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

by J. F. Burgess

  Blake sat in the incident room watching a live feed streamed from the helicopter. It was passing over the Ramshaw rocks area of the moorlands, close to the Derbyshire border: nothing but sheep, climbers, ramblers and farmers going about their daily duties. After a couple of hours of checking back he felt concerned that he may have got the location wrong; quite literally a needle in haystack.

  After several hours the search proved fruitless, but as the NPAS officer informed Blake; detecting a suspect was always subject to being in the right area, at the right time; not every search led to an arrest. He’d just have to reassess the information they had on Bolton, and establish new search criteria.

  CHAPTER 41

  Ibrahim sat by the edge of the lake in Hanley Park reading a five day old copy of the Evening Sentinel. A murder, in a city centre pub he’d heard about, took up most of the front page, and he was concerned that Charlie Bullard’s association with the landlord could attract unnecessary attention from the cops.

  Police have started a murder investigation, after the body of 48-year-old Barry Gibson was discovered in the men’s toilets of the White Horse pub in the city centre, on Friday the 5th of June. Forensic evidence at the scene revealed he’d been involved in a fight with another man. A post-mortem examination later showed that although the victim fell and sustained a head trauma; his assailant forced a sharp object, which the pathologist said was probably a knife, into the wound, leading the victim to bleed out where he lay. Police have interviewed the pub’s landlord, doormen and customers who were drinking in the pub at the time, but have yet identify a clear suspect, and are appealing for other witnesses who were in the vicinity of the pub between ten and eleven p.m. to come forward.

  He glanced at his watch, it was 2.30 p.m. He folded the paper and walked through the park’s historic landscape, past a gaggle of noisy Canada geese, shading from the sun under one of the many willows which surrounded the lake. He climbed the grass embankment up onto the canal towpath. After striding a couple of hundred yards along the winding crushed stone, he found Charlie Bullard sat in an army green deckchair on Caldon Canal.

  He was staring intensely at the luminous orange tip of his float, which bobbed in front of the reeds on the opposite canal bank. Suddenly the tip lifted and then dived below the murky water. Charlie reacted to the bite, striking his rod hard-right with both hands. It bent in a large arc, tip to butt as the fish plunged deeper to avoid capture. Skilfully, he played it with a smooth pumping action, winding his reel to bring the fish closer to the waiting landing net he’d slid into the water. A sudden flash of gold sparkled just under the surface as a large bream capitulated and floated into the waiting net.

  ‘Calculated force conquers the will of nature,’ Charlie proclaimed with a wide grin. ‘If only the pigs were that easy to master we’d be laughing.’

  ‘You’ve pulled plenty of jobs over the years,’ Ibrahim said smugly, acting as if they were above the law and the rules didn’t apply to them.

  ‘Yeah, and been collared a few times as well. Lost the best part of my forties to prove it. It’s not the eighties any more. There’s CCTV, silent alarms wired straight to the cops, helicopters with heat-seeking cameras and all manner of surveillance technology. The odds are in the cops’ favour.’

  ‘Give me credit, Charl, this won’t be a smash and grab raid in broad daylight. Those days are long gone. Like I mentioned to you on Friday at the casino, we’ll swap the real Hoard for replicas.’

  Both their mouths clamped as an elderly lady walking a black Labrador passed behind them on the towpath. When she was out of earshot, Charlie asked, ‘How the bloody hell are you going to do that?’

  ‘To be honest, switching the gold is the easy part. The hard bit is getting in and then getting out unnoticed. Obviously the swap needs doing after hours when the museum is closed to the public and the staff are off the premises. Given your experience, that’s where you come in.’

  With a bewildered look, Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Basically, we need someone on the inside of the building. I spoke to our financier yesterday. He told me the best line of attack is to hack into the security cameras and doctor the digital image feed when the museum is closed.’

  ‘So what do you need me for?’

  ‘To be the inside man, but you won’t be alone. We’ve turned the caretaker. He retires at the end of the year and his state pension is crap. We’ve offered him more than enough to make his retirement cosy. He’s told us he can get agency staff when needed. Also which agency it is. That’s the one you’ll get registered with. Once everything is in place, the caretaker will call them and ask for you.’

  He frowned. ‘What if they offer it to someone else?’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘I think you’re being overconfident.’

  ‘Trust me, Charl, when the call comes, you’ll join him for the day.’

  With a worried look on his face, he said, ‘But that means I’ll be exposed to the cameras. If this goes tits up it’s my neck on the chopping block. Another stretch would kill me, I’m fifty-four this year, you know.’

  ‘Like I said we’ll doctor the cameras. Leonard will hack into the system, so they don’t capture the switch. Instead they’ll only show the previous two hours, but with the timeline unaltered. You’ll be a ghost. This might sound ridiculous, but you’ll be in partial disguise. A full beard, dyed hair and a flat cap.’

  He scoffed. ‘Sounds like a bloody Carry On movie. Besides you know I’ve got previous form. The first thing the Old Bill do when this kind of shit goes down is scan their database for known suspects, local and national.’

  ‘Speaking of suspects, have you seen this?’ Ibrahim unfolded the Sentinel and passed it over to Charlie.’

  Bullard skim read the front page. ‘Yeah, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t.’

  ‘That’s your cousin Darryl’s pub, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How reliable is he?’

  ‘Daz is old school, he knows to keep quite. He’s done time, you know.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘GBH. Stoved his wife’s lover’s head in with a bar stool, at his old pub. I was there at the time; he got sent down.’

  ‘Fucking hell, why didn’t you say before?’

  ‘Didn’t think it was relevant since he’s not directly involved.’

  ‘That’s all we need, another sodding con with a record linked to this job. If the cops start digging about can we trust him to keep his mouth shut? Not that he knows the full details anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, Darryl's safe as houses, mate.’ He didn’t dare tell Ibrahim Connor knew about the heist, he’d go mental.

  ‘You see where I’m coming from? We both know the cops work by leaning on those with records and their known associates. Is this murder anything to do with him?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because it happened on his premises, and according to the report he’s been questioned. Doesn't look good, does it? Bloke with previous for GBH in a pub; ends up running another pub where a bloke was battered to death.’

  Charlie didn’t reply. He glanced at his float trying to dodge the question.

  ‘What about your nephew Mickey?’ Ibrahim continued.

  ‘We’ll be okay. For starters he’s in Manchester. Unlikely they’d twig that.’

  ‘I hope not, because we’re doing this job.’

  ‘Don’t worry I’ve already told him what the consequences would be if he mentions anything to anyone.’

  ‘Okay, let’s leave it at that for now.’

  ‘Going back to the job. Until everything has been checked and double checked we won’t even consider making a move? OK, let’s say I get in and the cameras are nobbled, what then?’ Tension filled his expression.

  ‘The gold pieces are so small you could fit most of them in a rucksack, making it easy to get them out of the building undetected. You’ll do the switch and Leonard will take care
of hacking the cameras.’

  ‘So I’m the man on the inside, pure and simple?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re the best man for the job because I know you’ll keep your nerve. Besides, I only work with people I can trust,’ Ibrahim said pandering to his ego, while trying to reassure him. ‘We’ll do everything we can to make sure you’re not detected. The Collector’s providing us with the latest fingerprint cover-up technology. It’s called liquid bandage. It works well in situations where you can’t be seen to be wearing gloves, which is ideal because you can’t wear them during your day working at the museum. Then, after hours, you can slip on the gloves. I’ve arranged a group meeting this evening; we OK using your flat?’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Just the guys from the casino on Friday.’

  ‘Make it eight-thirty?’

  CHAPTER 42

  Since Dean Taylor’s arrest four days ago, Yusuf Benzar had found it hard to calm down. He was seething. The pigs had intercepted their gear and lost his brother the six grand he’d paid to their Afghan connection. Because of his stupidity, the bigger shipment would have to be delayed indefinitely. To get a handle on the situation he’d called Dean’s mate Carl Draycott, who’d received a message from his bent lawyer telling him the heat was on and to lay low. Knowing the police would be looking into his affairs made him feel very uneasy. Instinctively he felt someone was watching him but he couldn’t be certain. With this in mind he’d stayed away from the flat in Shelton and slept at his neglected terraced house in Hanley.

  Stealthily he exited from the back of the house and made his way over to Tindale Street where he’d covertly parked his other, untraceable motor.

  Undetected, he drove his black BMW and turned a sharp left into Marchwood Street, Hanley, travelled fifty yards, and parked in the dotted resident zone outside number sixteen. Unlike his brother, Yusuf’s aspirations towards building a property portfolio were stunted by his inability to control problem gambling. Over the years it had cost him significantly and emotionally. He used to own six properties but was forced to sell four to pay off casino debts of over three hundred thousand.

  Number sixteen was now his last source of income from rent, aside from the two hundred quid a week his brother tossed him for helping out with The Dojo Martial Arts School, and the Slipware Tankard bar. The loan sharking he dabbled in had gone tits up recently. He was still owed thousands by those filthy scroungers on the Heath Hayes estate. Nathan Dukes brought in less than a grand on his last collecting mission. Next week, he’d go with Dukes and leave a trail of fucking casualties.

  He hated being reliant on his brother for handouts; it wound him up how Ibrahim seemed to amass piles of cash, while he lived beyond his means, head bobbing just above water.

  Ibrahim refused to give him lump sums as he knew the gambling demon within would blow it. He even let him live rent-free, but that was beside the point. These bastards in number sixteen were taking the piss and he wasn’t having it. If they didn’t cough up tonight he’d chuck them out.

  He rapped the knocker on the traffic-stained plastic door and waited. The net curtain in the rotting front window twitched. He knocked again, then dropped to his knees and shouted through the letterbox. ‘Your rent’s well overdue. Open the fucking door!’ Through the slot he saw one of the tenants, a greasy-haired rocker named Damien run through the house in a panic to lock the back door. Yusuf was steaming. He took a step back and kicked the front door hard. ‘Open the door, or I’ll kick it in, you pair of bastards.’ Still no reply. ‘I know you’re in there!’

  There was no way the shot bolts would give in through kicking; it needed more force. He jumped around to the back of his BMW, opened the boot and heaved out a Tactical Mini-ram.

  Clasping the handles of the fifteen-pound ram he swung it hard into the lock edge of the door. It cracked, shattering white plastic shards onto the pavement. On the second swing police sirens could be heard in the distance. By now several neighbours looked on in horror from their doorsteps as Yusuf finally caved the door in and ran inside chasing his scared shitless tenant through into the kitchen like a possessed madman.

  The rocker tried to escape through the back door. He frantically fumbled at the brass handle, only managing to creak it open a couple of inches before Yusuf lunged at him, grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the wood, crushing his fingers agonisingly in the gap. Yanking his bloated fingers free, he slid and cowered on the floor as a barrage of heavy blows rained down into his head.

  ‘You fucking disrespect me, you dirty bastard,’ Yusuf raged. ‘Where’s my money!’

  ‘Ah, ah shit – I’ll get it to you next week, definitely!’ The rocker screamed in pain before passing out, his nose streaming blood onto the laminate floor.

  The next voice Yusuf heard was that of the police who’d stormed the property. Before he could react he was wrestled to the floor, face pushed hard onto the laminate by a copper, whilst another huge officer sat on his back and handcuffed him with force.

  ‘We’re arresting you for breaking, entering and assault,’ DS Murphy said, catching his breath.

  The officers managed to get him up, but he resisted, wrestling with them violently. ‘Fucking get off me, pig scum!’ he shouted in defiance, continuing to thrash around as the sergeant read the rest of his rights.

  It took the threat of being tasered to eventually calm him down. Two uniformed officers bundled him out of the property, shouting expletives into the cage of a police meat wagon waiting in the street.

  Twenty minutes later Yusuf Benzar lay on a foam mattress staring around a stark cell at Hanley police station; belt-less, without shoelaces, awaiting interview. The first thing that crossed his mind was how pissed off his brother would be about his arrest.

  The duty sergeant slid his door hatch and informed him he was entitled to a lawyer and a phone call.

  Yusuf could tell by his brother’s tone he was livid; despite this, Ibrahim knew his idiot brother would only get one call so within minutes of hanging up he called their lawyer, Bryant Preston, his accountant’s brother.

  The pokey interview room’s spotlights glared off the walls. Bryant Preston sat poised next to Yusuf, pen and paper laid out on the table. DI Tom Blake and DS John Murphy sat opposite, staring at the arrogant scowl on Yusuf’s face.

  Blake knew DI Clive Moore from the drug squad would be furious with him for jeopardising his surveillance operation on Benzar. Having initiated the op himself this was serious egg on the face. Unwittingly DS Murphy arrested him, but how was he to know? It looked worse for them caught napping on the job. How the bloody hell did he slip under their noses undetected? Total incompetence. Besides, they couldn’t ignore such a public display of breaking, entering and assault. Brushing off the consequences of shooting himself in the foot, he hit the record button on the tape machine and kicked off the interview.

  ‘OK. Let’s start off with what we know.’

  ‘You’ve been arrested for breaking, entering and assaulting the resident of number sixteen Marchwood Street, Hanley. What do you have to say regarding this?’

  Yusuf paused, then consulted Preston before answering. ‘I didn’t break in. It’s my house.’

  ‘We have half a dozen witnesses who saw you obliterate the door with a police battering ram.’

  Again, he consulted his lawyer before answering with caution. ‘I’m entitled to get in my property?’

  ‘Why didn’t you knock like any normal person?’

  ‘I did; they wouldn’t come to the door. Those bastards are squatting. They’ve not paid any rent for two months.’

  ‘So you thought you’d smash the door in and beat the shit out of one of your tenants? If you read your tenancy agreement it clearly states you have to apply for an eviction order from the courts. They engage the services of bailiffs on your behalf when a tenant needs removing. Do you have a tenancy agreement, Mr Benzar?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Benzar, you know answering no comme
nt to any of our questions can become part of the case against you?’

  Blake glanced at DS Murphy, and shook his head in disbelief at how many landlords thought they could do as they pleased. It seemed whole streets of inner city areas were being bought up cheaply by unscrupulous crooks looking for somewhere to launder their dodgy cash. He recalled this was the fifth landlord he’d dealt with so far this year, concluding they’d rent properties to anyone with a deposit, no background checks or contracts, making it difficult to prove the facts, as everything was verbal. There was no way of establishing a paper trail of whether the tenant had paid rent or not.

  Yusuf sat arms folded in defiant silence. Both officers knew from experience that statements of no comment were avoidance tactics.

  ‘You can be prosecuted for renting a property without a tenancy agreement,’ DS Murphy pitched in.

  Blake interrupted. ‘For the tape, Mr Benzar is shrugging his shoulders at DS Murphy’s last question. Your tenant is in hospital receiving treatment for a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone, a dislocated jaw and three broken fingers. That’s a serious assault charge you’re looking at. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, you could have killed him. There’s no way you’ll be leaving this station tonight. A search of your vehicle turned up a hunting knife and six wraps of cocaine in the glove box. So, on top of the assault we have possession of class A drug and a concealed weapon. It’s not looking good for you at all, Mr Benzar.’

  Blake stood up and sauntered over to the corner of the room to a blue plastic evidence box sat on the floor. He retrieved its contents. ’For the benefit of the tape I’m showing Mr Benzar two clear evidence bags containing the aforementioned knife and cocaine. Do you acknowledge these items retrieved from your BMW belong to you?’