THE DCI BLIZZARD MURDER MYSTERIES: Books 1 to 3

by John Dean

  ‘We never saw them again,’ said Cranmer.

  ‘Was Knoefler one of the troublemakers?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Him?’ Cranmer shook his head. ‘No, not him. Good as gold, was Horst. Most of them were.’

  ‘How come you remember him?’ asked Colley. ‘I mean, like you said, there were hundreds of them there.’

  ‘Demon chess player,’ said Cranmer. ‘I thought I was good but Horst, he was really something. We used to play a lot and I think I only beat him three times. He used to do this devilish move with his bishops and a rook. Got me every time.’

  ‘So, what was he like?’ asked Colley. ‘I mean, as a man?’

  ‘Quiet chap. Very courteous even though we were on opposing sides. We got on OK. It was the same with most of the prisoners.’

  ‘We are struggling to find out what happened to Horst before he came to the camp. Any ideas where he had been fighting?’ asked Colley.

  ‘He never talked about any of that,’ said Cranmer. ‘I never asked him and he never asked me. Didn’t seem to matter. Both our wars were over.’

  ‘Did anything happen at the camp that might explain why he was killed?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘Not that I can recall.’ Cranmer shook his head. ‘To be honest, life was all very uneventful, Chief Inspector. Most of them just wanted the war to end and be shipped home to their families. It was not in their interest to cause trouble.’

  ‘And what about before the war? Do you know anything about his life then?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Cranmer. ‘I think he said he came from Hamburg. Funny, really, whenever I asked him, he changed the subject.’

  ‘Any idea why?’ asked Colley.

  ‘Well, there was one thing,’ said the old man cautiously.

  ‘Go on,’ replied Blizzard as Cranmer paused for a moment.

  ‘Well, you should not speak ill of the dead,’ said Cranmer, lowering his voice a touch, almost as if the German could hear him from beyond the grave, ‘but I think Horst was a bit of a spiv.’

  ‘Spiv?’

  ‘Yes. You name it, he could get it when he was in the camp,’ Cranmer said. ‘Horst could get hold of the kind of chocolate I hadn’t seen for years. God knows where he got it from. Anyway, one night, just a few weeks before the war ended, we were sitting outside his hut, sharing a cigarette after a game of chess – he’d got the ciggies as well as I recall – and he told me he might be in trouble when he went home.’

  ‘Did he say why?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Said he was wanted by the police.’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Did he say why they were after him?’

  ‘Said he had been selling stuff on the black market. Said he had a lot to be grateful to Adolf Hitler for.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by that?’ asked Colley.

  ‘He gave the impression that if it wasn’t for the war, he’d probably have been arrested. Joining the army was his way out. When he saw how interested I was in his story, he clammed up. Told me I must not say anything to anyone. It was the only time I saw him looked worried.’

  ‘And did you say anything?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Not even to a commanding officer?’ said Blizzard, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or the local police?’

  ‘Do you think the police would have been interested in some German black-market racketeer with a neat line in ciggies and bars of chocolate?’

  ‘Plenty of Hafton spivs to worry about,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cranmer. ‘Although you would know more about that than I would. Anyway, all I know is that we never spoke of it again.’

  ‘Did you see Horst after the war?’ asked Colley.

  ‘No.’ The old man shook his head again. ‘When it was all over, we went our separate ways. The camp stayed open for a few months after the end of the war but I left and got a job at local engineering factory four or five months before it closed. I never went back.’

  ‘Any idea what happened to Horst when he was released?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘None, I am afraid.’

  ‘You never met up?’

  ‘No. If the truth be told, I felt guilty about how friendly we had been with the POWs. I felt I had let down the lads that died that day near Caen. And all the others. So when the war finished, so did our relationship.’

  ‘But did you not come to think of him as a friend?’ asked Colley. ‘At least in some way?’

  ‘No,’ said the old man, eyes suddenly burning bright, ‘not a friend, Sergeant. A human being, yes, but not a friend. It’s never really over, you see.’

  ‘It certainly isn’t,’ murmured Blizzard.

  ‘So how come you did not come forward when we named Horst Knoefler at the press conference?’ asked Colley.

  ‘Couldn’t see the point, really,’ said Cranmer. ‘I haven’t seen him since the day I left the camp. What use could I be? It was Elspeth here that suggested I contact you.’

  ‘I thought he might know something of use,’ she said. ‘It took me a while to track his address down. I hope I did the right thing.’

  ‘You did,’ said Blizzard. ‘Oh, did you find out anything about Moira Savage’s idea? Could the camp become an official war grave?’

  ‘I don’t really think so,’ she said cautiously. ‘For a start, I understand several of the families in Germany have already requested that their relatives be shipped home.’

  ‘They have,’ said Blizzard. ‘But, in theory, it could become a war grave if some of the bodies stayed in Hafton?’

  ‘That would be for others to decide,’ she said. ‘You think it’s a good idea, don’t you, Edward?’

  ‘I do actually. Most of them were decent blokes. They deserve a proper resting place. But…’ He fixed the detectives with a quizzical expression. ‘I am still a bit confused. What on earth could any of this have to do with Horst’s death?’

  ‘What indeed?’ murmured Blizzard, glancing out of the window and noticing without much surprise that it had started to rain again. ‘What indeed?’

  They left the house a few minutes later and on their way to the car, Blizzard said, ‘I’ll drop you off at the factory, there’s something I need to do.’

  ‘Not going off on one of your tangents again, are you?’ asked Colley suspiciously.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the inquiry,’ said Blizzard. ‘Honest.’

  Chapter eleven

  An hour later, having dropped Colley off at Abbey Road, Blizzard was standing in the wrecked shell that was Tenby Street Railway Station. Through his passion for local industrial history, Blizzard knew all about the station, which dated back to a time when the growth of the railway in Hafton was rapid, linking the city with the rest of northern England.

  The decision to turn it into an unmanned halt took a terrible toll. Tenby Street deteriorated, becoming a target for vandals and arsonists, and its increasingly fragile state meant it was unable to resist the ravages of the harsh northern winters, eventually becoming derelict. That was when the Hafton railway society, led by an appalled John Blizzard, intervened, arguing that the building’s historical importance meant it should be preserved. Society members had drawn up a proposal for a railway museum with the Silver Flyer at its heart. Now, Blizzard stood in the musty station, visualising what the loco would look like on the main platform, and waited for the man from the city council to arrive. Glancing around at the platform stained with pigeon droppings, at the deserted and darkened ticket booths and into the shadows of the neglected offices through doors that hung off rusting hinges, he shook his head at the thought of all that history being lost for ever. The scrape of a shoe broke into his reverie and he turned and smiled.

  ‘Malcolm,’ he said, extending a hand.

  Malcolm Watt shook the hand enthusiastically. A slim, earnest young man, dressed in green chords and a yellow shirt with green tie, he was the council’s tourism officer.

  ‘How’s
it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Blizzard, ‘especially since the news that the council is going to turn this into a railway museum.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, not so fast,’ said Watt as they walked along the platform, watched by the beady-eyed pigeons perching on the rusty rafters above. ‘It’s still just a proposal from my department – well, I say department, there’s me and the kettle – and it still has to go to full council.’

  ‘Yeah, but several of the councillors are old railmen. They’ll back it, surely?’

  ‘They are and they will,’ said Watt, ‘but it’s not that easy. You know councils, they’re always squeezed for cash and we reckon it would cost at least £15m to turn this place around.’

  ‘So, are you saying the railway museum might not go ahead?’ asked the chief inspector anxiously.

  ‘I’m saying it’s a brilliant idea but sometimes that’s not everything. Surely I don’t have to tell you, of all people, what politicians are like?’

  They had reached the end of the platform and Blizzard stared out over the nearby wasteland, once occupied by terraces of houses that had long since been demolished.

  ‘How are you getting on with Elspeth Roberts?’ asked Watt, turning and starting to walk back down the platform.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yeah. Which council officer do you think first realised what old Willy Savage had on his land?’

  ‘You were the one who spoke out about the huts?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Sure did. Everyone had forgotten about them.’

  ‘So, when did you meet Elspeth?’

  ‘We knew each other at university. I was studying planning and she was doing archaeology. In fact,’ he looked slightly embarrassed, ‘we even went out a couple of times.’

  Blizzard raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Didn’t work, though,’ said Watt sadly. ‘Anyhow, moving on rapidly, when the university team was called in to survey the camp I rang her up again. Went out for a drink with her.’

  ‘I thought she was married?’

  ‘It was purely platonic. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Elspeth is passionate about her work and really keen to see the POW camp saved. She’d do anything in her power to achieve that.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘Actually, I prefer the railway museum idea, but what I think does not come into it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Four or five months ago, just after I had got the tourism officer’s job, a number of opposition councillors came to see me.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘It was all very hush-hush but they reckoned the camp would make a good tourist attraction and wanted my support in lobbying for the council to spend money on converting it.’

  ‘Why were they suddenly so interested?’

  ‘Several of them were new ones, younger people just elected to the council. A couple of them had relatives who had been in the Hafton Regiment; I think they saw it as a chance to celebrate the history of the Haftons. Oh, and as chance to make a name for themselves.’

  ‘Sounds like Moira Savage got to them,’ grunted Blizzard.

  ‘Let’s just say she is an energetic and persuasive woman when she has the bit between her teeth. And, like I said, the councillors who came to see me were Conservatives. But what I am saying is…’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, that you’re not sure the council can support the camp and this place.’

  ‘Unfortunately.’ Watt looked at the chief inspector apologetically. ‘Mind, until all this thing blew up at the farm, the railway museum still had a chance, the last thing Labour was going to do was back anything put forward by the Tories. But the discovery of the bodies put a different spin on it and there are quite a few Labour councillors prepared to entertain the idea now. And, remember, there’s an election coming up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Celebrating the Hafton Regiment will play well to the electorate.’

  ‘But can’t you put a word in for this place?’ The chief inspector glanced around him. ‘It needs a few friends right now.’

  ‘I will try but you have not got a hell of a lot of friends in city hall. You’re not exactly the most diplomatic of men.’

  ‘Politics,’ snorted Blizzard.

  ‘I hate it as well,’ said Watt, ‘but you really should learn to play the game better if you want to get things done.’

  When he spoke, John Blizzard was struck by how much he sounded like Arthur Ronald.

  Chapter twelve

  “Are you OK?’ asked Blizzard.

  It was early afternoon and having returned to Abbey Road Police Station after his meeting at the railway station, the chief inspector was sitting with Fee Ellis in the deserted CID squad room, waiting for other officers to arrive for a briefing. Blizzard had walked in to see her sitting at her desk, holding her head in her hands. Now looking into her face, which was pale and adorned with a livid black eye, his expression underlined his worry. It also illustrated for him yet again the difficulties of working together. At the time their relationship had started, Ronald had suggested that Ellis be transferred to another department but she protested, desperate not to see her fledgling CID career killed off before it started. Blizzard, who could see both viewpoints, had assured Ronald that they could maintain a professional distance between them at work. Reluctantly, Ronald had relented but the couple knew they were on probation. So far, it had worked well, except for those times when she put her life at risk in the line of duty, as had happened at the ferry terminal the night before.

  Blizzard knew that was all part of the job – he had faced down enough men with knives and guns in his time – but it did not make it any easier for him. The first time it struck home was when he heard that she had disarmed a man brandishing a wooden stave during a drugs operation on one of the division’s toughest housing estates. Blizzard had tried desperately to appear unconcerned when Colley was telling him about it with great enthusiasm but the chief inspector nevertheless felt his heart pounding. It was not a pleasant experience and coping with it did not get any easier; the demands of policing Western Division did not allow it to get any easier. Now, surveying her black eye and weary expression, Blizzard was feeling that uncomfortable sensation again.

  ‘Perhaps you should go off duty,’ he suggested.

  ‘Don’t be such a fusspot,’ said Ellis with a forced smile. ‘I’m perfectly fine as long as I don’t nod my head.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘It makes a strange rattling noise.’

  ‘Have you seen the doc?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ she said. ‘My friends have been saying for ages that I must have a screw loose to go out with an old fogey like you. This just proves it.’

  He stared at her, not sure whether to be relieved that she was not badly hurt or offended by the comment. When he saw the smile creep over her face, he settled for the pained expression he normally reserved for one of Colley’s bad jokes.

  ‘You,’ said the detective constable, ‘are just too easy to string along, Mr Blizzard. And you worry about me too much.’

  ‘OK, point taken,’ he said and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Eh, eh, eh, he’s never that nice to me,’ said a voice and they turned to see Colley walking in with a wide grin on his face. ‘I normally just have to settle for a quick kiss – and no tongues, mind.’

  ‘A thought that conjures up so many negative images,’ replied Blizzard. ‘But let’s be honest, you are not as attractive as the constable here.’

  Ellis blushed but said nothing as, with a murmur of voices, more officers filed into the room and Blizzard switched once again into professional mode, stood up and walked over to the desk at the front of the room. Colley, settling himself down in his customary position in the corner, tipping back on his chair, feet resting on the desk, winked at the chief inspector. Blizzard feigned not to see it.

  ‘So, la
dies and gentlemen,’ said Blizzard, looking at the gathering expectantly, ‘let us start to make some sense of all this.’

  There was much to make sense of. It had been a busy day at Abbey Road Police Station and, on his return, the chief inspector had roamed the corridors, seeking out officers and demanding updates. His urgency had communicated itself to the investigators; they knew that the longer they went without breakthroughs in the Knoefler case, the greater the pressure from on high became.

  ‘Gerry,’ said Blizzard, looking at the customs chief. ‘Please give me some answers.’

  Gerry Hope, a burly man with thinning black hair and a black moustache, was sitting at one of the desks. Dressed in a dark suit, he had a slightly dishevelled look. Now with dark bags under his blue eyes after a long night, and precious little sleep, he considered his response.

  ‘OK,’ he said at length. ‘This is what I think we know after this morning’s interviews. Well, maybe interviews is putting it a bit strongly because none of these characters speak English and we have had to wait for interpreters to arrive.’

  ‘Have they told you anything?’ asked Blizzard.

  ‘From what we can gather, they all come from North Africa. We think the gang smuggling them is from Germany. Probably Hamburg.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘They had nothing at all on them. No money, nothing.’

  ‘Who is the old guy?’ asked Blizzard, recalling the white-haired man he had seen standing next to the lorry the night before.

  ‘That’s the superintendent,’ quipped Colley as, with impeccable timing, Ronald walked in and looked at them in bemusement as the room erupted in raucous laughter.

  ‘I won’t ask,’ said Ronald, looking at the grinning faces, dragging up a chair and sitting down next to Blizzard.

  ‘Best not to,’ said the chief inspector. ‘So who is the old guy, Gerry?’

  ‘No idea. Won’t talk to us.’

  ‘OK. So where does Garry Horton fit into it?’

  ‘It seems clear that he was their link in this country,’ said Hope. ‘That was the name on the piece of paper they had, which serves to strengthen our belief that they are being brought in by a gang based in the city rather than the West Midlands, as we at first thought.’