’

  ‘Well, I can’t answer that, really,’ said Reynolds. ‘I am not sure anyone can, Blizzard. The medical evidence in these kind of cases is rarely, if ever, conducive to…’

  ‘But you can’t rule it out?’

  ‘Well no, I suppose not, but you know how these things work. You might as well ask me if a purple dinosaur dropped out of the sky and clobbered the poor man to death. I certainly do not want to go on record as indulging in unsubstantiated speculation.’

  ‘I don’t need you to go on the record, it’s enough that you can’t rule it out.’ The inspector headed for the door. ‘Oh, I would appreciate it if you kept the bit about the accomplice possibly pushing him private. I do not wish it to be relayed to our beloved chief constable at the nineteenth.’

  ‘Well, if he asks, I would have to s…’

  ‘Just keep your trap shut,’ snapped Blizzard.

  ‘No, no, no need to thank me,’ murmured Reynolds as he watched the inspector stalk from the room. He turned to look at Colley. ‘How do you work with him, Sergeant? The man is truly insufferable.’

  ‘Sorry, would love to stay and talk,’ said Colley. He also headed for the door. ‘But you heard the inspector, it appears that I’ve got a purple dinosaur to arrest. And since the babby was born, I just happen to know that he’s called Barnie. I reckon that if I look hard enough in Laura’s bedroom, I can even come up with a mug shot of the murdering bastard.’

  Colley followed the inspector out of the room, chuckling to himself. The pathologist watched him in bemusement.

  ‘Mad,’ said Reynolds when the sergeant had gone. ‘Absolutely mad, the lot of them. Give me the dead any day. You know where you are with the dead.’

  The pathologist looked fondly down at the corpses.

  ‘Eh, boys?’

  * * *

  Once out of the room, Colley discovered that the inspector was already at the end of the corridor and striding out with a new purpose in his step. Colley sprinted to catch him up.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked the sergeant as he fell into step with Blizzard. ‘I mean, there is absolutely nothing to indicate that Roberts was pushed. It’s an accident, pure and simple. Surely you can see that.’

  ‘Of course, I can.’

  ‘Yes, but you said…’

  ‘Think it through,’ said Blizzard as he stood aside to let a porter pass with a trolley. ‘Our friend lived on The Spur, did he not? The odds are so does his accomplice. Well, until we have proved that Roberts was not pushed, we can describe it as a suspicious death.’

  ‘I would have thought it’s the last thing we wanted on The Spur.
’

  ‘It gives us the ammunition to go back onto estate and turn the whole place over.’

  ‘Ooh, I’m not sure Ronald will go for that.’

  ‘It’s his idea.’

  ‘What, to base an investigation on something you know to be a load of bollocks?’ said the sergeant, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, not exactly that word for word,’ admitted Blizzard as the detectives started walking again. ‘But he supports it in broad principle.’

  ‘And am I right to assume that he has not run this “broad principle” past the chief constable?’

  ‘I think it must have slipped his mind. You know how it is.’ Blizzard tapped the side of his head, ‘Arthur’s getting on a bit.’

  ‘I take it this is one of your little games? I keep telling you that one day you’ll get us all fired.’

  ‘Don’t worry, David. I’ve got official sanction for it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Game on then,’ said Colley, as they walked into another corridor. ‘Hang on, were you actually ever in the Scouts?’

  ‘Of course not. You know how I hate uniform.’

  Colley was about to reply when the inspector saw a figure walking towards them.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘isn’t that Ramsey?’

  The detective inspector walked briskly up to them, a look of excitement on his face and a couple of brown folders clutched in his hand. Ramsey looked at the visitors filing past on their way to the wards and gestured for the detectives to step into a deserted side corridor where they would not be overheard. He held up one of the folders. ‘I think we can say why Terry Roberts was on the museum roof. You were right about him being a heroin addict, Dave, and I am guessing that he was making the money to pay for his drugs by theft. Three convictions in the past twenty-one months. Last one was a factory off Braben Street. Load of copper pipes. Asked for eleven TICs.’