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

  NO AGE TO DIE

  The release of a dangerous prisoner leads to murder

  JOHN DEAN

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2021

  © John Dean

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  NO AGE TO DIE is the ninth book in a series of DCI Blizzard murder mysteries by John Dean. You don’t need to have read the others in the series to enjoy it. Details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter thirty-four

  Chapter thirty-five

  Epilogue

  List of Characters

  Also featuring DCI John Blizzard

  The DCI Jack Harris series

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  Chapter one

  ‘It’s no age to die,’ said Detective Sergeant David Colley. He shook his head and gazed out of the car’s rain-flecked windows at the prison. ‘You shouldn’t go at fourteen.’

  ‘You certainly shouldn’t,’ said Detective Chief Inspector John Blizzard. He was sitting in the driver’s seat and staring moodily at the steering wheel.

  ‘I mean, you’re supposed to die when your hair has gone white and your joints are creaking,’ said Colley.

  No reply. The sergeant sighed. The leaden atmosphere outside was nothing compared to the oppressive silence that had persisted for more than an hour in the inspector’s vehicle, which was sitting in the prison car park.

  ‘Someone like you,’ added Colley, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He shot a sly glance at his boss, eyeing the flecks of grey in the senior officer’s hair.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Blizzard.

  Colley smiled as he noticed the inspector surreptitiously glance in the rear-view mirror and run a hand across his temples. Probably not even aware he had done it, thought the sergeant. He returned his attention to the scene outside the car. Blizzard’s bleak mood was entirely understandable. It was a typically gloomy winter’s morning in the northern city of Hafton and you never really got used to Hafton’s gloomy winter mornings. It was something about the way the damp wheedled its way into your bones, thought Colley.

  The reason for the detectives’ presence outside the prison was doing little to help their state of mind. Neither of them wanted to be there, but orders were orders and they might as well make the best of it, the sergeant had said as they had left the police station. Blizzard was not making the best of it. It was not his style; if he didn’t like something, he’d say so, and on this occasion he had made his dissatisfaction clear, contending that there were better ways of occupying police resources. A suggestion from his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Arthur Ronald, that those better ways could revolve around the paperwork stacked up on the inspector’s desk had driven a grumbling Blizzard out into the damp morning air. Now, as the two detectives sat outside the prison, he had lapsed into the kind of morose silence which Colley knew only too well.

  Staring at the large Victorian prison, Colley felt, as he often did, a strange kind of sympathy for those destined to spend their days inside its walls. Built initially as a workhouse, it had been used for prisoners for more than a hundred years. An ageing, crumbling building, with cramped cells and grubby windows and pervaded by the sickly odour of sweat, stale urine and antiseptic, its atmosphere always struck Colley as dark and oppressive whenever he visited. However, it was not so much the smells and the sights which disturbed him, it was the sounds – the rattling of keys, the clanging of the endless doors and the barking of the guard dogs. The prison had posters warning that anyone straying within eight feet of one of the German shepherds would be bitten. Despite the crimes committed by the men held in the top security prison, Colley could appreciate their relief when they were finally released.

  The sergeant’s empathy did not extend to the man about to taste his first freedom in many years and for whom the officers were waiting. Albert Macklin was one of the residents of C-Wing, which housed at-risk prisoners – most of them, like Macklin, convicted of serious crimes against children. He was, in many people’s eyes, the worst of the lot. Now aged seventy-one, he had spent thirty-four years in prison on and off, all for offences against children, starting with flashing at small boys in the park and culminating the wicked night he murdered a teenage boy.

  ‘How come he’s being let out anyway?’ asked Colley. He hoped that the question would encourage the inspector to engage in conversation. Both men were the fathers of young children and both felt strongly about the decision to let Macklin out. ‘Why not just throw away the key?’

  ‘The shrinks say that he’s a reformed character,’ said the chief inspector. He shifted in his seat and winced as his bad back gave a twinge – it often did in cold and damp weather. ‘If it was down to me, he would never come out. His type are never reformed.’

  Colley nodded; he knew why mention of the name evoked such passions in Blizzard. Macklin had been jailed more than twenty years previously for the killing of Danny Lennox and, as a young uniformed officer, Blizzard had been one of the team which took part in the search of the frozen canal-side for evidence after the body of the fourteen-year-old was discovered, concealed beneath a hurriedly-constructed hide made of branches. It had been found by a woman walking her dog.

  It had not taken the murder team long to come knocking on Albert Macklin’s door. A man with a record like his was always the first to come under suspicion. Macklin denied enticing the teenager to the canal-side, claiming Danny Lennox had been a willing participant in a sex game. The boy, he said, had become frightened and tried to run away. According to Macklin, he was terrified that the teenager would tell the police and panicked, grabbing a branch which was lying nearby and striking the boy. Danny had fallen and hit his head. It was all a horrible accident, Macklin claimed in court, except that the post-mortem revealed that the teenager had been struck several times. The jury took just thirty-five minutes to make its decision and Macklin was sentenced to life with a recommendation to serve at least twenty years. Now, with those two decades having passed, he was being released and Blizzard and Colley were waiting for him.


  Shortly after ten o’clock, the prison gates swung slowly open and a small man emerged, tentatively looking about as if unsure what to do next.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Blizzard.

  Colley surveyed the man for a moment; he had heard a lot about Macklin but had never seen him. Very few people had for twenty years, and Colley only had an old picture to go on. Time had not been kind to the prisoner. Macklin, who was dressed in a dishevelled baggy brown suit which might once have been fashionable, seemed somehow crumpled – his legs bandy, his back slightly stooped, his white hair wispy and receding, his cheeks hollow and sunken and his bony chin speckled with stubble. He could have been mistaken for any other harmless little old man, thought Colley, but for the three-inch scar on his right cheek and his mouth, which was thin, cruel and revealed crooked yellowing teeth when the lips parted. Albert Macklin, the sergeant sensed, was still dangerous.

  ‘Jesus,’ he breathed.

  ‘You try to tell me that he should be allowed out,’ said Blizzard. ‘You’d think one look would be enough to keep him in, wouldn’t you? Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  The detectives got out of the vehicle and walked across the car park towards Macklin who was still standing in front of the prison, continuing to look bewildered. His expression changed to one of hostility as he noticed them approaching.

  ‘You police?’ he said in his high-pitched, nasal voice.

  ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector John Blizzard of Hafton Police.’ The DCI flashed his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Colley.’

  ‘What happened to Dennis Barry?’ asked Macklin.

  ‘You’ve been away a long time,’ said Blizzard. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Barry retired eight years ago. He died a few months ago. Heart failure.’

  ‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.’ A thin smile played on Macklin’s lips. ‘So, what do you want with me? I’ve done my time.’

  ‘It’s a friendly warning,’ said Blizzard. ‘Western Division is my patch now and I will be watching you, sunshine. One wrong move and you’ll be back inside that fast your feet won’t touch the ground. If I were you, I’d leave the city.’

  ‘What! Just because you say so?’ There was outrage in the voice but it sounded fake. Albert Macklin knew how the game was played.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ said Blizzard. ‘There are a lot of people who would like to have a go at you. We might not be able to stop them, eh, Sergeant?’

  ‘Can’t be watching your back all the time,’ said Colley.

  ‘But I’ve served my time, why would anyone–’ began Macklin innocently.

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me,’ said Blizzard. ‘You know damn well that once word spreads that you are out, Danny Lennox’s family will come looking for you so might I suggest–’

  ‘You are in no position to suggest anything,’ said a young man. He stepped quickly in front of the startled detectives. ‘Albie is coming with me.’

  ‘I doubt even his mother called him Albie.’ Blizzard glowered at the bespectacled man in his early twenties, with his lank brown hair, freckled face, brown cords and a leather jacket. ‘And do you mind telling me who the bloody hell you are anyway?’

  ‘My name is Jacob Reed. I work at the hostel for ex-offenders based at St John’s Church.’

  ‘That’s all the old rogue needs,’ said Blizzard. ‘Some bloody yoghurt-knitting Bible-bashers looking after him.’

  ‘I’ll thank you to keep your prejudices to yourself,’ said Reed. ‘And, like it or not, Albie will be staying with us until he can find his feet.’

  ‘Well, when he does, hopefully they’ll be taking him out of the city,’ said Blizzard.

  Reed said nothing but took Macklin by the arm and started to lead him towards a battered Citroën parked nearby. After a few steps, Reed turned back towards the detectives.

  ‘And I’ll thank you to stay away from him,’ he said.

  ‘Toerag,’ muttered Blizzard. He watched Reed reach the car and open the passenger door to allow Macklin to get in. ‘What is the world coming to, David?’

  ‘And after you were so friendly with the nice young yoghurt-knitting Bible-basher, as well,’ said the sergeant. ‘Some people just have no gratitude.’

  ‘And how come they are allowed to keep someone like Macklin next to a church where kids go?’ said the inspector. He watched Macklin get into the car. ‘I thought the city council only let them open the hostel on condition that they had low-level offenders. God knows what the locals will say when they find out they’re taking Albert Macklin there.’

  ‘More protests, I would guess,’ said Colley.

  The detectives watched as the Citroën spluttered into life and drove past them. Macklin smirked and waved regally at the detectives.

  ‘Cheeky git,’ said Blizzard. ‘Well, at least we’ve done our bit, David. The brass wanted the old beggar warned and we’ve warned him. Time, I think, for some breakfast. I rather fancy a bacon butty from Maeve’s cafe.’

  ‘I thought Fee had banned you from there so that you can lose a few pounds.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she doesn’t know, does she? And you’re not going to tell her, are you?’

  ‘Actually,’ said the sergeant as he followed his boss towards the car, ‘Jay’s trying to get me to eat more healthily as well so I thought I’d skip the butty and have some nice yoghurt.’

  Blizzard scowled but Colley could see that he had appreciated the joke. The sergeant grinned. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all.

  Chapter two

  David Colley was wrong. It turned out to be a bad day, a very bad day indeed, although it took a few hours for things to unravel. After leaving the prison, Blizzard went to a meeting at force headquarters and Colley continued his investigation into a string of burglaries on one of the division’s industrial estates. By the end of the day, however, Blizzard’s prediction about threats to Albert Macklin’s safety had come true. The phone call came just as he had pulled on his jacket and snapped off the light in his office in Abbey Road Police Station before heading for home. He stood at the door for a moment, silhouetted in the light from the corridor, and wondered whether or not to answer the call. He knew that he would, but he always liked to go through the ritual. After five rings, he picked up the telephone. It was Colley.

  ‘You may want to get out to Lewis Street,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘It seems the locals have worked out that Albert Macklin is out. Pick you up out the front?’

  Having weaved their way through the headlights of the gathering rush-hour traffic, Blizzard and Colley arrived in Lewis Street, which was part of a network of shabby side streets not far from the city centre. The sergeant pulled up outside St John’s, a modern church sporting a large window adorned with a representation of Jesus on the Cross and the image of an armoured tank, atop of which was a soldier pointing a gun at the Lord. However, the detectives were not looking at the window, rather at the large group of men, women and children who were standing outside the church, shouting angrily and wielding hurriedly-made posters, including one that read in shaky red letters ‘We don’t want no perverts’.

  ‘Don’t you hate ungrammatical protests?’ said Blizzard as the detectives got out of the vehicle.

  Colley grinned. There had always been an easy working relationship between the two men, even though on first impressions they appeared to be very different. Dressed as usual, in a dark suit with tie dangling loosely, Blizzard had tousled brown hair, was clean-shaven with a tendency towards shadow in the late afternoon and had wrinkles on his forehead, which became more pronounced when he was under pressure. Colley was ten years younger, his black hair was neatly combed, his round, almost boyish, face showed no signs of stubble, and his trousers, shirt and jacket had all been perfectly ironed by Jay. His shoes shone as usual.

  ‘I see they’ve already smashed a couple of windows,’ said Blizzard. He gestured to a single-stor
ey flat-roofed red-brick building next to the church. ‘Didn’t I hear that this place was going to be demolished?’

  ‘A couple of years ago, yeah. The word was that it was going to be redeveloped for flats but the congregation opposed it and it came to nothing.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ asked Blizzard. ‘Didn’t think you were a churchgoer.’

  ‘I’m not. I got roped in to do a crime prevention talk. Matty Glenister was supposed to do it but he broke his arm. They were nice old sticks. Very friendly. Very firm handshakes, I seem to recall. It’s all changed now, mind. Very evangelical. A lot of young people.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me, it would have been better if they had bulldozed it. The place has been nothing but trouble.’ Blizzard gave the protestors a sour look. ‘So, when did all this blow up?’

  ‘Control got a call half an hour ago from Jacob Reed. He said that someone had chucked a couple of bricks through the windows and that a few ne’er-do-wells were hanging around outside.’ Colley gestured to the protestors. ‘By the time the uniforms got here, this lot had shown up.’

  Blizzard glanced at the two nervous, young uniformed officers standing in front of the building and eyeing the ugly crowd with growing unease.

  ‘And who exactly are the uniforms?’ he asked. ‘They look like a couple of rejects from the Boy Scouts.’

  ‘New lads,’ said Colley. ‘Only been in the job a few weeks.’

  ‘It’s come to something when coppers look young even to other coppers.’ Blizzard groaned as he spotted a face in the crowd. ‘Marvellous. Do you see who I see?’

  Colley followed his gaze.

  ‘That’s Danny Lennox’s dad, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Didn’t he stand up in court and threaten to kill Macklin when he was sentenced?’

  ‘He did more than threaten,’ said Blizzard. ‘Word was that Bob got a couple of his mates to have a go when Macklin was inside. He got stabbed with a broken bottle inside the first fortnight.’