by John Dean
‘The business has not been doing as well as everyone thinks,’ said Savage after glancing at his lawyer, who nodded at him. ‘Land prices have been dropping in this area for several years and more of the farmers are holding off until the market turns. I needed something quick and Henderson Ramage provided it.’
‘So, what was the plan? Turn the screws on your wife to scare her off?’
‘Something like that,’ said Savage weakly, the fight going out of him again. ‘I had tried to tell her to drop her campaigning so many times but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘And she wouldn’t be scared off either, would she?’
‘She just would not quit,’ said Savage. ‘That was Moira all over. Said no bully boy would keep her quiet.’
‘Well, he has now,’ said Blizzard. ‘So, what happened? I assume that when she started banging on to anyone who would listen about the idea of a consecrated war grave, that was the final straw for Ramage?’
‘He rang me a couple of days ago,’ said Savage. ‘He was absolutely furious. Said she had to be silenced because the housing company was threatening to pull out and take its money back. I said I would have another word with her but he said he would handle it; told me to invent an excuse to get out of the way.’
‘And came round and killed her,’ said Blizzard.
‘Yes.’ The voice was hoarse now, virtually a whisper.
‘While you spent the afternoon in a guest house.’
‘Yes,’ said Savage.
‘Why did you take the Bentley?’ asked Colley. ‘Surely you must have realised someone would have noticed it. It’s not exactly low profile, is it?’
‘Moira would have thought it odd if I didn’t take it to Torquay. I always drive it on long trips and I could not afford to raise her suspicions. I tried to park it round the back of the guest house but someone had dumped a skip there so I had to park it on the front.’
He looked at them helplessly.
‘I never thought he would do this,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘It’s a nightmare.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Blizzard. He walked from the room and headed along the corridor towards Ronald’s office.
‘Well?’ asked the superintendent as the chief inspector walked in. ‘All sorted?’
‘Depends what you mean by sorted,’ said Blizzard, sitting down heavily in a chair and suddenly feeling very weary. ‘Put it this way, there might be a vacancy in Brian Savage’s Lodge soon.’
‘Brilliant.’ Ronald groaned and closed his eyes.
‘Hey,’ said Blizzard, looking at his friend with mischief in his eyes as if the thought had just occurred to him. ‘They might let you in, Arthur.’
‘Not after your little performance tonight,’ said Ronald. ‘Or over the past few years for that matter.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Blizzard, standing up and heading back out of the office. ‘I’ll nip down to B&Q tomorrow and get you a trowel anyway.’
A gloomy Ronald could hear him chuckling all the way down the dimly-lit corridor on his way back to the interview room.
Chapter sixteen
For Blizzard, driving home from Abbey Road in the early hours of the morning having ensured that Brian Savage was locked up for the night, many things were still unclear as he turned them over in his mind. Each time, he came up against the same basic problem, the link between the killing of Moira Savage and Horst Knoefler. Or rather, the lack of a link. Half of the equation was easy. The chief inspector could understand why Moira Savage had been killed; she was standing in the way of a lucrative bit of business for Henderson Ramage.
Not so easy when it came to Brian Savage, though, because the chief inspector was convinced that he did not mean for his wife to be killed; his shock at her murder was too genuine for that. There was no way that Savage could ever have really thought that Ramage’s hired thugs would go that far. In his more generous moments, Blizzard could even convince himself that Henderson Ramage did not mean her to be killed either. It was perfectly feasible to imagine how things might have got out of hand when the heavies arrived at the house.
But Horst Knoefler, how did he fit into things, mused the chief inspector as he left the deserted city streets and headed out towards the village where he lived. Perhaps, and this idea was the one that simply would not be dislodged, he did not fit into things at all. No, thought Blizzard with a shake of the head as he pulled up to his front drive, cut the lights and got out and dragged his black binbags out for the morning collection, the answer lay in the damp soil of Green Meadow Farm. Of that he was sure.
It was the dramatic turn of events an hour’s drive inland, as Blizzard was struggling to get to sleep, that cast new light on the case. The event happened at the makeshift holding camp where the illegals apprehended at the ferry terminal were taken after their questioning finished. A former RAF airfield, the site had been appropriated by the Home Office eighteen months previously. The idea was that the centre, with its ageing huts and weed-infested runways, would be the temporary holding place for people awaiting deportation. As Blizzard was dozing fitfully, events were taking a distinctly sinister turn.
It meant another brief night for the chief inspector, the call from Gerry Hope coming shortly before 4.30am. What Hope had to say snapped Blizzard wide awake. Two hours before, a white transit van pulled up on the furthest perimeter of the camp and three men wearing black balaclava masks hacked their way through the high wire fence with industrial cutters. The van slammed through the remainder of the fence and drove at high speed towards the huts where the deportees were being held.
A couple of the soldiers on guard, alerted by the revving of the engine, ran across to intercept the van, which slewed to a halt just metres from them. More gang members leapt out and, having opened fire on the soldiers with sawn-off shotguns, smashed their way into the nearest hut. Clearly waiting for their arrival, the group from the ferry terminal rushed out into the night air. The raiders left the younger men to make their own way out but grabbed the older man and bundled him into the van, which screeched away across the grass and out through the gaping hole in the fence and into the night. It was all over in three minutes, a highly professional operation and one that smacked of organised crime. By the time the local police arrived, they were long gone. Hope rang Blizzard during his journey back from the camp, where he had been summoned to survey the scene, and now, shortly after six, the two men were sitting in the chief inspector’s office in a largely deserted Abbey Road Police Station. Outside, all was pitch black, dawn still a long way off and they had settled down with mugs of tea.
‘I’m getting too old for this getting up early lark,’ muttered Hope, taking a sip and hoping it would banish the thick-headed feeling.
‘Me, too,’ said Blizzard, glancing up at the office clock.
The office door swung open and in breezed David Colley. He was dressed as immaculately as ever in a dark suit, dark blue tie done up and shoes shiny, in stark contrast to Hope in his crumpled grey jacket and mud-spattered dark trousers and Blizzard in a hurriedly thrown-on suit with an unfastened tie draped round his neck.
‘Morning, girls,’ said Colley cheerily.
‘Is he always like this?’ asked Hope.
‘Yeah,’ grunted Blizzard, glancing at his bright-eyed sergeant. ‘I blame the amphetamines.’
‘Anyone want a top-up?’ said Colley, nodding at their mugs.
He disappeared and they could hear the clink of cups further down the corridor then the sergeant returning, whistling cheerfully.
‘Too bloody happy,’ growled Hope, fatigue seeping through his bones.
‘So,’ said Colley, entering the office, slumping in a chair and taking an appreciative sip of tea. ‘There’s a great big floppy-eared mammal bounding around somewhere, gents.’
‘There is indeed,’ said Hope, fascinated by the image which of a huge rabbit bouncing across the airfield runway. ‘They definitely knew who they were after and where he was.’
‘And th
ey only took the old fella?’ asked Colley.
‘Yeah.’
‘By force?’
‘No.’ Hope shook his head. ‘One of the guards said he seemed to know they were coming and that he got into the van voluntarily. Even hugged one of the rescuers.’
‘And the other illegals, what happened to them?’ asked the sergeant.
‘The gang just left them to make their own escape,’ said Hope. ‘The local cops have got most of them now. Three are missing, that’s all. And they won’t get far, I don’t imagine. But it wasn’t about them, I’m sure about that.’
‘So, what the hell is it about, Gerry?’ asked Blizzard, glancing at the unshaven customs man. ‘What is so special about the old fella?’
‘Well,’ said Hope, opening his battered brown briefcase, ‘I may be able to shed some light on that. You see, I reckon what happened earlier is something to do with your Knoefler fellow.’
‘Really?’ Blizzard sat forward with a look of intense interest on his face.
‘Could be the link we’ve been looking for, guv,’ said Colley.
‘It could indeed,’ said Hope, handing over a couple of newspaper cuttings.
Blizzard examined them in silence for a moment or two before handing them to the sergeant and looking at the customs officer quizzically.
‘Where did you find them?’ asked Blizzard.
‘They belonged to the old bloke. After the break-out, we searched the hut and found them hidden in the bedstead. The guards had missed them.’
‘How?’
‘It’s the old metal type where you can screw the top off the legs and he had stuffed them down there. Must have forgotten them in the rush to escape, or perhaps he thought we would never find them.’
‘German newspapers,’ said Blizzard.
‘Yeah,’ said Hope. ‘The story appeared over there the day after you gave that press conference when you said Horst Knoefler was the man in the grave. And see how the word Hafton has been ringed in red pen on both articles.’
‘It’s certainly very interesting,’ said Blizzard, glancing at his sergeant. ‘What do you reckon, David, is our man in the truck a relative of Horst Knoefler?’
‘Could be,’ said Blizzard.
‘Let me enlighten you,’ said Hope with a triumphant look on his face, rooting around in his briefcase again, fishing out a piece of paper and winking at Colley. ‘I always like to keep the best till last. Sort of a big finale.’
‘I always said customs were a bunch of drama queens,’ grunted Blizzard.
‘It’s true,’ said Colley, with a mischievous expression on his face, ‘he does always say that.’
‘Don’t be surprised if your bags get searched next time you go to Italy,’ said Hope to Blizzard but the detectives knew that he was not annoyed.
‘So, what have you got?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘Well, I was going to talk to you last night but your control room said you were busy with the murder over at Hawkwith.’
‘Just a bit,’ grunted Blizzard.
‘Nice to know someone else is having a shite time.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment. What were you going to tell me?’
‘I got a fax late yesterday from an old mate of mine,’ said Hope. ‘Lad called Arnie Bellshaw. We started together over in Eastern Division when I was a copper. Arnie married a German girl and moved over there, works as a detective with the police in Hamburg these days.’
‘Well, I hope you got further with him than Tulley did with the people he rang,’ said Blizzard morosely. ‘They hadn’t even heard of Horst Knoefler. So much for German sodding efficiency.’
‘I’m not surprised they hadn’t,’ said Hope.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘All will become clear. Anyway, I sent Arnie a photograph of our mystery old fella from the truck. He came back to me yesterday after one of his informants recognised the bloke.’
‘So, who is he?’ asked Blizzard.
‘None other than Franz Hasse,’ said Hope, handing the fax to the chief inspector.
‘The name rings a bell,’ said Blizzard.
‘Drug trafficker.’
‘Of course,’ said Blizzard with a low whistle. ‘I saw his name on a circular when I was in drugs squad; he operated out of Germany, didn’t he?’
‘Hamburg,’ said Hope.
‘Hang on,’ said Colley. ‘Who is he?’
‘Big-time criminal,’ said Hope. ‘Everyone thought he was long retired but we are still very interested in him, as are Interpol. In fact, everyone will be fighting each other to get their hands on him, old as he may be.’
‘Pity you’ve lost him then,’ said Blizzard sardonically.
‘Er, yes, indeed,’ said Hope, an unhappy look creeping over his face. ‘There are still warrants out in half a dozen countries for him. He started out as a black market racketeer in Hamburg.’
‘Now that is interesting,’ murmured Blizzard, ‘because that is exactly what Edward Cranmer said about Horst Knoefler.’
‘Yeah, that could well explain a lot,’ said Hope. ‘Franz appears to have taken over the criminal activities of his older brother, one Martin Hasse. During the war, Martin goes off to do his duty for barmy Adolf but Franz is too young to join up. In the years that follows, he builds up the criminal empire.’
‘And not just drugs, as I recall,’ said Blizzard.
‘Indeed. There were a lot of lads that came out of the army with their weapons and after the war Hasse ran a black market selling their guns to criminal gangs all over Europe. Apparently, he was responsible for a series of nasty armed robberies in Germany as well. Couple of bank tellers and a cop got shot dead during one of them in Hamburg.’
‘So, if Horst was really Hasse’s brother, it’s not surprising that he did not want to go home,’ said Colley. ‘The last thing he wanted was to be linked to a cop-killer.’
‘Indeed,’ said Hope. ‘Anyhow, eventually Franz Hasse moved into drugs, heroin mainly. Linked up with a couple of Turkish gangs, took out a couple of rival gangs. All nasty stuff, lots of shooting. Got younger lads to do the work but he was pulling the strings.’
‘How come no one managed to arrest him?’ asked the sergeant.
‘According to Arnie, the cops have been close to him a few times.’
‘I can think of someone else like that,’ said Blizzard, a vision of Eddie Gayle in his mind. ‘So how come no one collared Franz?’
‘Kept moving,’ said Hope. ‘Arnie says the word is that Franz has people on the inside keeping him one step ahead of the game.’
‘Cops?’ asked Blizzard.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘So how come you did not clock who he was at the terminal?’ asked Colley.
‘I simply didn’t make the connection and no one had ever taken his prints so he was not on the records. Everyone assumed he was dead or living out his retirement in a villa somewhere. He’s no spring chicken. I did not make the connection until I saw the newspaper cutting and by then it was too late.’
He looked at them hopefully. ‘Does that sound convincing?’
‘Very good,’ said Blizzard reassuringly. ‘It’ll play really well at the official inquiry before they stick our arses out of the window to dry.’
‘So,’ said Colley, ‘if he was yesterday’s man, how come he turned up in the back of a truck at Hafton Terminal?’
‘Good question,’ said Hope.
‘It’s got to be something to do with organised crime,’ said Blizzard. ‘The breakout last night had all the hallmarks. They knew exactly where to go. Someone must have told them where he was.’
He looked at Hope.
‘Again.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hope. And it won’t take long for people to start saying the tip-off came from customs or one of your lot.’
‘I just hope your lot are watertight,’ said the chief inspector, mulling over the implications.
‘Are yours?’ riposted the customs man calmly.
‘Point taken,’ said Blizzard. ‘Mind, the leak could be someone at the holding camp.’
‘Whoever it was, there’s a lot of top brass stamping around wanting answers,’ said Hope. ‘Give it 24 hours and we won’t be able to move for sodding clipboards. And the Military Police are already clumping about in their size fifteens.’
‘Get away,’ grunted Blizzard.
‘Everyone is terrified it will hit the press,’ said Hope.
‘I am sure they are,’ said Blizzard. ‘They’d have a field day. This is the kind of thing that ends ministers’ careers.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hope. ‘In fact, one of the chinless Home Office wonders rang me when I was at the camp – Sebastian Faffar-Faffaffar or something equally poncey – to say the Home Secretary had started an official investigation and that he wanted answers. Be warned, this is bringing a lot of shite down on our heads.’
‘Brilliant,’ groaned Blizzard. ‘That’s all we need.’
‘So I suggest you keep your legs clean.’
Blizzard glanced at the customs man’s mud-flecked trousers.
‘And you,’ he said with a wry grin.
‘So,’ said Colley, nodding at the newspaper cuttings on the desk, ‘can we prove Horst Knoefler was really Martin Hasse in an earlier life?’
‘There is nothing concrete,’ said Hope, ‘but I think there has to be a good chance. Why else would Franz have the cuttings on him?’
‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard, cradling his mug of now lukewarm tea. ‘So, how does this sound? During World War Two, Martin joins up to escape the German plod. At some point, he realises the war is lost and he cannot go home because the plod will lift him, so he changes his name to Horst Knoefler; the police would not be looking for anyone of that name.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Colley. ‘It explains why Hafton POW Camp had no background information on Horst Knoefler.’
‘Indeed,’ said Blizzard. ‘And it’s war so nobody cares anyway. He decides to stay in Britain, marries a British girl, puts his past behind him and turns legit. To all intents and purposes, Martin Hasse is dead and buried – as it were.’
‘But brother Franz knows his new identity,’ said Colley, ‘and when he reads in the newspaper that Horst is dead, he comes over here to find out what happened. He can’t travel the usual way in case some of Gerry’s lads spot him at an airport or whatever. So he goes illegally.’
