The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1)

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘Business associates of mine.’

  ‘What, they work for you?’ she pestered him.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Just making conversation.’

  ‘It was my accountant and two guys who work for me sometimes. Forget them, tell me about you?’

  As the champagne flowed Kat and Luna escaped deeper into the fantasy of being swept away, blissfully unaware they were cavorting with two career criminals.

  Ibrahim knew by Kat’s body language that she was ripe for the taking. He’d plied her with enough alcohol and charm to break down her defences. If he left it any longer to make his move she’d be too hammered and fall asleep.

  A glance at his watch confirmed it was 12.30 a.m. Making excuses, he made his way to the gents to set the next stage of his charm offensive in place. He fished his mobile out of his jacket pocket and called Jerry, the late-night receptionist at the Willow Room Hotel in the centre of town.

  He returned five minutes later and asked Kat to spend the night with him. Surprising herself, she agreed. She stood up, hugged her friend, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, take care?’ Luna gave her a mischievous grin.

  Ibrahim signalled to his brother for a brief chat. ‘Make sure Luna gets home okay, pay for her taxis? I’ll call you later.’

  CHAPTER 20

  The Willow Room boutique Hotel was in the heart of the city’s Cultural Quarter. The five-storey late-Victorian building painted county cream, was originally built in 1889 and combined original features with shabby chic interiors.

  They entered discreetly through the side entrance of the hotel, taking the lift to first-floor reception. Ibrahim pushed Kat against the mirrored back panel. Their eyes met, they held each other’s gaze and kissed until the lift juddered to a halt on the first floor.

  Ibrahim told her to take a seat in the reception lounge, while he sorted out the paperwork for their room with Jerry. She dropped into a black velvet wingback chair in the corner.

  ‘You OK, Jerry?’ Ibrahim offered a guarded handshake, containing the cash.

  Jerry nodded and slid the paperwork onto the granite counter top. Going through the motions, he asked, ‘Will you be paying for the room by card or cash, Sir?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘That’s a hundred pounds, please. Do you have a vehicle to register for our secure parking?’

  ‘No.’

  The receptionist smiled and winked at Ibrahim, before passing his key card. With the formalities over, they took the lift to the third floor Bridal Suite and exited onto a narrow landing. Not wanting to alert Kat to the fact he’d had sleazy liaisons in the Bridal Suite before Ibrahim pretended not to know where room 12 was. Briefly he studied the tall vintage decals sign written on the wall displaying the room numbers for that floor.

  Feeling the effects of the champagne, she tottered just in front of him along the corridor on the oak floor boards. Ibrahim stared at her backside and scanned down her legs to her wedges. Her curves aroused him.

  He inserted the key card, opened the door and held it for Kat to enter, then slotted it in the holder behind the door and the lights came on. She gasped at the beautiful vintage interior. Light sparkled from the large ornate glass chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. A breath-taking architectural sepia mural of the town in the 1800s acted as a feature wall behind a king-sized Vignette upholstered bed laden with throw cushions

  Curious, she stepped into the bathroom. ‘Shit, look at this! It’s gorgeous!’ she said, running her fingers over the huge copper roll-top bath with side taps.

  Ibrahim switched on the bedside lamps trying to create an ambiance. Sat on the edge of the bed, he glanced around the room keeping up the pretence he’d not been there before. ‘Yeah, it’s very nice. Do you want a drink from the minibar?’

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘Beer, wine, vodka, Coke, water, whatever you want.’

  ‘Just water for now, please,’ she said, wanting to enjoy the sex without the room spinning.

  She sat on the bed beside him, opened her bag and rummaged through looking for her compact mirror. Surprisingly her make-up still looked OK. Turning to look at him with smouldering blue eyes, she leaned seductively close and kissed him, whilst placing her hand on his inner thigh.

  ‘You’re a bad girl!’ he said.

  ‘Champagne always makes me horny. Not that I do this often.’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’ He sat up before moving over to the minibar to pour a glass of wine as Kat popped the lid off the water and took a swig.

  He placed the wine on the mahogany dresser and sat on the bed. Kat perched on his knee, kissed him and then pushed his shoulders down forcing him to lie back. Ibrahim kicked his loafers off. She undid his belt and teased his jeans down. The bulge in his boxers showed his arousal. Straddling him, she lifted her dress, pulling it over her head in one tantalising move, displaying her bra and shaved flower with its diamond droplet. She tried to kid herself that not all one-night stands were meaningless, but overheated passion. It was lust pure and simple.

  They continued kissing as she tore off his polo shirt. His upper torso was ripped tight, like a Greek God. She dragged his boxers down, moving her head towards his iron-hard erection.

  Tilting forward, her hair brushed his groin. She combed her fringe behind her ear with her free hand provocatively exposing her blowing him. He gasped and groaned with pleasure as she teased him. He unclasped her bra, and discarded it onto the floor, exposing her pert breasts. He pinched her nipples, sending sensual shock waves through her entire body.

  They were both naked apart from her wedges, which she left on adding to the kink of wanton sex. He rolled her over on the bed. She responded by raising and parting her knees. They continued kissing as he entered her. Arching his back, he placed his hands on her breasts.

  Kat groaned as her breathing became faster. Dominantly he rolled her sideways resting her long leg upon his shoulder, he spanked her backside. He felt much bigger than Carl, not that she could remember that well as it had been months since they’d shagged. He was always too wasted or tired to perform. She thrilled with excitement and pleasure.

  ‘God, yeah!’ she cried.

  Ibrahim groaned. They gyrated for a further five minutes before he turned her face down. He placed both hands on her hips and she instinctively rose up on her elbows and knees into the doggy position. Her bum cheeks tingled as he spanked them again with the palm of his hand, intensifying the pleasure. She felt dirty and submissive experiencing forbidden fruit.

  Leaning forward he placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. His tongue traced the side of her neck; it felt divine. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold out. As if reading her mind he withdrew, and stood over her, then taking her hand, led her into the lounge part of the suite, dropped on the leather sofa and pulled her onto his lap.

  Wedges rooted on the floor she eased onto him, facing a large gilt-framed mirror. His strong hands rested on her hips and she rode him as they both watched in the mirror. It was so erotic. The erogenous zones in her brain ignited to a point of intensity. She could hold no further.

  They both panted hard.

  Catching her breath, she couldn’t decide whether she’d experienced her first multiple orgasm, or alcohol- and drug-induced euphoria. It had blown her mind, and, like an addict, left her wanting more.

  For the first time in months she felt wanted.

  CHAPTER 21

  Kat woke at six a.m. feeling pretty rough. Ibrahim stirred and lay dosing. She showered, brushed her hair, made a quick cup of tea and wrote her mobile number with the hotel stationery, then kissed his forehead and left a note by the bed.

  Call me later. Kat X

  She let the room door slip to, and sneaked barefoot down the corridor to the lift, wedges swinging in her right hand by their ankle straps, praying no guests would be around at this ridiculous hour. It was obvious what she’d been up to, still dressed in last night’s party gear, pa
nda eyed with no make-up.

  Ibrahim had ordered the taxi to pick her up from the side entrance of the hotel before dropping back off to sleep. She climbed in the back of the cab, slid down in the seat clutching her bag and gazed out of the window with a banging headache.

  What have I done, shagging Carl’s boss! she asked herself. She sighed in disbelief.

  The cab sat at the crossroads opposite the the Slipware Tankard waiting for the lights to change, then turned left and cruised up Marsh Street North past Mind and the huge Go Outdoors camping centre heading towards the ring road roundabout. It turned right, then left towards Sneyd Green, past Central Forest Park. As they reached the top of Milton Road, a steep mile stretch leading to Milton, she gazed across the valley at the rolling hills and trees of Bagnall Woods on the horizon, worried about the consequences if Carl found out.

  She told the Asian cabdriver to swing a sharp right just before the humpback bridge. ‘Stop here, mate, on the left?’ ‘How much is it please?’

  ‘No charge, cab already paid for.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  Ibrahim must have an account with the cab firm she thought, but more importantly, what bullshit could she feed Carl about last night?

  The safest option would be to tell him she’d slept at Luna’s. He’d have no reason to think otherwise. She often stayed there when they went out. Then she remembered he’d lent her twenty quid for taxi fares. He’d definitely want it back. Luck would have it she’d only bought one round of drinks so there was plenty left to pay him back. Sod him! she thought, smoothing her dress in a feeble attempt to look more presentable, before opening the front door.

  On entering the living room she noticed the absence of beer cans and overflowing ashtrays on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Often when she went out with Luna, Carl crawled the local pubs and staggered back home for spliffs with his loser mates.

  She crept upstairs to check if he was still asleep. Easing the bedroom door open, she saw the bed still made. So he hadn’t come home either? Aware he could enter the house anytime, she rustled the covers and pillows to make it look slept in. Slipping off her shoes, she put her dress in the wash basket, changed into her comfy jogging bottoms and a vest top.

  Where the bloody hell was he last night, she wondered, not really giving a shit. She suspected he’d cheated on her in the past, although he always denied it, claiming he’d crashed on one of his mates sofas far too wasted to make it home. But that was back in the nineties when he was a wide boy in the heady days of Hanley’s club scene.

  These days the potbellied 48-year-old rarely strayed from the local Milton pubs. That crowd wouldn’t give the middle-aged stoner a second look; he was well past his sell by date.

  Her stomach rumbled; it’d been twelve hours since she last ate and then it was only a bag of mangy chips from the kebab house she shared with Luna. She made her way downstairs, heading for the kitchen.

  On entering the galley kitchen she got a whiff of stale Chinese. Glancing around the hi-gloss cupboards she’d bribed Carl to get installed a couple years ago when she was working, she zoomed in on plates littered amongst used Chinese takeaway cartons strewn on the hardwood worktop by the sink. Carl was a greedy bastard but there was more food than one person could manage. John McKnight, his best mate, must’ve helped him scoff this lot when they got back from the pubs. Pair of lazy bastards couldn’t even slide the rubbish in the bin, before buggering off to his flat.

  ‘Disgusting!’ She grimaced looking at the spare ribs chewed to the bone like stray dogs had ravaged them.

  She brewed a pot of fresh tea and then opened the fridge looking for breakfast. Unopened packs of bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms stared back at her. She salivated at the thought of a full English. After twenty minutes of grill watching, she transferred the plateful to the dining table in the living room.

  Turning on the TV, a bloody annoying reality show star minced around, reading out viewers Tweets and Facebook comments on cheating partners; how ironic. She blushed. She’d almost finished her breakfast when the front door swung open and Carl swaggered in looking like shit.

  Bold as brass he announced he was effing starving. ‘Smells well nice. Do me a fry up, babe?’ the chauvinistic tosser said, expecting her to comply.

  Glaring at him, she pointed to the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, come on, babe?’ he protested.

  ‘No chance!’

  ‘Bollocks to ya, I’m off up the Oatcake shop.’ He rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a tenner and some roll-up papers. The remnants of last night’s binge.

  She didn’t want to ask but knew he’d be suspicious if she didn’t give him grief for not coming home. Pretending to be annoyed she remarked, ‘Where were you last night?’

  He hesitated. ‘Er… Me, Johno and Macker went local, then ended up back at Macker’s playing cards.’

  ‘What about all that shit in the kitchen?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry babe, got a takeaway before going John’s. We were starving.’

  Keeping up the pretence, she added, ‘And you didn’t think to call me?’

  ‘Soz, you know what it’s like. We were yapping, listening to tunes in the pub and I forgot.’

  ‘You don’t give a shit about us. Do you?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, disinterested, then buggered off through the front door.

  She sat wondering why she felt guilty. Disappointed with the way Carl had turned into a typical bored middle-aged bloke with no kids and no ambition, who treated her like one of his useless mates. The fact he got pissed every weekend only made matters worse.

  She desperately needed a job to claw back her self-respect and dependence from this prick who took it for granted she’d cook and clean like a good wifey, even though they weren’t married, and were barely even together.

  She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes and touched herself, conjuring images and feelings from the hotel room in her mind. Like flower petals opening in the summer sun, something inside her had awoken.

  For the first time in years she felt alive.

  CHAPTER 22

  A searing ray of daylight entered the room through the left side of the roller blind, waking DI Blake after only three and half hours sleep. The day’s tasks slowly emerged in his mind as he sat on the edge of the bed stretching his arms towards the ceiling to loosen the tight scalene muscles in his neck.

  The whiplash pain burned like hell, but paled in comparison to the emotional trauma of losing his wife and young son in the hit-and-run ten years ago. Grief counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy helped him bury those feelings of despair, but the crash on Friday had acted as a stimulus. After taking several deep breaths, he stood, rolled up the blind and gazed out of the window at the cloudless sky, filled with early-morning jet streams. He sauntered into the bathroom, climbed into the glass cubicle, and immersed his head under the powerful jets of the large rainfall showerhead. The steaming water washed away the morning cobwebs and eased his neck pain.

  After drying, Blake slipped on his pressed Oxford shirt and fastened the trousers of his grey three-piece, noticing they felt tighter: a middle-age spread developing. Too many late nights and beers after work, he thought. He brushed down his jacket before taking the stairs.

  Entering the kitchen he spotted an orange Post-it note from his daughter, on the toaster:

  Dad, I’m going to college this afternoon, lying in. Will call you later love Izzy. X

  Isabel was such a sweet, considerate kid. Removing the note, he slotted a slice of bread into the toaster, and then gathered his phone and car keys from the opposite end of the granite worktop.

  Whilst bending to put on his brogues, the sudden ping of the toaster popping startled him. He scoffed it down; the salty butter moistened his lips.

  After sitting for ten minutes, he exited the house at 7.30 a.m. The leather soles of his brogues crunched on the gravel driveway as he strode towards his prize possession, a Willow Green 1975 Jaguar Roa
dster. He climbed in, turned the V12 engine over and was pulling off when last night’s murder was announced on Radio Stoke:

  “A man in his late forties was found dead in the White Horse pub in the city centre at around eleven o’clock on Friday evening. Hanley police are treating the death as suspicious and informed Radio Stoke they will release a further statement on Monday.”

  He parked the vintage Jag at the station half an hour before clocking-on time, desperate for a morning coffee lift, so made his way past the Potteries Museum over to Marzipan Pig, a popular locally owned coffee outlet, to buy a takeout of what he considered the best coffee in the city.

  Cup in hand he headed up Bethesda Road. At the top he climbed the steps onto the stone pedestrianised area in front of the Town Hall. Pausing for a moment to take a sip, he gazed at the buildings four-storey façade, which bizarrely looked like a French Chateaux. Above its two-column grand entrance, a decaying stone crest displayed the familiar Staffordshire shield, presumably smoke-stained during the pre-clean air act years.

  He paced a further ten yards and sat on one of the granite seats in front of the building, removed the lid and drained the cup half empty.

  Hot air blasting out of a council micro street cleaner disturbed his morning solitude; its brushes spun in an endless cycle, polishing the stone paving in a mirror of water. Then like a stereo’s volume being turned slowly down, the cleaner dragged along Albion Square past the war memorial statue of Lady Britannia, past Radio Stoke, finally disappearing into the wide boulevard of Cheapside, which led to Piccadilly and the other London-named streets.

  With a warm coffee buzz inside, Blake strode back to the station. The morning sun had risen, casting long shadows along the wide streets of the city centre. He considered what details would unfold in his first briefing, about Friday night’s murder case.

  His phone jolted into action with four bars of the cool jazz tune ‘Kind of Blue’ by Miles Davis. The caller display ID showed it was Nick Pemberton, his Don Juan office manager.