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

by J. F. Burgess

Preston informed Yusuf he concurred with the detectives, but under no circumstances should he admit to being involved in the murder, considering the circumstantial evidence.

  Benzar sat arms crossed, lips taut. Eventually, after a few minutes of silence, he snapped. Banging his handcuffed fists on the table he shouted, ‘You set me up, pig bastards.’

  ‘There’s overwhelming evidence to convict you of drug dealing and illegal money lending, pure and simple.’

  ‘I didn’t kill this Gibson bloke!’

  ‘Explain your connection to the victim then? Why is his name and postcode in your address book with the sum of thousand pounds next to it?’

  ‘He borrowed it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘How much had Barry Gibson paid off his loan?’

  ‘Nothing, that bastard tried to take me for a ride.’

  ‘So you sent someone to kill him, or did it yourself. Send out a warning to everyone else who owed money. Isn’t that what happened, Mr Benzar?’

  He looked rattled. ‘You think I’d have someone killed for a thousand pounds?’

  ‘Frankly, yes. You’re a known drug dealer with zero morals, and a history of violence. Your tenant is currently in hospital receiving treatment for a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone, a dislocated jaw and three broken fingers. That’s GBH. Luckily the incident was only a mile from the station, any further and you’d have killed the poor bugger. Now, where were you between nine and ten-fifty on Friday evening the fifth of June?’

  He turned to consult with his solicitor. After a moment’s pause: ‘I was in the Genting Casino until around twelve-thirty. You can call my brother Ibrahim, he’ll tell you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we will do,’ Blake lied, knowing Ibrahim Benzar would furnish his brother with an alibi. He wouldn’t waste his time.

  Benzar continued to protest. ‘I’m telling you I didn’t kill him. I lent him money, that’s all. Where’s your evidence, pig?’

  ‘We’ll be speaking with a few of your associates, see what they have to say,’ Blake said nodding to DS Murphy.

  ‘Interview terminated.’

  ‘Take him back to his cell, DS Murphy.’

  After Benzar had left the room, Blake called the casino and arranged an immediate meeting with the head of surveillance.

  Forty minutes later Blake returned to the station, annoyed and disappointed that Benzar’s casino alibi checked out. There were several shots of him and his brother during the time the murder was committed. And the fast tracked forensics on the knife was negative. He’d just have to settle for charging him with the evidence they had. Bailing him in the hope of new evidence coming to light would be too risky.

  DS Murphy fetched him before the duty sergeant.

  ‘Yusuf Benzar, I’m charging you with assault, possession of an illegal weapon, two counts of possession of class A drugs with intent to supply and running an illegal money-lending operation. Do you have anything further to say?

  ‘Seni lanet olasıca öldüreceğim.’ I’ll fucking kill you,.

  ‘Don’t worry; we’ll get that rant translated. Any threats will be taken very seriously,’ Blake said, handing him his charge sheet. ‘Take him back to his cell, DS Murphy?’

  CHAPTER 45

  The ten-by-ten windowless room suited Leonard Vale’s people-averse personality down to the ground. The tech geek was comfortable when left to his own devices, especially when they were electronic and hooked up to the Internet. Just as long as he could put several hours a day gaming and squeeze in a once-a day oil change with sex cams, he was happy as a pig in shit.

  However his primary focus was to monitor the Potteries Museum cameras, which the gang had infiltrated, through an undocumented back door. During a planned CCTV maintenance the caretaker placed a tiny tracking device at the rear of each one, which routed a signal back to him. Once they were ready to move, he’d hack into the system and take over the feed.

  This secret location was command HQ for Ibrahim’s operation. Two Panasonic CF-20 Tough Books on the desk in front of Leonard were hooked up to a powerful satellite feed from a remote US server with a roving IP.

  The room was only accessible through a secret entrance door behind the back of a shelving unit full of stock – there was even a caravan Portaloo, small bed, kettle and a fridge – which had its supplies restocked daily.

  In the event of a raid by law enforcement, a warning light alerted the room’s occupants if the stockroom had been breached. He’d practised his exit strategy several times. A small loft lid opened electronically at the pull of a cord, dropping a telescopic ladder, allowing him to escape into the loft spaces above, from where he could access any of one of several empty properties in the row of shops in Piccadilly.

  The Collector’s M.O. inspired Ibrahim. He insisted the reason he’d never been caught was because his pro outfit only used the best personnel and equipment available.

  Glancing at the small CCTV monitor wired to the shop’s front camera, he saw two official-looking men in suits approach the entrance. Who were they this early, he wondered nervously, glancing at his phone; it was only eight a.m.

  CHAPTER 46

  It would be hard to miss the place, thought Blake, looking at the garish green sign above a window display, which wouldn’t look out of place in a performance of Aladdin. Several rows of multi-coloured Shisha pipes filled the front window. It was one of those small mini-markets, which had popped up in the city over the last few years, the majority of whose proprietors were immigrants with newly acquired bank loans.

  Blake and his sergeant entered the shop. Open-fronted chill cabinets covered all three walls while a centre shelving unit dominated the rest of the available floor space. A crystal beaded drape in the left corner hung above the doorway leading to the back of the premises.

  Blake addressed a short, painfully thin Asian guy who was on his knees topping up what appeared to be the spice shelf with large packs of pungent powders from a box on the floor.

  ‘You the owner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is then?’

  ‘Who asking?’

  Blake flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Tom Blake, Hanley CID and this is my colleague DS Murphy. We’re looking for Ibrahim Benzar.’

  The shifty-looking assistant paused nervously before answering. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Can you give me your boss’s number please?’

  ‘I don’t have.’

  Blake’s instincts told him this guy was either being deliberately unhelpful or was scared of his boss. Whichever, it was widely acknowledged employees such as these were often illegals with no work visa. He turned up the heat knowing a quick mention of customs would prise him open.

  ‘Listen, I’ll only ask you once more. After that customs will pay you a visit to check if your work visa and passport are valid. Give me your boss’s number now.’

  Without hesitation, the guy climbed to his feet, paced over to the counter and retrieved a business card from under it. Blake gave DS Murphy a knowing look and called the mobile number on the card.

  After multiple rings there was an answer. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Ibrahim Benzar?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ said a voice with a slight Eastern European accent.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tom Blake. We have your brother in custody.’

  ‘Our lawyer is dealing with it. Why are you calling me?’

  Blake moved to the other side of the shop and lowered his voice. ‘I’d like to make you aware of how serious your brother’s situation is. Possession of a large quantity of class A drugs, forty thousand of untraceable cash, and, of course, there’s the assault on his tenant.’ Blake knew these kinds of criminals rarely acted alone and in most cases they were part of an organised syndicate, which often contained several members of the same family. Brothers, cousins, uncles and even mothers were not immune to being party to it.

  ‘I don’t speak to cops. Our lawyer
deals with them. If that’s all, I’m a busy man?’

  Blake tried to evoke a response from him. ‘Your brother’s looking at least eight to ten years in prison.’ His intention was to draw Benzar into a face-to-face in his shop. He took a couple of seconds to realise the line had gone dead. ‘He’s hung up on me,’ he moaned to the shop assistant, who looked worried about retribution for giving his boss’s number to the cops, which Blake inferred as a sign of the level of fear his paymaster instilled.

  CHAPTER 47

  PC Evans and DC Chris Longsdon arrived at the Social Club, Burslem. Dennis Miller greeted them, standing on the front steps puffing away at the last remnants of his fag. He ushered them through the doors into the main bar area.

  ‘We’ve had reports of a break-in,’ Evans said.

  ‘Ah, that was forty-eight hours ago!

  ‘Mr Miller. Each crime reported to us is prioritised, and fortunately because no one was hurt, and not much has been stolen, the break-in was down the list I’m afraid to say. Just the way it works, with all the cuts.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m buggered if I know why they’ve done it. Just bloody mindless vandalism,’ he said.

  ‘What exactly is missing?’ DC Longsdon asked him.

  ‘That’s the funny thing. Whoever did this only stole old photographs of the William Adams Pottery.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else at all been taken? Often it takes a while for you to realise, because of the shock.’

  ‘We’ve had a good look around, officer. Everything seems to be here.’

  ‘Any idea what time the break-in took place?’ Longsdon asked.

  ‘Not exactly sure, but Jeff Greenhall, a local security guard who watches over several buildings in the area, called me around ten o’clock on the night it happened. Said the place was all safe and sound. So, I’m presuming it must have happened sometime after that.’

  ‘Did the security guard enter the building?’ Longsdon continued as Evans took notes.

  ‘Yeah, he said the dog was acting funny, but everything looked fine, so he went home.’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a German Shepherd. Goes everywhere with him, like his best mate: although it’s getting on a bit now,’ Miller said.

  ‘I see. Going back to the stolen photos. Who, or what exactly were they of?’

  ‘I’ve been into amateur photography, most of my life: and since this place has a lot of history linked to the old William Adams pottery site down the road. In ’93 I decided to share some of my great memories with people who use this place. Quite a lot of them used to work there. It’s only the strong sense of community that got everyone through the hard times. Bit like the miners, if you see what I mean.’

  Both, Longsdon, and Evans had family who’d worked in the pottery industry during the ’80s and ’90s so knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘Anyone specific in these photos?’

  ‘Ah, loads of local blokes young and old. Of course some of them are dead now and others I’ve not seen for years.’

  ‘Names would be helpful. It seems quite a personal sort of burglary, like they were only after the photographs. I mean how much beer and spirits do you keep on the premises?’

  ‘Oh, I dunnow exactly, about three grands worth.’

  ‘Which begs the question why didn’t they take any of it?’

  Miller rubbed his chin, ‘That’s exactly what I said to the cleaners this morning. Something’s definitely suspicious about this break-in.’ he said, pointing to the broken cabinets.

  ‘Okay, we’ll give forensics a call and see if there’s a SOCO available to come and give the place a dusting for prints. Just out of interest do you have copies of these photos?’

  Miller mused for a second. ‘Well bugger me I never thought about that. You know, think I might have in my workshop. I used to keep folders with dates and everything. Although when I took over this place I stopped: takes up a lot of my time now.’

  ‘What period where the photos from?’ Longsdon asked him.

  ‘At a guess I’d say between 1968 up until the factory closed in 1993.

  ‘Okay, if you could have a good look later today. That might shed some light on the motive for the burglary. Give me a call on that number if you find them,’ Longsdon said passing over his card.

  CHAPTER 48

  Ibrahim owned several properties across the city, although he was not interested in generating income from rent. All were poorly maintained terraced houses in rundown areas. He used these to house illegal immigrants who worked for him off the books. From a business point of view it was far more profitable to let tenants live rent-free, but on low pay.

  The Africans lived in Shelton, an inner-city area made up of predominantly turn-of-the-century terraced houses with a diverse ethnic and student community. Frederick and Jozef Simbala were orphan brothers, forced by the death of their parents to survive any way they could on the tough Nairobi streets. Both were members of the Mungiki, a criminal organisation labelled as the most dangerous gang in Africa. Their involvement in multiple kidnaps, extortion rackets and a spate of violent murders in the country’s largest slum, Mathare, caused them to flee Kenya twelve months earlier via illegal trafficking routes to Belgium.

  First impressions of the pair were misleading: dark, lank and skinny, wearing faded charity shop T-shirts and jeans, but the evil pair were capable of anything. Ibrahim learned from his apprenticeship with the Black Wolves gang in Turkey back in the eighties: never have direct involvement with any form of crime. It was much smarter to orchestrate at a distance from the business end of things. He only used the Simbalas for unsavoury jobs that required brazen force.

  He met the brothers in the Mediterranean Café on the A5006 Shelton. There were no CCTV cameras, making it an ideal place to conduct business. It was 9.30 a.m. and the place was empty.

  He ordered a Turkish coffee and joined the shifty-looking pair who sat sipping green tea at a corner table. Retrieving a Manila envelope from inside his jacket he laid a sheet of A4 with a photograph of Isabel Blake attached to it onto the table.

  ‘One of my men has been watching this detective’s house for a few days. His daughter goes to college Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings.’

  The Simbala brothers remained silent as Ibrahim went through clear orders of where the target could be found and where to take her, accompanied by his driver, once abducted.

  ‘Keep this simple. We want her unharmed and detained for only twenty-four hours. She normally leaves the house at around ten a.m. and makes her way along the road mentioned here to an unobserved rural bus stop. When you leave this building, turn left past the pharmacist. One of my men is waiting in a silver BMW. He will take you to the bus stop and then drive you to the secret location. Do you have everything you need?’

  Frederick Simbala nodded, glancing at a tatty-looking rucksack between his feet.

  ‘OK, it’s now nine thirty-five. Keep the information safe, but once you reach the secret location, burn it. Understood?’

  ‘What about payment?’

  Ibrahim glanced around the café. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘When you have the girl, my man will pay you the amount we agreed. Here’s two hundred each, just to whet your appetite?’ He slid the folded twenty-pound notes across the table.

  ‘How we speak with you?’

  ‘I was just coming to that,’ he said, sliding an old pay-as-you-go mobile across the table. ‘It’s charged, with just one number programmed in. If you need me for anything, call the number, but do not mention my name. I’ll call you around half past twelve to check you have her. Under no circumstances call anybody else. If you do, I’ll know, so don’t even consider it.’ He left the café and made his way back to his car.

  CHAPTER 49

  The man’s leather gloved hands clenched the wheel of a stolen silver BMW three series. He drove steady past speed cameras on the city centre ring road, listening to a discussion about local football on Radio Stoke.


  The two African brothers sat motionless in the back gazing out of the windows at the banners, advertising the city’s world famous pottery firms, hanging from every lamp-post in the central reservation.

  The BMW picked up pace as it sped down Botteslow Street and set off along Leek Road heading towards Milton Crossroads before turning right towards the remote bus stop just outside the rural idyll of Bagnall village.

  ‘Get ready, we’ll be there in two minutes.’ The driver warned his passengers, turning off the stereo as the car climbed the steep incline of Bagnall bank. ‘Ah! What’s that frigging rancid smell?’ Glancing in the rear-view mirror he saw the evil pair daubing a heavy cloth with liquid from a brown glass bottle.

  ‘Chloroform. Stops dem resisting.’

  The driver knew he was no angel, but this kind of shit was a touch disturbing. The sort of thing you’d see in one of those serial killer movies, he thought, trying to dismiss it from his mind.

  The bus stop was two hundred yards ahead. He turned the corner easing off the gas. It was 10.15 a.m. and Isabel Blake was perched on the seat of a larch panelled bus shelter; the bus wasn’t due for ten minutes. The BMW cruised past as Frederick Simbala eyeballed her taking a last glance at the photo just to be sure. The driver turned the car around and drew parallel with the bus stop.

  The electric window on the rear of the vehicle descended and Frederick Simbala leaned through. ‘’Ello, we looking for da Stafford pub?’

  Isabel unwittingly leaned in closer to the car door to give directions. It was over in seconds. The African grabbed her blouse, pulling her head down. Before she could scream he smothered the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Her eyes rolled violently, her body went limp as she passed out, suspended by Frederick’s clenched hand resting on the door sill.

  Jozef jumped out the vehicle and scampered around the opposite side to catch her. The pair then bungled their unconscious victim into the car boot and locked it.