NO AGE TO DIE: The release of a dangerous prisoner leads to murder (DCI John Blizzard Book 9)

by John Dean

  ‘Has anyone been arrested?’

  ‘Not yet. However, we are pursuing some strong lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Does that include questioning members of the protest group?’ asked the reporter. ‘Like Bob Lennox, for example?’

  ‘I cannot comment on individual elements of the investigation.’

  Blizzard sought out one of the television cameras and stared straight down the lens. Time for a sound bite. The press office would like that and the chief constable would be assured that sending him on the recent media relations course had not been a complete waste of public money.

  ‘What I would say,’ he continued, ‘is that this is a time for calm heads. We do not want to see people taking the law into their own hands. Whoever is found to have committed offences will be arrested, I can promise you that but it is not for the community to make such judgements.’

  After a further five minutes, the press conference broke up and, with Ronald having agreed to give the follow-up interviews so that Blizzard could return to the investigation, the inspector slipped out of the room, met up with Colley and together they walked along the corridor.

  ‘You got off pretty lightly,’ said the sergeant. ‘It could have gone a lot worse.’

  ‘This one has got a long way to run yet,’ replied Blizzard. ‘The media can sense a story.’

  ‘So, what next?’

  ‘I want to talk to the vicar of St John’s. We need to find out if Macklin was able to get hold of that bat.’ The inspector keyed in the code to open the door into reception. ‘And we need to find Bob Lennox as well. He’s the most likely one to have chucked that brick. That or his Brain of Britain son. What’s more–’

  As the detectives walked into the reception area, they heard raised voices outside the police station. Blizzard turned to look at the young girl on reception.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve just arrived, sir. They’re protesting about the hostel again.’

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Blizzard.

  As the detectives pushed their way out of the front door of the station, they were assailed by a group of people shouting angrily and jabbing fingers in their direction. At their head was Margaret Hatton, her beige raincoat speckled with rain despite the umbrella. Next to her was Bob Lennox, his white T-shirt sodden as the rain teemed down, his jeans scruffy and tattered as always. The detectives noticed a number of other faces from the protest that had been staged outside the church, including Lennox’s son.

  ‘So much for calm heads,’ murmured Colley as the volume of voices rose when people saw the officers. ‘I take it that you don’t want to nick Bob Lennox now then?’

  ‘If we do it here, there’ll be absolute mayhem,’ said Blizzard in a low voice. ‘We’ll get him later.’

  Bob Lennox pushed his way to the front of the group and angrily jabbed a finger in the direction of Blizzard.

  ‘How many more?’ he said. ‘How many more is Albert Macklin going to kill, Chief Inspector? How many more like my son?’

  His face was twisted into a leer which showed crooked, yellowing teeth. Behind him, other protestors, including a couple of children, mirrored his fury, jeering and also jabbing accusing fingers at the detectives.

  ‘We are doing everything in our power to–’ began Blizzard but he was drowned out by yells.

  ‘If I get my hands on that bastard…’ said Lennox.

  Margaret Hatton silenced him with an elegant wave of a gloved hand.

  ‘Enough, Bob,’ she said.

  The detectives noted the effect that her words had on him as Lennox took several steps back and fell silent. Margaret Hatton turned to the chief inspector.

  ‘I am sure, however, that you can understand the anger of these people, Mr Blizzard,’ she said. ‘We did try to warn you about Albert Macklin.’

  ‘I don’t need warning about him,’ said Blizzard. ‘But at the moment, there is no evidence to connect him with the death of this young man.’

  He was about to make further comment when he noted that the reporters and photographers were tumbling out of the police station, eager to observe the confrontation. The inspector resolved to keep his thoughts to himself and started to walk away.

  ‘You don’t know where he is, do you?’ said Hatton. There was steel in her voice. ‘You’ve lost track of Albert Macklin, Chief Inspector, so how can you say for definite that he did not kill this poor boy?’

  Ugly murmurs rippled through the crowd. Blizzard noted that the local newspaper reporter was talking earnestly to Bob Lennox. Their conversation at an end, the journalist turned to face Blizzard.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ he shouted. ‘Is it right that you were so concerned about Albert Macklin that you warned him off when he was released from prison?’

  ‘I don’t intend to conduct my inquiries for the benefit of the media!’ snapped Blizzard.

  The crowd parted to let him walk towards his car, followed by a frowning Colley.

  Chapter seven

  Built during the sixties, St John’s Church stood within its own grounds – the tidy grassed areas and well-pruned apple trees in stark contrast to the shabby side streets which surrounded them. As Blizzard and Colley entered the building and crossed the main church, the inspector stood for a moment and surveyed the plain glass window with its image of a tank in front of the Cross, on which stood a soldier in grey uniform pointing a gun. Looking closer, he realised that there was a small figure in the background, watching proceedings. From a distance, it resembled Gandhi.

  ‘I prefer stained glass.’ The inspector shook his head. ‘And I still don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s something to do with peace, apparently,’ said Colley.

  ‘That’s gone well then. Bloody do-gooders.’

  ‘Surely well-meaning members of the community?’ said the sergeant. He shot his boss a sly look. ‘If Arthur hears you talking like that, you’ll be back on the diversity course.’

  Blizzard scowled. The last time he had attended such a course, the instructor had threatened to throw him out for, as she phrased it in her feedback form, ‘poisoning the banquet’ with his attitude. Now, as the detectives headed down a short corridor leading to a suite of offices, Colley thought that he would not like to be in the vicar’s shoes.

  Having found the Reverend Henry Sanders in his office, it did not appear that the clergyman was particularly keen about being in his shoes either as he sat behind his desk and nervously eyed the officers. He looked, thought the sergeant, like a man with all the cares of the world upon his bony shoulders rather than one filled with the joyful Christian message. A wiry, short man in his early fifties, Sanders had thinning, greasy receding black hair and his forehead was criss-crossed with wrinkles and glistened with beads of sweat, which he occasionally dabbed with a white handkerchief. His eyes conveyed the sense of a haunted man. The detectives were intrigued.

  ‘So,’ said the chief inspector, an edge to his voice, ‘I ask again, Mr Sanders, how did a baseball bat from your church end up in the hands of the person who killed Jamie Holdsworth?’

  ‘I have to be careful what I say,’ muttered the vicar.

  ‘Not to me, you don’t. In case you had forgotten, a teenage boy has had his skull beaten in. I ask yet again, can you explain how the bat from your storeroom got into the hands of the killer?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the wretched clergyman. ‘Really I don’t.’

  ‘But you did know that the plan was for Albert Macklin to be cared for at your hostel? And, presumably, you knew what he had been in prison for?’

  ‘Of course, I did.’ The vicar stared at the floor and refused to look at the inspector. ‘I know exactly what Albert Macklin is.’

  ‘And you think it was OK to–’

  The office door opened and in walked a tall man, unannounced and without having knocked.

  ‘That will be all, Chief Inspector,’ he said. The voice was that of a well-educated man, smooth and confident. ‘T
he reverend has answered enough questions.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I do,’ said the man.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Edgar Rose-Harvey. I am the Chair of our church council. Any questions about St John’s should be addressed to me and not to Mr Sanders. I demand to know what is happening here.’

  Colley surveyed the new arrival with interest. Rose-Harvey, the sergeant reckoned, could not yet be aged thirty but he had the presence of someone much older. His brown hair was cut short, clean, without a strand out of place, and his eyes were a deep piercing blue. A slim, athletic man, he was dressed in black – jacket, polo-necked sweater, sharply-pressed trousers and shiny shoes. The overall impression was of a young man in control of the situation. Blizzard would not like that, thought Colley, with a slight smile.

  He was right, the inspector didn’t like it and he stood up and moved to stand within inches of Rose-Harvey, looking deep into his eyes.

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ he said. ‘And in murder investigations, nobody demands anything of me.’

  For a moment, Colley wondered if Rose-Harvey would try to front it out but instead he averted his eyes, shrugged, and sat down next to the vicar. Colley was surprised to see that the clergyman had started to tremble.

  ‘I apologise,’ said Rose-Harvey. His voice was less confrontational. ‘I was forgetting myself. These are disturbing times, as I am sure you will appreciate.’

  ‘Too right they are.’ Blizzard sat down again, satisfied that control was his again. ‘And this church is one of the things that disturbs me the most. I want some answers and I want them now.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rose-Harvey.

  Colley watched him with an increasing sense of fascination. Some people have that magnetic, mesmeric quality which means you cannot take your eyes off them, he thought, and Edgar Rose-Harvey was one of them.

  Blizzard’s expression made it clear that he was not feeling the same fascination. A man who jumped to conclusions much quicker than his younger colleague, the inspector had decided within seconds that he disliked Edgar Rose-Harvey.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ asked Rose-Harvey.

  ‘Well, for a start, I want to know how a baseball bat from your church store ended up being used to stove in a young man’s head?’

  ‘It’s a good question, Chief Inspector.’ Rose-Harvey looked at the vicar. ‘Was the store cupboard locked, Henry?’

  ‘I don’t know. That is, I’m not sure… it was supposed to be.’

  ‘Yes, well, I hope for your sake that it was,’ said Rose-Harvey. ‘Because we’ve told you about that before.’

  The vicar seemed to cower back into his seat.

  ‘I also want to know about Albert Macklin,’ said Blizzard. ‘Why you agreed to take in a man like him at a place used by a lot of children, and whether or not he had access to the cupboard.’

  ‘He may have had in the short time he was here,’ said Rose-Harvey. ‘We encourage the guests at our hostel to use the church as part of their rehabilitation.’

  ‘Guests!’ exclaimed Blizzard. ‘Macklin is a child-killer, dammit!’

  ‘Be that as it may, we believe that the restorative power of the Lord can shine light into the darkest recesses of any heart. That is why we take in people like Albert Macklin and why it is important that we let them use the church. We see prayer as the conduit through which that light can shine.’

  ‘Oh, spare me the mumbo jumbo,’ said Blizzard. ‘Do you know where Macklin is now?’

  ‘I am afraid not. Jacob Reed said that he had gone to see relatives in Derby but that’s all I know. How is dear Jacob?’

  ‘He’s got a headache.’

  ‘A somewhat uncharitable comment, Chief Inspector. I have to say that I find your attitude somewhat disappointing.’ Rose-Harvey stood up. ‘Now, will that be all? I do have other things to attend to, as I am sure you can imagine.’

  Blizzard left the room without reply. As Colley closed the door behind them, he glanced back and saw through the frosted glass pane that Edgar Rose-Harvey had started to berate the vicar, jabbing a finger menacingly at him. There was anger in his voice.

  ‘The Lord does indeed move in mysterious ways,’ said the sergeant as they headed down the corridor.

  ‘He certainly does.’ Blizzard stopped walking and looked at him with a troubled expression on his face. ‘What the hell has happened here, David?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the sergeant. ‘But whatever it is, it doesn’t feel right.’

  Chapter eight

  After leaving the vicar’s office, the detectives headed for the short passage that led into the church hall – a large, light room with plain-glass windows and shiny wooden floors. At one end stood a selection of children’s buggies and bicycles, used by the toddler group. Not far away was the store cupboard, its doors painted a shade of red that the officers recognised from the baseball bat. The uniformed officer who stood guard next to the cupboard nodded deferentially at Blizzard.

  ‘I thought it made sense to keep people away,’ said Colley. ‘Forensics are coming to do an examination. The lock had not been forced, which seems to confirm that the cupboard was already open.’

  ‘So, anyone could have taken the bat,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Yeah, and there’s loads of possibilities. I looked on the noticeboard as we came in, there are all sorts of clubs and groups and Jamie was in the Scouts, which makes me–’

  ‘’Ere, what you doing?’ shouted a gruff voice. The detectives turned to see the caretaker striding across the hall towards them. ‘Get out! There’s been too many people traipsing round here this morning!’

  ‘It seems,’ said Colley, ‘that there is not much welcome from anyone in the house of the Lord today.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Blizzard. He held up his warrant card at the caretaker, a grey-haired man in his sixties, wearing a brown overall jacket and clutching a mop. ‘We are police officers. We’re allowed to traipse around.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about the boy.’ The caretaker’s anger had left him as suddenly as it had erupted. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry for shouting at you. Everyone is very upset. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened.’

  ‘Did you know Jamie?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘I did, yes. Nice family. Well, nice mother. She’s here every Sunday, sometimes comes to all three services. Jamie was in the Scouts. Lovely young lad, he really was.’

  ‘And his father?’ asked Colley. ‘Did he come to the church?’

  ‘Steve? Na, he ain’t the type.’

  ‘Type?’

  ‘God-botherer.’

  Colley suppressed a smile. It was not exactly the kind of response that he expected from a church caretaker but then St John’s was throwing up a lot of surprises.

  ‘I take it you don’t have much time for church folk, then?’ said Blizzard.

  ‘I don’t mind church folk,’ said the caretaker. He nodded in the direction of the passageway leading to the offices. ‘It’s them people I don’t like. The new lot. Rose-Harvey and his cronies. They turned up more than a year ago and they’ve taken the church over. They may come over as charming, all smiles, but they’re ruthless.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’ asked Colley.

  ‘Who knows? Him and half a dozen of the others appeared one Sunday morning; next thing we know there’s sixty or seventy of the buggers, all of them young’uns. Got themselves voted onto every committee and now they run the place. Changed it for the worst, if you ask me.’

  ‘But they saved it, didn’t they?’ asked Colley. ‘I heard that congregation numbers were so low that it was only a matter of time before the church closed, redevelopment or not. The new people brought in fresh life, didn’t they? Surely, they secured the future of St John’s?’

  ‘But at what cost?’ said the caretaker sourly. ‘Most of the old’uns have left. Some of them had been coming for more than fifty years. They can’t be doing with all that happy
-clappy stuff. Besides, anyone as disagrees with the new folks gets the treatment.’

  ‘The treatment?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Sent to Coventry. I only work here. I don’t come to services no more. It ain’t the church I joined. There’s plenty as will tell you the same.’

  ‘And what do they believe?’ asked the inspector. ‘These new people?’

  ‘They believe every word of the Bible, for a start.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t mind that but then they opened up that hostel place. That was the final straw. It ain’t right. We don’t want people like that round here, especially not the likes of Albert Macklin.’

  ‘And the vicar?’ asked Colley. ‘Is he one of the new people?’

  ‘Henry?’ The caretaker shook his head vigorously. ‘He hates ’em. Not that he would ever say owt, mind. He’s frightened, if you ask me. And what’s more–’

  But the caretaker got no further because a voice rang out.

  ‘Hey!’

  They turned to see Edgar Rose-Harvey walking rapidly towards them, his heels clicking on the shiny floor and reverberating around the empty hall. His expression was thunderous; it was the first time the detectives had seen him lose control of his emotions.

  ‘Get back to your work!’ he yelled at the caretaker. ‘If anyone talks to the police, it will be me, do you understand?’

  The caretaker gave him a disrespectful leer, turned on his heel and left the hall.

  ‘You don’t exactly seem to have a Christian-like way with people,’ said Blizzard.

  ‘Sometimes you have to be firm, Chief Inspector.’ Rose-Harvey was back in control of his emotions again. ‘You have to take difficult decisions.’

  ‘And that includes driving away older members of the congregation, does it?’ said Blizzard. He had found himself angered by what he was hearing. ‘People who have been coming here for years? People who fought to save it two years ago?’

  ‘But they were only delaying the inevitable,’ said Rose-Harvey. ‘Do you know how many people regularly attended this church when we arrived? Twenty-one. And do you know what their average age was? Seventy-three. This church was dying – literally. Now the congregation is past one hundred with an average age of twenty-six. Without us, this church would have been closed down. You might not like our methods, Chief Inspector, but we are the saviours of St John’s, not the old ones.’