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

by J. F. Burgess

  CHAPTER 131

  Back at the station Blake opened the tap fully, and doused his face with cold water. Shaking his head he stared into the mirror above the sink. God, he looked like shit: his Oxford Blue shirt missing the top three buttons, moons of sweat under each arm, and his hand throbbed from wielding the heavy iron bar. He knew there’d be repercussions for breaking Millburn’s wrist. Modern policing was far too politically correct these days. He’d seen it on many occasions; scumbags trying to sue the police, claiming unnecessary heavy handedness whilst being arrested. On this occasion his actions were justified; after all, the murdering bastard was trying stick him with a knife. Surely any judge would override a defence barrister on this point?

  Dave Millburn had been taken to A&E to get his wrist set and plastered. But, make no mistake, soon as his cocktail of painkillers kicked in, they be up there to fetch him. He had the full backing of his chief inspector. The murdering bastard had led them a merry dance for nearly three weeks.

  His phone rang. It was DC Longsdon, ‘Sir, we’re still at Dave Millburn’s. His loft has been converted into some kind of gun workshop.’

  ‘Gun workshop?’ Blake said, confused.

  ‘I’m no expert but, there’s a long bench fitted with what looks like a bullet press. There’s a few plastic tubs filled with bullet shells fixed to the wall, and a heavy duty steel cabinet about four feet high. I’d put money on there being firearms inside it. Also, not sure if this is relevant but there’s a black balaclava in a desk drawer. It was on top of a Navy Seal survival guide book. Maybe he’s some kind of masked robber.’

  Blake was astonished at the revelation. ‘Jesus, I never saw that coming. We need to get a forensics team down there, and a ballistics specialist to take a look at everything. Great work. Get the place taped off I’m sending more officers down to help; sounds bloody dangerous. I’ll get onto them right now.’ Shocked, he ended the call and immediately called the Chief Inspector.

  CHAPTER 132

  The truth usually had a habit of slowly emerging through the mire of lies and misdirection, but there was no denying it often felt like they had to climb mountains to get at it, Blake thought, sitting next to DS Murphy in interview room one. Dave Millburn sat on the opposite side of the table cradling his plastered wrist like a wounded soldier.

  Judging by the seriousness of the murder allegation, Blake was expecting this to be a no comment interview. It took him by surprise when Millburn began to open up.

  ‘Mr Millburn, I'm going to ask you to account for a number of facts relating to the murder of Barry Gibson in the White Horse pub on Friday the 5th of June. Avoiding the questions or failing to answer them honestly may go against you in court. Do you understand that?’

  Millburn nodded.

  ‘Can you speak for the tape please?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Can you account for your whereabouts between ten and eleven p.m. on that night?’

  ‘What kind of daft question is that? You know where I was because you questioned me.’

  Blake shook his head disapprovingly, ‘We questioned you after the time-line I just mentioned,’ he said glancing at his notes. ‘Can you reconfirm what your association with Barry Gibson is?’

  ‘Like I told you before, I only knew him years ago through work?’

  Blake continued. ‘After the fight between you and Mr Gibson why didn’t you call an ambulance and inform anyone? You may have been able to save his life.’

  ‘Save that murdering sex case’s life, are you joking? If you’d done your job properly, the filthy bastard would still be alive, banged up in prison, with all the other nonces.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You should have arrested him for the attempted rape of Lucy Barnes, and supplying dodgy E’s that killed a 16-year-old from the Heath Hayes estate,’ Millburn ranted, ‘that fucker was evil, he got my first girlfriend addicted to heroin, in the late eighties.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know; she left Stoke and I never saw her again.’

  ‘Sounds like it upset you?’

  ‘It did, she was a lovely girl before that scum infected her.’

  ‘So, beside your ex-girlfriend’s unfortunate experience, you’re saying that Barry Gibson supplied the ecstasy which killed Katey Hayder in January this year, and he tried to rape a fourteen year old named Lucy Barnes?’ He remembered the Katey Hayder case, but Lucy Barnes didn’t ring any bells. If there was any truth in this, it looked like Jayland Russell’s intel about Barry Gibson dealing for Carl Bentley was spot on. ‘I can assure you we’ll look into those allegations.’

  DS Murphy took down both names on his pad.

  ‘Yeah, course you will.’ Millburn said.

  ‘Do you have any proof to back them up?’ Blake was interested in finding out more. Millburn’s foolish outburst clearly looked like his motive.

  ‘He groped women, and young girls. If you gave him half a chance he’d have raped them. He was a vile predator. No one will mourn his death.’

  ‘Seems like you had quite a grudge against him?’

  ‘Yeah, me and everyone else.’

  ‘Dave, can you account for Barry Gibson’s blood being present on exhibit D1; a three inch long drop point survival knife, found discarded in bushes on the towpath of Caldon Canal, Shelton?’ Blake said, sliding an A4 print across the table: his bombshell disclosure.

  ‘My client won’t answer that,’ his solicitor interrupted.

  Millburn’s openness suddenly disappeared, ‘No comment.’ His head dropped, and for the first time he looked anxious.

  ‘Can you provide us with an innocent reason why your DNA would be on the knife handle?’

  Again, the solicitor objected, raising his hand.

  ‘No comment,’ Millburn replied.

  ‘It was you on the CCTV images we distributed to the public; wasn’t it Mr Millburn?’

  ‘You can’t prove that?’

  ‘You’re right, we can’t, however what we can prove is your DNA and fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. The only other prints on the knife are the persons who found it. And they have a rock solid alibi for the night of the murder. Unlike you Dave; who we can place at the crime scene.’

  ‘You know why I was in the pub that night.’

  ‘Yes, but you used Darryl Connor’s, and Nathan Dukes’ stupidity to create subterfuge. The fact they paddled all over the crime scene, made it very difficult for our SOCO team to pinpoint the DNA of the murderer. It’s no coincidence you made a point of not entering the gents in front of both of them. The waters were muddied even further, because all three of you, along with god knows how many punters, used the toilets that evening.’

  ‘You almost got away with it until the knife turned up. Lucky for us the person who found it barely touched it. Your finger prints remained all over it. Combine that with the presence of the victim’s blood, and we have strong evidence to charge you for murder. The forensic analysis revealed sweat secreted from your palms transferred to the handle, but it was underneath the victim’s blood. So, when you forced the blade into Barry Gibson’s brain, the spatter pattern indicates you killed him. Even though, you wiped it clean, on his polo shirt!’ Blake stated confidently. ‘Furthermore, we have proof you broke into the Furlong Social Club in Baptist Road in Burslem; late in the evening on the ninth of this month?’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Millburn protested.

  ‘Initially we couldn't get anyone out to the break-in, as it seemed a relatively non-related minor crime; that was until one of my DCs pointed out what was stolen; photographs taken in 1991 at the William Adams pottery factory. Among those pics were group shots of Nathan Dukes, Darryl Connor, Barry Gibson, Grant Bolton, Stomper; aka Carl Bentley, and you!’ Blake laid them out on the table.

  Millburn looked devastated.

  He continued. ‘Unfortunately this information didn’t come to light until days after the break-i
n. I sent a SOCO to dust for prints, but he didn’t find any, which bought you some time. However, after the person in possession of your knife was arrested, I decided to get another forensic sweep of the scene. Guess what? The bin men didn’t dispose of every bit of cabinet glass you broke. Three or four shards from one of the cabinets were lodged in the bottom of a dirty wheelie bin. Those contained microscopic samples of your DNA, in the form of saliva. The kind expelled when coughing, or sneezing, SOCO inform me.’

  Millburn’s face suddenly turned white as a sheet.

  Blake’s mobile rang, interrupting the interview. It was a Fia Riley from forensics. ‘Excuse me for a moment; I need to take this.’

  Out in the corridor Blake finally got the news he needed. ‘And it’s a definite match then?’

  ‘No mistake, it’s his blood.’ Fia Riley confirmed.

  ‘That’s fantastic news, thank you.’

  Due to an oversight, forensics had only gone over all three suspects’ cars a few days after the murder, but drew a blank. But, the car hire form Blake found on Millburn’s spare bedroom window sill turned out to be vital evidence. Dave Millburn’s Lexus was in the garage for almost a week. So on that fateful night he drove to Hanley in a courtesy vehicle. Blake got the vehicle identified from its registration, and had it brought in for a forensics examination, an hour before Millburn was interviewed. Fia had just confirmed she’d discovered microscopic traces of Barry Gibson’s blood, transferred from Millburn’s boots onto the driver’s side floor carpet, and since the car hadn’t been hired out after Millburn, due to clutch problems, the evidence was conclusive.

  He was just about to go back in to carry on interrogating Millburn when his phone rang again.

  ‘You found anything else?’ Blake asked DC Longsdon.

  ‘Forensics have been here about an hour now. A couple of guys from ballistics cut the lock off the gun cabinet with a nifty tool. They’ve taken the weapons and bullets away for analysis, DC Longsdon said. Guess what else was in the cabinet?’ he continued.

  ‘The suspense is killing me,’ Blake joked.’

  ‘A hundred grand in used notes.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Straight up, boss.’

  ‘Looks like Millburn is involved in more than just running the doors up town. That’s another feather in your cap. The Chief Inspector will be ecstatic. Good work.’

  ‘Feather in my cap, not sure I follow sir?’

  ‘It’s just an old saying. Don’t worry about it. How much longer do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘At a guess I’d say another hour maximum, forensics have only got another couple of rooms left to do.’

  ‘OK, I’ll speak to you when you get back,’ Blake ended the call.

  CHAPTER 133

  Blake returned to the interview room and started the tape rolling again.

  ‘Mr Millburn, I’ve just spoken to one of my detective constables on the phone. It seems your house is the gift that keeps giving. How long have you owned rifles?’

  Judging by the disillusioned look on his face this line of questioning clearly rattled him.

  Millburn’s solicitor shook his head, but he knew the game was up.

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘What do you use them for?’ Blake continued.

  ‘Hunting. I go on deer stalking trips to Scotland several times a year.’ he said convincingly.

  ‘And you have proof to back this up.’

  ‘Yeah. Got receipts and pictures.’

  ‘What, of dead deer?’ Even though Millburn was looking at a murder charge, Blake thought he’d indulge him, knowing how much people liked to talk about their hobbies. Perhaps he would inadvertently reveal something else, he thought.

  ‘Yeah, among other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Highland scenery, game shooting and things like that.’

  ‘At this point we only have your word for it, and until we’ve seen those receipts and pictures, the rifles will be treated as highly dangerous, unlicenced weapons, and added to your murder charge. Furthermore, my officers also discovered a hundred thousand pounds in used notes inside a bag in your locked gun cabinet. Can you explain where that came from, and how you obtained it?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Blake continued, ‘You do realise, if you can’t provide evidence that the money was legally obtained, it will be confiscated under the proceeds of crime act?’

  Millburn looked horrified at the prospect of losing his massive Hoard ransom money.

  The following morning Blake fetched Dave Millburn before the duty sergeant, confident all the evidence they’d gathered the previous day was more than enough to charge him with possession of unlicenced weapons, money laundering and most importantly murder. Standing there anxiously holding his broken wrist, Millburn looked devastated.

  ‘David Millburn you’re charged with the following offences. On the 5th of June in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, you murdered Barry Gibson contrary to common law. You’re also being charged with two counts of possession of firearms without a licence, and the hundred thousand pounds in used notes found at your property, will be confiscated under the proceeds of crime act. Do you understand these charges?’ Blake said.

  Millburn grunted acceptance.

  CHAPTER 134

  ‘Roger, good to see you. Come in,’ Tom Blake said, welcoming DS Jamieson, who was fashionably late to the soirée at his home. ‘Everyone’s through there.’ He gestured toward the open-plan lounge-kitchen as Jamieson passed him a bottle of Merlot.

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  On the way through the lounge, he greeted DC Moore who sat on the sofa staring at PC Evans. She was standing in the kitchen, flicking the tops off bottles of Cobra in tight, leather, skinny jeans.

  ‘Beer, Roger?’ she asked.

  ‘Love one.’

  The hulking figure of PC Davis obscured Nick Pemberton who was talking to DC Chris Longsdon and Langford Gelder. Isabel perched on one of the Spitalfield barstools leaning on the granite worktop, next to Sue Collins. Both of them listened intently to Blake’s neighbour, Robert Taylor, as he recited old police anecdotes to her father and DS Murphy.

  Collins nudged Isabel and whispered how rugged and well-heeled the six foot 64-year-old was. From titbits of gossip she’d picked up off her dad, the 48-year-old singleton often scared blokes off with her direct approach. The only males in her life were two cherished tortoiseshell cats from a local rescue centre.

  ‘He’s a lovely bloke, likes a few whiskies though.’

  ‘Is he an alco? It’s common in retired officers, you know?’

  Isabel laughed. ‘No! Purely medicinal, Dad says.’

  ‘Ah, I see. A male thing, then?’

  ‘Yeah, he calls round at least once a week for a tipple with Dad.’

  ‘For old-school police banter, no doubt?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Anyway, how you feeling?’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘You’ve had a pretty rough time recently. We’ve all been rooting for you at the station. Understandably, your dad’s been worried out of his mind,’ Collins said, expressing sympathy for her ordeal.

  Isabel gave her an uneasy smile. ‘It’s been hard, but I’m through the worst of it. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind?’

  Realising she didn’t know the girl well enough, Collins apologised. ‘Sorry, love. I won’t mention it again. Scout’s honour.’

  Blake tapped a spoon against his pint glass. ‘Can I interest anyone in a glass of red?’

  ‘Not for me. Thanks, Tom. Still got beer,’ PC Davis said.

  ‘I’m OK yet, boss,’ DS Jamieson replied.

  ‘I’ll have one, sir,’ Evans said.

  ‘And me?’ Nick Pemberton chipped in.

  ‘Oh, y… yes, please,’ Sue Collins said, almost slipping off her stool, holding out a shaky glass for a top up.

  ‘Whoa! Steady on, Sue!’ DS Murphy shouted acro
ss the kitchen, unwittingly drawing everyone’s attention to the family liaison officer who had been first to arrive and appeared well oiled. DS Moore, DC Longsdon and PC Davis couldn’t help sniggering at her public pants-down moment.

  With their glasses charged, Blake put his arm around Isabel, raised his glass and proposed a toast. ‘To my brave, wonderful daughter, Isabel!’

  The group moved to the centre of the kitchen and chinked glasses. ‘To Isabel!’

  Her dad embraced her.

  Weepy eyed, she blushed.

  CHAPTER 135

  Around 10.30 p.m., DS Murphy and DS Jamieson bungled a rather worse-for-wear Sue Collins into a taxi, accompanied by DC Moore who was under strict instructions to get her home safely and tucked into bed.

  Before they could shut the cab door, PC Davis stood in the light cast from the hallway onto the gravel and teased, ‘Don’t get any funny ideas either; she’s far too pissed!!’ The three of them roared as the taxi pulled away, with DC Moore hanging out the opposite rear window giving them the middle finger.

  ‘You’re a wicked bastard, Davis,’ Jamieson said.

  ‘I’m only pulling his leg.’

  Murphy frowned. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past him. You know what they say about the quiet ones,’ Davis said.

  Jamieson added. ‘He’d never live it down. The lads at the station would crucify him.’

  Returning to the house they gathered back in the kitchen. Isabel had gone to bed. Langford Gelder and DC Chris Longsdon sat in the lounge drinking coffee, waiting for their taxi to arrive.

  After they’d left, Blake pulled out a bottle of vintage single malt. He poured a two-finger slug for each of his remaining colleagues as they discussed Barry Gibson's murder and the Staffordshire Hoard heist.

  ‘Do you reckon Dave Millburn will get life then?’ Robert Taylor asked Blake.