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

by J. F. Burgess

  Murphy flashed his warrant card. ‘DS Murphy, Hanley police. Can we speak to the owner Ibrahim Benzar? Is he on the premises?’

  ‘Er, not sure, I’ll have to check. Just hang on there a minute and I’ll find out?’ he said, before disappearing through an opening at the end of the bar. Returning a few minutes later he asked. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Never mind that, son. If he’s on the premises we want to speak to him, or would you prefer PC Haynes here arrests you for obstructing our enquiries?’ He’d been on duty over fourteen hours and didn’t have the patience to take any stalling bullshit from some frigging Edwardian Pirate with an art degree.

  Moments later the scolded barman returned red-faced with the well-dressed Ibrahim Benzar.

  ‘Mr Benzar? Our paths cross again.’

  ‘This is police harassment. I told you everything I know when you locked me up the other day. I’m busy. You’ve got ten minutes. Come into my office.’

  Blake and Murphy followed him through the bar into a compact but well decked-out office. Ibrahim sat behind a glass desk; in the right-hand corner sat a vintage safe, suspiciously similar to the one they’d found in his brother’s flat.

  This was the third time in a week he’d spoken to this smarmy bastard, and Blake was convinced Benzar was the orchestrator of his brother’s escape and his daughter’s kidnapping, but had nothing concrete to prove it.

  ‘John, could you give us a moment? I want to speak with Mr Benzar off the record. I don’t want to compromise you.’

  ‘If you’re sure, sir, but I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he reassured him.

  Murphy closed the door behind him.

  ‘What do you want, officer?’

  Blake launched into Benzar. ‘It’s DI Blake to you, and you know full well what you’ve done.’ He leaned over the desk and angrily faced him, just about resisting the urge to land a punch in his face. ‘You blackmailed me into facilitating your brother’s escape, and now my daughter is in intensive care because those animals you paid to abduct her nearly killed her.’

  Benzar sat there with a smug look on his face before calmly responding. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your daughter, but as you know my brother is mixed up in drugs, and he keeps terrible company. I run legitimate businesses. Why would I get involved in his shit?’

  ‘Because,’ Blake continued ranting, ‘he’s your brother and you’re both criminal scum. You seriously think I believe that bullshit? I’ll dig deep until I find what’s really going on here and when I do, you’ll be locked up for so long you’ll need a pension book when you get out.’

  ‘That’s a strong accusation. Unless you have any proof I suggest you calm down or you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. If you’ve finished threatening me, you can leave before I call him.’

  Blake took a deep breath before opening the office door and calling DS Murphy and PC Haynes back in.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be leaving soon, but not until you tell us where you were on Friday fifth of June in the evening. We’re investigating a murder that took place that night.’

  ‘I haven’t killed anybody.’

  ‘A key witness in our investigation has told us she was with you on the night in question. Is that correct?’

  ‘Depends?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘What she said.’

  ‘That you spent time at the Genting Casino in Hanley, followed by a one-night stand at the Willow Hotel. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time were you there until?’

  ‘Nine in the morning.’

  PC Haynes retrieved a notepad from his top pocket and took down the details as DS Murphy continued.

  ‘Do you employ a Carl Bentley?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with him?’

  ‘It’s a simple question.’

  ‘He drives for me.’

  ‘What kind of driver?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Supplies, stock and suchlike.’

  ‘Don’t the brewery deliver your beer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what’s Carl Bentley’s role in your businesses?’

  ‘He helps out.’

  ‘In what capacity? Be more specific.’

  ‘He takes money to the bank, picks up supplies… anything I need him to do.’

  ‘Was he drinking in this bar last Friday?’

  ‘How would I know? I was only here for around an hour. What’s with all the questions about Bentley? What’s he done?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge information regarding Carl Bentley.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shit; if you want to ask me any more questions I’ll call my lawyer.’

  DS Roger Jamieson glanced at PC Evans as she sat next to him in the Vectra pool car heading from Terry Clarke’s in Fairfield Street, Milton towards John McKnight’s flat on Bagnall Road. It made a nice change to have a female officer accompanying him. Lardy-arsed DS Murphy often stank the car out with farts, especially after a night on the ale.

  He refocused and indicated to pull into Bagnall Road. He parked outside a seventies maisonette near the top of the road, which was hemmed off by cast-iron railings through which acres of unkempt fields leading to Bagnall Woods, were visible. According to the address they’d been given. John McKnight lived in flat thirteen on the upper floor. Hopefully, they’d catch him unaware.

  Evans pressed the intercom. After a moment’s silence, a timid voice crackled through a damaged speaker. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Am I speaking to John McKnight?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s DS Roger Jamieson and PC Evans from Staffordshire Police. We’d need to speak with you in connection with Carl Bentley’s arrest, can we come in?’

  ‘I was just going out,’ McKnight said trying to avoid them.

  Jamieson looked at Evans and shook his head before thumbing the button hard. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to delay, this won’t take long.’

  After a moment’s silence McKnight permitted them entrance.

  The door clicked and Jamieson held it open, ushering Evans through.

  John McKnight’s flat looked like it needed a serious mothering. A knackered coffee table sat in the centre of the unvacuumed living-room carpet, covered in mug rings. Piles of lads’ mags were scattered on the shelf below. A film of dust covered his TV screen. A strong smell of freshly sprayed deodorant lingered in the air. Judging by his food-stained T-shirt, grubby jeans and sweaty appearance, he’d tried to mask the unpleasant BO exuding from him.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he said, sweeping his greasy fringe to the side.

  Keeping him on his toes, Jamieson said, ‘Hardly dressed for going out, are you, Mr McKnight? Why did you lie to us?’

  ‘I… err… am later, after a bath.’

  ‘Well, the sooner we do this, the sooner you can bathe.’ Jamieson smirked at Evans. ‘Mind if we sit?’

  ‘No,’ he said, leaning against the cheap MDF fireplace surround.

  ‘OK, we’ll cut to the chase. We’re here to corroborate Carl Bentley’s alibi for Friday the fifth of July. During his interview he told us he spent the evening drinking around the pubs in Milton, accompanied by yourself and Terry Clarke. Is that correct?’

  ‘Er… last Friday. Yeah,’ McKnight replied, his complexion flushed.

  ‘Take us through the evening. From the time you met, to which pubs you drank in. We want to build up a picture of your movements.’

  McKnight gave Jamieson an uneasy look, his brow moist with sweat. The detective could tell he was frantically trying to cobble together a version of events that might fit Carl Bentley’s statement, but since he couldn’t know what his mate had said he became extremely tense at the prospect of bullshitting his way out of this.

  ‘Err… we met in the Millrace pub at eightish, I think.’

  ‘Is that the pub just over the bridge on Maunders Road?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How long did you
stay in there?’ Jamieson asked him as PC Evans squirmed, whilst taking notes in an armchair under the window that was littered with cigarette burns.

  ‘Not sure… for a couple of pints.’

  ‘An hour or more?’

  ‘Yeah, about an hour.’

  ‘OK. And after that?’

  He paused to wipe his brow nervously. ‘Can I get a glass of water?’

  ‘Of course, it’s your flat.’

  McKnight got up and disappeared into the kitchen. Jamieson lip-synced to Evans, ‘He’s lying!’

  McKnight returned looking even more jittery, a glass of water shaking in his hand.

  ‘You OK, Mr McKnight. You seem very edgy?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘OK, as I was saying where did the three of you go after the Millrace?’

  ‘The Foxley.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  His eyes flicked to Evans. ‘On Foxley Lane.’

  ‘How long did you stay in there?’

  ‘Can’t remember exactly, a while.’

  ‘So when we speak to the landlord and bar staff they’ll confirm this?’

  A sudden look of dread came over McKnight. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Look, Mr McKnight, I don’t want to appear cynical, but we both know you’re feeding us porkies. Do yourself a favour. Whatever misguided loyalty you feel compelled to uphold, don’t bother. It’s as transparent as that glass of water. Make no mistake, Carl Bentley is in deep shit. If you don’t want to be arrested for perverting the course of justice, I suggest you start telling the truth?’

  ‘I am,’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘Funny that, because your version of the evening’s events is different from Terry Clarke’s.’

  The colour drained from his face. ‘Is it?’

  ‘OK, have it your way. PC Evans pass me your handcuffs. John McKnight, I’m arresting you for perverting the course of justice…’ But before Jamieson could finish, McKnight capitulated.

  ‘OK, OK, hold on! Just give me a minute, please?’ he protested.

  ‘You’ve got exactly one minute to come clean. Understand? No more pissing about. Were you, Carl Bentley and Terry Clarke drinking in Hanley on the evening of the fifth of June?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere?’ Jamieson said to PC Evans, who’d resumed taking notes.

  ‘So, why is your mate telling us he spent the evening in Milton, when Terry Clarke’s saying you went into town? He’s hiding something?’

  McKnight shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What time did you get into the city?’

  ‘About half eight.’

  ‘Bus or taxi?’

  ‘Taxi.’

  ‘First pub was?’

  ‘Wetherspoons.’

  ‘Until what time?’

  ‘I can’t really remember.’

  ‘Bloody try. This is a murder case.’ Jamieson was getting annoyed at McKnight’s monosyllable answers.

  ‘A pint and a shot, then we went to the Black Bull. What’s Carl supposed to have done?’

  ‘Let’s just say Carl Bentley is helping us with our enquiries into a murder, which took place last Friday in a city centre pub.’

  McKnight twigged. ‘I read about that in the Sentinel. Bloke found dead in the White Horse.’

  ‘We need to wrap this up now, Mr McKnight. Tell us where you went after the Black Bull, and what time you headed home?’

  He paused and took another sip of water before answering. ‘We stayed in the Bull until last orders.’

  ‘We’ll be checking CCTV from the pub and speaking to the landlord and his staff.

  McKnight looked deeply worried.

  ‘How did you get home?’

  ‘Walked, about half eleven.’

  ‘All three of you?’

  ‘Yeah, we wanted some air, it was hot.’

  ‘You can’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘OK, that’s it for now. But we’ll be checking everything. If you’re lying, you’ll be arrested.’

  CHAPTER 82

  On the day before the heist, Charlie Bullard stood in the grotty kitchen in his council flat overlooking the city, spooning filter coffee into a percolator, when the call from the Agency came through at ten a.m.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Can I speak to Brian Calcot? It’s Louise here from Work Supply.’

  He hesitated for a moment. Taking a deep breath, realising he’d almost blown it, he replied, ‘Speaking.’

  ‘We have a couple days work for you at the Potteries Museum. The caretaker there asked for you personally.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Arthur Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Can you start tomorrow at 7.30 a.m?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there on the dot.’

  ‘Great. Any problems call me. You have my number?’ OK, thanks, Brian. Bye.’ The kettle shook in his hand as he poured boiling water into the glass coffee pot. Pushing the plunger, he realised there was no going back. It’d been years since he’d felt that rush of adrenaline that could only come from ripping off the establishment. It was the ultimate natural high, although the flip side of the coin was less euphoric: contemplating another ten-year stretch in prison was enough to bring on a panic attack.

  Bollocks to it, he thought! The chance of a million, or slowly decaying in a substandard council dwelling surrounded by junkies. Looking round at the garish orange walls of his shit flat shored up any nagging doubts. In the worst-case scenario what would he really be giving up; ninety quid a week unemployment benefit, just enough food to live on, loneliness and the limited prospects of an ageing con.

  He drained his mug and fished his mobile from the cluttered wicker basket on the worktop. ‘Come on,’ he uttered impatiently under his breath as Ibrahim’s phone went to voicemail.

  Hesitating, he stammered. ‘It’s me… Charl… important… you call me ASAP?’

  He needed something stronger than coffee to calm his nerves so decided to head into town for a well-earned beer.

  The White Horse pub was deserted, except for two blokes huddled in the corner nearest the window. It wasn’t company he needed; a decent pint of Titanic and a nod from his cousin Darryl behind the bar would suffice. More importantly, why wasn’t his phone ringing? It was less than twenty-four hours until the job and the organ grinder had gone AWOL. He was on a second pint when his mobile vibrated on the bar.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charl, is that you?’

  ‘Left a message on your voicemail, we need to meet, it’s important. Where are you?’

  ‘White Horse pub in town.’

  ‘I’m at the Dojo, just give me ten minutes then come down to the office?’

  ‘OK, see you in ten.’

  If there was one thing he’d learnt it was never to discuss anything dodgy on a mobile; he was strictly old school face-to-face. That’s how business should be done. Besides, any dumb shit with half a brain knows the cops can access phone records.

  Bullard drained the rest of his pint, but just as he was leaving, Darryl Connor collared him. He’d just cleaned the gents. His regular cleaner had left him in the lurch after the Barry Gibson murder, and because of the negative publicity he’d failed to replace her. That vile sex case even managed to do damage from the grave. Good riddance to bad blood, he thought to himself.

  ‘Everything okay Charl? Had a call from Mickey, he’s done his bit.’

  He looked nervously around. ‘We can’t talk about it, Daz.’

  ‘Yeah I know. Just saying like, so you know.’

  Charlie wasn’t supposed to tell him about the heist, but after a recent lock-in he accidentally spilt the beans, when he’d had far too much to drink. Just like his son, Connor had money worries of his own, so Charlie persuaded Ibrahim to loan him 15k, with minimal interest to help pay off what he owed his beer supplier, who’d threatened to stop his barrel orders, and take him to court. Because of his criminal record leg
it loans weren’t a viable option. Problem was, any default on the debt and half the pub he ploughed all his savings into, would be Benzar’s.

  Bullard left the pub and strode off, down Albion Street past the magnificent, renovated Bethesda Chapel. At the bottom he crossed the busy T-junction that linked up with Piccadilly and ducked through Birdcage Walk, before reaching The Dojo.

  Being a black belt in karate from the age of seventeen, Ibrahim understood the needs of its client base.

  Charlie entered the building and made his way across the blue crash mats laid out on the wooden gym floor to Benzar’s back office.

  Ibrahim was sitting behind the desk in his karategi uniform, glaring at the computer screen when he arrived.

  ‘Charl, sit down, mate.’ He pointed to the red plastic chair in front of the desk. ‘So, tomorrow is the big day?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the ageing bank robber said nervously.

  ‘Relax, we’ve planned this carefully. As long as you stick to what we practised, everything will be OK,’ he said with scary optimism.

  ‘I know, but I can’t help feeling nervous. It’s the first job I’ve done in years, I’m shitting bricks.’

  ‘I understand this is a big deal, but you won’t be on your own. We’ll be in constant contact with you all night. Leonard will handle the cameras and alarms.’

  ‘That’s the whole problem; I’ll be flying solo if this goes tits up. I’ll be the one going down for it. With a rucksack full of bloody Hoard replicas, and a bunch of keys. It’s not like I’d be able to plead breaking and entering. They’d know instantly what I was up to.’

  ‘OK. I’d scheduled for us to go through everything again this afternoon, but since you’re here, we can do it now. I think it will help you to focus and calm down. I’m nervous as well. That’s why I’m here letting off steam. Just give me five minutes to change, and we’ll head on over to the bar and run through it again using the replicas.’

  ‘OK,’ Charlie agreed, but still felt indecisive. He knew throwing the towel in this late in the day was not an option. Benzar had invested serious time and a decent wad of the Collector’s cash into the planning stages of the job. Ultimately, a U-turn was out of the question unless he fancied being sized up for a six-by-two mahogany box with brass fittings.