by John Dean
‘I mean,’ said Blizzard, ‘the embassy?’
‘A bit, not much, mind.’
‘Well, whatever it is,’ said Blizzard, who never wasted an opportunity to press the case for better computerised systems at Abbey Road, ‘it’s bound to be a damned site more than our records department would ever dredge up. If it was down to them, it would take us another four years to even find out where bloody Germany is. Now, if we had that new system like they’ve got over at…’
He scanned the fax. According to the Embassy, Knoefler had indeed been a prisoner-of-war at Hafton Camp, one of the last POWs to be released just before the complex closed in the middle of 1946: it had stayed open for almost a year after the end of the war. He married an English woman from Hafton a year or so later and they moved to Wales, where Knoefler concentrated all his energies on building up a successful agricultural supplies company which, as the years passed, went into land ownership as well, snapping up considerable acreage in Wales and South-West England from farmers and selling it to housebuilders wishing to expand.
It all made Horst Knoefler a wealthy man and, the couple having not had children to inherit the business, he sold the company in a multi-million-pound deal and he and his wife settled into comfortable retirement in a large house in a remote village in the Welsh countryside. According to the embassy, the last they heard of Knoefler was fifteen years previously when he told them that his wife had died of a heart attack. Grief-stricken, the retired businessman sold their house and promised to inform embassy officials of his new address. He failed to do so and attempts to track him down over the subsequent years had drawn a blank.
‘So where did he go after selling the house?’ asked Blizzard, putting the piece of paper down on his desk. ‘David, have you still got that Taffy mate?’
‘Sure have, although how Agatha Fish-tank would react if she heard you calling him that is open to debate.’
‘Oh, dear, what a pity. Anyway, get onto him will you, see if he can find out anything about our Herr Knoefler.’
‘Ahead of you on that one, guv. Just come off the phone with Jonathan. He contacted a friend of his in the village where Knoefler lived. It’s a tiny place, only ten or twenty houses. Turns out the guy just disappeared one day. Never even said his goodbyes, which was unlike him, apparently.’
‘Yeah?’
‘The locals reckoned he was a polite and courteous guy. Always stopped to say good morning to people on his way to the shop to buy a newspaper, that sort of thing. Everyone liked him.’
‘So, Knoefler just upped sticks and left, eh?’
‘The villagers never saw hide nor hair of him again. A young couple live in the house now.’
‘No police investigation?’
‘There didn’t seem a need and no one reported him missing.’
‘We need to find out who he was running from.’
‘If he was running, guv,’ cautioned the sergeant. ‘Lots of people sell their homes after their partner dies. Can’t live with the memories. My nan did that. Saw grandad everywhere. Got too much for her in the end – he was getting in her way, she said – so she sold up.’
‘No, Knoefler was running scared. A bloke who always let the embassy know where he was, suddenly disappearing off the face of the earth without so much as a by-your-leave? No, that would have offended his sense of German efficiency.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Definitely, David,’ insisted the chief inspector. ‘I am telling you, it was not his style. Besides, look what happens next, he gets himself killed. That’s too much of a coincidence. The events have got to be linked.’
‘OK, but if they are, where does it leave dearest Eddie Gayle and Henderson Ramage?’
‘Not sure. Maybe it leaves them nowhere but, involved or not, it’s nice to remind Eddie and his scumbag lawyer that we are watching him, is it not? I don’t like the idea that Eddie can run around the city doing whatever the bloody hell he likes. It’s gone on for far too long and I don’t care what the chief constable says, it has got to end.’
‘Agreed, but his lawyer is going to kick up a fuss again, you know what a reptile D’Arcy is, guv. And the super’s not going to like that.’
‘Not like what?’ asked Ronald, walking into the office and fixing the sergeant with a hawkish expression.
‘Whoops,’ said Colley. ‘Me and my big mouth again.’
Blizzard gave him a pained look.
‘I know,’ said Ronald. He walked out of the office, his voice floating back down the corridor. ‘If I pretend I didn’t hear anything, perhaps it will go away and I won’t have my flabby ass hauled into the chief’s office tomorrow morning to explain why we are harassing Eddie Gayle again. Good night, gentlemen…’
Chapter five
‘You do know how to show a girl a good time,’ said Fee Ellis.
‘I do my best,’ said Blizzard, smiling cheerfully at the woman who had transformed his life over the past year.
‘It’s a bit of mess, though.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Blizzard as he scrabbled over the pieces of metal piled along the edge of the dimly-lit corrugated iron shed. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Whatever,’ said Fee, shivering with cold and pulling her thin black leather jacket around her.
As she watched him battling his way across the shed, she marvelled at the hold that its contents had exerted over Blizzard for years. She knew from Colley that the shed had been the chief inspector’s secret place, his bolt-hole at times of stress, the place to which he ran when he needed to clear his thoughts. Even though she had been there a number of times, Fee still felt somehow out of place, like she did not belong, like this was his place and she was intruding.
Fee had been the chief inspector’s girlfriend for a year. Colley used to say that the only way Blizzard could ever hope to hook up with a woman was if he arrested her. He was nearly right; twenty-eight years old, Fee had been a police officer for six years. Having graduated from university, she initially served as a uniformed constable for five years, over on the eastern side of the city, showing such promise that she had been seconded to Western Division CID to gain experience as a detective.
The daughter of a retired detective sergeant, with whom Blizzard and Ronald had worked briefly in their early days, Fee had impressed the chief inspector the moment she had walked into the squad room, and not just for her professionalism. Five-foot eight and slim, she had short, slightly waved, blonde hair and a face with soft lines, a face that presented a striking contrast, sometimes suggesting someone cool, collected and unapproachable, at other times a person who was warm and animated. Also, on rare unguarded occasions, it suggested the air of vulnerability felt by a woman trying to survive in the man’s world that was Hafton CID. She was also a woman who appreciated, right from her initial attraction to the chief inspector, the difficulties of going out with a man like John Blizzard. Avowedly single and set in his ways, and as hardened a detective as they came, he was a man wedded, colleagues said, to his job.
Dressed tonight in jeans and a purple sweater underneath her jacket, Fee was standing in the presence of John Blizzard’s other great love. All officers had their releases from the pressure of the job; Colley was a keen rugby player, Chris Ramsey, one of Western CID’s two detective inspectors loved martial arts, Fee was a keen cyclist, and for Blizzard the escape was provided by the Old Lady, a steam locomotive.
His fascination with steam stretched back to a grandfather who was a shedmaster in industrial Yorkshire in the pre-war years and a father who worked for a while as a train driver.
The Old Lady, housed in the shed on wasteland on the edge of the city centre, was more correctly known as the Silver Flyer. Childhood passion reaching deep into adulthood, Blizzard had helped form the Hafton Railway Appreciation Society, a small group of enthusiastic volunteers who restored steam locomotives. He had stumbled across the building while investigating a serious assault some years before, standing in amazement as he scraped off the rust t
o reveal the locomotive’s nameplate. It did not take him long to persuade society members to raise the cash to buy and begin to renovate her.
This night, it was a brief visit to the shed, Blizzard simply checking that the building was secure.
‘So what do you see in her?’ asked Fee. She shook her head as he clambered over a pile of engine parts, edged past the main frame of the locomotive and reached up to check the grimy window at the far side of the building.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Blizzard. Having found the window secure, he began the tortuous journey back, patting the engine affectionately, then cursing as he barked his shin on the edge of a workbench.
‘But she’s just a chunk of metal,’ said Fee.
‘That people can say such things about something so beautiful will forever be a sadness to me,’ said Blizzard.
‘But she’s a rust-bucket,’ said Fee, pointing to the locomotive.
‘You sound like Colley. He always says that.’
‘You can’t blame us,’ said Fee. ‘After all, aren’t you a touch old to be playing with trains, Mr Blizzard?’
‘Colley says that as well,’ replied the chief inspector. ‘And he also says that having a love affair with one old boiler should be enough for me.’
‘Wait until I get to see that sergeant of yours. Talking of which, is that date OK for dinner at their place?’
‘Sure is,’ said Blizzard, clambering over the last of the pieces of metal and taking her arm. ‘I talked to Colley today. He’s playing rugby in the afternoon but says he should be out of casualty by eight. Now come on, I seem to recall promising you a drink.’
‘You did,’ she said, pushing open the creaking door and walking into the sharp chill of a winter night, ‘and you can tell me all about Eddie Gayle.’
‘Why ruin a nice evening?’ grunted Blizzard.
He snapped shut the padlock on the door and followed her across the wasteland towards the car, broken glass crunching beneath their feet and the lights of the city centre twinkling in front of them. For Blizzard, who had grown used to making the journey on his own over the years, it was still a source of wonder that he could do so with Fee Ellis. The chief inspector was glad it was dark and she could not see him grinning like a schoolboy.
* * *
An hour later, as the couple settled down in a cosy nook by the roaring fire in Blizzard’s village pub, cradling their drinks – he a pint of real ale, she a white wine spritzer – the uniform constable deputed to guard the murder scene at Green Meadow Farm a few miles away was having a much less enjoyable time. Graveyard shift good and proper, he thought morosely. Stamping his feet to keep warm and glancing longingly at the bright lights of the farmhouse a couple of fields away, he occasionally shone his torch into the darkness, watching uneasily as the beam pierced the night and the shadows danced before his eyes.
Nearby, the grave lay still, silent and empty. The forensics team that had spent most of the day sifting through the cloying soil in the hope of unearthing further evidence had departed as dusk fell, leaving a single officer to stand guard. Now, the constable, who had taken over the watch from his colleague an hour previously, sat down on a small chair at the edge of the grave, greatcoat pulled tightly around him, cup of coffee from his flask warming his hands, and cursed his luck. Periodically, he glanced down at the luminous hands of his watch, praying for midnight to come around quickly so he could be relieved and flee to the relative warmth of Abbey Road Police Station. Even though the heating system had broken down again late that afternoon it would still be more pleasant than the field.
The constable’s unease had not been helped by the stories circulating round the station, spread by other officers who had done the duty and reported how eerie the whole experience had proved. This was the constable’s first time at the farm and he was not sure if they were being genuine or had been winding him up. A light breeze blew up and the nearby copse rustled and sighed, and as the officer peered into the darkness, he could have sworn he saw a figure move among the shadowy trees. But just for a moment. Then it was gone. If it were ever there. The constable shook his head and tried to ignore the prickling down his spine. It would be a long enough night without spooking himself with fanciful thoughts, he told himself as he took another sip of coffee.
And yet as he sat, the ghosts of the sixteen dead men seemed to bear down heavily upon him and he felt as if he were being watched. There was indeed something strange about this place, the constable reflected nervously. He was not sure where the words came from but they reverberated in his head. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. And in that moment, the constable did just that.
Chapter six
Henderson Ramage did not speak as he sat in the interview room at Abbey Road Police Station. He was a burly man, the face fleshy and jowly, the nose slightly bent after one drunken altercation too many and the teeth yellowing and crooked. His hair, black and lank, did not look like it had been washed for a while and he had not shaved, his chin covered in black stubble. Dressed in a tattered green jumper, brown cords covered in mud-flecks and workmen’s boots caked in dried soil, he sat glowering across the table at the detectives.
Like Eddie Gayle, Henderson Ramage was a thug, but locking him up for a long stretch had proved to be beyond the abilities of the many frustrated police officers who had investigated him down the years. Blizzard and Colley sat eying the farmer with ill-disguised contempt.
Sitting next to Ramage was Edward Elsden, his lawyer, a thin well-dressed man whose smart dark suit, blue silk tie and beautifully coiffured, if greying, hair were in sharp contrast to his scruffy client. The lawyer shuffled slightly in his seat, seemingly a trifle embarrassed at Ramage’s unkempt appearance.
‘So, Henderson,’ said a shirt-sleeved Blizzard wearily. ‘Let’s go through it again, shall we?’
‘My client has nothing further to add,’ said the lawyer.
‘I’m getting sick of this,’ said the chief inspector.
* * *
It was approaching 2pm and they had been in the interview room for just over an hour. It had been a thoroughly dispiriting experience for Blizzard and Colley. Ramage had been picked up by Detective Inspector Graham Ross who, as he was leaving Green Meadow Farm that morning, noted a battered white pick-up edging its way along the track. Ramage looked for a moment as if he would turn and flee but thought better of it and surrendered himself to police custody without a struggle. Ramage’s ensuing silence continued a frustrating day. Before the two detectives went into the interview, Ross reported that his forensics team had found little of practical use at the graveside. Adding to Blizzard’s irritation was the news from Colley that all attempts to track down a relative of Horst Knoefler had also proved fruitless. Further increasing his gloom was Colley’s conversation that morning with the tenant farmer at Green Meadow, a fresh-faced pleasant young man called Robin Harvey. Not long out of university when he took over and keen to try out some of his new ideas on agricultural practice, Harvey lived at the farmhouse with his wife and two small children. But Colley’s instincts told him ever more strongly that he was not involved.
‘Frankly,’ said Elsden, ‘I really cannot see why we need to go over old ground. My client has already stated that this matter does not concern him, Chief Inspector. He is a simple farmer.’
‘Simple farmer, my foot! Your client is as bent as they come and we all know it, Mr Elsden. I very much doubt if he spends much time milking cows.’
‘That may be so. He freely admits to less interest in the profession than his father exhibited. Nevertheless, he does acknowledge his responsibilities in the area and assiduously oversees the running of his farm at Burniston by his manager…’
‘Oversees the storage of stolen goods, more like,’ said Blizzard, flicking idly through Ramage’s file on the desk.
‘That was many years ago,’ replied the lawyer.
‘Maybe. Why was your client visiting Green Meadow Farm when he was appr
ehended by my officers this morning?’
‘My client takes a keen interest in the running of Green Meadow Farm and visits periodically to check that all is well with Mr Harvey and his family.’
‘I’ll bet he does. So where has he been over the past few days?’
‘As I have already informed you,’ said the lawyer. ‘Mr Ramage was out of the area on a business trip.’
‘Yes, but he won’t sodding well tell us what kind of business will he?’ said Blizzard.
‘It was legitimate farm business,’ said the lawyer. ‘Is that not right, Mr Ramage?’
‘Yeah,’ said the farmer. ‘It was.’
‘So what was it?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Because I am damned sure he was not out buying cabbage seed.’
‘My client does not feel that he wishes to enlighten you as to its nature.’
‘Well, I think he was up to no good,’ said Blizzard. ‘And I think it is too much of a coincidence that he does his vanishing act just as the JCB turfs up the skeletons on his farm.’
‘You can be assured that my client’s movements are nothing to do with the matters on which we have been speaking.’
‘How can I be assured of anything if he won’t tell me where he was or what he was doing?’ snapped Blizzard.
‘Whatever he was doing, my client does not, as far as he can recall, make a habit of dropping dead Germans into holes in his fields, Chief Inspector,’ said Elsden with the wisp of a smile. ‘It does so scare the livestock and my client cannot see why you are interested in him in relation to the events at Green Meadow Farm.’
‘Because he sodding well owns it!’ exclaimed Blizzard.
‘Anybody could have trespassed on his lands to deposit the unfortunate Mr Knoefler in the grave.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ramage. ‘There’s some real wierdos around.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ grunted Blizzard.
There was a knock on the door. The chief inspector nodded at Colley and the sergeant walked out into the corridor to find an excited Ross. After a hurried conversation, Colley nodded and returned to the room. Ramage watched him sit down but could read nothing from his non-committal expression. Even the lawyer seemed a touch concerned at his demeanour and Blizzard raised a quizzical eyebrow.
