by John Dean
‘So, there’s a riot.’ Blizzard held up the newspaper. ‘We might not like it but the headline’s right, isn’t it? We have lost control of the situation and I, for one, am sick of being pushed around by Margaret Hatton. Besides, if we move to protect the church, it’ll keep Rory Gill off our backs for a while.’
‘But think of the headlines,’ said the press officer. ‘Margaret will have a field day. She’s already got the media wrapped round her little finger.’
Blizzard turned the newspaper towards her.
‘And are the headlines likely to be any worse than this?’ he asked. He turned to Ronald. ‘Well, are they?’
‘No,’ said the superintendent. ‘Go get them.’
A few minutes later, Blizzard was back in his office when Fee rang on his mobile.
‘I know you’re busy,’ she said, ‘but that childminder Jay mentioned can see us at half three, if you’re available.’
Blizzard was about to say that he wasn’t but thought better of it – he was acutely aware of how little time he had spent at home in recent days.
‘Sure,’ he said.
* * *
Later that afternoon, David Colley was sitting on a park bench two miles from Abbey Road Police Station, reading the articles in the newspaper, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief. After a few minutes, he glanced at his watch. His informant was late. The sergeant’s relationship with Chaz Gray owed much to an act of kindness on the part of Colley’s partner when he and Jay had been shopping in the city centre with their daughter one Saturday. Jay recognised a beggar sitting in a shop doorway as a former primary school teacher with whom she had once worked. Chaz, she told Colley, had moved on to a comprehensive school but it had not worked out. In those days, she said, he had been bright-eyed, idealistic and full of expectation, but three years in the secondary school had broken him, culminating in an incident in which a six-foot teenager struck him with a chair, resulting in three days in hospital. Chaz had resigned and eventually found himself homeless as his life spiralled out of control.
Jay’s action in stopping to talk to him that Saturday morning, and to slip him a twenty pound note, was one of the few kindnesses that Chaz had experienced since beginning to live rough on the streets and, over the months that followed, he showed his gratitude by becoming one of Colley’s informants. The two men were meeting after Chaz called the sergeant to hint at something more substantial than his usual information about low-level drug dealing. He had insisted that Colley meet him in a local park rather than their usual city centre pub. The sergeant had been there for fifteen minutes when there came a rustling from the bush behind him.
‘Don’t turn round,’ said a voice. Chaz Gray sounded frightened.
‘Is this really necess–’
‘Just don’t turn round. Keep reading your newspaper. You’re after Bob Lennox, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’ said Colley.
‘Everyone knows. Your people have been asking questions.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Colley. He turned over a page of the newspaper. ‘He seems to have gone to ground. Him and his bovine son.’
‘They’re on The Manor.’
‘Where on The Manor?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Can’t tell you that.’
‘It’s a big estate,’ said Colley. ‘And how come you know where he is?’
‘He’s my heroin supplier.’
‘Jesus, Chaz,’ exclaimed Colley. He turned round and peered into the scared face. ‘I thought you said you were clean again.’
‘Do you want this information or not?’ hissed Chaz. ‘And turn round, for fuck’s sake.’
Colley returned to the newspaper.
‘I do want the information, yes,’ said Colley. ‘But I need more than you’ve given me before we can pay out.’
‘It’s big, Dave. Really big. Drugs. That’s all I can say.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the sergeant. ‘We didn’t have Lennox down for a major player.’
‘Well, he’s moved up in the world. Go on to The Manor and you’ll break up one of the biggest gangs in the Western Division, but you’ll have to move quickly.’
Colley’s eyes gleamed at the thought of such a prize. He glanced down at the newspaper and imagined more positive headlines.
‘OK, but I need to know exactly where he is,’ said the sergeant. ‘If we plough in there with all guns blazing, they’ll have scarpered by the time we’ve even got out of the vans. I need an address.’
Chaz Gray hesitated.
‘Alright,’ he said eventually. ‘Number Seven Lavender Walk. That’s in the second row of maisonettes on your left when you get in. They’re dealing the heroin out of there. They took a big delivery last night.’
‘And are you sure Lennox will be there?’
‘He should be. It’s where they have been dealing from and it’s where he went when he heard that you were after him.’
Colley flipped over the newspaper to examine the sports pages.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Worth a few quid?’ asked Chaz hopefully.
‘As long as it doesn’t go on drugs,’ said Colley. ‘Can you promise me that?’
‘I want to come off the drugs. Honest, Dave.’
‘In which case,’ said the sergeant. ‘I have a little proposition for you. What do you know about the hostel at St John’s?’
Conversation over, there was a rustle of leaves and Chaz was away. Colley took his mobile phone out of his anorak pocket and rang Blizzard.
‘How do you fancy kicking some doors in?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Always. When?’
‘Tonight.’
Chapter twenty-five
Just after 3.30pm, John Blizzard sat in his living room and watched Michael playing with his toys on the floor. Whenever the wooden train neared the inspector’s feet, he would reach down, grab the engine and make a loud steam-like noise and Michael would squeal with pleasure. After one particularly loud squeal, Fee popped her head round the door and grinned. Blizzard smiled back; he welcomed the time away from the office and the St John’s investigation had proved to be a troubling one. Fatherhood had changed him in profound ways, he knew that. Whereas the old Blizzard might have been less affected by the death of a child, he would have been more professional, more detached, more determined to put the job ahead of emotion, the new father in him was struggling to come to terms with what had happened to Jamie Holdsworth. It was a feeling that intensified whenever he looked at his own son and, instinctively, he reached down and picked up the child.
‘I love you,’ he said, giving him a cuddle.
After a couple of minutes, Fee entered the living room, carrying a tray bearing hot drinks and gave a smile as she saw Michael on the inspector’s lap.
‘Better not let the villains see you like that, John,’ she said. She placed the tray on the coffee table. ‘They think that you eat babies.’
Blizzard gave a low laugh. Following Fee into the room was a dark-haired middle-aged woman, who sat down on the sofa. Fee handed Blizzard a mug.
‘Ta,’ he said. He looked at the dark-haired woman. ‘So, Jenny, how long have you been a childminder?’
‘Seven years. I started when we moved to Hafton because of my husband’s job.’
‘And where were you before?’
‘Leicester. I was a teacher for ten years then I worked in the education department.’
‘Jenny was telling me that she met Margaret Hatton when she was there,’ said Fee.
‘Yeah?’ Blizzard tried to sound casual. Not overly interested. ‘Why was that then?’
‘It was tragic,’ said Jenny. She shook her head at the memory. ‘It happened in one of our secondary schools. A pupil was killed by a member of staff who, it turned out, had had a relationship with her for six months. Her body was found in a wood.’
‘And how did Margaret Hatton fit into things?’
‘There was a lot of ill-feeling in
the community, people saying the council had failed the girl. Margaret Hatton led the protests.’
‘How did it end?’ asked the inspector.
‘Ofsted carried out an unannounced emergency audit of the council’s safeguarding practices and discovered a lot of problems. The director of education was sacked and his replacement asked Margaret to run some training courses.’
‘What were they like?’ asked Fee.
‘Very good,’ replied Jenny. ‘I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure about her because of the way she gave the council such a hard time but, once I saw her in action, I changed my mind. The woman’s a saint, if you ask me. She didn’t come cheap but she knows her stuff and people listened to her after what she had been through. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suspect you would,’ said Blizzard thoughtfully.
* * *
Sarah Allatt was sitting in the CID squad room shortly after 4.00pm when she received the call on her mobile phone that she had been waiting for.
‘DC Allatt?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m DC Ellie Tarrant, Thames Valley.’ She sounded wary. ‘I understand you want to talk to me about Margaret Hatton.’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Can I ask why?’ asked Tarrant.
‘She’s turned up in our area and my DCI is concerned about some of her activities.’
‘Well, you tell your DCI to be careful. If it’s anything like down here, she’s got some influential friends, has Margaret Hatton. She’s very well thought of in council circles and by some of our senior officers as well. She’s got some pretty powerful friends in Whitehall as well. And she’s an MBE, remember.’
‘Not sure that will cut much ice with my governor,’ said Allatt. ‘He’s not one for reputations.’
‘Neither was my governor. Not that it did him much good. He left the force after being overlooked for promotion three times after tangling with her. You need to be careful when you’re dealing with Margaret Hatton. What’s been happening?’
‘We’ve had a murder and two other people put in hospital.’
‘And you think Margaret may be involved, do you?’
‘Indirectly,’ said Allatt. ‘She’s whipped up a lot of bad feeling.’
‘That’s what she does,’ said Tarrant. She was silent for a few moments.
‘You still there?’ asked Allatt.
‘Yeah.’ The tone of voice was more urgent now, the voice lower. ‘Listen, there’s no way I want my name dragging into this. By rights, I shouldn’t really be talking to you. I had to swear the lad who took the message to secrecy. Do you understand?’
‘Sure. Do I take it that Margaret Hatton has got something to hide then?’
‘She certainly has,’ said Tarrant. ‘But you’ll have to stay up late if you want to find out. See, you might want to ring New Zealand.’
‘That’s no problem,’ said Allatt. ‘My governor has promised us all a late night anyway.’
Chapter twenty-six
John Blizzard had an acute sense of satisfaction as he stood at the front of the briefing room at Abbey Road Police Station that evening. The inspector had had enough of politics and religion and it was a relief to think of something other than dead children; smashing in villain’s doors was what he knew best and in front of him were more than seventy officers prepared to do just that. They lounged about on chairs, chatting casually, swapping stories of the day and exchanging jokes. Most were in uniform, some wore plain clothes and a number – burly officers, hard men – were in the dark blue overalls and caps which identified them as being from the Tactical Support Group, the heavy hitters brought in for the tough jobs. Scattered among the gathering were officers from the armed response unit.
The atmosphere in the room changed as Blizzard clapped his hands and called for quiet. Suddenly, all eyes were on him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you for gathering at such short notice. Your presence here confirms what I have always known about the men and women of this force – that the promise of overtime works wonders.’
There was a murmur of laughter, including a chuckle from Colley, who was leaning against a wall at the back of the room as usual. Watching Blizzard deal with the troops was always a pleasure, he thought. They may not find him an easy person to know – Blizzard did not let many people get close to him – but to a man and woman, the officers respected and trusted him. And when he addressed such gatherings, there was something about the way he spoke, a fire which instilled within them a desire to get the job done. Now, once more, they recognised that steely expression and the hardening of his voice as the inspector held up the front page of the local newspaper.
‘I’m sure you have all seen this,’ he said.
More murmurs.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I want to ram those words down the editor’s throat.’
Applause.
‘What’s more, if we get this right, it will put the fear of God into our criminal brethren.’ Blizzard gave a slight smile. ‘And after the week we’ve had, it’s about time that the risen Lord did something for us. I reckon he owes us a favour.’
He gave the laughter time to ripple round the room then die away.
‘I could bang on like I normally do on these occasions,’ he said. ‘But I won’t. This front page should be all the motivation you need and, as you go out there tonight, I want you to carry one thought with you above all others. We are the police, we run this city, not the criminals, and it is time to remind everyone about that. OK, on your way. Happy hunting.’
Again, the officers applauded, Ronald nodded his appreciation and there was a heightened energy in the room as the teams stood up and headed for their individual briefings. They were ready to do battle and soon the crew buses and cars were heading out of the police station yard. Their destination was somewhere that every police officer in Western Division knew well. Built in the sixties, The Manor was a rundown estate, blighted by decades of neglect, its flats taken over by low-level criminals, its decent tenants forced out by threats from drug dealers. The police mounted regular raids but several months previously, one of them had gone badly wrong. Two officers called at a flat to arrest a teenage drug dealer but during the scuffle that followed the nineteen-year-old died. The post-mortem concluded that he was ill with hepatitis and could have died at any time but the media coverage made senior officers wary about how they behaved on The Manor.
Ronald and Blizzard had not shared their commanders’ misgivings and were desperate to put things right as the convoy swept through moonlit streets and arrived at the estate. Responsibility for the operation on the ground had been handed over to uniformed Chief Inspector Gerry Craven, a tough no-nonsense officer, and on his word the teams moved in. Blizzard and Colley got out of one of the vans and stood in the quadrangle listening to the shouting and the sound of doors being forced in.
‘Go on then,’ said Blizzard, noticing the gleam in his sergeant’s eyes. ‘Play nice.’
Colley shot him a grateful look and limped off across the square and up one of the stinking, dark stairwells, rugby injury and damaged hand seemingly forgotten. Moments later, Blizzard saw him plunge into one of the flats and manhandle a protesting man out onto the landing. The chief inspector chuckled.
‘Kids,’ he said.
‘Should he be doing that with that hand of his?’ asked Ronald. He ambled up to Blizzard and followed his colleague’s gaze to where Colley was handcuffing the man before handing him over to one of the uniforms and plunging back into the darkness. ‘I mean, what about Health and Safety and all that?’
‘You do spout some rubbish, Arthur,’ said Blizzard affectionately. ‘Besides, you try telling him to stop.’
‘Aye, maybe you’re right.’
They watched as a stream of arrested men were led to the waiting vans. Blizzard glanced at Alice Greer; the press officer had invited the media to witness the event and was overseeing their activities. She g
ave him a smile and a couple of the arrested men shouted profanities in his direction.
‘Should make for some better headlines,’ said Blizzard.
Craven approached them.
‘Sorry, John,’ he said. ‘No Bob Lennox or his son. Plenty of bodies, though, loads of drugs and a good five grand in cash.’
‘That’ll do for starters, Gerry. Lennox cannot hide from us for ever.’ Blizzard beamed as he noticed Colley leading someone out of the shadows at the far end of the quadrangle. ‘Besides, The Manor turns out not to be so godforsaken, after all.’
Craven followed his gaze to watch Colley take his prisoner towards one of the vans.
‘Why, who is he?’ asked Craven.
Blizzard stared down at the bedraggled figure of Reverend Henry Sanders, now clearly visible in the half-light as he was loaded into the vehicle. Colley looked up and gave a thumbs-up at Blizzard.
‘That,’ said the inspector, ‘is a gift from the Good Lord. I told you that he owed us a favour.’
* * *
As the final police teams wrapped up their activities at The Manor, Sarah Allatt returned to Abbey Road, went into an office and closed the door. She fished her mobile phone out of her jacket pocket and stared at it thoughtfully for a few moments.
‘Time to wake the dead,’ she murmured.
She dialled and a man’s voice answered.
‘Hello,’ he said. He sounded wary. ‘Who is this?’
‘Am I speaking to Darren Meadows?’
‘Who wants to know? And how did you get my number?’
‘My name is Sarah Allatt. I’m a detective constable with Hafton Police in the UK.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To speak to you about Margaret Hatton,’ said Allatt.
There was silence for a few moments.
‘I’ve never heard of her,’ said Meadows. ‘You must have a wrong number.’
‘I don’t think so, Alistair,’ said Allatt. ‘I can call you Alistair, can’t I? Although I think that your mother prefers to refer to you as Alexander.’
