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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘Thanks for the head’s up, Nick. Good work. We’ll be back in the next twenty minutes.’

  When they arrived at the station, Nick Pemberton was sticking pictures of the four suspects onto the white board. He’d assembled everyone for an emergency briefing on the Staffordshire Hoard case.

  Blake entered the room followed by DS Murphy and addressed the team. ‘Listen up, everyone? This morning we interviewed Carl Bentley in Stafford Prison. Not that you’ll need reminding – we recently put him away for possession with intent to supply. Sadly we didn’t have enough to charge him with Barry Gibson’s murder.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll get to the point. In hope of a reduced sentence, Bentley has given us the names of the gang he claims pulled off the Staffordshire Hoard robbery. As you’re aware the media are all over this, so we need to act immediately. According to Bentley’s intel, there’s four specific suspects: Ibrahim Benzar’s the orchestrator; Charlie Bullard’s a convicted bank robber; Leonard Vale is a techy; and Malcolm Preston is Benzar’s bent accountant.

  ‘As you know we tried to arrest and question Malcolm Preston earlier in the week. Unfortunately he’d already absconded. The stolen vehicle he used was later found dumped in Tesco’s car park. All our colleagues across the UK have been alerted. If he’s still in the country, it’s only a matter of time before he surfaces.’

  Blake thanked Nick Pemberton for getting the case props up so quickly before passing the baton over to him.

  ‘We set up a trace on Malcolm Preston’s credit and debit cards, mobile phones, and e-mail accounts, but he’s used none of them yet. He’s probably using cash and communicating with a burner or public phones. Either way the clever bastard has gone to ground. DS Jamieson, can you put pressure on his wife, take a look at her banking activity and phone records for the last week, and see if there’s any communication with hubby, or suspicious transactions?’

  Blake looked at Murphy. ‘DS Murphy, I’m tasking you with establishing links between Charlie Bullard, Leonard Vale, Ibrahim Benzar and his brother.’

  ‘We don’t know the whereabouts of Yusuf Benzar.’

  ‘I know, but the fact these nasty bastards abducted my daughter and used her to facilitate his escape shows he must’ve been integral to their plans.’ He looked at Evans. ‘PC Evans, can you check airline records to find out if any of the gang were on flights out of the UK recently?’

  ‘DS Moore?’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Organise transport for two teams and another couple of PCs to join us straight after this briefing. Bullard and Vale are about to get a surprise visit. According to council tax records, they both occupy addresses we’ve been given.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  Blake glanced across the room at the most inexperienced member of the team. His face blushed as all eyes scanned him. ‘DC Longsdon?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hop along the road to the Potteries Museum. First, speak to the manager about their security system again, then have another chat with the staff about the robbery. Shake the tree; see if anyone gets rattled. These high-profile robberies usually involve an insider.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  ‘Don’t forget your handcuffs and taser,’ Murphy teased, ‘it could turn nasty.’

  Laughter spread through the team of officers present, which only embarrassed Longsdon more.

  ‘On second thoughts, help PC Evans with the airline trace, then both of you go together. It’ll be more productive that way. We’ll reconvene after lunch for progress on these lines of enquiry.’

  CHAPTER 114

  Blake stood in his stab vest facing the front door of Charlie Bullard’s council flat in Hanley. Luckily for them there was one entry and exit point, apart from the windows at the rear, which were three storeys up, overlooking two 1950s’ tower blocks.

  He politely pressed the bell for a minute, mindful of police budgets since they were now responsible for the cost of replacement doors. There was no answer.

  ‘POLICE, OPEN UP!’

  Another minute passed, but there was still no reply so he ordered PC Davis to open it with the big yellow key. The frame splintered and capitulated on the third pounding.

  ‘POLICE! POLICE!’ DS Jamieson shouted before barging into the hallway. He went flying over a small trolley case. A familiar, maroon-coloured, UK passport book, with a boarding pass slotted inside it, skidded across the soiled grey carpet tiles.

  Jamieson climbed to his feet. ‘Looks like he’s off on holiday, chief.’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘What time’s the flight?’

  ‘Seven-thirty tonight from Manchester, arrives in Malaga at ten,’ he said, after checking it.

  ‘Costa del Crime. Pretty unoriginal.’

  Spreading out, each officer took a room whilst Blake and Jamieson stood in what appeared to be a makeshift lounge with a strange assortment of seating, a large red three-seat chesterfield, and four non-matching fold-up garden chairs.

  Moments later, cries of ‘all clear!’ echoed round the flat.

  Blake addressed his team as they gathered in the tatty kitchen. ‘Charlie Bullard seems to have a lot of seats for a bloke who lives on his own. He’s definitely had some kind of party or meeting recently.’

  Then they heard the unmistakable muffled sound of someone holding their nose to prevent a sneeze.

  ‘Over there!’ Blake pointed to a small plastic bifold door about four foot tall, drawn across its frame. Blake nodded at PC Davis warily. He withdrew his pepper spray and yanked the door back with his free hand to reveal a pair of trainers poking through a mop and several coats hanging on hooks.

  ‘Come out, Mr Bullard.’ Blake smirked as he glanced at the other officers who were now sniggering.

  The silver-haired con disentangled himself, stooped to avoid bumping his head, and climbed out of the boiler room.

  ‘You didn’t think we’d leave without you, did you, Mr Bullard?’

  With a look of disbelief, he shrugged his shoulders and stood there like a rabbit in the headlights, wondering how the bloody hell they’d got onto him.

  ‘Charlie Bullard, as a result of a tip-off we received, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the theft of the Staffordshire Hoard. You do not have to say anything.’ Blake continued to read his rights.

  ‘This is bullshit. You’ve got no proof!’

  ‘We’ll go over the finer details back at the station. Cuff him, PC Davis.’

  Blake grabbed a ten-inch tablet from off the kitchen worktop. ‘Tech forensics will take a look at this. Get him back to the station, whilst DS Jamieson and I wait for SOCO to sweep his gaff.’

  Unlike the usual lengthy property search, wading through every manner of detritus, this one took literally thirty minutes flat. The sheer lack of belongings gave new meaning to the word minimal. They found a Dominion credit card. The fact it was taped under the inner sole of a shoe, in his case, was highly suggestive.

  Fifteen minutes later, across the other side of the city, the second team of officers led by DS John Murphy drew up outside Leonard Vale’s address, an Edwardian terraced house in Burslem.

  Like the first raid, the officers weren’t met by a welcoming tenant voluntarily opening his door, only this time it took longer to gain access to the property because of a five-lever lock, and three brass slide bolts, which the hulking PC Haynes demolished with exacting sledgehammer blows, to the rallying cry of: ‘POLICE!’

  DS Murphy galloped upstairs like a man half his age, closely followed by Haynes. Darting from room to room, he felt slightly breathless, another indicator he needed to cut back on the burgers and get in shape.

  ‘All clear upstairs!’ he shouted from the landing.

  Moments later one of the officers bawled from downstairs. ‘Suspect located!’

  Leonard Vale had literally been caught with his trousers down, perched red faced on the throne in the bathroom. The five policemen gawped through the open doorway, hands over their noses gagg
ing at the stench.

  ‘Piss off!’ Vale shouted.

  DS Murphy shielded his nose. ‘Leonard Vale, as a result of information we’ve received, I’m arresting you on suspicion of involvement in the theft of the Staffordshire Hoard. PC Haynes, handcuff him.’

  ‘I’m not touching him until he’s washed his hands.’

  ‘We’ll give you two minutes to get washed up and your trousers on.’

  Devastated, Vale bawled at them. ‘Bastards!’

  Before they could close the door, the ginger geek scrambled his jeans back up without wiping his backside, revealing his oversized manhood surrounded by a mass of orange fuzz.

  ‘Check this guy out. The smelly-arsed bugger’s not going in my van!’ Haynes moaned.

  Unable to resist the urge to ridicule him further, Murphy pitched in. ‘It’s true what they say then?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Haynes asked.

  Murphy gave him a cocky wink. ‘Geeks have big dicks.’

  The five officers exchanged looks and burst into laughter; it made a refreshing change from some of the nasties they encountered during domestic raids.

  A further search of the property turned up a credit card buried in a bag of sugar, and eight-thousand in used fifties and twenties stuffed in an envelope, hidden inside a book. Not the sort of mullah you’d expect someone who’d been unemployed for years to have.

  Amongst Vale’s fiction novels stacked on a bookcase in the living room, they found copies of Security and Surveillance magazines, and several guidebooks on computer hacking. Hidden inside an old PC casing, they found an A4 folder containing sheets of specifications of a security system, with lots of highlighted paragraphs and side notes. Murphy guessed this would match the museum’s cameras and software. Again, highly suggestive!

  Dropping the credit card into an evidence bag, Murphy quizzed Vale. ‘Where does a bloke on the dole get eight grand from? Not looking good, Leonard.’

  ‘That’s my life savings, you bastard!’

  ‘Yeah, right, and my other car is a gold-plated Bentley. Just thought I’d come work in the old Vectra today.’

  As PC Haynes locked Vale in the prison van, Murphy called DI Blake.

  ‘Result, Tom. How did you get on?’

  ‘Charlie Bullard’s in custody.’

  ‘We’re on our way back with the other suspect now.’

  CHAPTER 115

  They planned to question the experienced con first, allowing him limited time to get his house in order. Blake was stood in the corridor outside interview room one, holding two coffees, when DS Murphy arrived.

  ‘I’m bloody parched,’ he said, taking one of the coffees from his boss.

  They entered the room, relieving PC Moore of babysitting duties. Pungent odours of aftershave mixed with deodorant exuded from the silver-haired 55-year-old, who sat in a black shirt and bleached jeans, nervously scratching his nicotine-stained moustache. His solicitor sat giraffe-straight, clipboard and pen at the ready next to him.

  ‘Just to inform you, Mr Bullard, this interview will be recorded.’ Blake pressed the red button on the tape machine.

  ‘So, Mr Bullard, we’ve received information claiming you were involved in the recent theft of the Staffordshire Hoard. What do you have to say about that?

  ‘Don’t know, maybe some scrote’s gotta grudge.’

  ‘In different circumstances that may be the case but our info comes from a reliable source, and given your previous string of armed robbery convictions during the eighties, you fit the profile.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. Check my record; I’ve stayed out of trouble for years?’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that,’ Blake continued. Just because you haven’t been arrested for a while is irrelevant. Do you own a ten-inch tablet?’

  The suspect leaned in to his solicitor for guidance. After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘No.’

  ‘Most people think that once they’ve deleted files they disappear forever; thankfully for us that’s not the case. Your tablet’s been fast tracked by forensics.’

  Bullard’s face drained of colour. ‘Deleted files, what are you on about?’

  ‘I’ll repeat the question, do you own a ten-inch tablet?’

  He scratched his moustache nervously whilst consulting the solicitor. ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Whose is it then?’

  ‘My sister’s lad’s.’

  ‘Can he confirm this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll need a number to contact him?’

  ‘No chance, he’s only fourteen.’

  ‘OK, what do you use the tablet for?’

  ‘Searching stuff online and watching old movies.’

  Blake continued to probe. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Same sort of thing as anybody else.’

  ‘Not very convincing answers, are they, Mr Bullard?’

  Blake prompted DS Murphy to retrieve the suspect’s tablet from his leather document wallet. ‘For the benefit of the tape, DS Murphy is showing Mr Bullard a tablet recovered from his flat in Hanley. Do you recognise the tablet, Mr Bullard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  DS Murphy tapped the screen, opening a slide show of digital photos of the Staffordshire Hoard. ’Can you explain these pictures?’ Blake asked.

  Bullard sighed and looked at his solicitor. After a moment’s consult, he spewed, ‘Must be the sister’s lad doing a school project. They’re always doing stuff about history.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ Murphy chipped in sceptically.

  Even his solicitor looked amazed at the absurd comment.

  ‘Thee million quid’s worth of rare Saxon gold is stolen from the Potteries Museum and we arrest a convicted bank robber possessing a tablet containing hundreds of images of the same gold, a week after it was discovered missing.’

  ‘What are the chances of that, boss?’

  ‘Pretty slim I’d say, DS Murphy.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’

  Blake shot the suspect a stern look. ‘Mr Bullard, stop wasting our time? Just after your arrest SOCO swept your flat, so think carefully about anything you say regarding evidence they’ve found.’

  He protested. ‘You can’t do that without a search warrant?’

  ‘I know; that’s why we obtained one this morning.’

  Bryant Preston gave his client a nod. ‘I’m afraid so, Charles.’

  Blake continued. ‘Have you contacted Ibrahim Benzar recently?’

  ‘Who?’

  Blake pulled a face. ‘Your boss! Stop pissing us around?’

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s not true. Our source informed us you’ve been seen with Ibrahim Benzar on numerous occasions recently. What’s your relationship with him?’

  Still in denial, Bullard said, ‘I told you, I don’t know him.’

  At that moment, Blake’s mobile rang. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Boss,’ PC Evans animated, ‘we’ve questioned several museum staff. Interestingly the caretaker handed his notice in a few days after the robbery.’

  ‘Do we have an address for him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hold on a min?’ Not wanting to alert Bullard, he winked at DS Murphy, stopped the tape, and left the interview room to continue the conversation further down the corridor.

  ‘How long has he worked there?’

  ‘Twenty years apparently.’

  ‘Even more interesting, just before the robbery he had outside help from an employment agency. According to the security guards, he’s been moaning for years about backache and money troubles.’

  ‘Sounds like he could be our inside man. Great work, PC Evans. If you’ve finished gathering intel, you and DC Moore come back in. We need to bring the caretaker in for questioning.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Blake returned to the interview room with a smug grin. ‘Well, Mr Bullard, new evidence has come t
o light so we can put you on a back burner for now,’ he said, staring at him, looking for signs of worry. ‘DS Murphy, escort Mr Bullard back to his cell.’

  He picked up his notes and headed back towards the incident room.

  CHAPTER 116

  DS Murphy looked a touch sweaty from his jaunt down the cell block.

  ‘How did Bullard react to the news of new evidence?’ Blake asked him.

  ‘Can’t really say. He’s hard to read. Typical experienced con. He knows we’re onto him, so he’s spinning it out, playing the system.’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Murphy moaned. ‘I reckon that solicitor’s bloody dodgy. He’s representing Leonard Vale as well; crafty bastard knows we can’t interview both of them at the same time.’

  ‘Limited evidence, though John, apart from Bentley’s say-so, pictures on the tablet, and association. Not heard anything else from SOCO yet. Shouldn’t be too hard to find stuff in his flat; it was practically an empty squat.’

  ‘Didn’t they lift any prints from the cabinets the gold was stolen was from?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Nothing, apart from chemical-spray residue off the glass. No trace fibres at all. Professional job. Must have used forensic suits.’

  ‘What about the replicas?’

  ‘The Hoard curator said they fooled everyone. If the gold cleaning schedule wasn’t due it could have been months before the theft was discovered,’ Blake remarked.

  ‘You have to admire their ingenuity. Where the bloody hell did they get replicas made?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it was in the UK. According to the art forgery specialist DS Jamieson spoke to a couple of days ago, it’s likely they were done in an either Morocco, Turkey, China or India, which all have specialists who’ll do anything for the right price.’

  Looking at the white board Murphy offered an opinion. ‘I don’t know, things are shaping up now, albeit by association. The Benzar brothers organised this job… I’d put money on it. Brink’s-Mat Charlie’s the tools man on the ground. You’ve read his record. He’s a team player… knocked off everything from high-class jewellers in Knightsbridge to security-firm wage vans in Essex. Most of his known associates are dead or still inside. Besides, London firms rarely step outside their borders.’