Dave Millburn nervously paced around his office. What was he supposed to do now? Those bastards would be coming for the rest of his files. His boss would go mental. He picked up his mobile and called him.
‘Listen, we’ve got a serious problem; the frigging cops are sniffing around in our business, they’re questioning Nathan Dukes about that murder in the White Horse on Friday night, and they’ve taken his records. What should I do?’
‘Did he do it?’
‘I don't think so, but I can’t be sure. Nath’s got a bad temper, and he did go missing for a while on the night, but so did the landlord.’
‘Just keep your nerve. If you're arrested don't say anything without representation. So far they've got nothing on us; it’s just a fishing trip.’
‘What about the staff records? There's loads of fights. Once they start digging, they’ll notice stuff is missing. We could lose contracts if they start pulling our blokes in.’
‘They’ll find nothing. Stay calm and get rid of anything incriminating.’
‘Yeah, but what about—?’
‘Shut up, now, you don’t know who’s listening?’
The line went dead. Millburn stared at his phone. He stood up, slipped it into his jacket pocket then headed out towards his car. He figured it would only be a matter of time before the cops would end up searching his house. He couldn’t take the risk of them finding the other paperwork in his spare bedroom/office. He needed to get home as soon as, and incinerate a folder full.
On the way home he called in a newsagent to buy lighter fluid.
Luckily his missus was at work. The last thing he needed was more awkward questions about the need to have a sudden fire. As he turned into the street two uniformed coppers were climbing out of a patrol car outside his house.
‘Fuck! They’re already on to me,’ he thought, pulling over to the curb and sliding down in his seat. He stared nervously through the windscreen as one of them raised the knocker on his front door. Suddenly his colleague shouted to him. He couldn’t make out what was being said. Cold fear crept over him. He gave a massive sigh of relief as they walked away from his house and opened the gate of number forty-three across the road. This was the only time he was glad that little bastard Jason Weaver had been up to no good.
He watched them go in the house, before slowly reversing out of the street. He parked a couple of streets away then returned on foot, through the fields at the back. Forcing his way through a hole in his leylandii hedge he crossed the lawn and entered the house through the back door.
He darted up the stairs, burst into the back room office and tore up the carpet in the corner, and retrieved a blue document wallet.
With the lighter fluid and box of matches in his pocket he made his way out to the garden. He emptied the incriminating sheets of A4 into the galvanised sand bucket his missus used to stub out her fags. Doused them in fluid, then struck a match. With a glow of relief he watched the orange flames take hold.
Walking around the side of the house he peered through the latch hole in his wooden gate. Jason Weaver was being bundled into the back of the patrol car handcuffed. His poor mum stood at the end of her yard sobbing over that arsehole son of hers.
CHAPTER 30
Back at the station Darryl Connor was waiting in interview room three under the watchful eye of DS Jamieson, and his solicitor. Blake entered the room carrying his case files. He sat down next to Jamieson and kicked off the interview. ‘Mr Connor, when I asked if you’d been in the pub all night you said yes, apart from standing on the steps for a smoke. According to Dave Millburn and Nathan Dukes, they couldn’t find you after discovering the gents’ door was blocked. Tabatha, your barmaid, says you disappeared around ten and she didn’t see you until the incident was called in. That’s a whole fifty minutes unaccounted for. Where were you?’
The muscles in his face tightened. ‘Er… went out for a roll-up. It was bloody manic behind the bar all night.’
‘What, for almost an hour? Seems a long time for a smoke.’
‘I had a wander around town.’
‘Was anybody with you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you tell anyone where you were going?’
‘No.’
‘Sounds strange. You left your staff in charge of the pub without letting them know your whereabouts.’
‘Not really; I trust them.’
Blake gave him a disapproving look. ‘So if we search CCTV footage of the surrounding area around that time you’ll be on there?’
‘Er… maybe… I don’t know.’
‘Which streets did you walk?’
‘Stafford Street, I think. Past Wilco,’ he said nervously.
‘Where did you go then?’
‘Mooched about, finishing my smoke.’
‘What time did you get back into the pub?’
‘I can’t remember, just after half ten maybe; I didn’t check.’
‘And this is when you told the doorman to call us?’
‘There about.’
‘Our records show the call was logged at ten-fifty p.m.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘We noticed the pub licence is in your wife’s name. Dominika. That’s Polish, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘Why’s it not in your name?’
Connor hesitated. ‘Works out better for tax.’
‘In what way?’
‘My accountant says it’s something to do with national insurance contributions. I don’t fully understand it. He set us up as a limited company.’
Blake glanced at Jamieson. ‘Sounds interesting. I take it all your books will be up-to-date and above board then?’
‘Should be,’ he said with a worried look.
‘You don’t sound too sure?’
‘What’s this got to do with the murder?’
‘Come on, Mr Connor. We both know the licence is in her name because you’ve got previous. We’ve done a PNC check. You can’t get one because of your criminal record. In ninety-nine you did twelve months in Featherstone for GBH. You beat up a customer in your old pub, the Sun Castle in Burslem. In the case notes it says he’d been having an affair with your ex-wife, Mrs Shelia Anderson. Michael Leese spent two weeks in hospital from the injuries inflicted by you. Eyewitness statements said you threatened him with a knife, before battering him unconscious. By all accounts very nasty. Do you possess a hunting knife, Mr Connor?’
‘Don't be ridiculous. As if I’d have a knife!
‘You threatened Michael Leese with one, and according to the statements from the time, no knife was ever found at the crime scene.’
Connor ignored Blake’s accusations. ‘I’ve done my time. Even apologised to Michael Leese. I’m a different man now.’
‘Are you still on the wagon?’
Connor reared up. ‘That’s bang out of order. I haven’t touched a drink since being on the recovery programme.’
‘Sit down, Mr Connor,’ Blake continued. ‘Running a pub isn’t exactly the best job for a recovering alcoholic. Must be difficult to stay away from the demon booze.’
‘I don’t work behind the bar. Dominika and my staff do.’
‘That’s strange because according to several witness statements you were working behind the bar on Friday.’
‘That’s just a one-off because a staff member let us down.’
‘The courts forced abstinence on you. Part of the deal your lawyer arranged. So in answer to your earlier question, what’s this got to do with Barry Gibson’s murder? It’s obvious. You’re an alcoholic who’s done time for GBH. Furthermore, your wife reported Barry Gibson to us, for making racist and lewd comments towards her when you first took over the pub five years ago?’
Connor looked frustrated at Blake’s lack of empathy. ‘Like I said, I’m a changed man. Gibson apologised for that. He even sent Dominika flowers. Prison taught me everyone is entitled to a second chance, especially addicts. I should know.’
‘Here
’s what I think. You accepted his apology because he was sticking all his benefit payments behind the bar. So you swallowed your pride in the name of profit. But Gibson was a nasty pervert who couldn’t help himself when he was pissed. What did he say to Dominika on Friday?’
‘This is harassment!’ he said, seething.
Sensing he was on the ropes. Blake attacked. ‘I bet he insulted her again and when you confronted him in the gents he kicked off, so you slapped the nut on him. You didn’t mean to kill him, just send the depraved fellow alcoholic a warning. When you realised he was dead, you panicked. The pub was full, so you blocked the door and jumped out of the window, then returned later acting surprised. Isn’t that right, Mr Connor?’
‘You can say what you like, but I never killed Barry Gibson,’ Connor protested.
CHAPTER 31
Spending seven hours in a cell focused Nathan Dukes’ priorities. The thought of being wrongfully charged with murder mortified him. He’d seen the big guy who’d argued with Barry Gibson in the pub before. But until now his name eluded him; that was until a deep memory recall from that fateful night dragged him into self-preservation mode. Most of the night was a blur, but around three the pill he’d dropped started to wear off so he took a break and got a drink from the King’s Hall bar. He remembered bumping into two old school friends: Tracy Taylor and Cheryl Douglas. Cheryl, the prettier of the two, had just broken off snogging with a big guy who seemed familiar; he looked like a fella he’d briefly worked with in the late eighties. That’s when he asked Tracy who he was. Grant Bolton; that was his name. He leaped off the mattress hastily and hit the panic alarm, desperate to tell DI Blake.
Within ten seconds the duty sergeant slid his cell door hatch and peered through. Seeing Dukes nervously pacing up and down, he moaned. ‘The alarm’s for emergencies only. What’s the problem?’
‘I need to speak to DI Blake now!’
‘What about?’
‘I’ve got information about Friday night’s murder.’
‘You had plenty of opportunity during your interview.’
‘I’ve only just remembered.’
‘Tell me and I’ll pass the message to him?’
‘I want to speak to him in person.’
‘OK, but you’ll have to wait while I check if he’s available.’
‘He bloody better be,’ Dukes said still pacing back and forth.
Luckily the duty sergeant managed to catch Blake, who was heading out the station entrance to fetch coffee. He desperately needed caffeine.
‘Sir! Prisoner by the name of Nathan Dukes is asking to see you. Says he’s got new information about the Barry Gibson murder case?’
‘Really? That’s interesting. He was unhelpful during his interview.’
‘Seems pretty wound up, sir; he’s adamant he’ll only speak to you.’
‘OK, I’ll come now. This had better be good to interrupt my break,’ he moaned.
Blake followed the sergeant back into the station and headed towards the cell block. Minutes later Williams stood holding the door as Blake entered.
‘Right, Mr Dukes, what have you got for me?’
‘I could do with a drink first. My mouth’s really dry; it’s like a sauna in here.’
‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to say first.’
Dukes became hesitant. ‘I… er… remembered the name of the bloke who argued with Barry Gibson in the Horse.’
‘And that would be?’
‘Grant Bolton.’
‘And you’re only just telling me now?’
‘I couldn’t remember before. Friday night was hectic, and with everything that happened my mind went blank.’
‘You know this guy?’
‘No.’ he lied.
‘So how do you know his name then?’
Dukes told Blake about his old school friend snogging the bloke who rowed with Gibson, on the dancefloor at the Kings Hall.
‘And you’re absolutely sure it’s him?’
‘Definitely. I remembered because he was built like a bloody power lifter and wearing the fist,’ Dukes stressed.
‘What’s the fist?’
‘Not sure if you know but people into Northern Soul sometimes wear the badge?’ he said vaguely.
Blake acted dumb. ‘You’ll need to be a bit more specific, Nathan?’ He wanted an accurate description.
‘It’s a fist inside a circle. Round the outside it normally says, “keep the faith”. Or sometimes the name of the scooter club or county.’
Blake continued the charade. ‘I see. And whereabouts was this badge?’
‘About here on his arm,’ Dukes said tapping his left triceps.
‘Similar to the badge you’ve removed from your black cagoule?’
‘What you on about?’
‘The one I found in the boot of your car.’
Dukes became animated. ‘You’ve got no right to search my motor.’ I never signed any warrant.’
‘Need I remind you, Mr Dukes, that this is a murder enquiry. I don’t need a warrant to search your car. You removed the badge after realising it could identify you on CCTV. In fact, around the time you left the pub for a cigarette break, CCTV captured a bloke of your height and build pacing up Stafford Street wearing a black cagoule with the hood up. And guess what?’ He paused for effect. ‘The fist logo on the left arm.’
Dukes screwed up his face. ‘That’s bollocks. I ripped the badge off because it was hanging off. This is bang out of order. I’m trying to be helpful, and you’re stitching me up. How many more times… I didn’t kill Barry Gibson!’
‘Calm down, Mr Dukes. We’ll look into this new information straight away and if this mystery man does turn out to be Grant Bolton we’ll have three suspects.’
Blake turned to the sergeant. ‘Lock him back up, Williams?’
As the key turned, Nathan Dukes flung himself into the back of the door and bawled. ‘I’ll sue you bastards for wrongful arrest! Where’s my drink?’
CHAPTER 32
There were fifty Stoke-on-Trent men who purchased tickets for the all-nighter at the King’s Hall on the 5th of June. DS Murphy and DC Moore had run them all through the PNC in the hope of identifying anyone with previous for violence. They whittled it down to just ten names. Seven of those had nothing more serious than parking tickets. The three remaining men had all been arrested for various forms of violence.
Straight after leaving a distraught Nathan Dukes to sweat it out in his cell, Blake headed purposefully to his office. Sat at his computer, he quickly typed Grant Bolton into the PNC database.
Bingo! The 46-year-old had several convictions for affray and hooliganism up until 2013. One incident in particular seemed to fit the MO of the Barry Gibson murder case: a fracas with Derby fans in the Barn Pub, Stoke in 2012. Bolton head-butted two of the visiting fans; leaving one with serious head injuries. With remission he only served twelve months of a two year stretch. Currently, he was on a two year suspended sentence, for theft. They needed to bring him in.
He picked up the phone and called DS Murphy to arrange for two uniformed officers to join them in arresting Grant Bolton.
An hour later, a four man team led by DI Blake stood outside number seven, Market Street, a typically run-of-the-mill terraced house in Milton.
Blake instructed the two uniformed officers to man the rear exit. Once they were in position he rattled the lion-head knocker, whilst DS Murphy peered through the front window.
‘There’s no one in there, Tom. Could be at work?’
‘There’s no work address on the database.’
‘Judging by how tidy this property is, he’s got money coming from somewhere,’ Murphy said.
Blake was just about to try the knocker again when Bolton’s neighbour opened her front door and nosed in.
‘He’ll be at work. Is he in trouble?’
Blake addressed a large middle-aged woman with bleached hair in black leggings and flip-flops. ‘We’d like to speak with Mr Bolto
n. What’s your name, love?’
‘Denise.’
‘Do you know Mr Bolton well?’
‘Not really. He’s a bit of a bastard, if I’m honest. Hardly ever speaks to me. My Mick’s had a few words with him about loud music and parties at the weekends. Waste of time, though… told him to F-off.’
‘Has he ever been violent towards your partner?’
‘There’s been a couple of incidents. Mick told him about his mates leaving cars outside our house all weekend. He pinned Mick to the wall. You can’t reason with him. I’m bloody sick off him.’
‘I see,’ Blake said, trying not to be drawn into her neighbour issues. ‘Where does Mr Bolton work then?’
‘He’s a window fitter for a company called Warmer Windows. Parks their van outside, bloody big white thing… blocks out the light.’
No sooner had she spoken when Murphy found the company’s address on his mobile. ‘It’s in Burslem Boss, down Blunt Lane.’
‘OK, thanks, Denise…?’ Blake paused.
‘Sumner.’
After she’d gone in, Blake said, ‘Let’s head on over there now.’
CHAPTER 33
Warmer Windows were one of those UPVC companies that used aggressive cold calls to annoy thousands of homeowners. The fact they employed an ex-con with a history of violence left Blake wondering about the morals of the CEO.
Without prior warning, the two police cars came to a halt on the company’s car park in front of World of Wicker; their new glass-fronted showroom was plastered in ‘Everything must go 70% OFF!’ banners.
Blake was first out of his vehicle and signalled to the uniformed officers to follow him and DS Murphy towards reception. Inside they were greeted by a young receptionist, Stacy Anderson. A large woman sat next to her looking disinterested, stuffing crisps into her mouth.
‘DI Blake and DS Murphy from Staffordshire Police. We’ve been told Grant Bolton works here; is that correct?’
‘Yeah, he’s been with us two years now. Can I ask what this is about?’ Stacey Anderson said with a rather worried look.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 11
