NO AGE TO DIE: The release of a dangerous prisoner leads to murder (DCI John Blizzard Book 9) by John Dean (free ebook reader for android .TXT) 📗

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 sorry.’

‘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.

‘Was this area not searched