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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘Yes, but you’re on the frigging run, a wanted man, and I’m with you. How’s that going to look? Like I was in on it.’

  ‘You can leave any time. The police don’t know you’re here.’

  ‘What if they check passenger records. They’ll see I went to Ibiza.’

  ‘Why would they do that? All they know is we shagged at the hotel back in Hanley; we’re not connected apart from that. You flew from Manchester on your own; I flew to Turkey, then on to Ibiza. I booked the villa and yacht under a false name. They have nothing.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ She slammed the balcony door and stormed back into the suite towards the mini bar. She took out a two-fifty mil bottle of Chardonnay, and downed it in one gulp. In a rage she slung the empty against the bathroom wall. Glass shattered across the stone floor tiles.

  Attempting to keep the uproar private. Benzar followed her in and closed the door behind him. ‘Katrina! You’re mad at me, I get it, but we need to talk about this. You think I’m not pissed off? If I go back, they’ll lock me up, understand that?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do.’

  ‘Calm down, you’re stressing me. I have nearly half a million with me,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Some on the boat, some in the hotel safe and in my case.’

  ‘This gets worse. What if we’re arrested with all that money?’

  ‘It’s Africa. European police have no jurisdiction here. Besides, no one knows where I am.’

  ‘Where does that leave me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we could make a life in Morocco? Five hundred thousand would last forever out here. We could buy a place and travel around. One thing is for sure, I’m not doing any more prison, no fucking way.’

  ‘You’re insane!’

  Livid, she opened another bottle from the fridge and strode across the room out onto the balcony, trying to comprehend the bombshell he’d just dropped. Gazing out across the Atlantic, it dawned on her how elation could easily turn into despair. She’d travelled to paradise and through no fault of her own ended up in a hellish state of limbo. God, her life was a disaster. No job, an ex-boyfriend in prison for dealing, and the looming prospect of being homeless. She had no direction or sense of purpose any more.

  Ibrahim’s voice dragged her back into the cold light of day. ‘I know this seems like a nightmare, but I have to think hard about my next move. I need your support. Arguing only makes things worse. This could be a new start for both of us,’ he said, not quite believing it himself.

  Kat stood motionless, watching a small boat cross the vast ocean. It dipped and rocked struggling against the Atlantic waves, but somehow managing to plough a steady course toward Rabat Port. If something so small could master the might of the sea, maybe there was hope for them after all? Maybe being exiled in Morocco could work. This was fate. She had strong feelings for Ibrahim. They wouldn’t have to worry about money, and life could be simpler if they could make it work. But the big question was, could they really spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders.

  CHAPTER 123

  It was another searing hot day in Mumbai. Traffic pollution hung in the air like a heavy fog over the sprawling Bollywood city, on India’s west coast. Huge cranes pitched next to skyscrapers in varying stages of construction, hugged the coastline and dominated the skyline. The Bandra-Worli cable-stayed bridge floated across the ocean connecting central Mumbai with its western suburbs. Yusuf Benzar had waded through the concrete jungle of stray dogs, peasants and construction workers and successfully completed what he’d been tasked. The gold replicas entered the UK and fulfilled their temporary purpose and his brother paid him four hundred thousand into an Indian bank; the other half million was due later in the week.

  He now had two options; stay in India and make a go of it, or return to Europe to face a catalogue of criminal charges, and years inside.

  Not much of a choice… rather a forced decision, with the scales weighing heavily in favour of staying in India.

  During the time he’d been there, he’d had first-hand experience of extreme poverty. The street children in particular caught him by surprise. Back home he selfishly considered his own needs, and excessive use of cocaine distorted his perception of the world. Seeing children dying of starvation on the TV paled compared to being there. On the sixth day, a painfully skinny girl, around eight years old was killed. The taxi that hit her outside Yusuf’s apartment hotel didn’t even stop. When it happened, he was about to cross the road. Her tiny body slipped away in his arms. Mournfully he remembered her pretty smile as she’d sat begging outside the reception since his arrival. Each day he’d given her a few rupees; in return she’d polished the city’s dust from his loafers and blessed him with a small clutch of wild flowers. Their seemingly insignificant interaction now had a profound effect on him. Drug and alcohol free, he felt empathy and deep regret about the way his life had turned out. He held her until the ambulance siren was close by, before retreating into the shadows of the alley opposite, in fear of being questioned by the authorities.

  That night he dragged himself towards the river, sat under the stars and openly wept. A brother and sister no older than twelve, sleeping on the quayside, overheard and comforted him. Like an epiphany, this simple act of kindness changed the direction of his future.

  The following morning he found an Internet café and spent hours scouring online for charities that helped Mumbai’s poor and desolate children. In the afternoon, he paced the streets purposefully holding a sheet of notepaper with their addresses and mobiles on it. Fifty grand could bring hope to at least some of the impoverished.

  CHAPTER 124

  Seventeen hours a day in his cell hammered home the magnitude of his desperation. The thought of spending another twenty years for murder, on top of the four he’d already been given for dealing class A, cut through Carl Bentley’s soul like a white-hot blade. He’d been such an idiot to grass on Benzar. Far too many scumbags, with connections inside, and he’d played it like a real novice. Some bastard must have grassed on him, done a deal with Benzar. How else had they have found out? No one else knew.

  He dearly missed the simple things he’d taken for granted: being able to hop across the pub for a beer, watch Stoke on TV, ride across the roaches on his scooter gazing at the barren Moors. But most of all he missed Kat, inhaling her intoxicating scent, her beautiful blue eyes and forgiving smile. The thought of never holding her close again destroyed him. He’d treated her badly over the last couple years and deeply regretted it. Depressingly, his incarceration meant there’d be no chance of reconciliation. It wasn’t as if he could write to her, plead for forgiveness. For starters he didn’t know where she was, or, even more painfully, who she was with.

  His short time in prison had been horrendous. He’d been kicked, punched and received a ton of verbal from a small group of inmates intent on bullying newcomers. Most of his stuff had been stolen, including his toothbrush and toiletries.

  Lying in darkness, staring at the faint glow of the moon through the tiny barred windows, every sound amplified in his head: prisoners arguing, taking drugs, having sex… it made him shudder.

  The nights were an eternal hell… an emotional roller coaster of anxiety and fear of the unknown. Faces came out of the blackness, twisting his perception of reality with hallucinogenic visions. A deep depression had veiled him since his arrest, and he couldn’t see any way out. His serotonin levels were depleted, afflicting him with a myriad of disturbing withdrawal symptoms from years of dope and ecstasy consumption.

  Before prison he feared no man, and would take most on in a scrap, but witnessing the slashing of another prisoner’s throat in the showers two days earlier tormented him. He’d only closed his eyes to wash out shampoo, no more than thirty seconds. When he opened them the victim clung desperately to a gaping ear-to-ear slash as blood sprayed with force from both his jugular veins, all over Bentley. There was nothing he could do but
stare in horror as the man shook violently and crashed to the floor in a deluge of his own blood. It had dominated his nightmares ever since.

  Within seconds he was cuffed and pinned naked to the tiles by four prison guards staring accusingly at his flannel draped over the camera lens, and his yellow toothbrush blade discarded in the corner by the murderer.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before retribution for grassing up Ibrahim Benzar was doled out. If he couldn’t prove his innocence of this horrendous killing, he’d rot in this hell-hole until he was a decrepit pensioner, if he wasn’t killed first – a thought that chilled him to the bone. Staring into the darkness of his cell, hope ebbed away. Without rational consideration, he ripped the blanket of his mattress and rolled it tightly into a rope.

  CHAPTER 125

  Officers were called out to a gang-related fight on the Townmore Estate; apparently a turf war dispute over drugs. Unfortunately because of an accident on Collmore, the road leading into the estate, most of the rival gang members fled the scene, but officers managed to arrest one of the offenders, and he was waiting in interview room three.

  Jayland Russell had only been released from prison a few days ago after serving a four-year stretch for a series of aggravated burglaries and heroin dealing.

  Unfortunately, it was a well-known fact that some jobless prisoners ended up dealing again. A combination of operation Nemesis and Yusuf Benzar’s supply chain disruption had meant there was a drought in Stoke-on-the Trent area.

  Jayland Russell’s neck was encircled with gang tattoos and his shaved head resembled that of a mummified skull, bearing several nasty scars from a life of crime and violence. His ashen skin was taut like a drum around sunken eye sockets and his pupils were tiny dots in the centre of luminous blue retinas, like a Husky’s eyes. But under all that pain and ego he still desired freedom, which meant he would consider grassing on rival gang members in return for a more lenient sentence. His parole officer informed them he was on a recovery program. But judging by his demeanour and scratching, he was still using. Could they really believe anything he said?

  DS Murphy studied him for a few seconds. ‘What’s this about, Jayland? Fighting in the streets? Your knife has been sent off to forensics.’

  ‘This kind of behaviour is in breach of your parole. We have a witness who saw you slashing out at two rival gang members. They saw everything. You could have killed someone.’

  ‘Doze bastards are on my turf man.’

  ‘So, you’re dealing again?’

  ‘Na man, I'm clean. They’ze just disrespecting me, cause I’s on parole. Taking the piss ya know, trying to goad me into going back inside. Fucking warned Dem off man. They’ze setting me up.’

  Murphy almost felt sorry for him. What chance did he really have? A heroin addict fresh out of jail with no job prospects; he was doomed.

  ‘So what are we going to do with you Mr Russell?’

  He shrugged his shoulders and sighed deeply.

  ‘Because it’s not looking good; you’ve been caught using an illegal weapon in public, whilst on parole.’

  Russell looked concerned. ‘The shank ain’t mine?’

  ‘That’s rather irrelevant now. It doesn't matter whose blade it is; you were the one using it to threaten others.’

  ‘Yeah, but I found it in some bushes on da canal, man; it’d been dumped.’

  This peaked Blake interest, ‘When was this?’

  ‘Can’t be exact man my memory is shit, boss.’

  Not surprising Blake thought. Smack had probably destroyed what brains he’d got left.

  ‘Try to think; it could be important, especially if the weapon has been used in a crime.’

  Russell leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

  Blake could almost hear the cogs slowly clunking into self-preservation mode.

  ‘Yeah, I remember now. I was in the park with a few bros having a smoke when we heard loadza sirens going off up-town. It was a Friday night.’

  ‘Which Friday? Think, Jayland?’

  He sucked his teeth. ‘Not sure, man.’

  ‘Was it more than a week ago?’

  ‘Er… yeah. That’s it man. I heard one of da bros talking about a murder in a pub the next day. That’s what all da fuss must’ve been about.’

  Blake shot DS Murphy a look of amazement. ‘What time did you find this knife?’

  ‘I was off home down canal, when I tripped over summet. Fell in the bushes. When I came to it was going light, that’s when I saw da shank. Got loads of nettle stings getting it man, all up me arm.’

  ‘And your mates will confirm all of this? We’ll need names so we can speak to them?’

  ‘What’s the big deal with the shank, boss?’ Russell said.

  Surprised and excited Blake terminated the interview for a comfort break.

  ‘This could be the breakthrough we need in the Gibson murder case. Can we get the forensics fast tracked on the blade?’ Blake asked optimistically, standing a few feet along the corridor from interview room three.

  ‘Would have thought so. Do you want me to get onto them, boss?’ Murphy said.

  ‘Straight away. I need to have a word with the Chief Inspector about this.’

  ‘You really think it could be the murder weapon?’

  ‘If Jayland Russell’s timing is right I think it’s a possibility. Besides, we’ve got nothing else apart from four suspects and circumstantial at the minute, so it’s definitely worth pursuing.

  ‘Have you seen pictures of the knife yet, boss?’

  ‘Not yet, he was only brought in hour ago. I’m off to the evidence store to take a look, before it goes off to forensics.’

  CHAPTER 126

  He sat in his sanctuary reading the front pages of the Evening Sentinel.

  “Staffordshire Hoard Heist an inside job”

  Robbers broke into the Potteries Museum and Art Gallery in Stoke-on-Trent, undetected and covertly switched the Staffordshire Hoard for replicas, and then stole the 3000-piece original collection worth 3.3 million. In a brief statement, Hanley CID, located within a hundred yards of the museum said this was an inside job that involved an ingenious plan designed to delay the discovery of the theft. Currently they have several people believed to be involved with the theft in custody helping with their enquiries. Two other key suspects, brothers Ibrahim and Yusuf Benzar, are believed to be the organisers of the robbery. Their whereabouts are unknown, and police will release a further statement soon. The museum has offered a reward of £40,000 for information leading to the arrest of the Benzar brothers. Anyone with information related to the robbery can call: 0800 555 122

  He couldn’t help feeling smug after pulling the hundred-grand double-cross on Benzar. The arrogant bastard thought because he put money into his business, he could take the piss; skimming profits each year. The word reward jumped off the page: possibly a way of killing two birds with one stone. Get rid of that parasite, and land an easy forty grand. If only he knew Benzar’s whereabouts. Where would a career criminal like him go? Back home to Turkey? Too obvious, even those dumb plods would know that. For now this would have to go on the back burner, he thought.

  CHAPTER 127

  Blake had only just finished his initial interview with Jayland Russell when DC Longsdon bowled into his office looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘Sir, we’ve received a tip off from a shopkeeper. His wife saw Grant Bolton's mugshot on the online Sentinel. Apparently he’d bought food supplies, cans of larger, and almost cleared their stock of rolling tobacco from their remote shop on Blackshaw Moor yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Really, that’s great news.’ The Gibson murder case had been problematic from the beginning, and even now Blake was still sceptical, but this new intel seemed like progress. If they could get Grant Bolton into custody, they’d have a fighting chance of unravelling the events leading up to the murder.

  Blake picked the phone up and called NPAS, to arrange another helicopter search of
the moorlands and surrounding area. So, he was right the first time, he thought.

  ‘Got something, over! Station base unit one.’ the helicopter camera-man proclaimed through the monitor’s speakers.

  Blake had just returned from the coffee machine. He placed his cup on the desk, and watched nervously as the helicopter camera zoomed in on what looked like a group of travellers’ caravans, parked in a clearing beside a large pine wood forest just off the road.

  ‘Ground unit one; we’ll continue to circle, can you go in to investigate?’

  ‘Roger over; will do.’

  Blake watched in anticipation, as a dog unit van and two police cars shot down the narrow country lane, and veered right into what looked like a dirt access road, leading into the clearing.

  All six officers exited their vehicles at the same time and approached the caravans. Just as they were about to confront the occupants, a figure shot out of the closest van to the trees and disappeared.

  ‘Switching to thermal image camera. Suspect running through densely forested area to our left. Over. Directing ground teams to move in and apprehend.’

  Blake followed the tiny white figure as it fled through the trees. Could this be Grant Bolton? He sincerely hoped so, for his sake.

  ‘Team closing in on suspect, over.’ the cameraman updated him.

  He became tense as the six police officers led by the dog unit moved closer to the suspect. Then it was all over.

  ‘Suspect apprehended, circling the area one more time. Awaiting further instructions from SIO and ground team, over.’

  Blake rose from his seat and punched the air.

  CHAPTER 128

  Just over an hour and a half later DS Murphy and Blake sat in interview room three staring across the table at Grant Bolton, who judging by his appearance had been roughing it for the last few days. His jeans and boots were mud stained from the pursuit through the forest, and he’d grown a short beard.