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

by J. F. Burgess

  Blake stood up and drew connecting lines between photos of the Benzar brothers, Charlie Bullard and Leonard Vale on the white board. At the end of the row, he sketched a crude character outline and wrote ‘caretaker’ in red capitals. ‘He’s the missing link. This guy is the key to it all. Caretakers generally have unlimited access. They’ll have offered him an obscene amount of money; this was his retirement fund.’

  ‘DC Moore is calling the agency to get the name of who they sent to the museum.’

  PC Evans wandered in looking rather pleased, followed by DC Moore.

  ‘Great timing. I’m tasking you both with bringing in this caretaker for questioning. Here’s the address,’ Blake said, handing over an orange sticky note.’

  DC Moore protested. ‘What now, sir? I’m starving.’

  Handing her a fiver reward, Blake said, ‘Casey, get a couple of pasties on your way to Fenton.’

  ‘Thanks very much, sir, but we’ll be OK.’ As the words left her mouth, DC Moore bit his bottom lip and shot her an angry stare.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Murphy jibed, ‘we used to work sixteen hour shifts on chocolate bars, fags and coffee when I was your age.’

  CHAPTER 117

  DS Murphy had already run a PNC check on the caretaker before he was due to arrive at the station for questioning. Apart from a driving misdemeanour, resulting in a £50 fine in 1994, he was completely clean. Both he and DI Blake hoped this suspect would provide enough intelligence to make arrests, but they wanted to be sure. Like a plate spinning act they needed to give equal attention to each suspect. Both Charlie Bullard and Leonard Vale had provided questionable alibis, but they’d gathered limited evidence. The plan was to pressure the caretaker into a confession; he’d never been arrested before, and, although his solicitor would guide him, unlike a career criminal he’d be disorientated and in a state of shock.

  DS Jamieson entered Blake’s office holding a couple of A4 sheets. ‘Boss, I’ve just had work-supply agency on the phone. Turns out the temp they sent to the museum was specifically requested by the caretaker.’

  ‘Really! Now there’s a coincidence.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Apparently the temp is called “Brian Calcot”, and he only registered with them couple weeks before. Even better, they’ve emailed a photo and a mobile number,’ he said, passing over printouts.

  Blake scrutinised them. ‘Is it me or does this look like Charlie Bullard with a beard?’

  ‘Shit, yeah, I’ve only just printed it.’

  ‘Do a check on the mobile number and get onto the network for triangulation; even if he’s used a burner we should be able to get a GPS location. Great work, Roger. We’re interviewing the caretaker soon as Evans and Moore bring him in.’

  CHAPTER 118

  Twenty minutes later, PC Evans and DC Moore knocked on the door of a late Victorian terraced house in Etruscan Street, Fenton. A portly lady in her mid-sixties, wearing a checked apron and fur-trimmed slippers answered.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Mitchell? PC Evans and DC Moore from Staffordshire Police. Is your husband home?’

  ‘Our Arthur? No, why?’

  Evans continued. ‘Can we step inside? We think he can help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘What enquiries?’ she said, ushering them into the front room with a mantelpiece covered in Royal Doulton figures.

  ‘Until recently he was the caretaker at the Potteries Museum, is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah, been there years.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have heard in the news about the theft of The Staffordshire Hoard from the museum recently?’

  ‘Arthur mentioned it, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with him? He dunna work there any more, sick of ’em. Putting on a willing horse, they were. He’s gotta bad back, you know. Years of mauling and humping stuff about.’

  ‘Why did he hand his notice in so suddenly?’ DC Moore asked her.

  ‘Like I said, his back’s killing him… sits with a hot water bottle on it all night. He’s had enough.’

  ‘What about his pension?’

  ‘Never paid into it, couldn’t afford to. He’ll be drawing his state pension in a couple of years.’

  ‘Do you know where your husband is now? We’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘He’s down the allotment.’

  ‘Where’s that, Mrs Mitchell?’

  ‘If you go out of here, turn left and walk along the street until you get to an alleyway on your right; it’s down there. He’ll be there until teatime.’

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’

  PC Evans and DC Moore paced up and down an overgrown privet hedge in search of an entrance, eventually finding an old shed door screwed to a post with rusting strap hinges. A bolt on a length of string inserted through the Hasp & Staple held it shut. Moore removed it and they stepped inside, scanning the ramshackle greenhouses and odd-looking sheds in every shade of green and brown, littering an allotment covering about an acre.

  ‘Where should we start?’ Evans said.

  ‘Ask that bloke over there?’ Moore replied, pointing to an old chap in a tweed cap and wellies, turning soil over with a fork.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, can you show us Arthur Mitchell’s allotment?’

  Startled to see two police officers, he pointed towards the bottom. ‘See that duck egg-coloured shed? That’s his patch.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  After a few minutes of navigating the broken-slab path winding through the allotment, they reached Mitchell’s shed. Peering through the window they saw an array of garden tools hanging neatly on the wooden framework, and some kind of expensive-looking petrol machinery with the words Honda Lawn King down the side, but no sign of the caretaker.

  They were just about to look inside when DC Moore nudged Evans and nodded towards a thin stream of smoke rising above the roof from the other side. They found Arthur Mitchell perched in a deck chair puffing on a pipe, reading the Evening Sentinel.

  ‘Mr Mitchell?’

  ‘Bloody hell! You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ he said, fumbling the newspaper and rising to his feet.

  ‘That’s an expensive-looking lawnmower you’ve got in there?’ DC Moore said, trying to unsettle him.

  ‘It’s a rotavator. Anyway, how’s that your business?’

  Keeping him on the back foot, Evans said, ‘Earlier today we talked to Potteries Museum staff regarding the Staffordshire Hoard theft. Can you accompany us to the station to answer a few routine questions concerning this?’

  As she spoke, Moore quickly did an online search on his phone. The Honda D26R Rotavator retailed at eight hundred quid.

  ‘I don’t work there any more,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Yes, we know. The manager said you handed your notice in rather suddenly.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘PC Evans just told you… this is a high-profile robbery case receiving worldwide media coverage,’ Moore said, piling on the pressure.

  ‘Like I told you, I don’t work there.’

  Moore emphasised the point. ‘Look, Mr Mitchell, we’d appreciate your cooperation, but if needs be we’ll arrest you. You don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘OK, just give me a minute to put things away,’ he said reluctantly, knocking his pipe out on a large sandstone rock.

  Judging by his evasive manner, and the look of sheer dread on Mitchell’s face, he was definitely hiding something. The acquisition of a brand-new rotavator only added further suspicion.

  On the way back to the station, Arthur Mitchell never uttered a word, but sat gazing in disbelief out of the window.

  Still wearing muddy green wellingtons, Arthur Mitchell fidgeted nervously in his chair. His legal aid looked straight out of law school. A petite, pretty young solicitor in her mid-twenties, with long, flowing red hair tied in a ponytail.

  Blake took a back seat as DS Murphy led the interview.

  ‘So Mr Mitchell, PC Evans has already explained we’re questioning all t
he museum staff about the theft of the Staffordshire Hoard. In cases such as this we need to establish everyone’s movements before and after the robbery. The real gold was discovered to have been switched for replicas by the Hoard curator on the twenty-ninth of June. From the intelligence we’ve gathered we believe the robbery took place within a two-week time frame, just before that date. During that period did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anyone acting suspicious around the collection, such as museum visitors, or staff taking a lot of pictures, or asking unusual questions regarding security that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, I spent most of my time behind the scenes. The Hoard host and security take turns monitoring the Mead Hall, so they’d know.’

  ‘We’ve already questioned them and drawn a blank.’

  ‘Explain what your daily duties included?’

  ‘I was just a dogsbody, opening doors moving stuff around, unblocking sinks and the odd bit of painting.’

  ‘We’ve been informed you employed a temp from the work-supply agency on the eighteenth and nineteenth of June? Can you confirm this?’

  Turning pale, he swallowed hard, arms crossing his stomach in a protective huddle.

  ‘Can you answer the question please, Mr Mitchell?’

  Avoiding eye contact, he said yes in a barely audible tone.

  Murphy glanced at Blake; they could both see his brow perspiring. He was on the ropes, exposed and vulnerable and they’d only just started.

  ‘The agency told us you asked for this temp specifically,’ he said, showing him the A4 sheet with Brian Calcot’s picture on it, who they suspected was Charlie Bullard. ‘Is this the man who helped you?’

  Sensing there was no way of avoiding the question he glanced at his solicitor for support. She nodded.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell? I’ll tell you our theory. Big robberies such as this need inside information, and an inside man. You were approached by Ibrahim Benzar to help get Brian Calcot – who we believe to be Charlie Bullard – behind the scenes, to rob the place. I can tell you now we have Charlie Bullard and a known associate, Mr Leonard Vale, in custody. Mr Bullard is a convicted bank robber. Believe me, it’s only a matter of time before he names you in return for a lighter sentence. Get in first before it’s too late.’

  ‘How much did they pay you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell? No comments are frowned upon by the judicial system. If you’re found guilty of committing a crime, it will only increase any custodial sentence dished out to you. I suggest you cooperate.’

  Blake bolstered his sergeant. ‘Our experts have analysed CCTV covering the eighteenth and nineteenth of June and identified suspicious activity on the footage involving Mr Bullard leaving the museum. Furthermore the timelines have been tampered with; an attempt to edit out the robbery.’

  Like a drowning man clinging to floating debris, he anxiously looked at his solicitor to throw him a lifeline. She made a brief note on her folio then requested the interview be stopped, to consult her client.

  Twenty minutes later the solicitor returned with the caretaker dragging himself behind, looking mortified at the prospect of spending time in prison.

  ‘Gentlemen, taking into consideration it’s his first offence, my client would like to confess in return for a lighter sentence. We need assurances that this will be given serious consideration by the CPS.’

  Biting down on a smile, Blake glanced at DS Murphy who was also controlling the temptation to voice a premature result.

  Blake replied. ‘Initially I’m saying yes, we’ll see what we can do, but I need confirmation from my chief inspector. Bear with me a minute while I call him.’ He left the room and speed dialled Colonel Mustard. ‘Sir, I need your permission on a deal that’s being offered by a key suspect’s defence lawyer in the Staffordshire Hoard case?’

  ‘Do we have enough evidence to convict the perpetrators?’ Coleman cautioned.

  ‘Very close, sir. The museum caretaker was the inside man; he’s just about to spill the names of two other gang members, who, as you know, we also have in custody.’

  ‘As long as you can assure me you’ve dotted all the I’s. We need more than sixteen grand and the tablet containing images of the gold.’

  ‘Sir, earlier Peter Jeffries over at Video and Audio Forensics confirmed the museum’s CCTV has been tampered with. We’ve recovered two company credit cards from each of the suspect’s properties. Both are linked to the same British public company, with a Cayman Island bank account. Very dodgy! The Cyber Crimes unit told me the minimum deposit for this bank is a million pounds. Considering one of the suspects was on three hundred quid a week, and the other two have been on the dole for years, barring a lottery win it’s safe to say it’s them.’

  ‘Loud and clear, Tom, you have my permission. We can deal with any CPS bullshit as and when.’

  The museum caretaker named both Charlie Bullard and Leonard Vale and was formally charged. Leonard Vale finally caved in once the Dominion credit card and museum’s security system documents were produced. He recalled most of the story with surprising clarity. The planning and intricacy of the whole job astounded the detectives. The Hoard replicas were particularly impressive; sadly their value a mere fraction of the originals. DI Blake already knew this from his illicit US trade, which filled him with thoughts of self-loathing when contemplating what had happened. Aware that his desire to confess and share the burden might eventually get the better of him, he refocused on the matter in hand.

  Whilst they were close to getting a result, there were still too many loose ends to be satisfied with the current arrests.

  The fact that the Benzar brothers and their dodgy accountant were on the run meant there was still plenty to do. Waiting for Interpol to grind into action annoyed the shit out of Blake.

  CHAPTER 119

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ Chief Inspector Coleman said to a senior Met officer, after hearing the news that the accountant Malcolm Preston had been arrested. Joint cooperation between county police forces and the Metropolitan had worked out perfectly on this occasion.

  They’d apprehended Preston whilst doing a dawn raid on the premises of a known forger, who’d been under surveillance for months. Preston was caught trying to buy a fake passport and flagged up on PNC as wanted by Staff’s constabulary. A prison van containing the suspect had just passed Birmingham, and, traffic permitting, would be there in the next hour.

  ‘The Met are ferrying Malcolm Preston back up to Stoke as we speak. This case is shaping up nicely.’

  ‘That is good news. The accountant gives us four out of the six-man gang, although it’s worth bearing in mind we’ve only charged three of them so far, sir.’

  ‘Any news on the Benzar brothers?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘Not really. Interpol have issued a Code Red – persons wanted for arrest and extradition – but there have been no confirmed sightings yet. At a guess I’d say they were long gone.’

  ‘Maybe the accountant will provide some intel on their location?’ Coleman said.

  Blake was sceptical. ‘Possibly. We’ve been tracking their bank accounts, mobile phones and email, but as you can imagine, sir, these are well-informed career criminals, It’s doubtful they’d be naive enough to use any of them.’

  ‘Anything more on the credit cards found on the suspects in custody?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘Tech forensics are still looking into it. As I mentioned to you on the phone, sir, we know they relate to a bank in the Cayman Islands. But it’s difficult to get information from these institutions – everything is tied up in red tape and client confidentiality clauses.’

  ‘Even if the accountant proves a tough nut; at least we’ve charged Vale and Bullard.’

  ‘The caretaker has named them both in his confession, but at this stage it’s his word against theirs, and may not hold up to scrutiny from the defence.’

  ‘Right.
We need to go in hard on the accountant. I’ll put in an application for the extension as a contingency. Let me know as soon as you begin his interview?’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ Blake said, as he watched Coleman march stiff as a crane out of his office.

  Immediately after this exchange, the duty sergeant booked Malcolm Preston in, and received two evidence bags containing a wad of cash, a Dominion credit card, a wallet, an Android mobile and a three-pack of ribbed condoms. They ushered him to interview room three. Judging by his dishevelled appearance, he’d been slumming around cash-only B&Bs.

  His navy suit was badly creased, and his thinning grey hair shone under the light; it needed shampooing. His horn-rimmed glasses magnified red under-eye rings. B.O. exuded from his direction and hung in the air like an abandoned trainer in a gym changing room. Subsequently the redhead solicitor representing him and Arthur Mitchell sat slightly further away from her client than was necessary.

  Blake gave the suspect a telling look. ‘Mr Preston, I hope our colleagues at the Met have been treating you well?’

  The accountant shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

  ‘So,’ Blake continued, ‘can you tell us why you absconded when we paid you a visit at your offices in Hanley on the sixteenth of June?’

  He was suddenly tense. ‘I didn’t abscond; I went to visit friends in London,’ he said, like a naughty child unable to accept responsibility for his actions.

  ‘You told one of my female PCs that you’d be in for the rest of the afternoon over the phone. When we arrived your office door was locked. In a subsequent search we discovered you’d escaped through the loft space and exited the building via the rear fire escape and stolen Roy Cooper’s old Fiat Panda. The vehicle was recovered from Tesco’s car park in Hanley later that day. Can you confirm this?’