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

were warehouses that had long since closed down; all smashed windows, rotting wooden doors and signs bearing the faded letters of fruit importers.
Blizzard, who had long been a keen student of the city’s social history, hesitated outside the club and shook his head sadly.
‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘It really is.’
‘What is?’ said Colley.
‘All this.’ Blizzard wafted a hand. ‘This area used to be the heartbeat of this city. All colour and noise.’
‘Right.’
Blizzard sighed as he recognised the customary lack of interest in the sergeant’s voice whenever his boss talked history.
‘No soul, David,’ he said. ‘That’s your problem.’
However, Blizzard sensed that there was more to it than that on this occasion – that the sergeant was preoccupied by something else. Colley confirmed it with his next words, uttered as he looked at the shabby door on which faded lettering spelling out the word ‘Lounge’ could just be made out.
‘My only problem,’ he said, ‘is what’s on the other side of that. This place is notorious.’
Blizzard noted the sergeant’s unease, something out of character in a man who was normally at the front in difficult situations. The inspector tried to put on a brave face.
‘We’ll be fine,’ said Blizzard. ‘They’re pussycats, really.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said the sergeant. ‘I may not have the world’s most attractive face but I’ve grown quite attached to it down the years.’
Blizzard gave a low laugh and pushed his way into the lounge. It took a couple of moments for the officers’ eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, created partly because the walls were covered with dark wallpaper and partly because of the fug of cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air – the regulars had long since deemed that the smoking ban did not apply to them. Adding to the oppressive atmosphere was a carpet that was stained brown with decades of filth and trodden-in fag-ash.
The detectives were acutely aware of the hostile expressions from the small number of men gathered round the tables, drinking their pints and talking in low conspiratorial voices as they watched, suspiciously, the detectives heading for the bar, where Bob Lennox was sitting, deep in conversation with a burly skinhead.
‘Didn’t know Big Pat was out,’ said Colley quietly. ‘Do you think we need to call for backup?’
‘No need,’ replied Blizzard. He tried to sound calm and in control but he could feel his heart pounding. ‘Me and Pat go back a long way.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ said the sergeant. ‘You haven’t had a Christmas card from him for years.’
‘He’ll give us no trouble.’
Lennox swung round on his stool and watched the detectives approach. Pat Molloy, who had just been released from Hafton Prison, having been arrested by Blizzard and served five years for armed robbery, glowered at the inspector. His right fist bunched.
‘Stay calm, Pat,’ said Blizzard. ‘I’m not here for you.’
The two men eyeballed each other for a few moments then Pat nodded and sidled away to join a group of drinkers in the corner. The detectives tried not to make their sighs of relief audible.
‘Time for a chat, Bob,’ said Blizzard.
‘I ain’t got nothing to do with Jamie’s death, if that’s why you’re here,’ said Lennox.
‘That may well be so, but actually we are here about Jacob Reed.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who and he’s seriously ill in hospital after someone chucked a brick through the hostel window last night.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ said Lennox.
‘That’s what we would like to know,’ said Blizzard. ‘Where were you?’
‘I was at home.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘The missus and Margaret Hatton.’
‘She seems to be cropping up everywhere like a bad penny,’ said Blizzard. ‘What was she doing at your house, may I ask? Surely you weren’t having a dinner party? You haven’t been making vol-au-vents again, have you, Bob? I hear that your mushroom canapés are sensational.’
Lennox bridled at the mocking tone in the inspector’s voice. Colley allowed himself a smile, his confidence fast returning after having watched Pat Molloy back down.
‘What we were doing is no business of yours,’ said Lennox.
‘But what happened to Jacob Reed is,’ replied Blizzard. ‘If he dies, it’ll be a murder investigation and, as it stands, you’ll be at the head of the list of suspects.’
Lennox considered the comment for a few moments then nodded; talk of murder changed everything.
‘We were talking about the hostel, if you must know,’ he said.
‘What about the hostel?’
‘Margaret says that it is up to us if we are going to get it closed down. She says that your lot are doing fuck all about it. She said it was a strategy meeting. She was at our house until late. You ask her.’
‘We certainly will,’ said Blizzard. ‘Are you sure that you didn’t nip out for a few minutes, while your wife was preparing the salmon mousse, to throw that brick?’
‘Look, Mr Blizzard, I admit I ain’t no angel but I ain’t so stupid as to do something like that. Besides, Margaret says that it just plays right into their hands.’
‘Whose hands?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘Eh?’
‘Whose hands?’
‘She didn’t say. It just does.’
‘Your command of strategy is indeed truly commendable,’ said Blizzard. He winked at Colley, who grinned. ‘OK, Bob, I’ll take your word for it, for the moment, but any more trouble and we’ll be back – do you understand?’
The inspector’s stare dared Bob Lennox to challenge the statement. He didn’t and Blizzard turned to go.
‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said, turning back. ‘Apparently, you met Steve Holdsworth when he got back from the rig earlier today? What did you talk about?’
‘He said he needed someone to talk to. He was very upset about what happened to Jamie.’
‘And he chose you?’ Blizzard could not conceal the scepticism from his voice.
‘Have you met