‘Any hits on the system for him?’ Murphy asked.
‘I’ve only done a quick PNC. He’s a convicted football hooligan, with numerous arrests in the mid-nineties.’
‘Did this woman leave a name?’
‘Yes, a Miss Luna Ellis, sir.’
‘We’d better get her in for an informal chat. Better still, I’ll arrange a home visit for later today if possible?’
PC Evans nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Oh, Casey, while you’re at it, can you access me Bentley’s file?’
Katrina Osborne sat nursing a coffee and a fag, facing the sun in her shabby terraced yard when her mobile trilled.
‘Kat, it’s me, Luna.’
‘Hi babe, what’s up?’
‘You still want to leave Carl?’
Kat frowned, wondering where this was leading. ‘Yeah, but like I told you before, I can’t; he owns the house. Anyway, why are you asking, bit weird?’
‘Promise you won’t be pissed off with me?’
‘Spit it out?’
‘I was sifting through a pile of Sentinels from the last ten days looking for the number of a cheap electrician when I came across a story that freaked me out.’
Kat clutched her elbow. ‘What you on about? I’m not in the mood for guessing games, my arm’s killing me.’
‘What’s up with it?’
‘That bastard pushed me over last night. I banged it on the hearth. He was pissed again. I hate him,’ she said, eyes welling up.
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘I need to get out. Can we meet uptown?’
‘Have you got any copies of the paper from the last couple of weeks? Tuesday the ninth is the one you need?’
‘Hang on?’ She entered the house and padded over to the front room in her slippers to retrieve the dog-eared Sentinels piled on a shelf ready for recycling.
She sifted through them. There were several days missing. ‘No, haven’t got it.’
‘Get online and click on the link I’ve just emailed you,’
‘Seriously, babe, this is getting on my nerves. Just tell me what the bloody hell you’re rambling about?’
‘Remember that murder in the White Horse pub in town recently?’
‘Heard something about it on Radio Stoke, why?’
‘There’s a picture of a suspect in the paper. Police are asking the public if anyone recognises him.’
‘And?’
‘I think it’s your Carl!’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘Just have a look now?’
Kat opened her email on their laptop. She clicked the link and skimmed through the article. Her arm throbbed.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘The CCTV picture… it’s Carl.’
Kat felt betrayed. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘It is, I’m telling you I recognise his build and the Northern Soul badge on his coat.’
Kat stared at the grainy image. A cold sensation crept over her. She realised the man’s build and clothing did look like Carl’s. Her hands trembled as they hovered over the keyboard. He’d paid a seamstress to sow the badge on his black cagoule.
‘You still there?’ Luna asked.
Kat’s eyes darted around like a cornered fox; her stomach lurched. She got up and paced around the room numb with shock knowing only too well Carl was aggressive, especially after a drink.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I can’t believe it.’
Luna could hear the tremor in her voice. ‘I don’t know how to say this: I’ve called the police and shopped him. Sorry, Kat, but he’s gone too far. I’m worried for your safety. He needs locking up.’
Kat sighed deeply, attempting to release the tension. ‘I… I’m glad you did!’
Taken back by her friend’s admission, Luna paused before slipping back into support mode.
‘It’s my day off. Get a taxi to mine; I’ll pay. We can talk this through, over a bottle of Pinot?’
Still reeling from the shock, Kat’s body went into autopilot.
‘Give me half an hour.’
‘You know they’ll interview him. It’s difficult, but they’ll want to speak to you as well. They always do,’ Luna said.
Kat nodded nervously, brushing imaginary creases from her denim skirt.
They were in Luna’s living room. Kat had already downed a large glass of Pinot Grigio and was contemplating a top-up when Luna’s phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Luna Ellis, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is DS John Murphy from Hanley CID following up your call to us, regarding the Barry Gibson murder investigation. Are you available for an informal chat today?’
She moved over to the window. Head dropped, hugging the receiver, she shot Kat a guilty backwards glance. ‘Yes, but it would have to be later. I’m just going out,’ she lied.
‘We’re on shift until six this evening. Shall we say four-thirty?’
Luna hesitated, realising there was no going back, then agreed.
‘What’s your address?’
‘Flat 52 Braithwell Court, Park View Road, Hanley.’ Feeling uncomfortable and pressured, she glanced at her sixties retro wall clock; it was only eleven a.m., so she agreed. Returning to the sofa, she placed a reassuring hand on Kat’s arm. ‘That was the police.’
‘What did they want?’
‘An informal chat.’
‘About Carl?’
‘Yeah, they’re coming here at half four.’
It was all moving too fast now, and Luna was having second thoughts about the whole thing. Why had she given them her name and number? What an idiot! The thought of having the cops round gave her the jitters. To make things more complicated, she felt obliged to support Kat. After grassing on her partner, it was the least she could do. What a mess.
‘This is a nightmare, Lune. What the bloody hell am I supposed to do? If he finds out it was you, he’ll go ballistic. I’m scared.’
Luna tried to reassure her with a hug, but the damage was done. Kat didn’t reciprocate; she felt stiff and lifeless.
‘He’ll never know, the police definitely won’t tell him. We’ve just got to keep our nerve and see what happens,’ she said, voicing support in a tone that lacked confidence.
‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to live with him.’
‘I’m sorry, but you need protecting from that psycho. It could have been you killed.’
‘What if he’s innocent and it’s someone else with a similar badge on their coat?’
‘Come on, Kat, is that likely?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Don’t even go there.’
‘I know it’s a mess, but it’s your chance to get away, start a new life. You deserve better.’
‘With what? I’ve got no job, and could end up homeless.’
‘There’s no way I’ll let that happen. You could live with me until you get back on your feet.’
Kat sat dejected staring at the carpet.
‘I’m here for you a hundred per cent, whatever you decide.’
‘If I move in with you, he’d kick off. He might be a nasty bastard but he’s not stupid. He knows you don’t approve of our relationship. You’d be the first person he’d suspect of shopping him.’
‘I just feel so guilty. If I hadn’t made that bloody call none of this would be happening.’
‘Too late now, the police are involved. I need to get some air.’
CHAPTER 77
It was 7.30 p.m. when DS Murphy and DS Roger Jamieson entered Cooper Street, Milton, followed by two uniformed officers in a patrol car. Their shift should have finished over an hour ago but the arrest of Carl Bentley was far too important to wait until morning. It was the first real lead in the Barry Gibson murder case and they were keen to question the suspect before someone let slip he’d been grassed on, giving him time to abscond.
Murphy sent the unifo
rmed officers around the back of the house, blocking off the alleyway escape route, while he rapped on the tatty front door, which looked like it belonged in a skip. They waited a few moments before knocking again. Murphy glanced up at the second floor window. The netting twitched, someone was definitely in the house.
Suddenly Murphy’s airwave set crackled and jumped into life. ‘Suspect leaving property rear entrance. Will detain. Over.’
‘Joining you now, over. Bastard’s legging it, Roger!’
The two detectives dashed down the street and dived left into a passageway, leading to the back of the properties three doors along. Bentley was cornered in his yard, protesting his innocence to the uniformed officers.
‘This is police harassment! I’ve done nowt,’ he said, cowering behind a vintage scooter.
‘Going somewhere?’ DS Murphy asked, looking at the clothes poking out of a partially zipped shoulder bag, Bentley had tossed to the ground. ‘Carl Bentley, I’m arresting you in connection with the murder of Barry Gibson. You do not have to say anything…’ Murphy continued to read him his rights.
The uniformed officers cuffed and led him through the house towards the patrol car. The two detectives joined them as they shoved Bentley in the back.
CHAPTER 78
Interview room two was only marginally better than room one, but thankfully in this magnolia box, the air conditioning worked. The suspect wore a retro Stoke City top, and sat cross-legged, resting his cuffed hands on his lap. The Formica interview table was bolted to the floor just in front of him. Both detectives wore short-sleeved shirts, whilst the chubby legal aid lawyer looked as if he was melting in his pinstripe suit. Fifteen minutes into the interview it became clear to Murphy that Bentley was definitely trying to hide something. His fidgeting paranoid behaviour led them to believe he was stoned, and his evasive manner was starting to irritate them.
Bentley claimed that on the night of the murder he went round the pubs in Milton with two mates for a few pints before going back home to his missus. At this stage they couldn’t disprove anything so were determined to carefully probe, whilst his lawyer seemed content to let him get on with it, uninterrupted, which was a rarity.
‘I’m telling you I was at home with me missus watching TV. Call her, she’ll tell you.’
‘Don’t worry, once we can locate her whereabouts, we will. The number you gave us goes straight to voicemail.
‘You’ve been identified from the CCTV still in the Evening Sentinel.’ Murphy slid the aforementioned picture across the table.
Bentley scrutinised it. ‘Are you taking the piss? That could be anybody?’
‘Maybe.’ Murphy sounded doubtful. ‘But we have a witness who swears it’s you. Now why would they do that?’
Bentley’s eyes shot nervously around the room. ‘Someone is trying to frame me with this shit.’
‘Look, Mr Bentley, you’re a suspect in a murder case, and in order for us to eliminate you, your alibi needs to check out, and we’ll need DNA samples and fingerprints from you. It’s in your best interests to cooperate. Is that clear?’ Murphy insisted.
‘Crystal,’ Bentley said arrogantly. ‘Any chance of a smoke?’
‘What do you think?’ Jamieson said, sarcastically. ‘It’s not the eighties anymore.’
‘Did you know of, or have any connection with, Barry Gibson, or a man with the nickname Stomper?’
‘No!’ Bentley said abruptly.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, Mr Bentley, that’s a lie.’
‘We have information that you do,’ Murphy said, knowing the mobile data retrieved from Yusuf Benzar’s old Nokia was tenuous.
‘What info? I don’t know him,’ he countered.
‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you. We retrieved your mobile number from a drug dealer’s phone, a dealer who Barry Gibson owed a thousand pounds to. There were only five numbers on it and the call history shows dozens of calls to your number.’
Bentley tried to act dumb. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘You must think we’re stupid. We know toe-rags like you have loads of SIM cards.’
Bentley paused and glanced at his lawyer, who shook his head subtly. ‘No comment.’
‘Yusuf Benzar! Is that who you get ganja from?’ Murphy said.
‘No comment.’
‘Yusuf Benzar is a known heroin dealer with a history of violence and intimidation, and he’s an illegal money lender. Do you normally have multiple conversations with people you don’t know? I think not. Wouldn’t you agree, DS Jamieson?’ Jamieson nodded.
‘Did you pay Barry Gibson an unannounced visit at his house on the Heath Hayes Estate, on the seventh of May?’
‘I just told you I don’t know him.’
‘Strange that, because someone fitting your description was seen hurling abuse outside his house on that date,’ Murphy lied, knowing Mrs Arlington couldn’t identify him due to her failing eyesight. There was definitely a connection between Bentley and Yusuf Benzar and he’d keep probing until it came to light.
‘This is total bollocks! I don’t know either of these blokes you keep banging on about. Where’s your proof?’
‘Apparently Barry Gibson owed a thousand quid to Yusuf Benzar,’ Murphy said, continuing to speculate. ‘I think you were collecting that money for him, which gives you a motive to murder. Only Barry wasn’t in that day. In fact each time you went round to collect the money, he avoided you. When you saw him in the White Horse gents, you seized the opportunity to confront him, but he kicked off, so you head-butted him, leaving him unconscious on the floor. But Gibson knew who you were. You couldn’t take the risk of him regaining consciousness, so you finished him off… stabbed him in the brain with a knife.’ Murphy tried to force Bentley into confession.
Bentley looked at his lawyer. ‘Why are they trying to put this on me? I was in Milton drinking that night.’
‘I think you were in Hanley drinking at the White Horse.’ Murphy said.
Bentley stared vacantly at the wall behind the two detectives.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Mr Bentley?’ DS Murphy asked.
‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know this Barry Gibson.’
‘This is going nowhere. Take him back down to the cells while I sort out a search warrant. We’ll see what turns up at Mr Bentley’s house,’ Murphy said to DS Jamieson.
Bentley’s face turned ashen, as he looked at his lawyer for confirmation.
‘I’m afraid so. Whilst you remain a suspect, it’s within the law for the police to search your property.’
‘Hopefully we’ll bring you back a few souvenirs,’ DS Jamieson added.
DS Murphy spent the next half an hour trying to locate the suspect’s partner. Eventually he found her. Turned out she was a close friend of the witness who shopped Bentley, which seemed rather suspicious. He sent a patrol car to pick her up. Whilst awaiting her arrival at the station forensics took a DNA swab and fingerprinted the reluctant prisoner, but to the team’s annoyance the results wouldn’t be back until mid-morning the next day.
CHAPTER 79
Within minutes of the police forensic van drawing up outside Carl Bentley’s house, curtains twitched and several Cooper Street residents stood brazenly rubbernecking at the four-man SOC team as they entered through the front door of the two-up, two-down run-of-the-mill terrace.
Jeff Foxhall, head of the team, swept the kitchen whilst his colleagues spread out into the other rooms. He checked the microwave first. If alerted to a police raid suspects tried to dispose evidence quickly. Drugs were flushed down toilets and incriminating SIM cards were blasted in a microwave. Sure enough, in the centre of the microwaves glass rotation plate, there was a blob of molten plastic.
He dusted the microwave for prints and then swabbed the worktop next to it. The tape picked up heroin residues from where someone had recently been weighing and bagging.
An hour into scouring the property they’d found two large transparent bags of brown powder, which tested positive as heroin, and nine ounces of cannabis resin in a bedside cabinet draw.
Foxhall called Murphy. ‘Detective, it looks like our man’s a pretty serious dealer. More importantly, looks like he’s been burning stuff in a fire basket, in the backyard. It might be coincidence but we found the remains of a shoe sole. Unfortunately it’s far too incinerated to get any forensics from. Everything else has been burned with an accelerant so it’s mainly ash. As a precaution I’ll bag it up, but I’d say it won’t produce anything from an evidential point of view.’
‘What’d you think?’
‘Crime scene footprints.’
‘Exactly! Bring it in. They can go off to the lab tonight with the suspect’s DNA samples,’ Murphy said.
‘Also, there’s a Lambretta in the yard. One of those vintage jobs. Do you want us to give it the once-over?’ Foxhall asked.
‘Definitely. Judging by what you found so far he’s probably hid stuff all over the place
‘OK, speak to you when you get back.’ Murphy ended the call.
The SOCO officer lay his toolkit on the ground and knelt beside Carl Bentley’s vintage TV 200 1965 Lambretta, looking for a way to remove the side panel. The two-tone blue-and-white paint was immaculate, and the scooter had been lovingly restored by a serious enthusiast. A quick turn of the chrome lever on the ocean-blue side panel exposed the rear-wheel shock absorber, engine and petrol can. There was a small mahogany box wedged in the space between the petrol, and water cans. He cautiously laid it on the seat. After a minute of prizing with a flat head screwdriver, the lid popped open, revealing four clear bags, containing dozens of pills, each one embossed with a tiny bottle kiln. He opened one and performed a colorimetric chemical test to detect the presence of methamphetamine or MDMA ecstasy. Still wearing his silicone gloves, he speed-dialled DS Murphy.
‘John?’
‘Added to the other drugs, I’ve found a couple of hundred high-strength ecstasy pills stashed in the scooter. This is turning out to be a significant haul.’
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 25
