A small sign staked in the soil at the lower end of the cemetery informed visitors it was a conservation area. Meadow grass scattered with buttercups, daisies and dandelions carpeted the ground like a Claude Monet pointillist painting.
Thankfully, there were few memorials in this part, Blake thought. Royston’s tombstone was an imposing cenotaph around seven foot high, topped with a marble angel praying over his remains. Like so many other graves, the ironwork surrounding his was in a state of decay. According to his faded memorial, he was an esteemed local council member who crossed to the other side in 1886, at just forty-six years old.
The stone chippings laid on top of the grave were relatively new, judging by how pearly white they were. He guessed they’d be something to do with a council preservation program. Nervously he scanned to ensure no one was watching, before clumsily climbing over the rusting ironwork onto the grave. The chippings were warm from the cast of the morning sun. He scratched at them like a cat burying its mess.
The vintage tobacco tin lay a few inches below the surface. Blake slipped it into his pocket, and hurriedly neatened up the stones before climbing off the grave. ‘Bastard!’ A sharp stab of pain shot through his leg. He’d caught his knee on a razor edge of the ironwork, tearing his jeans in the process. Blood seeped from a small cut on his kneecap.
Ignoring the minor discomfort, he waded through meadow grass under a line of willow trees separating the cemetery from the towpath and perched on a metal bench facing Caldon Canal.
Glancing around again, he checked no one was watching before retrieving the tin. After a few seconds of fumbling it prized open unexpectedly, flirting two small gold objects dangerously close to the water’s edge.
He scrambled to his knees to retrieve them from amongst the grass just as a fifty foot barge ploughed through the water. A retired couple in matching orange crocs, sporting grins, stood on the tiller end waving. Blake ignored them, anxiously trying to stop the objects falling into the murky depths of the canal.
With the help of a few shortcuts, it only took Blake fifteen minutes to get home from the cemetery. Leaping from the car he dashed across the gravel, opened the front door and entered the house, intent on calling the number on the cryptic note.
Well aware his police mobile call data could be examined any time, he opted for one of the pay-as-you-go phones he kept in the kitchen drawer, specifically for conversations like the one he was about to have. Not something he liked doing but even detectives were entitled to a private life, he thought in justification.
Nervously he tapped the keys of an old slide top mobile, but, after the fourth digit, stopped, cancelled the call and laid the phone onto the worktop, contemplating the magnitude of the situation.
He fumbled the tobacco tin from his jacket pocket, prised it open once more and emptied the two gold pieces into the palm of his right hand. They gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window. The ruby garnet inlay reflected the light. Turning them over like worry beads, the patterns looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen them before, possibly some kind of tribal jewels? One thing was for sure, they looked old judging by the faded colour, tiny scratches and chips on the edges.
Whatever their provenance they were still only objects, and his daughter’s life hung in the balance. Irrespective of the consequences, it was vitally important she received the proton therapy in America. Focused, he grabbed the phone and dialled without further hesitation. Within thirty seconds a voice with a Texas drawl answered.
CHAPTER 101
Coleman was uncharacteristically sympathetic towards Blake’s plight, which might not have been the case if he’d not confessed the full facts of the prisoner’s escape from custody. Even though Blake had delayed telling the Chief Inspector about his terrible ordeal, he still signed the compassionate leave forms laid out on his huge mahogany desk.
‘I take it the fundraising went well then, Tom?’
‘It’s a little overwhelming how many strangers have supported Isabel’s cause, sir. Very humbling.’
‘I asked everybody at the station to contribute.’
Bullied them more like, Blake thought, extremely grateful for his intervention. The extra donations were significant.
‘Take as long as you need. DS Murphy will handle your caseload in your absence; he’s more than capable. Besides, from what you’ve told me, there seems to be a real sense of urgency with Isabel’s treatment.’
‘Thank you, sir, your support means a lot.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’d be there in a heartbeat for any of my boys. You never stop caring, even when they’ve grown up,’ he said trying to empathise. ‘When do you leave for the US?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘When do they start treatment?’
Just the thought of it made Blake anxious. ‘Immediately after a few health checks. Thankfully proton therapy has a good success rate. Apparently, it doesn’t damage other healthy cells in the body like chemo does. It’s very targeted.’
‘That’s excellent news, we’ll all be praying for her at the station.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Blake said, gratefully shaking his hand, before exiting his office.
He headed along the top floor corridor past the meeting room where Stoke-on-Trent’s high command discussed new directives. The powder room, as CID referred to it, on account of most of what they sanctioned in there was purely cosmetic touching-up and tinkering unnecessarily with police procedure. The lift was still in maintenance mode so he tackled five flights of stairs to the lower echelons of the station where real police work took place.
Despite several email reminders from the policing Gods about efficiency and tidiness, DS Murphy’s desk had the appearance of a 1970’s schoolteacher’s, stacked high with randomly distributed files and paperwork.
‘PC give up the ghost, John?’ Blake said sarcastically.
‘Good to see you’ve got your sense of humour back. Top filing system that is; I know where everything is.’
‘Pity no one else does.’
‘How’s Isabel?’
‘Good and bad days. I hope to God now we’ve secured the funding for treatment it cures her.’
‘What’s the success rate?’
‘About seventy per cent’
‘That should comfort you. When you flying out?’
‘Tomorrow. You OK with everything? Bentley’s likely to go on trial while I’m away. Do we need to do anything before I leave?’
‘Listen, Tom, we’ve covered all bases on that one. The forensics on the drugs are rock solid, but we don’t have enough to put him at the murder scene. No DNA, fingerprints or footprints. There’s not a jury in the land who’d convict him; the evidence is too circumstantial.’
‘We’ve still got a lot to do. Keep a close watch on the other key suspects, while I’m away? One of them is bound to slip up, sooner or later.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You focus on Izzy’s treatment and recovery.’
‘Can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done, mate. It’s a weight off my mind knowing the ship’s in capable hands.’
‘Remind me to keep PC Haynes off the rudder then,’ Murphy jested.
Blake cracked a smile, ‘Keep me posted on any developments John?’
‘Don’t worry I’ll call you.’
CHAPTER 102
Out of the JustGiving funds Blake had booked two first-class places on a British Airways flight 2345A to Miami, costing three grand each. The doctor gave them the all clear, but cautiously provided flight socks, and a pouch of medications for Isabel. Even though she was still weak, she’d had no more blackouts and was feeling more like her old self; probably the placebo effect of her pending treatment.
After an ardours ten hour flight, which Isabel slept most of; the plane shuddered to a stop outside the South Terminal of Miami International airport. As their fellow first class passengers stood and stretched in the aisle, Blake called the Wellness Institute on his mobile to
confirm Isabel’s admittance time.
They disembarked the plane and headed down the tunnel into the concourse. Customs checks were slow and tedious, because of the new rules the US government had introduced for foreign visitors. After an hour and a half they were travelling down the carriageway, under the direction of their rental car’s on-board Sat-Nav.
The Wellness Institute Hospital was in an idyllic coastal location, just off SR 112 road, half a mile along a private access road, six miles outside Miami.
Blake entered the plush reception, which looked more of a five-star hotel, than a hospital: expansive marble floors, high planters with palms, sensory music and glass coffee tables laden with magazines, were positioned in the centre of several expensive looking sofas.
After fifteen minutes of form filling he accompanied the orderly, pushing his extremely tired looking daughter to her room.
Once the nurses had settled Isabel into bed, Blake kissed her forehead and headed for a coffee. The in-house café looked like one of those high street chains; aged wood panels, and rustic steel fittings.
He ordered a Latte and sunk down into a leather wingback in a quiet corner near the window, overlooking the car park. Fishing out his phone he called DS Murphy.
‘John, how’s it going?’
‘Tom, good to hear from you, how’s Isabel? You at the hospital yet?’
‘We arrived about an hour ago, she’s dog tired after the flight.’
‘I bet. She’s resilient though, a real fighter.’
‘Where she gets it from amazes me. Changing the subject, what’s happening with the Gibson murder case? Any updates I need to be aware of?’
‘We’ve been keeping tabs on the suspects, but there’s nothing new I’m afraid to say.’
CHAPTER 103
Blake swung the Chevy SUV rental into the car lot at the side of the Ninth Street Diner on Washington Avenue. Compared to its competitors, who appeared to have spent thousands of dollars on architectural renovation and signage, it seemed like an unsavoury dive locked in a eighties time warp. The crumbling pale-blue exterior needed serious TLC.
The lights were on but Blake couldn’t make out the interior through the maze of menu items plastered over the windows in white paint pen. It looked to be Miami’s version of a greasy spoon.
Pushing the door open Blake entered and cautiously scanned the narrow room. A long stainless steel counter top, fronted by eight fixed chrome swivel stools sat on the back wall. The five tables in the window were empty apart from one, where a well-dressed portly man in his mid-fifties wearing a panama sat in the corner sipping coffee.
He’d arrived fifteen minutes early to assess the situation. A middle-aged Hispanic looking guy in a grease-stained apron – probably the owner, he thought – greeted him.
‘What can I get ya?’
‘Latte, extra hot, please.’
‘Take a seat, I’ll bring it over.’
The proprietor didn’t comment on his accent, which piqued the interest of the man in the corner who glanced up and nodded in Blake’s direction. He approached his table with caution.
He removed his panama and placed it on the seat beside him.
‘Good evening, Mr Blake. Please take a seat. I believe you have a package for me?’ he said in the familiar Texas drawl Blake recognised as the man he’d spoken to on the phone.
Not wanting to antagonise him with probing police questions, Blake politely sat opposite, intending to keep it focused and to the point. But before he could answer, the proprietor laid his coffee on the table.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘The English and their manners, so quaint,’ the Collector remarked. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what this is about?’
‘I’d prefer not to know, as that would implicate me in whatever is going on here.’
‘Well, the people who hurt your daughter appear to have a conscience. Now I’m not an uncaring man, but since we’re here to do business, can you show me the pieces?’
‘How do I know you won’t rip me off?’ Blake said sceptically.
‘You don’t. But one thing I’ve learnt over the years is nobody likes being double-crossed. It leaves a nasty stain on one’s reputation and generally ends up in some kind of revenge. As my dearly departed daddy used to say, “Thieves and hustlers burn in hell. It’s an unspoken law of the universe. I give you my word that the money’s good. Now I don’t wish to be rude,’ the Collector said, lowering his voice, ‘but can you show me the gold?’
The whole situation was surreal. Blake felt like a player from a scene of some blockbuster scam movie: a midnight liaison with some oddball dealer, exchanging antique gold for a wad of cash.
Whilst retrieving the jewellery box from his inside jacket pocket, a sudden blast from an MPD police siren startled them both. The vehicles intense red light lit up the street like a fireball. Blake’s heart banged hard in his chest. The white Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor cruised past the window before speeding off up the road, probably towards a shout.
‘You seem nervous, Mr Blake? Don’t worry about the boys from Intra Coastal; there’s plenty of gang bangers to keep them busy of an evening.’
Before he could reply, a huge scruffy-looking man about forty entered the diner. Judging by his ponytail, oily jeans and Cuban-heeled boots with spurs, Blake concluded he was some kind of biker. In the minute’s silence that followed, they heard him order coffee and bagels before sitting behind them in the last seat of the row in the window.
The whole thing was making Blake more nervous by the minute. A dodgy deal in a public place wasn’t exactly his idea of discretion, but that was the situation. Besides, he needed the money desperately to pay for Isabel’s treatment.
‘What about him?’ He asked lowering his voice.
‘Slide me the package under the table. I’ll take a look in the john.’
‘How do I know you’ll come back?’
‘Mr Blake, you clearly didn’t listen to what I was saying about honourable business earlier. We can’t do business in front of that frigging Ape Hanger. Besides, the john is only there,’ he said, pointing to a set of louvre swing doors at the opposite end of the diner. ‘We can’t both go together; he’ll think we’re a couple of steers.’
After the week he’d had Blake could almost see the funny side of this. ‘OK! But your only getting one of the pieces and if you’re not out in five minutes I’ll be coming in, deal?’
‘OK, you gotta deal.’
As the Collector left the table and moved towards the gents, he noticed the biker stare longer than necessary at him. Or was he being paranoid?
Behind the relative safety of a locked cubicle door, the Collector held the Saxon pommel cap up towards the spotlights and peered wondrously through his loupe at the ancient gold. ‘Amazing!’ Satisfied the goods were genuine, he flushed, exited the gents and returned to the table.
‘Everything in order?’ Blake asked, concerned at how long the switch was taking. He’d expected some kind of checks but hadn’t anticipated it taking more than half an hour tops. Glancing at his watch revealed it was coming up to the hour mark.
‘Are you on the parking lot at the side?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I suggest we conclude business out there. I’m not real comfortable with the Ape in the corner. Mine’s the black ’61 convertible Corvette.’
Blake was losing patience, but this was America and if the hype he’d seen on CNN was anything to go by, it couldn’t do any harm to be extra cautious.
‘OK.’
‘I’ll leave now. You follow in, say, one minute, Mr Blake.’
CHAPTER 104
Blake glimpsed around the car lot checking for floodlights and cameras before opening the Corvette’s passenger door, just about remembering it was on the opposite side. Thankfully, there was only one other car apart from his rental and the Corvette. An old rust bucket with two-toned doors sat empty in the darkness like a prop from a seventies movie.
> True to his word the Collector sat behind the wheel, languishing in the off-white leather interior and polished Rosewood door trims, hands on his lap resting on a bulging manila envelope.
He tossed the package over to Blake. ‘It’s all there, hundreds and fifties. Feel free to count it,’ he said, flicking a switch on the dashboard, which illuminated Blake’s footwell.
Nervously he fumbled through each of the forty-five piles divided into thousand dollar bundles by red card. After ten minutes he was satisfied.
‘OK, we got a deal?’
‘Yes,’ Blake said, taking a long photographic stare at him, as he passed over the other pieces.
‘That concludes our business then. You’ll not hear from me again. Don’t call the cell number you were provided with; it’s deader than Elvis,’ he jibbed.
‘OK,’ Blake said, unimpressed, trying to stuff the inside pocket of his jacket with the envelope. It was far too thick, so he discreetly tucked it under his shirt and shielded it with a cupped hand stuffed in his side pocket.
He climbed out and slammed the door behind him, but before he reached his rental, the roar of a finely tuned V-Eight engine cut through the muted sounds of the city. In a blaze of headlights, he watched the Corvette swiftly exit the lot; within seconds its red brake lights disappeared down Washington Avenue like tiny snake eyes.
He retrieved the key fob from his jeans, pointed it at the car and plipped. The SUV’s orange sidelights flashed, but before he could open the door he heard another type of click, followed by the cold pressure of a gun barrel digging into the base of his skull.
‘I’ll take that off your hands, you dumb fucking Brit.’
Blake froze, his muscles rigid. Was this a double-cross?
‘Turn around real slow and chuck the money on the ground. Keep your hands where I can see ’em?’ The scruffy ponytailed biker eased back to a car width away, aiming the gun at the centre of his chest.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 33
