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

by J. F. Burgess

  A rusting nineteen-sixties tractor passed him as he paced towards the Christian shrine. It was almost 9.30 a.m. and his flight to Ibiza was due in a couple of hours, leaving just enough time to do what he had to.

  The high stone walls of the crucifix-shaped chapel of Saint Albassor rose at least twenty-five feet before being capped with the region’s familiar terracotta roof tiles, which sloped further skywards to the base of its bell dome, surrounded by eight portico windows. Locals worshipped there for centuries and it was hugely important to the community, influencing moral guidance and strength.

  Ibrahim entered through the pillars supporting the tiered arches over the narthex. His footsteps echoed on the stone mosaic floor. A sudden drop in air temperature made him shudder as he crossed over into the nave.

  Looking upwards, he marvelled at the faded frescoes of Christ adorning the bell dome. Sat on the front bench he reflected on recent events, facing the altar with its large statue of Christ carved from marble.

  It was the first time he’d visited the church since childhood, and although not religious, he found the experience humbling. He was startled by a hand laid on his shoulder. As he turned, the priest greeted him. ‘Ibrahim Benzar.’

  ‘Father Degarmo!’

  Having not seen him for over twenty years, he was amazed that the priest recognised him. Being devout, his parents insisted he and his brother accompanied them to church at least twice a week during their childhood. In the summer of 1980, Degarmo took over the reins from his predecessor Father Vincenzo, who’d died from a sudden heart attack.

  That was the official line regarding his death, but both Ibrahim and Yusuf knew the truth. Vincenzo was a sick pervert who abused his position to prey on impressionable boys from the village. For years, none of them dared to speak out, paralysed by shame and fear, until Vincenzo performed a lude sexual act on Yusuf, leaving him distraught for months.

  Ibrahim remembered being woken many times by his brother’s disturbing nightmares. In the end they plotted to finish the vile child molester for good. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, the brothers broke into the vicarage and suffocated the evil priest with a pillow whilst he slept. His thrashing around and bulging eyes haunted their childhood, but over time they’d buried the events of that awful night deeply.

  ‘What brings you here, my son?’

  ‘I was visiting Mama and Papa, thought I’d come in for old times’ sake,’ he said, now regretting going near the place after the disturbing memory it’d evoked.

  Degarmo sensed something was troubling him. He ambled over to a winged cherub statue holding a large shell. Uncovering the stoup’s lid, he returned and blessed Ibrahim. Having shunned religion years ago, Ibrahim felt unexpectedly moved by the gesture, and thanked the clergyman, who acknowledged him with a bowed head, before silently exiting through a door in the south transept.

  Before leaving, Ibrahim folded a wad of Lira and deposited it into the wooden collection box.

  CHAPTER 98

  Upon first glance, the morning post appeared to be the usual depressing crap, demands and bills. That was before Katrina Osborne discovered a brown envelope without a stamp and her name written on the front in biro, followed by three kisses.

  Intrigued, she tore it open and emptied the contents onto the dining room table. Crisp, hundred Euro notes, a plane ticket and a folded note dropped onto the cherry wood top. Closer scrutiny revealed a ten-day return flight from Manchester to Ibiza. After the shocking events of the last week, this put a smile back on her face. The accompanying note wasn’t exactly a love letter, more a set of instructions. What did she care? The prospect of a free holiday with Ibrahim on the sun-drenched island didn’t change the fact her partner had been arrested on a murder charge, but it would offer a necessary distraction. Her spirits lifted considerably as she read the note again.

  Flight leaves tomorrow at 7.30 a.m. Hope you can join me. Taxi will pick you up from your house at five a.m. Another taxi will meet you in Ibiza and take you to the accommodation. I’ll join you tomorrow afternoon.

  Love Ibrahim xxx

  PS treat yourself to something nice

  Gathering up the notes she couldn’t contain herself. Throwing them up in the air like a lottery winner, she screamed with excitement as they scattered around the living room carpet. Jobseeker’s Allowance didn’t allow any luxuries, and over the last few months, apart from the odd dress from the reduced section, she’d lived a meagre existence.

  She didn’t have expensive taste and made a mental separation of the money, allocating five hundred or less for clothes and the rest for spending whilst away.

  She glanced at the mantelpiece clock; it was 8.30 a.m. Closing her eyes for a few seconds she visualised several rails of New Look’s summer collection, and some hot bikinis. Maybe she could even squeeze an appointment with Angelo at Siena Falcone, her split ends desperately needed attention. With a quick shower and a slap of make-up, she could be in the city centre for half-nine taking breakfast.

  Climbing the stairs, a horrible thought stopped her dead. Where is my bloody passport? She’d not seen it for months, and, even worse, was it in date?

  She ran to the landing and dived into the bedroom. Dropping to her knees she yanked the top drawer of her bedside cabinet and dumped its contents onto the bed: nothing but dozens of bras. The middle drawer was full of knickers, and the bottom one just socks.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  She slammed the bedroom door, before racing down the stairs intending to ransack the writing desk in the living room.

  She turned the rusty key and lowered the lid of the vintage painted desk. One by one she rummaged through the small internal draws. Nothing but old bank statements and bits of broken stationary. By now panic started to set in. Where is it? No passport, no sodding holiday! It wasn’t as if she could get another in twenty-four hours, no chance! The kitchen was her last hope.

  Starting with the first wall cupboard she opened each door and scanned the contents. Disappointingly half of them were bare and the rest just contained odd cups and plates, mostly from charity shops. The cupboards under the worktop were filled with broken gadgets.

  In a rage she swiped her empty morning tea mug off the worktop, sending it smashing into pieces across the tiled floor. Leaning both elbows on the worktop she buried her face into her hands and burst into tears. ‘Fucking hell!’ She needed a fag.

  Out in the backyard, she leaned against the flaking rendered wall separating the house from next door and lit up. Taking a deep draw she wracked her brain to remember where that bloody passport was. Glancing across at the shed, which Carl kept Lambretta spares in, she saw a Dublin Scooter Club sticker in the corner of the window. In a sudden flash she recalled a weekend trip to Dublin a couple of years ago. That was the last time she’d used her passport.

  Dousing her fag in the brimming ashtray on the kitchen windowsill, she entered the house to fetch the keys for the shed padlock. Moments later she was rummaging through a large archive box of receipts. Judging by how many there were, that bastard had spent a small fortune on Scooter parts. After losing her job they stopped going out together. Carl always claimed he couldn’t afford to pay for both of them, which was bullshit; the lying twat went out every weekend.

  Kat piled them on top of the bench next to his vice. Two sealed plain white envelopes stared at her from the bottom of the box. She ripped the first one open and retrieved the contents. Bingo! Two ten-year passports held with a rubber band. She placed them on the side and opened the second envelope; it contained several Polaroid photographs of some dark haired slapper, blowing a bloke off sitting on a scooter. Thumbing through the photos she realised it was Carl . In one he was taking the same girl, who looked barely legal, from behind. Not only had he neglected her, he’d been shagging a teenager. Even more reason not to feel guilty about going away with another man.

  CHAPTER 99

  Flight 2596B from Manchester touched down on the sun-bleached tarmac of Ibiza airport a
t 7.30 a.m. Katrina Osborne had dozed off for forty minutes, until she was woken by little feet kicking the back of her seat. The family behind had two girls under six and their mum found it difficult to contain the excitement on their first flight. She had been dreaming of Ibrahim, imagining how her first holiday abroad in over seven years might pan out. She recalled Carl being pissed and stoned for most of their fourteen nights in Kavos, in 2008. The crafty bastard didn’t tell her his mates were there at the same time. While she topped up her tan, he went on the lash with those losers, culminating in a massive argument and him slapping her so hard it loosened a tooth, and the pair not speaking for the last five days of the holiday.

  After going through arduous EU customs checks, she towed her Zebra-print case through the Arrivals Lounge, and scanned through the crowd before spotting a small, plump Spanish taxi driver with a comb-over, holding a card up with her name on it. He introduced himself as Carlos, then ushered her through the sliding doors into the glorious morning sun to an immaculate white Mercedes parked on the busy concourse outside.

  She climbed in the back, kicked off her white pumps, and stretched out. ‘How long will it take to get there?’

  ‘Villa Hermoso Lugar; it’s in Cala Llonga so about twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Carlos.’

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  As the Mercedes sped at a steady sixty along the E-20 carriageway, she rolled down the window, letting the warm summer breeze blow on her face. God, it felt good to be away from Stoke! She gazed at the barren landscape of dry grassy fields scattered with palms and cacti, amongst the traditional Finca farmhouses.

  Every few miles, huge roadside billboards displayed pictures of models in bikinis and big name DJs, each one advertising the island’s world-famous dance clubs. No matter what happened to Carl, she promised to enjoy herself.

  Fifteen minutes into the journey, the taxi left the E-20 and followed the meandering back roads to an isolated group of three villas overlooking the ocean. The Mercedes came to a halt on the block-paved driveway of an expensive-looking villa.

  ‘Villa Hermoso Lugar,’ the driver announced, as Kat sat gazing at the beautiful properties.

  ‘Is this the right place?’ she said in amazement.

  ‘Sí Señora.’

  ‘How much is the fare?’ she asked, rummaging through the wad of euros in her purse.

  ‘No charge, el taxi paid, para. Señor Ibrahim paid franco. He’s joining you later.’

  Before she climbed out, the driver passed her a sealed Jiffy bag envelope, and a set of keys to the property. He retrieved her case from the boot, lay it down on the paving and handed her his card.

  ‘Señora, you need taxi, call this el número?’

  ‘Thank you, Carlos.’

  He waited until she’d opened the front door before slowly backing out the driveway. Shutting the door behind her, she abandoned the case in the hallway and ripped open the Jiffy bag. It contained a wad of Euros – she calculated about six hundred quid’s worth – and a note.

  Katrina,

  Champagne and food in the fridge. Explore the villa, relax and enjoy. My plane lands at 3 p.m.

  See you later

  Ibrahim x

  Call me if you need anything: 07654228829

  She moved across the marble floor into the minimalistic open-plan living space. Light poured in through the large patio windows from outside. For a moment she stood gazing at the stunning sea view before jumping onto one of the three modular sofas facing each other. Lying there, she contemplated spending ten days in paradise with a man she fancied the pants off.

  Rising, she sauntered over to the doors looking for a way onto the patio. Sliding the handle on the door, she slipped through the gap and scanned around the huge multi-level, marbled area, split up into different seating zones to chill out, sunbathe or dine on. The sheer glass balcony gave unobstructed panoramic views for miles across the ocean.

  Kat spent the next twenty minutes nosing around every room of the luxury six-bedroomed villa. The master bedroom opened onto a private balcony, with an amazing outside roll-top bath and sea views.

  Hurriedly unzipping her case, she grabbed a white micro bikini, Mp3 player and sun cream from the zipped webbing compartment on the reverse side of its lid. She stripped, and slipped the bikini on, then made her way to the kitchen.

  Opening the fridge she grabbed the bottle of Moët Chandon, popped it and poured a glass. She lay the flute down next to an expensive-looking lounger, inches away from the pool’s edge.

  Listening to relaxing chill-out sounds through headphones, she lay in a state of bliss for forty minutes, before scanning around the dry stone walls surrounding the villa, to make sure it wasn’t overlooked. Dropping her bikini top on the ground, she drifted back off. The intense midday sun drenched her breasts, and she felt a million dollars lying in wait for her secret lover.

  After a further thirty minutes of frying, she slipped into the pool, and basked like a mermaid.

  She swam over to the infinity edge, and rested her elbows on the side. The cloudless sky and ocean view was stunning. Embracing the blissful surroundings gave her inner peace and for the first time in months she felt truly relaxed.

  She climbed out and dried off with a large beach towel, padded over to the lower deck, toward a rattan love seat, and lay down like Cleopatra under its calico sunroof. Drifting off her senses were suddenly livened by a familiar hint of citrus and lemon carried on the breeze. Warm lips touched her cheek. She opened her eyes, and he was there.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Ibrahim said softly, kicking off his boating shoes, and climbing beside her.

  ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘Not long ago. Sorry for sneaking up on you. More champagne?’ he asked, lifting two ice cold flutes from off the decking.

  ‘This place is amazing, must have cost you a fortune.’

  ‘Seven hundred a day. We’ve got it for ten days.’

  ‘Seven thousand! God, that’s a lot of money.’

  He gave her a cheesy grin. ‘You’re worth it.’

  They drained the glasses, and he kissed and caressed her. Drifting down to her belly, he gently pulled the ties of her bikini bottoms and tossed them aside, revealing her neatly shaven flower. He gently parted her petals with his tongue. Aroused she groaned and raised her thighs. Not wanting to tease her any more, he ripped off his clothes and entered her. Sex under the shade of the love-seat canopy in the boiling afternoon sun was amazing.

  Later that evening they drove along the coastal road in a vintage silver Maserati with the top down, heading for a beautiful restaurant on the Ibiza Harbour.

  Kat stepped into Porcelain Tropic in a stunning, low-cut, backless dress, which he’d brought along as a gift, as well as six-inch heels and a droplet necklace lariat with crystals. He looked handsome in his navy blazer, polo shirt and chinos. They dined in stylish elegance in the converted church to the romantic sound of Spanish guitar. She gazed blissfully at a few thin strips of clouds on the horizon turning shimmering gold as the sun set.

  CHAPTER 100

  DI Blake checked the time on his phone: it was seven a.m. Slipping it into his jogging bottoms pocket, he went downstairs to check if there’d been any mail. Sifting through the usual marketing leaflets and crap he noticed a peculiar brown envelope with no stamp on it. On the front in black marker it read:

  FAO DI TOM BLAKE. URGENT!

  He placed the junk mail on the second step of the stairs and hastily ripped open the envelope. Inside there was a folded sheet of A4 with a message printed on it.

  ‘What happened to your daughter was a tragic accident. Visit Shelton Cemetery and find George Edward Royston’s gravestone by the canal (Died in 1857) – husband of Beatrice, father of Edward Royston. Dig a shallow hole in the gravel directly below his stone, until you find a tobacco tin.’

  He opened the front door and stood on the gravel in his moccasins, trying to spot who’
d delivered the cryptic message. Legitimate post would have only just arrived, and since the brown envelope was at the bottom of the pile, he deduced it must have been pushed through late at night or early morning.

  More to the point, was this a sick joke, or was someone genuinely trying to help? Could this have come from the kidnappers? Unlikely. Maybe this was payback? Whatever it was, it needed investigating further.

  After breakfast Blake drove along Cemetery Road, Shelton and took a sharp left, swinging in through the open wrought iron gates of Hanley Cemetery. Its small but impressive chapel was set back a few yards from the entrance. He parked his Jaguar next to an elderly Sierra, which looked in surprisingly good condition considering its age.

  Climbing out of the car, he made his way towards the disused chapel, then stopped under the main archway, which was connected to five other smaller arches. He felt a strange sensation of being watched. Glancing upwards, the eerie face of a stone-carved gorgon, with pupil-less eyes and a sinister smirk, glared at him. On either side, two oak doors were barricaded with wooden straps. An acrid mire of pigeon shit stained the slabs below each doorway.

  Across the graveyard, huge eighteenth- and nineteenth-century memorial stones scattered like a city of the dead amongst the grass. Tombs, elevated crosses, shrouded caskets and angels all perched on top of bottle kiln-blackened cenotaphs climbing to the heavens. The larger graves were surrounded by decorative ironwork displaying the decaying ravages of time. The first few he passed hid under the protective shade of a large oak tree, its outstretched branches touching the headstones like mother nature’s fingers reaching out to the souls interned below.

  He continued along the pathway leading to the lower end of the cemetery until, after a hundred yards, he reached a fork at the bottom. The question was, which path led to George Royston’s tombstone? Being right-handed he instinctively veered that way, hoping to get lucky.