‘Potteries, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think so.’
‘We know your sight is poor, but can you tell us anything else about him?’
‘Not really, everything’s blurred these days.’
‘Did you hear him leaving in a vehicle?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did you make out the colour of that vehicle?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. White, or silver maybe. Nothing bright.’
‘OK, sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Arlington. You’ve been a big help, take care?’
On the drive back down Bloodland Road, the detectives discussed the case whilst creeping through the speed cameras.
‘So, some scumbag debt collectors were on Barry Gibson’s case?’ Blake said.
‘Seems that way. Doesn’t tie into the crime scene though. These people are savvy. Unlikely they’d kill him in a public place. In fact it’s debatable they’d kill him at all. He only owed them for a TV. Not a massive debt?’ Murphy said.
‘Judging by what Gibson’s missus said he’d made enemies all over the place. But one thing is for sure, we need to speak with this Stomper bloke as soon as, he could be our man. Someone knows who he is.’ Blake said.
Back in the incident room, Nick Pemberton was bragging about his weekend conquest to a young constable. He’d pulled her at the Duke of Bridgewater pub in Burslem; according to him she was a fit 27-year-old redhead who rode him like a Grand National jockey.
‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ Murphy interrupted, winding him up.
‘Ignore him, he’s just jealous. The last time his helmet got knocked off was in the nineties at the Stoke match when the Zulus run amok through the town,’ Pemberton retaliated.
‘Oh, your jibes cut like a knife. Actually, the missus blew the dust off my truncheon on Sunday while we watched Antiques Roadshow.’
‘Wehay! I’d loved to have heard what value their rare artefacts expert put on that ancient piece of mahogany.’
The group burst into laughter.
‘Gentlemen! Need I remind you this is a police station and we’re in the middle of a murder enquiry? It’s like a bloody episode of On the Buses in here. Can we stick to the job in hand?’
‘Hand job!’ Pemberton said with a cheeky grin.
‘Seriously, is there anything new on the suspects?’ Blake asked.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Pemberton said. ‘Yeah, there’s been dozens of calls about the CCTV still in the Sentinel.’
‘Have any of the callers mentioned the nickname Stomper?’ Blake asked.
‘I can check for you, but not that I know of. Is he a suspect?’
‘The victim’s wife mentioned Barry had been socialising with him recently. We really need to find out who this guy is. Hardly an inconspicuous handle is it?’
‘Kernel Mustard has sent out a posse of constables to follow up those lines of enquiry. We should know more later.’
Blake sounded doubtful. ‘Let’s hope that gives us more to work with. Have the local taxi firms been contacted yet, to see if anyone picked up a man fitting the suspect’s description between nine-thirty and eleven p.m.?’
‘PC Evans is working her way through the taxicab list,’ Pemberton said. ‘No hits yet, I’m afraid. Maybe he caught the bus, or walked?’
‘Would you like me to see if Evans has any leads, chief?’ DS Murphy asked.
Blake grinned. ‘It’s OK, John, I’ll have a word with her. Good point about the bus; has anyone spoken to First Bus or Wardle Travel?’
‘Not yet, boss, but I’ll get somebody onto it as soon as,’ Pemberton replied.
‘Did you discover any irregularities in the witness statements, John?’ Blake asked his DS.
‘No, just the ramblings of beered-up wasters. The murderer legged it well before we arrived. None of them owned up to missing a drinking partner, although judging by the state of them, it’s unlikely they’d dob a mate in.’
‘Worth bringing any in for questioning?’
‘Yeah. If we turn up the heat maybe someone will expose a drinking bud?’
‘OK, draw up a shortlist of the most helpful and evasive witnesses? We’ll bring them in for further questioning. Putting them under a microscope in the interview room might jog a few memories. At least they’re likely to be sober this time.’
Pemberton rocked on his chair. ‘Don’t bank on it, judging by what PC Haynes told me. Says the majority looked like they’d converted their gyros into beer tokens.’
It was 11.30 a.m. and Blake was in desperate need of a pre-lunch coffee boost. The curvaceous figure bending down to retrieve a cup of the black shit the vending machine company passed off as coffee was unmistakably PC Casey Evans. He hated to admit it but John was right; she was an absolute stunner. God knows why she joined the force; that face and body wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a lad’s mag, or some other trite fashion monthly.
He asked her, ‘Any leads on the taxicab line of enquiry?’
‘Not yet, sir. You wouldn’t believe how many private hire companies there are in Stoke-on-Trent. Called twenty-five already. Just another thirty to go!’
‘Tedious, I know, but it needs to be done. I’ll see if I can get you help to lighten the load.’
She shot him a flirtatious smile. ‘Thanks, sir; that would be great.’
His eyes averted her gesture. ‘Don’t thank me yet; I’m about to add to your workload. Can you call First Bus and Wardle Travel and get them to circulate the CCTV still of our suspect to their drivers?’
‘Will do, sir.’
Coffee in hand she turned and strutted along the corridor towards the incident room. Did she just give him a signal or was he imagining it? It had been months since he’d cavorted with the opposite sex and the brief encounter left him feeling a little unhinged.
CHAPTER 35
DI Blake decided there might be mileage in re-questioning some of the drinkers from the White Horse crime scene, before any of the cheap pubs opened. Hopefully, they’d be sober.
Arthur Cumberbatch and his son Raymond were first on the list, although his previous encounter with the pair had established they were dumber than barstools. It would take a huge leap of faith to think this daft pair were involved in Barry Gibson’s death. They’d struggle to knock the top of a pie, let alone poll axe a six-foot skinhead. But they still needed re-questioning.
‘What we doing in here, duck, pubs open soon; me and Wazz haven’t had breckie yet.’
‘It’s DI Blake to you, Mr Cumberbatch. We’re reassessing the witness statements taken on Friday the 5th, in the White Horse. And since you and your son seem to be the only pair who knew the deceased, we want to make sure we haven’t missed nothing.’
‘I see. What do you reckon, Wazz?’
‘Yeah, sound, Dad.’
Blake glanced at his highlighted notes. ‘Mr Cumberbatch, in your original statement you said:
‘“We’ve known Big Gibbo for a few years. He normally drinks in the Burton Stores. Bit of a lad, if you know what I mean. Likes a bloody good row that one. He offered plenty of ’em to step outside. He could turn real nasty.”
‘Going back to what you said about he offered plenty of people outside. Can you remember anyone in particular, say a regular you know from any of the pubs you and Raymond use? Does the name Stomper mean anything to either of you?’
‘Never heard of him; all I know is, most of the regulars knew better than to row with him. He got on with most of them; it was usually strangers,’
‘I see. This brings us onto the altercation you witnessed between Barry Gibson and the “big youth” you referred to. I know you gave us a brief description on the night but it’s possible you may have remembered a bit more about him since Friday?’ Blake said addressing Raymond.
Cumberbatch’s son didn’t respond immediately. ‘Can’t remember.’
Blake jogged his memory. ‘A broad youth about five ten, dark hair wearing a top and trousers. It’s a
bit vague to say the least?’
‘How do you mean?’ Raymond said dimly.
‘I hate to state the obvious but that probably describes several punters in the White Horse on Friday. We need more specific details. Can you remember his hairstyle, facial and body marks; such as moles, scars tattoos or anything else distinguishing about him? What colour was his top? Did it have a logo? Was he wearing jeans, chinos or more formal trousers? Come on Raymond, this is a bloody murder inquiry!’
‘Murder! I thought Gibbo was in a fight?
‘He was, but the killer stabbed him with a knife in the head.’
‘Oh shit! Sounds really bad?’
‘It is, so can you remember anything?’
‘His hair was longer on top, greased over to one side. Like footballers have it.’
‘OK, that’s a good start. Any marks or tattoos?’
‘Now you mention it, I think there was a tat on the back of his neck poking just above his collar. Chinese writing or summet.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Blake said, taking notes. ‘Facial hair or anything like that?’
‘Just a bit of stubble.’
‘And moving back to his clothes. Anything at all you can remember?’
‘Na, pub was too packed, it was darkish.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK. Your dad said the youth ordered loads of pints. How many would you say?’
Arthur Cumberbatch butted in. ‘About ten, I reckon.’
Blake ignored him and carried on probing Raymond. ‘So he’d have been with a big group of mates. Do you remember anything about them? Think hard.’
‘Nah, it was too packed so I couldn’t say for sure. Blokes were coming and going all night.’
‘But you remember the incident fairly clearly?’
‘Yeah, only because Big Gibbo was involved.’
‘To recap. Your dad said the big youth stood up to Gibbo?’
‘Yeah, then the landlord stepped in and fetched the bouncer.’
‘That would be Mr Darryl Connor, and the bouncer was Nathan Dukes.
‘Ar, that’s them.
‘So you’re saying Nathan Dukes had a word with Barry Gibson?’
‘Yeah, but we couldn’t hear what he said.’
‘And there’s nothing else at all you want to add?’
‘Like what?’
‘Did you notice anything after things settled down?’
‘No, we never saw Big Gibbo after that. Thought he must have gone another pub. Then you lot turned up later.’
‘Unfortunately, the big youth who rowed with Barry Gibson has disappeared. His name’s Grant Bolton, and there’s a warrant out for his arrest. Do you know him?’
Cumberbatch gave his son a worried look.
‘No.’
‘Thanks for your cooperation. You’ve been very helpful.’
CHAPTER 36
Stoke-on-Trent’s new state-of-the-art forensics lab was a five-minute spin around the ring road. Blake had phoned earlier that morning and arranged a meeting with Langford Gelder, the city’s senior forensic specialist. He preferred the old city lab housed in a grand three-storey Edwardian building. Sadly, the powers that be declared it no longer fit for purpose and it had been boarded up since closing in 2001. Worst of all, the car park was smaller so, unless the forensics team were at a crime scene, there were no spaces.
A glance over the lab’s low perimeter wall confirmed his parking theory. Unable to get a driving pool car, he’d been forced to take the Jag. Unimpressed, he parked it in the terraced street opposite, mindful any dozy twat could knock his pride and joy. The receptionist recognised him. After scribbling in the visitor’s book, he strode along a clinical corridor towards Langford’s office.
‘Tom,’ Gelder greeted him, opening his door, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to go through the Barry Gibson murder case forensics again?’
‘Did we miss something?’ he said, puzzled.
‘Not sure. It’s more a case of double-checking everything. Still no arrest, although DS Murphy may have identified a potential suspect, but it’s early days yet.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Yeah! Sadly we don’t have a face shot though.’
‘Nothing at all to go off?’
‘Bastard’s wearing a hood.’
‘What about the timeline…? Can you place him?’
‘Time stamp is within the hour mark.’
‘No hits on the fingerprints?’
‘Afraid not. He placed bin bags on his hands. Those weren’t recovered at the crime scene, and there was far too much cross contamination from other drinkers to establish anything solid.’
‘Nothing on the DNA side of things?’
Blake let out a heavy sigh. ‘Another blank. The suspect is not in the database. Could be a first offence, but I very much doubt it, judging by the level of violence and the fact he tried to hide the body. Doesn’t exactly look like a panic merchant. He may have been arrested pre-DNA. Compulsory testing wasn’t rolled out until 1995.’
‘Suppose it’s possible. There are positives though. The forensic podiatrist unit have produced clear images of both the suspect’s footprints. There are also contact samples of the perpetrator’s clothes fibres, which transferred to the victim when attempting to hide the body.’
Blake’s brow furrowed as he considered the limited forensic evidence. ‘That’s disappointing. We both know the first thing he’s likely to do is to dispose of those.’
‘Unfortunately true, Inspector, but that’s all we’ve got to work with at this stage. These size tens have leather soles, which means unique marks,’ Gelder imparted holding up an A4 image of the suspect’s footprints.
‘That’s a good thing, because they would be easy to identify. And there’d be blood transferral from the floor.’
‘Anything turned up regarding the knife?’
‘Another blank I’m afraid. Pathologist thinks it could be something called a drop point blade; a survival knife.’
‘Nasty?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’ve read the report?’
‘I have, Inspector. Killer forced it into his brain, no way he’d come back from that.’
‘Thanks, Langford, it is what it is. Just means we’ve gotta work much harder to get him.’
Gelder shrugged. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
CHAPTER 37
DI Blake’s team had yet to establish the whereabouts of Grant Bolton. The fact he’d argued with Barry Gibson in the White Horse on the night of his murder, clearly made him a prime suspect, although they couldn’t rule out Darryl Connor, Nathan Dukes and Dave Millburn who’d also had the opportunity.
He was convinced they were lying about not really knowing the victim: a web of deceit he planned to get to the bottom of.
It seemed Bolton had gone completely off the grid. Judging by the inactivity of his phone records, he must’ve ditched his contracted mobile. A door-to-door in the Milton area drew a blank; even his landlord was after him because he owed a month’s rent. A search of his property didn’t bring any new evidence to light. The only thing they had to go on was his Facebook profile which provided clues as to the type of person he really was. Judging by the pictures of paint-balling events, survival courses, videos of camping trips on remote Staffs moorlands, and SAS guide books he’d listed as his favourite reads, he was some kind of survival fantasist, which fitted the pathologists original profile of the killer. Someone knew where he was and they intended to find out who.
Back at the station, Blake’s frustration was showing. They’d had to release Nathan Dukes without charge. He’d been in custody for forty eight hours and apart from circumstantial footprints at the scene they had nothing concrete on him; he claimed not to know anyone called Stomper, and the search of his property drew a blank.
He crushed and slam-dunked his second disposable coffee cup into the incident room bin.
‘H
ave you sent stills of the CCTV footage out to the Sentinel?’ he asked Nick Pemberton who sat swivelling his chair.
‘It went off straight after you spoke to John this morning. It will be in tonight’s edition,’ he said, glancing over at DS Murphy sitting two desks along.
‘Great, at least that’s sorted.’
Pemberton moaned. ‘There’s still a bloody multitude of tasks in the action book, which Kernel Mustard hasn’t sanctioned. I’ll have to run them by him first. You know how anal he is on protocol.’
‘I know it’s early days but we’ve got limited evidence to work with,’ Blake said.
‘Wait till Tuesday’s press release; we’ll be inundated with calls from the public identifying the suspect.’
‘You wish.’
‘Langford not turned up anything useful then, I take it?’ Pemberton asked Blake.
‘All we have to show for Friday night’s graveyard shift is frigging shoe prints and fibres!’
He reflected on Barry Gibson’s prostrate body lying in a sea of blood, like a freshly slaughtered abattoir carcass – a fact which focused his attention on the present arduous task of building a case, brick by brick.’
Earwigging, DS Murphy chipped in. ‘Seriously! No clear suspect fingerprints or DNA?’
‘As you know John, the crime scene was contaminated with hundreds of elimination prints. And of course Nathan Dukes and Darryl Connor trounced all over the bloody floor. Originally we thought it looked like a fight gone wrong. According to the post-mortem the victim received a nasty blow to the face, which busted his nose causing him to fall backwards onto the trough, cracking his skull like a nut.’
‘Poor bastard probably never saw it coming.’
‘Head-butt, you reckon?’
‘That’s what the pathologist said. However, he was adamant the knife wound to his brain killed him.’
‘Ironic though. Poor bugger had cirrhosis of the liver. Smithson said Gibson would be dead within six months anyway.’
‘Jesus, that’s uncanny. Our man probably did him a favour in the end then?’ Murphy said cynically.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 13
