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

by J. F. Burgess

Bullard continued down the A5006, before crossing over and turning right down a side street. This was his window, it was now or never. The rider throttled up and took a sharp right down the same street. Where was he? He lifted his visor and scanned the area in a panic. He noticed a cobbled alleyway leading down the back of the rows of terraced houses. Without hesitation he mounted the pavement and gunned the scooter down it. Bullard was halfway along when he noticed the scooter racing towards him with intent. Attempting to dodge it he dived through a half open gate into one of the terrace backyards. The rider screeched the scooter to a halt, leaving the engine running; lowering his visor he chased after him. Bullard was cornered, his back against old outbuildings.

  ‘You don’t know who you’re stealing from. He’ll have you taken out, you stupid fucker!’

  The rider ignored him and lunged at the rucksack slung over Bullard’s shoulder, but as it slid down his arm he frantically managed to cling onto the other strap. A moment of tug-of-war ensued, before the assailant pulled a small razor-sharp blade from his pocket, and slashed through the taut strap. Bullard fell back onto the ground as the rider dashed out of the yard, jumped on the scooter and spun away in a blaze of trailing smoke out of the alleyway.

  Bullard lay there numb with shock, trying to contemplate what had just happened. Months of planning, thousands of pounds of investment, and the famous Staffordshire Hoard, gone! How the hell was he going to explain this to Ibrahim? Since there were only a handful of people who knew about the robbery this was definitely an inside job; got to be. Still shaking he patted his pockets for his phone. A feeling of dread crept over him as it dawned on him; he’d left it in the front pouch of the rucksack. ‘Oh fuck!’ He dragged his sorry ass up and headed for the Slipware Tankard bar, absolutely shitting it.

  CHAPTER 87

  In a rage, Ibrahim Benzar hurled his mug of coffee at the painted brick wall so hard, it smashed into dozens of pieces, exposing a chunk of bare brick. Charlie looked in horror at the exploded coffee stain splashed all over the wall like a modern art installation.

  Benzar sat down after hearing the news of the mugging. His face ashen white as a sudden coldness hit his core.

  ‘Who would have the balls to do this? Make no mistake, he’s a fucking dead man walking, I’ll whack him myself if I have to. Ahhh!’ He slammed his fist on the desk, ‘It’s got to be an inside job. No one else knew about it. So, you’re saying there was a moped outside the museum when you came out?’ Ibrahim asked him again.

  Charlie almost dared not to answer, ‘Yeah, but I was so focused on getting out of there, and to the drop-off point I barely noticed him.’

  ‘Are you serious, man?’ his facial muscles tightened.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘This is some kind of double-cross! What am I supposed to tell our buyer, he’s already invested shit loads in this venture? We need to get that gold back soon as. The longer it’s out of our hands the worse it gets. There’s no way this arsehole can shift it. No one knows it’s been nicked except us. Why didn’t you call me straight away?’

  Charlie stuttered ‘My… mobile… it’s in… the rucksack.’

  Without another word Ibrahim grabbed his phone from the desk, and speed dialled Charlie’s burner. It rang and rang, but no one answered. He stabbed the end call button in disgust.

  ‘If he’s dumped the phone we are totally fucked. Have you told anyone about this job, anyone; even family?’

  ‘Of course not, what do you take me for?’

  ‘I want everyone together right now,’ he said tightening his grip on the arms of the chair.

  Forty minutes later all the gang sat wide-eyed in amazement facing Ibrahim Benzar. No one dared speak.

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains about who could have done this and drawn a blank, which leads me to think one of you fucking idiots has told someone about the robbery, and I’m pretty convinced it’s not Charlie’, Ibrahim accused them. ‘Well come on, someone speak?’

  ‘You can’t seriously believe it’s any of us?’ Why would we take all those risks and lose the chance of a million quid,’ Malcolm Preston said, bravely acting as unappointed spokesman.

  Ibrahim glared at him, ‘Well someone has, and when I find out who it is they'll be hanging from their bollocks on a meat hook, and that’s just for starters. Do you understand?’

  Arthur Mitchell plucked up the courage to respond, ‘None of us would ever consider double-crossing you,’

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself, Leonard?’ Ibrahim stared at him noticing his face begin to redden. ‘Well, come on let’s hear it?’

  Vale bowed his head. He didn’t speak. Ibrahim slid open his desk drawer and retrieved a hand gun. In a panic Vale darted towards the door, but before he could open it Ibrahim tightly gripped his greasy ginger mop, and forced the weapon into his mouth. Vale shook uncontrollably as the other three men gawped in horror at what was unfolding.

  ‘Give me one good reason not to blow the back of your skull open? Have you told anyone about the job?’ Ibrahim said pushing the gun further in, choking him.

  Vales eyes bulged, tiny optical veins stopping them from bursting out of their sockets. He nodded rapidly. Ibrahim withdrew the gun, but kept it aimed at his face.

  ‘A bloke in a balaclava, with a knife threatened to kill me if I didn’t tell him about the job. Said if I told anyone he’d come round my house and carve me up; he knows where I live. I was petrified,’ he said staring everywhere but at the gun.

  CHAPTER 88

  ‘What the bloody hell do you lot want now? I’ve told you everything I know,’ Dave Millburn retorted.

  DI Blake and DS Murphy sat opposite him in an interview room one. Having already been questioned twice this latest interview felt like police harassment.

  ‘New evidence has come to light which means we need to ask you some more questions, Mr Millburn. This is an ongoing murder investigation.’ Blake said.

  Millburn shot him a look. ‘What new evidence?’

  ‘A member of the public has come forward and provided us with incriminating photographs.’

  ‘What photos?’

  ‘Pictures linking the crime scene witnesses to Barry Gibson.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘How long did you work with Barry and the others on the kilns at William Adams & Sons?’

  Millburn’s face reddened; he looked shocked, ‘A few years, but I really don’t see how this is relevant?’

  ‘When we initially interviewed you at the White Horse crime scene, you denied knowing the victim. In fact, you went out of your way to distance yourself.’ Blake glanced down at the original interview notes. You said, “Seen him around town from a distance, but that’s all,” but judging by these photos. You, Nathan Dukes, Darryl Connor, Grant Bolton and some fella in a red cap we’ve yet to identify all worked and socialised with Barry Gibson.’

  The revelation made Millburn more anxious.

  Blake continued, ‘So, my concern is why did you lie to us? Wasting police time is an offence Mr Millburn, and you’ve been doing it from day one of this investigation. Clearly you have something to hide, and we intend to find out what it is?’

  ‘This is bollocks. So, I knew Barry back in the day, doesn’t mean I killed him does it?’ Millburn scoffed.

  ‘The fact he ended up murdered whilst you were working the doors of the White Horse, and denied knowing him, is too much of a coincidence for us to ignore. Furthermore, someone broke into Furlong Social Club in Burslem recently. There was over three-thousand pounds worth of booze in the place, but not so much as a bottle of wine was taken? The raider smashed open three display cabinets, and stole photographs of workers from the William Adams Pottery, dating from 1968 to 1993.’

  Millburn stared at him arrogantly. ‘And you’re telling me this because?’

  ‘We’re pretty certain that Barry Gibson’s killer is in these photographs.’ Blake said laying the five pictures out onto the table.

  Mi
llburn glanced at them nervously, but kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Who’s the lad in the cap?’

  ‘Can’t remember his name, it was years ago.’ Millburn said evasively.

  ‘You worked with a bloke for five years and can’t remember his name, I’m afraid your bullshitting again. Can you smell something in here, DS Murphy?’

  ‘Yeah I’m getting a whiff, it’s definitely getting stronger by the minute.’

  Millburn sneered. ‘We weren’t really mates; he worked in a different shop to us: just jumped into that photo.’

  ‘We’ll find out who he is. You clearly know the others? You work the doors with Nathan Dukes for Darryl Connor, at his pub.’

  ‘I already told you, that was a one-off, because one of the lads let me down.’

  Blake continued. ‘This break-in was targeted. The raider knew exactly what he was looking for, which tells us one thing.’

  Millburn seemed shifty, but remained silent.

  Blake glared at him, ‘This raider is the murderer, and he’s desperately trying to cover his tracks. He’ll slip up and we’ll be there when he does. Do you hear me Mr Millburn?’

  ‘Hard not to, but I still don't see what this has to do with me?’

  ‘Where were you between ten p.m. and eight a.m. on the ninth of this month?’

  Millburn thought for a while. ‘I’m a busy man Inspector. That was over a week ago. Although I do remember because that was one of the only nights I was at home with the Mrs; takeaway and TV I seem to recall, but to be sure I’d have to check my diary and get back to you.’

  ‘How convenient, you just do that, but I want your whereabouts confirming within the hour, or I’ll be charging you with wasting police time.’ Blake knew they couldn’t place Millburn at the scene of the break-in.

  CHAPTER 89

  Disappointed with the outcome of Dave Millburn’s interview, Blake needed a caffeine boost. As he pressed the coffee with extra sugar button on the vending machine, DS Murphy shouted down the corridor.

  ‘We’ve got Darryl Connor in interview room one when you’re ready, boss. Oh, by the way I’ve spoken to Dave Millburn’s Mrs, she works across town.’

  ‘His alibi for the night of the break-in at the Furlong Social Club checks out?’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  ‘How frigging predictable.’

  Blake sighed deeply. He was sick of the sight of those idiots associated with the White Horse pub. Darryl Connor was another slippery tosser with form for violence.

  ‘Sorry to have hauled you in for another chat Mr Connor, but we have some new evidence in the Barry Gibson murder case, and thought you may be able to help us with it?’ Blake said attempting to put Connor at ease, before dropping the bomb.

  ‘Not sure I follow Inspector.’

  ‘Well it was a long time ago.’

  Connor looked puzzled. ‘What was?’

  Blake laid the photographs side-by-side in the middle of the table. He wanted to assess his suspect’s reaction. ‘Do you recognise these?’

  The colour drained from Connor’s face as he nervously picked up the first picture with a shaky hand, and stared at it. ‘Bloody hell! Where did you get these from?’

  ‘I have my sources. So, why didn’t you mention you’d worked with Barry Gibson, Dave Millburn, Grant Bolton, and this guy with the cap pulled over his face, between 1988 and 1993. Who is he by the way?’

  Connor stared at the picture. Honestly, I can’t remember. He didn’t work with us on the Kilns.’

  ‘So this anonymous youth just jumped into the shot?’

  ‘Must have done.’

  ‘You don’t seriously expect us to believe that?’

  ‘Hang on a min, he paused, ‘Now I remember! It’s Stomper; that was his nickname anyway. I really don’t know his real name?’

  This took Blake by complete surprise. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence, that the bloke Barry Gibson’s Mrs mentioned, and a lad who worked at William Adams Pottery, were in fact the same person? Even though Connor might have seen the police appeal in the Sentinel, Blake didn’t reveal the connection. The landlord might warn him. It was best to let it run. See if things developed.

  ‘I’ll ask you again, why didn’t you mention about your history with the other witnesses, when we first questioned you at the pub? It’s very suspicious.’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem relevant.’ he said, cheeks flushing, like a teenager lying to his teacher.

  ‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr Connor. I’ve heard so much bullshit from the witnesses in this case, it’s starting to make me retch. You conveniently failed to mention it because you’re scared of the consequences of being linked to Barry Gibson’s murder. You can’t hack another prison sentence at your age, especially now you’ve got the Mrs and the pub to think of.’

  ‘What I am supposed to have done?’ Connor asked.

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me. But it looks like I’ll have to spell it out to you. We’re convinced Barry Gibson’s murderer is in these photographs, but I’m now of the opinion he didn’t act alone. He may have had accomplices. Witnesses who pretended to unwittingly contaminate the crime scene. After all, you guys have known each other for years. And realising the severity of the situation, you all created an elaborate smokescreen to send us on a wild goose chase after an anonymous murderer.’

  Connor continued the charade. ‘We reported it to the police as soon as Barry’s body was discovered.’

  ‘It all seems a little too convenient to me. Three old workmates just happened to be in the vicinity of a fourth, who’d been killed. Your deception is slowly starting to unravel, and when the final curtain drops, one of you goes down for life!

  ‘Where were you between ten p.m. on the ninth of this month and eight a.m. the next morning?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with Barry’s death?’

  ‘Trust me, it’s relevant. Those photos were stolen during a break-in, and they were the only thing taken.’

  Connor thought for a moment. ‘Er… I seem to recall I was in the pub all night with Dominika. We tided the stock room, and then had a few beers. It sticks in my mind because I filled in order forms, dated the ninth.’

  ‘Was anyone else there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure? Let’s hope you’re telling the truth, because we’ll be checking. In fact, what’s her mobile number? DS Murphy will call her now.’ Blake decided to play hardball, allowing Connor no time to coerce his Mrs into providing an alibi.

  CHAPTER 90

  ‘A hundred grand in cash! Are you fucking joking?’ Ibrahim was absolutely steaming with rage at the ransom demand.

  ‘If you want to get the gold back that’s the price; it’s non-negotiable,’ said the man on the other end of the line.

  Ibrahim thought carefully for a few seconds knowing what was at stake. If he lost it with this double-crossing bastard it would all be over. ‘You’ll have to give me twenty-four hours to get my hands on that kind of cash.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours, no more. I’ll call back on this number with instructions. Don’t even consider double-crossing us.’

  Ibrahim clenched his fist and agreed reluctantly. A hundred grand was a shit load, but in the scheme of things a mere fraction of the 5 million they were due. He’d just have to take the loss. One thing was sure, once everything was finalised he’d put some resources into finding these bastards. They were dead men walking.

  He dismissed the group, slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and walked over to the other side of the room to access the safe sunken beneath the floorboards in the far corner. On his knees he lifted the white floorboard revealing an impenetrable firecracker box securely bolted to the joists on both sides. On the last count he knew there was eighty grand cash in there, but he really didn’t know where the next twenty grand was coming from, leaving him with a big problem. Yusuf’s arrest had already lost them forty thousand.

  CHAPTER 91

  Tw
enty-four hours later, Ibrahim was only a couple of miles away from Knutsford service station, between junctions 18 and 19, on the M6 in Cheshire. The switch was due to take place in the café, situated in the gantry over the busy northbound M6. A very public place, he thought glancing at the pistol handle poking out from under the brown envelope, containing the cash on the passenger seat.

  He parked and purposefully headed across the car park contemplating who would have the balls to pull this stunt?

  Just a few spaces down from Ibrahim’s Audi, a man sat behind the driver’s wheel of his rental car, watching him. In the passenger seat a woman in her early twenties sat nervously with Charlie Bullard’s rucksack on her lap. On the journey down she’d been instructed to get a coffee and join Ibrahim at his table. The man had sent a photo of him to her mobile phone. He retrieved Bullard’s stolen burner from his door pocket and made the call.

  Ibrahim sat sipping cappuccino whilst thumbing through the Daily Star. A constant stream of lorries and cars flew underneath the gantry. All kinds of irrational thoughts ran through his mind. He wasn’t confident that he’d be able to control his anger, but had to admit it was a smart move to send a woman to do the switch.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’ a young woman wearing Charlie’s rucksack asked.

  Ibrahim gestured for her to sit, ‘You do realise you’re putting yourself at risk by getting involved in this?’ he said, noticing her fear.

  ‘All I know is I’m swapping this rucksack for an envelope,’ she said nervously clenching the right shoulder strap.

  ‘Enjoy the money they’re paying you because you don’t have long to spend it.’ Ibrahim unintentionally raised his voice, which attracted stares from a family of four sitting at the table behind them.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ she asked fearfully, before glancing around the room.