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

by John Dean

Blizzard felt for a pulse.

  ‘He is,’ he said. The inspector noticed several shards of the shattered window lying nearby, smeared with blood.

  ‘I guess they got their stained glass, after all,’ he said. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’

  And he walked out of the church and into the night.

  Chapter thirty-three

  The next morning, a weary John Blizzard, thick-headed and still short of sleep, arrived early at Abbey Road Police Station and drove through the group of journalists who had gathered in front of the building, having received the press release revealing the death at St John’s. The inspector ignored the shouted questions and had just walked into his office and switched on the kettle when Arthur Ronald entered the room.

  ‘I see the jackals are gathering again,’ said the superintendent. He sat down at the desk.

  ‘Big story,’ said Blizzard, reaching for the teabags. ‘And it’s going to get bigger.’

  ‘But is it one we can tell now that Matthew St Clair is dead? Margaret Hatton’s a cool customer and if she does not play ball, we’ve only got Calvert. A good lawyer would pick holes in what he’s told us.’

  ‘She’ll play ball,’ said Blizzard confidently.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Ronald. ‘Remember the problems that Thames Valley had with her.’

  ‘We’re not Thames Valley, Arthur.’

  Colley popped his head round the door.

  ‘She’s on the move,’ he said.

  * * *

  Just after 8.00am, Margaret Hatton was fifteen miles from Hafton, driving away from the city on the westbound dual carriageway in her white Jaguar. She was heading for the A1 intersection and the journey south back to her home in Buckinghamshire, somewhere she felt safe. Matthew had not been answering his phone and she had grown increasingly uneasy. She noticed the patrol car approaching quickly in her rear-view mirror. As it neared, its blue lights started to flash. Checking her speedometer and wondering if she was being pulled over for exceeding the 70mph limit, she stopped at the next lay-by.

  A uniformed officer got out of the driver’s side of the patrol vehicle and approached the car. Margaret Hatton wound down her window and gave one of her best smiles. The smile froze as she saw in her wing mirror the approaching figures of John Blizzard and David Colley. One look at the stern expressions on their faces made her realise that the game was up.

  * * *

  Two hours later, she had regained her confidence as the detectives walked into the interview room at Abbey Road, sat down and stared across the desk at her. Both Hatton and her lawyer, a smartly-dressed woman in her early thirties, exuded confidence. Since her arrival at Abbey Road, Margaret Hatton had had time to rationalise her situation and convince herself that there was no way that they could build a case strong enough to send her to jail. Others had tried and failed. So would Blizzard and Colley.

  ‘I take it you will be releasing my client?’ said the lawyer. ‘That you realise that this is all a terrible mistake and that you wish to apologise to her?’

  ‘On the contrary, Miss Josephs,’ said Blizzard. ‘We propose to interview her in connection with an extremely serious matter.’

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Hatton. ‘That’s the truth.’

  ‘I doubt you know what the truth is. I mean, you are the woman who pretended that her son had been murdered, aren’t you? A person who can do that is unlikely to have much idea of truth.’

  The solicitor looked at her client in surprise but said nothing. Hatton gave a knowing smile as she recalled the look on the face of the detective at Thames Valley when he told her that there would be no prosecution. His sense of abject failure had sustained her for a long time and now, after a whispered conversation with her solicitor, she sat up straight, composed, cool, confident.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but I think you do,’ said Blizzard. He opened a brown file that was lying on the desk. ‘See, we’ve spoken to Alistair.’

  She started slightly but rapidly regained her composure.

  ‘I don’t know what–’ she began.

  ‘We know that he wasn’t murdered. That he lives with his wife and kids in New Zealand.’

  ‘Some might say that living in New Zealand is just as bad as being murdered.’ She gave a sly smile.

  ‘Oh, drop the act, Margaret! We know that he wants nothing to do with his conwoman mother.’

  ‘I’m no conwoman, Chief Inspector, and if you repeat that outside these walls, I will sue you.’ Hatton glanced at her lawyer, who nodded. ‘How did you find Alistair anyway?’

  ‘Not “how is he?” “How are my grandchildren?” Just “how did you find him?” I’m not surprised, mind. I think that all you care about is money.’ Blizzard ran his finger down the top page in the file. ‘You’ve had well over a million quid from public sector organisations because of your so-called expertise on child safeguarding. And nothing touches the heartstrings better than a dead child.’

  ‘I may have made the story up, but I believe in what I am doing, Chief Inspector. I doubt very much if you’ll find anyone to say otherwise. And you’ll not find anything to charge me on either. It might be worth remembering that the Thames Valley detective inspector who tried to put me before a court ended up losing his job. I have some very influential friends, very influential indeed.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ said Blizzard. He closed the file, replaced it on the desk and was silent for a few moments. He glanced at Colley. ‘Pity.’

  The sergeant nodded and Margaret Hatton gave the officers a look of triumph.

  ‘So, my client can go then?’ asked the lawyer.

  ‘Actually, she can’t, no,’ said Blizzard. ‘See, we don’t want to talk to her about Alistair. I must say that she is remarkably calm for someone whose partner in crime has just died. I mean, you do know that Matthew is dead, don’t you, Margaret? That’s why you were getting out of the city, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Hatton. She could not disguise a look of shock. ‘I do not know anyone called Matthew.’

  ‘Then allow me to tell you a little story,’ said Blizzard. ‘I’m not sure how long you have known Matthew St Clair but what is important is that last year, he met a man called Phil Calvert at an evangelical Christian event in Hafton. Calvert was looking to expand his property business and Matthew was scouting for his next victim.’

  Hatton looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘They got talking in the bar, as you do,’ said Blizzard. ‘And Calvert told him about a developer who had been seeking to build flats on the area around St John’s Church. How am I doing so far?’

  Hatton said nothing.

  ‘St Clair suggested that they revive the idea,’ said Blizzard. ‘He already moved in church circles so had no difficulty in persuading a small group of naïve young evangelicals to move to Hafton and start attending St John’s. Once he had driven away the older members of the congregation, it would be easy enough to persuade the new ones that St John’s was too small to survive, leaving the church authorities with no alternative but to sell. What no one knew was that he had struck a deal with the developer for ten per cent of the profits if he could deliver, plus an ongoing retainer. It would have been by far the biggest payday of his life. The thick end of a million, I think, Sergeant?’

  ‘I believe so, yes,’ said Colley.

  Blizzard looked across the desk at Hatton.

  ‘Anything you want to say?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a nice little fairy story,’ she replied. ‘But it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m coming to that,’ said Blizzard. ‘See, the problem was that the smooth-talking Matthew was too successful and the number of people attending the church grew more rapidly than he could ever have expected. Suddenly, everyone was talking about the remarkable transformation. Even the city council were impressed and suggested opening the hostel. T
here was no way the congregation would accept an offer for the site now. What’s more, the developer wanted to know what he was paying Matthew all that money for. Matthew needed something to turn St John’s toxic and quickly. Somehow, he found out that Albert Macklin was due out and came up with the idea of inviting him to the hostel, knowing that it would evoke fury. To stir things up even more, he asked you to become involved and he fuelled the fires with a few acts of vandalism. Matthew knew that once the protests made the future of the church untenable, it would be easy enough to persuade folks to accept the developer’s offer. Matthew gets his cash and you get kudos for shutting down an infamous hostel. The death of Jamie Holdsworth was the icing on the cake.’

  ‘How dare you…!’ exclaimed Hatton. She leapt to her feet. ‘How dare you suggest that I would welcome the death of a young boy!’

  ‘Sit down,’ rasped Blizzard.

  For a few seconds, she remained standing then sat down and regained her composure.

  ‘Even if what you have said was true,’ she said calmly, ‘you’ll never get anything to stick in court. And what would you charge me with? Fraud? No jury in the land would convict someone like me of something like that, not once my lawyers had finished with them.’

  ‘You may be right. But then we wouldn’t be charging you with fraud, we would be charging you with the murder of Glenda Rutherford.’ Blizzard looked at Colley. ‘Bob Lennox has such a sweet singing voice, hasn’t he, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sure has,’ said Colley.

  Margaret Hatton gave the detectives a sick look. Her lawyer stayed silent.

  ‘You see,’ said Blizzard. ‘We think you convinced Bob that the only way to get even for his son’s death was to force the hostel to close. A man like Bob Lennox on the rampage would strike fear into just about anyone, especially a bunch of naïve young evangelicals. All you had to do was wind him up and let him go. I’m prepared to accept that you hadn’t reckoned on Bob losing his temper and attacking Jacob but, once you realised that Glenda might have seen him, it was clear that she had to be silenced.’

  ‘He’s a damned fool!’ exclaimed Hatton. ‘A damned fool! He was only supposed to h…’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth as she realised the enormity of her words but it was too late.

  ‘I am advising my client to say nothing more,’ said the lawyer quickly.

  ‘I don’t think she needs to,’ said Blizzard. ‘I am sure the tape caught that. What do you think a jury would say now, Margaret? Of course, the irony is that Glenda didn’t see him.’

  Hatton seemed taken aback at the revelation but quickly regained her composure once more.

  ‘I am saying nothing more,’ she said. She looked at her lawyer. ‘And I’ll not make a statement either.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ replied Blizzard. ‘Just one thing before we finish, did you have anything to do with the murder of Jamie Holdsworth?’

  ‘No!’ Hatton’s voice was full of anger. Genuine emotion this time. ‘Whatever you think of me, I have always had the best interests of the children at heart. It’s always been about them, always!’

  Blizzard pushed his chair back, stood up and headed for the door.

  ‘We will continue this conversation later,’ he said. His voice had a fierce edge to it. ‘But whatever happens, Margaret, you can be sure of one thing. They’re going to take your MBE off you. I’ll make damned sure of that. I owe it to all the people who looked up to you and whom you have let down.’

  Once he was in the corridor, the inspector stood with his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  ‘So, who killed Jamie?’ asked Colley, joining him. ‘We’re no nearer to finding out, are we?’

  ‘Actually, I think we are.’ Blizzard opened his eyes. ‘I think Margaret Hatton is right. I think that it’s always been about the children.’

  Chapter thirty-four

  The call which finally led the detectives to the killer of Jamie Holdsworth came the next morning as David Colley’s mobile phone rang when he was sitting in the CID squad room, catching up on his reports and sipping at a mug of freshly-brewed tea.

  ‘David,’ said a lowered voice which he recognised immediately as Chaz Gray. ‘I’ve found him. One of the blokes at the hostel knows where he is.’

  ‘Excellent. Address?’

  ‘Chandos Street. Number seventy-six.’

  Colley ended the call and headed for Blizzard’s office. The inspector’s original hunch that their man was not far away – and never had been – had proved true and within a few minutes he and Colley were standing outside a rundown Victorian terraced house, several streets from St John’s Church. Having eased his way past the gate hanging off its hinges, Blizzard knocked loudly on the front door twice but there was no answer. Colley peered through the grimy living room window.

  ‘Can’t see much,’ he said. ‘But I’d say the place is empty.’

  ‘OK,’ said Blizzard. He gestured towards the front door. ‘After you, dear boy. If you’re up to it, that is.’

  The sergeant grinned and shoulder-charged the door in best rugby style. It gave way easily with a tearing of hinges and cracking of wood and the officers stepped into the dark hallway, recoiling as the stench hit them. They knew immediately what it was – death always smelled the same. As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they edged their way down the hall towards the source of the smell. Pushing their way tentatively into the back room, they stood and stared at the body lying on the filthy sofa, the only piece of furniture on the bare boards. The corpse had been there several days and the body had started to decompose, although to the detectives’ relief the process had been slowed down by the chill air in the house. It was still recognisable, though.

  ‘Albert Macklin,’ said Colley. He walked over to the sofa, wrinkled his nose and peered down into the bloated face with its lifeless eyes. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Never was,’ replied Blizzard.

  ‘DI Hindsight is the best officer we’ve got,’ replied Colley.

  Blizzard allowed himself a slight smile. Colley produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and reached down to gingerly pick up an empty tablet bottle, which was lying on the floor next to an empty bottle of whisky.

  ‘Suicide?’ he asked.

  ‘I suspect he realised that he had nowhere to go. Paedophiles never change. Margaret Hatton was right about that and I think Albert Macklin knew it. Hello, what’s this?’

  Blizzard walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up a small white envelope which had been propped up against a dusty clock that had long since given up telling the time. Noticing his name scrawled on the front in untidy, crabby handwriting, the inspector opened the envelope and slowly pulled out a single sheet of writing paper.

  ‘A message from beyond the grave,’ he said. As he began to read aloud, he could hear Albert Macklin’s nasal voice. ‘My dear Chief Inspector, by the time you find this letter, I will be long dead. As you will have guessed by now, I killed Jamie Holdsworth. It was an accident, not that I expect you to believe that.’

  Blizzard looked at the sergeant.

  ‘In a funny way I do,’ he murmured. He read on. ‘I really did mean to change this time and I really did mean to leave the city. I had even packed my bags and left the hostel but I went down to the canal one last time before I went – I suppose I hoped that it may lay some ghosts – and there he was. The boy. The old urges came back. They always do. He struggled to get away and I hit him. Only once but it was enough. Why, you may ask, did I have a baseball bat with me?’

  ‘The thought had occurred,’ said Colley.

  Blizzard turned over the piece of paper and started reading the second side.

  ‘The answer is simple. As you reminded me so eloquently, people were out to get me and I needed some way to defend myself. The storeroom in the church was open so I took the bat. I didn’t mean to use it on the poor boy but he just kept struggling. I didn’t mean to kill him. Please tell his parents that I am sorry. Truly so
rry.’

  ‘More sorry than his dad,’ said Colley.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. He continued to read: ‘I couldn’t do time again so this was the only way out, Mr Blizzard. I don’t expect you to believe, or understand, what I say – nobody ever does – but it is the truth. I have to go now. Feeling woozy. Maybe we will meet in the afterlife. God bless. Albie Macklin.’

  ‘I do wish,’ said Blizzard as he replaced the letter on the mantelpiece and headed for the door, ‘that people would stop mentioning God. He’s caused quite enough trouble as it is.’

  And, followed by his sergeant, he walked from the gloom of the house out into the bright sunshine and the welcome fresh air of a clear Hafton winter morning.

  Chapter thirty-five

  Blizzard was back at his desk early that afternoon where there came a knock on the office door and he looked up to see a grim-faced Danny Rowan standing there.

  ‘I think we’ve found Martha Raine,’ said the constable.

  ‘Dead, I presume?’

  Rowan nodded.

  ‘Long gone,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You did your best,’ said Blizzard. He stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘Come on, show me.’

  A few minutes later, Blizzard, Rowan and Chris Ramsey were standing in the brick-strewn garden behind a derelict former Victorian villa which was in the process of being demolished to make way for flats. Rowan pointed to the corner of the garden where a number of uniformed officers had gathered round a body bag, including Rowan’s partner Keith Leighton.

  ‘There’s an old well,’ said Rowan. ‘Dates back to Medieval times, apparently. She was in there.’

  Keith Leighton walked across.

  ‘How was she found?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘The workman wanted to fill it in,’ said Leighton. ‘They sent someone down. He got the shock of his life.’

  ‘Are we sure it’s her?’

  ‘I am afraid so, sir. Her husband had put a rubber identity band on her wrist in case she ever got lost. It was still there.’

  Blizzard looked at Ramsey.