‘Unbelievable! You’re lucky to be alive after the mental stunt you pulled earlier. That Audi you totalled caught fire and exploded. It could have killed someone. Best if you cooperate with us. What’s your name?’ he asked, indicating to turn into the station car park.
The kid hesitated. ‘Dean.’
‘Dean what?’
‘Taylor.’
‘Well, Dean let’s get you booked in at the desk,’ Murphy said, slotting next to Blake’s Jag, mindful of knocking his boss’s pride and joy. Climbing out of the patrol car. Murphy led the way to the reception with the PC towing the reluctant kid.
‘Sarge, this is Dean Taylor.’
Lowering his specs the sergeant studied him. ‘Back again, lad? I thought you might have learned your lesson by now. What is it this time, Dean?’
Taylor shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. His face reddened as the desk sergeant typed his name into the database. He’d got previous form.
‘You know him then, Sarge?’ Murphy asked.
‘’Fraid so. Dean’s visited us a few times in the last couple of years.’
The kid’s record showed several convictions for drug dealing on the Heath Hayes Estate. After his mother died from cancer he’d been left in the care of his alcoholic father whose parenting skills were non-existent. Social services had intervened, and placed him in care. By the age of fourteen he was a full-time drug mule, distributing cannabis across the Heath Hayes Estate on a BMX before eventually doing six months in Werrington Young Offenders Institute for possession with intent to supply ecstasy. The drug squad came close to prosecuting his supplier, Yusuf Benzar, a local Turkish wide boy. But a search of his property produced nothing; subsequent surveillance also drew a blank, and the case against him fell apart through lack of evidence. At no point did Dean ever shop him.
The sergeant frowned. ‘You’ve excelled yourself today, Dean; joyriding and possession of a large quantity of a Class A. Not looking good.
‘Sarge,’ Murphy said, ‘can you get someone to put him in interview room two? I need a word with DI Blake.’
Half an hour later Blake kicked off proceedings. The overwhelming amount of evidence against Taylor left his solicitor with little to do except observe and take notes regarding his plea.
‘Whose gear is it? You might as well tell us because we’re well aware of your associates.’
Taylor sat with a scowl on his face, and clearly had no intention of revealing his supplier.
‘It’s mine.’
‘Come on, Dean, we’ve tested the one-kilo bag found in the Audi, and it’s ninety per cent pure; that’s rare in this county. Its estimated street value is around eighty grand. We can appreciate you’re scared of what your dealer might do to you if you give him up. I can assure you we’ll keep you safe.’
Frustrated, he said, ‘Yeah, right! Will you be sharing a cell with me?’
‘Given your age and circumstances, we can ask the CPS to place you in a prison where known associates of the dealer aren’t serving sentences? We know the gear isn’t yours. Our records show that only a handful of people in Stoke-on-Trent deal in the quantity found in your possession. I’m going to say a few names, and you just give me the nod? Azeed Akhtar, Barry Chamberlain, Yusuf Benzar.’
To his annoyance Taylor refused to play ball. So he changed approach.
‘Where did you nick the car from?’
‘Car park.’
‘Which one?’
‘In Fenton.’
‘Funny that. The owner says he left it parked on Mill Street car park in Longton.
The teenager sat there, seemingly oblivious to the severity of his situation.
‘Cooperate with us and the judge will take that into consideration when sentencing you. Anyway, we have a few enquiries to make and will have proper chat soon. In the meantime PC Haynes will get you settled in a comfy cell. Should give you time to consider how much trouble you’re in?’
Dean Taylor’s foolish reluctance to cough up his dealer’s name would cost him an extra twelve months’ jail. Thankfully, recent raids put the most serious players away for a long time. Nemesis was a massive coordinated drugs operation, which swept across the whole city, leaving just two dealers who fitted the profile in terms of financial clout. It didn’t take the biggest leap of faith to decide who to bring in first. Turkish wide-boy Yusuf Benzar was a prime suspect.
Taking the initiative, Blake picked up the phone and called DS Jack Landman, his colleague in the drug squad.
‘Jack, how are you?’
‘Good, yourself?’
‘Not too shabby. Listen, we’ve hauled in a joyrider named Dean Taylor. According to PNC records you did him for possession with intent to supply ecstasy, a couple of years ago. He ended up in Werrington for six months.’
‘Taylor?’ Landman paused. Oh, yeah, I remember we did a month’s surveillance on his suspected supplier. Clever bastard shut his entire operation down though. Went to ground and he’s not been on our radar since. Why, has something come up?’
‘Apart from slamming a twenty-six grand Audi into a wall, we caught him in possession of one kilo of ninety per cent pure heroin.’
‘Shit! Ninety per cent? That’s virtually unheard of outside London. Is that definite?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Had it confirmed by forensics earlier; the report should be on the database soon.’
‘So you’re wondering if Yusuf Benzar is back in business?’
‘Exactly. Taylor’s a known associate and we want to pull Benzar in for questioning. Obviously we don’t want to step on any toes and compromise ops you’ve got going on with him?’
Landman glanced at a sheet of A4 next to his monitor, with dealers’ names on it. ‘Hard to say, really. Nemesis put most of the known faces inside, but there’s one or two small-timers still peddling weed. Ninety per cent pure is in a different league though. Turkish transit from Afghanistan probably, which means there could be larger quantities waiting to hit the streets.’
Blake pressed. ‘Are you working him at present?
‘No. Like I said, he dropped off the radar.’
‘OK. We’ll bring him in for questioning then?’
‘Let me speak to Clive first. We don’t want to jeopardise missing out on a significant haul. Benzar’s a clever bastard… keeps his distance from distribution by using self-sufficient criminal cells. Dean Taylor is just collateral. Gimme five minutes and I’ll get back to you?’
Twenty minutes later Blake’s office phone rang.
‘DI Blake?’ DI Moore said. ‘DS Landman’s put me in the picture about Yusuf Benzar.’
‘What do you think?’ DC Moore’s father, Clive headed up the drug squad and had the first say on tactical decisions concerning drug-related suspects.
‘It’s a tough call. I’ve had no intel from Customs or SOCA on Benzar. Problem is pulling him now; would spook him. Based on the kilogram alone I’ll push for surveillance, if Coleman will sanction it, with all these bloody government cuts,’ Moore warned.
‘You’re not kidding; we did bloody stationery inventories last week!’
‘Unbelievable! Counting the pens! Bureaucratic arseholes!’ He groaned. ‘Anyway I’ll put it to him and call you before the end of play. Appreciate the heads up on this one, Tom.’
‘No problem,’ he lied. He wanted to nail Benzar himself, not hand him to the drug squad on a plate.
Yusuf Benzar currently lived in a modest terraced house in the shadow of three 1970’s tower blocks at the top of Limekiln, a long winding hill leading up to the city centre. To the dismay of law-abiding locals, the area was known for heroin users.
A three-man surveillance team hid behind the net curtains of number thirty-two Carson Street. A camera fitted with a field lens sat on its tripod, pointing directly at Benzar’s house. Their task was to watch his movements. DI Clive Moore practically had to beg Chief Inspector Coleman to sanction the operation.
On day two of surveillance the three officers were bor
ed rigid. There was only so much poker and online porn you could absorb. Benzar had only left the property to fetch bottles of lager and fags from a nearby off-licence. He’d had two visitors: the postman who’d delivered a small parcel; and a woman they’d assumed was a prostitute, judging by her garish six-inch pink heels, short skirt, and skimpy top.
‘Does this tosser ever go anywhere?’ moaned the bald officer.
The camera tech scoffed. ’God knows? It’s as if he knows we’re here.’
Wiping beads of sweat from his shiny dome, his colleague speculated. ‘Thing is, he’s not your average dumb ganja dealer; he knows the score. Clive reckons there’s another large consignment on its way.
‘Yeah, I know,’ the camera tech countered. ‘He reckons it’s straight from Afghanistan, which means organised.’
‘What’s the world coming too?’ The bald officer added. ‘It’s so much easier staking out skanks, selling weed and monkey dust.’
‘You’re not kidding. If we sent a team in there now they’d find diddly,’ the tech speculated, ‘apart from a few wraps of personal. I’d put a fiver on it.’
‘A fiver! You tight twat,’ the bald officer remonstrated. ‘It’s got worse since the EU’s open-border policy. That bastard will have multiple identities and funds scattered over Europe.’
‘Yep. I bet most of his mullah’s stashed in small East European countries with antiquated laws and corrupt officials.’
‘Definitely. Pay monkey nuts you get monkey work.’
‘You’re not kidding. That’s why half the Eastern block is clambering to get here. Seven quid an hour looks a bloody good deal.’
‘Honestly, you pair are fantasists,’ said the third cop.
CHAPTER 3
Barry Gibson sat in the White Horse pub, Hanley; resisting the urge not to buy another pint before his dealer arrived. The skinhead had been receiving gear on the tab for a few months, and he surprised even himself at how he’d managed to pay back what he owed each month and make a profit. But it was getting harder. His heavy drinking was costing more each week and he’d developed a taste for the pills; they blotted out the troubling memories and depression. Because he'd established a level of trust with the dealer, he'd decided to go for broke: ordered a hundred Kilnee’s, thirty wraps of Charlie, and an ounce of Afghani black. Those skanks on the Heath Hayes Estate would lap it up. Only this time, he had no intention of paying any of it back.
The dealer known only as Stomper to third parties went straight to the bar and ordered two pints for him and Gibson, before sitting down opposite him.
‘All right?’
‘Yeah, have you got the gear?’ Gibson said, lowering his voice.
‘What's with the big increase in quantities?’
‘Demand! There’s loads of revival rave nights from back in the day going on.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘So?’
‘Usual deal?’
They entered the men’s and Gibson slid a shot bolt on the back of the door. He had an arrangement with the landlord: a free quarter of black for his wife’s back pain in exchange for fifteen minutes of uninterrupted time. Gibson called him an hour before he was coming in the pub, and he whizzed the bolt on with his battery driver, then took it off after they’d gone.
‘There’s no sale or return on this. You know the fucking consequences of not paying in full.’
‘Yeah, yeah I know.’
Stomper fished an eight inch long block of Afghani black resin out of his cagoule. Gibson stood back as he placed it on the marble surrounding the basin. The dealer retrieved a small razor-sharp knife from his coat. He held it in his right hand and ignited a cheap lighter in the other. Once the blade was glowing hot, he sliced through the resin and passed the off-cut to Gibson. Gibson put it in his pocket along with a freezer bag containing the wraps and pills. All he had to do now was shift the gear, before he necked half the profits. Maybe just one pill to calm his nerves, he thought to himself.
CHAPTER 4
Ibrahim Benzar – the man known as the Ghost by local criminals – stood on the leaded roof of Hanley’s Victorian Town Hall gazing with purpose across the city skyline, his attention focused on one building in particular. But, until the right people were on board, he’d keep the target under wraps. Just the thought of it excited him.
The logistics of a job such as this carried huge risk, as Stoke-on-Trent’s police headquarters were located close by. The whole event could be locked down within minutes, leaving the crew to fight out their exit in the cop’s backyard.
He’d collaborated on months of meticulous planning with the Collector: one of the world’s richest, most reclusive thieves. And everything needed checking and rechecking before finalising with the team he planned to execute the job: a group of experienced professionals in various fields, who he trusted to pull it off.
The muscle end of things was straightforward to arrange; the ruthless Simbala brothers, ex-members of the Kenyan Mafia, would deal with anybody who stepped out of line. Although naturally brains were considerably more important.
With the next phase rooted in his mind, he delved into the pocket of his Ralph Lauren jacket and retrieved the secure mobile the Collector provided. The cunning bastard always used crypto phone technology to communicate with his operatives, including Ibrahim. The two-way encryption and decryption conversations, once in session code, couldn’t be eavesdropped on by anyone. Ultimately, they were far less traceable than amateurish burners.
It was 7.30 a.m. in Miami and the reclusive Collector sat sipping iced grapefruit juice, shading from the blinding morning Florida sun. Gazing over his office balcony he watched the endless cycle of pacific waves crashing on the glorious white sands in front of his forty million dollar beach mansion on the Miami coast.
They’d met eight years ago in what the Turkish classed as hell on earth – Diyarbakir Prison in south-eastern Turkey, where overcrowding and torture were rife. The obscenely rich American was incarcerated for attempting to smuggle stolen artefacts from the Turkish National gallery to America. Ibrahim was in for racketeering. Fearful for his life amongst the murderers and drug lords, the Collector paid him shedloads for protection during his four-year sentence. This was the one and only time he’d been caught and he didn’t plan to repeat the nightmare ordeal.
‘Richard! Just a quick call to inform you I’m putting the team together for our venture.’
‘Excellent! Just choose your people wisely. No amateurs or squealers,’ he said in the familiar Texan drawl Ibrahim was accustomed to.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll only use the best people.’
‘OK, let me know when y’all ready to move.’
‘I’ll call when we have something more solid.’
‘OK. Y’all take care.’
Ending the conversation, Ibrahim retrieved a small diary from his inside pocket and flicked through the contacts. He made a series of calls, starting with his brother Yusuf to arrange an evening meeting at the Genting Casino, Hanley. He gloated; life was sweet when you controlled your own destiny.
CHAPTER 5
Ibrahim Benzar sat beside Charlie Bullard in the mock Mead hall of the Potteries Museum & Art Gallery, gazing at a glowing orange fire, imagining a fierce Saxon King perched on his throne draped in boar skin, receiving gifts and surveying his stunning gold. They watched a Saxon docu-drama on a large wall-mounted TV. The narrator told the Hoard story.
‘Lichfield seven hundred AD. Two huge shires laboured a two-wheeled cart through meadow grass, daisies and white clover as a gentle breeze carried the subtle smell of summer across the violet skies of Anglo Saxon Staffordshire. In silence seven Saxon warriors followed their esteemed leader – Athelred the Mercian Overlord – as he edged through the grass towards a mound overlooking the ancient Roman road known as Watling Street.
‘Their eyes adjusted to the blue enveloping darkness surrounding the meadows and forests. Mindful no one was watching they strode towards the proposed burial ground
. After a guarded glance across the field he signalled to the colossal warrior Abrican to join him with a drawn finger pointing towards a grassy mound.
‘The battle-hardened warrior unclasped his Tri-bird brooch, allowing his wool cape to fall onto the dry summer earth. Then raising his sword-scarred arms, he heaved his hefty chainmail tunic over his head, laying it on the earth beside the cape.
‘“Fetch me the Iron Hoe,” he uttered under his breath at the other six expectant warriors waiting in anticipation by the cart.
‘The small but fearless warrior known as Beadurof lifted a long shaft iron hoe from the pile of digging tools stacked on top of a hessian drape, disguising the Hoard from prying eyes. They’d passed through many villages on their arduous journey to find a burial site. Suddenly, the silent anticipation of the gathering was disturbed by a flock of late summer larks swathing west across the violet skies. The King spoke with clarity.
‘“Balder came to me in slumber two nights past, pointing to this place; we must act now. The wolves prowl over yonder forest and we must heed attack. Pray for his watchful blessing on this morn as we commit our Hoard to the ground, lest into our enemy’s hands it shall fall.”
‘Abrican’s veins strained against his muscles as he swung the iron hoe with raw power. It struck the sun-dried earth with a deep thud, dispersing dust onto the turn shoes of the encircled warriors clasping iron hoes, in readiness to join the dig. Patiently they waited to bury: filigreed gold sword fittings, pommel caps, hilt collars and the twisted cross of their pillaged Hoard, stolen from the slain corpses of their enemies on the Northumbria and East Anglia battlefields.
‘As the iron hoes pummelled the ground, thud after thud, Athelred raised his arms, outstretched his palms skyward and proclaimed to Balder…
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 2
