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

look at the uniformed officers. ‘Come on, Sergeant, let’s show our Girl Guides how we do things round here.’
He approached the protestors and raised a hand.
‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ he bellowed.
The crowd went silent.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Blizzard surveyed the angry faces then fixed his expression on Bob Lennox, a man of eighteen stone, in his early fifties, with a skinhead haircut, squat features, a bull neck and dressed in an ill-fitting white T-shirt and filthy jeans.
‘Well,’ said the inspector, ‘since I assume that this is not a Bible class, I can guess what it’s about. Want to tell me what you hope to achieve?’
‘It ain’t right, Mr Blizzard,’ said Lennox to murmurs of agreement from the crowd. ‘He took my son’s life.’
‘And paid the price for it,’ said Blizzard.
‘You don’t really believe that,’ said Lennox. He jabbed a finger at the detective. ‘You think he’s scum, just like we do.’
‘My personal views do not come into it. You lot smashing church windows do. For your information, we talked with Albert Macklin this morning and suggested that it was unwise for him to stay in the city.’
‘Too bloody right it is,’ shouted a man from the back of the crowd. The comment was greeted with clapping.
‘However,’ said Blizzard when the applause had died away, ‘the fact does remain that, in the eyes of the law, Albert Macklin is a free man. For what it’s worth, in my opinion it is unwise that he be allowed to stay here and we will be making our views known to the city coun–’
It was then that the flash illuminated the scene, startling everyone. Stepping forward out of the gathering evening gloom, a photographer from the local newspaper had started taking pictures of the confrontation. Standing next to him was a reporter, a young man in a green anorak.
‘Who invited you?’ snapped Blizzard.
‘I did,’ said a voice. A woman stepped forward.
Blizzard eyed her with interest. She was not like the other people in the crowd. A tall dark-haired woman in her late forties, her face was angular and intelligent, the blue eyes sharp and keen. Smartly dressed in a dark business suit, her demeanour suggested someone who was in control and used to getting her own way. Colley watched the confrontation with a knowing smile; Blizzard had never been particularly good at dealing with confident women.
‘And who might you be?’ asked the inspector.
‘My name is Margaret Hatton. I am the founder and chair of The Locked Door Foundation. I came up from our Buckinghamshire headquarters this afternoon.’
‘And The Locked Door Foundation would be what, exactly?’
‘We were created to ensure that the key is thrown away when it comes to men like Albert Macklin,’ she said. ‘We stand to protect decent people from their evil.’
‘People like these?’ asked Blizzard. He gestured at the gathering, in particular Bob Lennox and the flattened nose of his son, a burly man in his late twenties, who the detectives knew had a reputation for violence. ‘Going round smashing windows is decent, is it?’
Another ugly murmur ran round the crowd.
‘Emotions run high when the authorities fail to act,’ said Margaret Hatton. ‘Besides, whatever you may think of the protestors, Chief Inspector, they have rights, too. Sometimes the police forget that.’
‘And what exactly do you hope to achieve by being here?’ asked Blizzard. He nodded at the journalists. ‘And by bringing them along? It can only inflame what is already a difficult situation.’
‘We don’t like the fact that the church is helping Albert Macklin. We do not think that paedophiles should be allowed somewhere like this. Children go to this church, Chief Inspector.’
Before Blizzard could reply, another murmur rippled through the crowd. Jacob Reed had emerged from the church, his face ashen and his eyes wide behind his spectacles. The crowd parted as he walked nervously towards the inspector.
‘This mob tried to kill Albie,’ he said.
‘So, now you want our help, do you?’ said Blizzard. ‘However, I hardly think that a couple of bricks represents attempted murder, Mr Reed.’
‘You must do something,’ said the young man earnestly. ‘Someone could be–’
‘I have warned them to keep away but you can understand their anger, surely? And I’m sure that the city council will have something to say about you letting him stay here. It can only inflame the situation. Might I suggest that the best thing you can do is make sure that Albert Macklin leaves this city as soon as possible?’
‘That’s not fair!’ exclaimed Reed. ‘How can we help him rehabilitate if–’
His protestations were drowned out by more angry shouts from the crowd as it surged forward. It was only the nimble actions of David Colley – the two wide-eyed rookie uniform officers appeared to be rooted to the spot – that saved Reed from serious harm as the sergeant plucked the church worker out of the way of the mob. Seconds later, the protestors were heading towards the front door of the building, intent on finding Albert Macklin.
‘Take one more step!’ hollered Blizzard. ‘And I will arrest the lot of you!’
The crowd turned to eye him uncertainly. One look at his steely glare was enough and, one by one, they slunk back onto the street. Bob Lennox and his son were the last to go. Colley walked quietly over to the son and snatched a half-brick from his grasp before Lennox Junior realised what was happening. He looked as if he was about to remonstrate but the sergeant held a finger to his lips and the young man thought better of the idea and stayed silent.
‘Go home,’ said Blizzard. His voice was quieter now. ‘Everyone just go home. This building will have a police guard all night and I hope that, when everyone is calmer, we can work this out. Now go.’
After a nod