The Wait for Shadows

by Karl Holton

Tommy instinctively threw himself inside the car. He started the engine, pushed it into reverse and slammed down on the accelerator. As the vehicle jumped back a single bullet hit the car but ricocheted away.

  His one advantage here was that he knew exactly where he was and he knew every backroad. He had to use it.

  As the car zipped back he saw a van coming towards him from behind. He knew his car would win the joust and as they got closer the van driver ‘chickened’. He swerved away and slammed into a parked car.

  After twenty-five metres in reverse, Tommy jammed his foot into the break at the same time as turning the wheel to the right. The car twisted to face a small hidden country road; Dark Lane.

  Another bullet smashed the car door, bouncing off the internal armour.

  His hand forced the car into the drive gear and he pressed his foot down, manoeuvring the vehicle into the gap. The gearbox growled launching the car forwards. Within twenty metres he was racing uphill along the thin lane firstly under the cover of the pub and then the thickening trees.

  He had a decision to make. At this speed in thirty seconds there was a right turn onto another small lane that would take him off this path. By taking it he might not be seen turning off. He focused on his steering as the car roared up the road.

  He glimpsed at his rear-view mirror. No vehicle in pursuit. His eyes flashed between the road and the mirror.

  A few seconds later, he squeezed down on the brake and as the gradient helped slow the car he threw the steering wheel to the right.

  Chapter 34

  Day 10

  The Grange Hotel, Cooper’s Row, London

  6.11 p.m.

  The hotel manager, Mr Bowers, slid the key card into the lock of the Royal Suite, opened the door and walked into the room. “I need this room available as soon as possible. I’ve had to turn down a booking for this evening already. I’ll have to make a report to head office if this continues.”

  Wallace ignored his demand. “Mr Gibbs checked in yesterday at approximately 5.30 p.m. He had a dinner here in the Royal Suite with other hotel guests and then spent an evening in the hotel bar and then the golf simulator. He had breakfast in his room and then checked out at 9.15 a.m. Is that all correct?”

  Benedict had walked into the suite and started looking around. He moved around the corner to the area with the large dining table.

  Bowers stared at him wondering what he was doing. He looked at Wallace. “Yes, that all sounds right.”

  “Did they eat at this dining table?” Benedict asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What time in the evening did the meal start and finish?” he asked.

  Bowers looked at the floor, trying to recall what he’d been told. “It started at 7.45 p.m. and it went on until 10.15 p.m.”

  “Do you know which seat Mr Gibbs sat in during the meal?” Benedict asked.

  “No … but we can ask the team that served them.”

  “Are they on duty now?” asked Wallace.

  “Not until eight p.m.”

  “We’ll need to see them straight away,” Benedict said. “This room cannot be used. It will need to be sealed up until we’ve processed it.”

  Bowers looked at her then moved so he could see Benedict. “You’re not serious?”

  Benedict didn’t reply.

  Bowers turned to Wallace. “One of you is going to need to speak to head office.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr Bowers,” Wallace said, as she stared closely at the glass in the windows. “When the room cleaner goes through the room, do they always clean the windows?”

  Bowers watched her. “They’re supposed to make sure any marks are removed … especially in this room given the number of windows it has. We try to ensure that —”

  Wallace wasn’t interested in his explanation. “Where do you have CCTV?”

  “Various places all over the hotel,” he said. “Nothing inside rooms if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Wallace remained stoic. “I’m not.”

  “We’re going to want to see it,” Benedict said, from around the corner. “All of it.”

  “You’ll have to get a warrant.”

  “So, you won’t help us with a murder inquiry?” she asked.

  Bowers held up a finger. “I never said that. But we have privacy to consider. I just cannot authorise the release of this without head office authority and they’ve made it clear this only happens with a warrant.”

  “Ok, when I speak with them about the room, I’ll tell them that you said the hotel wouldn’t help the investigation,” Wallace said. “Let’s hope that doesn’t get out,” she stated, turning to give him a smile.

  “You can’t —”

  “We’ll also need a full list of everyone who was in the hotel from two days ago up until now with all contact details including mobiles,” Benedict said, appearing from around the corner. “Plus the names of everyone who has stayed in this suite in the last two weeks; with their contact details.”

  Bowers shook his head. “They could be anywhere in the world.”

  Benedict nodded. “I realise that, Mr Bowers.”

  Wallace had stepped up close to him without him noticing. “Plus, I want a list of every member of staff with contact details including mobiles. I’ll also want a copy of Mr Gibbs’s bill and everything he signed,” she said, pausing a moment. “Plus, I want all of the phone, TV, internet and Wi-Fi records for everything used in this room.”

  There was a knock on the open door. “Hello, I’m Peter Conroy. I served Mr Gibbs his breakfast this morning. I believe you want to speak to me.”

  Bowers went to speak to him.

  “Please leave us, Mr Bowers,” Wallace said, watching Bowers turn to look at her. “Now, please … and can you get anyone else who saw Mr Gibbs yesterday or today to stay in the hotel and get ready to meet us.”

  Benedict spoke from around the corner. “I thought I was supposed to be the arsehole. You’ll put me out of a job.”

  She ignored him but smiled.

  Bowers threw the key card on the bed and walked out of the room, mumbling a complaint to himself.

  Benedict came back around the corner. “Long shift, Peter?”

  Peter smiled. “I’m getting some overtime for holiday money.”

  “You’ll need to give us a formal statement but just one question right now,” Benedict said. “When you were in the room here with Mr Gibbs did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Unusual? Like what?”

  “Something that you wouldn’t normally see from someone staying in this suite,” he said. “Maybe something you thought was odd afterward. It could be anything.”

  Peter thought for a moment then he raised his shoulders. “Only the obvious thing … about his breakfast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he asked me to put it here and he joked how much he was going to enjoy it,” he said, pointing at the coffee table. “I liked his joke and he gave a ten-pound tip.”

  Benedict frowned. “What was odd about that?”

  Wallace had watched the ease that Benedict had put Peter in with one question; this was why people said he was one of the most skilful interviewers in the force. She took a few steps closer to them.

  “Most people in this suite sit over there when they have breakfast and take their time,” he said, pointing at the dining table. “He didn’t; an hour after I brought it here he’d checked out and eaten almost none of it after telling me he was going to enjoy it. Customers take their time in here but he seemed to leg it for some reason.”

  Benedict touched his beard. “Do you still have the ten-pound note?”

  Peter recoiled. “Are you going to tell Mr Bowers about it? He’ll make me share it.”

  Benedict noticed Wallace reach into her handbag and pull out a clear plastic evidence bag. He took out his wallet and slid out a ten-pound note. “I’ll let you have this one, if you put that tenner you have in DI Wallace’s evidence bag.”

  Peter
smiled, opened his wallet and placed the note in the bag.

  Wallace’s mobile started to ring.

  Benedict nodded. “Good man. Would you go down to reception and wait for the police and forensics teams for us? It would be really helpful if you could bring them up here when they arrive.”

  “No problem,” Peter said, rushing out of the room.

  Wallace wanted to ask Benedict why he’d been so nice to Paul but she noticed who it was on the phone and answered. “Paulsen, we’re on the speaker at the suite in the hotel. There’s plenty to tell from here.”

  “Ma’am, it’s the same here … we have a situation.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The Gibbs gang … they’ve been attacked and killed. Someone has opened fire on them at a pub in Essex. It’s carnage,” Paulsen said.

  “Tommy Gibbs … is he dead?” she asked.

  Paulsen sighed. “We don’t know, Ma’am … we think he got away from the scene.”

  Chapter 35

  Day 10

  Rue Saint-Vincent, Montmartre, Paris

  8.05 p.m. GMT (9.05 p.m. Local)

  Leo Torian poured the 1999 Château Cheval Blanc into the two glasses. It wasn’t a great year for the red wine but it seemed adequate for this meeting. He put the decanter down beside the bottle, picked up the two glasses and smiled at his visitor.

  Celso returned the smile as he took his glass. “Thank you.”

  Torian was the son of a Swiss ambassador and Chinese mother. Celso’s father had introduced them many years ago and told him he was the best art dealer in Europe for stolen pieces. He’d been involved in many major stolen art transactions over the last thirty-five years.

  Torian stepped over to one of the windows out onto the street. He looked back at Celso. “It was very bad to hear about your father. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to his funeral.”

  Celso nodded. He noticed a small painting on the wall. Hodler, he thought. “This is a beautiful house.”

  One of Torian’s ultra-rich clients gave him the house rent-free for three years after he’d ‘acquired’ a rather spectacular Basquiat painting. On top of his fee for sourcing the stolen painting, that had been a good day for him. “I like Montmartre, it suits me; apart from the tourists … and the hills.”

  The men laughed.

  “Your call sounded like you were very excited,” Torian said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t call me unless it was … advantageous.”

  Celso looked into the dark red liquid. “I have a few things you need to see. They’re brand new on the market.”

  “Where did you acquire them?”

  Celso sipped the wine. “London.”

  Torian nodded his head. “London. When did you get them?”

  He knew to only give Torian what he needed to know. “This morning.”

  Torian stepped back into the centre of the room and sat down, smiling at Celso. “Thank god for European freedom of movement.”

  Celso smiled. “A borderless Europe is a wonderful thing.”

  “Where are they now?”

  Celso made it obvious he wouldn’t answer.

  Torian sipped his wine. “Ok, what can you tell me about them?”

  “The three paintings arrived by plane in London this morning. They’d travelled from Dubai on a private jet.”

  Torian’s eyebrows went up.

  Celso shook his head. “No they’re not owned by the Dubai royal family.”

  Torian licked his lips. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m positive … I know exactly who owned them.”

  Torian stared at Celso considering whether to ask who owned them before he knew what they were. His vanity convinced him not to ask, telling himself he should know once he’d seen them. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to sell and have the money in my account within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “That will impact the price.”

  Celso smirked. “I’ll let you have exclusivity for twenty-four hours.”

  “If there’s no provenance we’ll need to arrange a check.”

  Celso hadn’t stopped smirking. “We’re in Paris … how hard can it be?”

  Torian tutted out a laugh. “Your father taught you well, my friend; you said three paintings … I may need a little longer.”

  “I think you’ll realise that twenty-four hours should be more than enough … when you see what they are.”

  Torian turned the palm of his hand towards the table.

  Celso knew what Torian wanted at this point. His father had told him. He put his hand inside his pocket and took out three Polaroid photos and placed them image down on the small lacquered aureate table between them. They had a Q, K and A written on the back of the photos. He looked at Torian. “I’m a poker fan; they go up in value.”

  Torian’s hand went towards the ‘A’ but Celso put his finger on the photo stopping him. “If you want exclusivity you must agree to buy from the queen up. If she’s too rich for you ... I can’t show you the King or the Ace.”

  He looked at the thief and knew he wasn’t negotiating this point. His hand moved to the queen photo and turned it over. In the image the painting was lying beside a fifty euro note. “Very nice; that’s Renoir. Small but … yes, it’s pretty,” Torian said, scanning the photo. He looked at Celso. “I’d offer you a million euro for that myself.”

  Celso put his finger on the photo with a ‘K’ on it. “Then you’ll need to find a proper buyer at three million if you want to see this photo.”

  Torian smiled, hovering his hand over it. “Two point five million?”

  Celso moved his finger to the photo with the ‘A’ on it.

  Torian turned over the next photo and kept his hand close to it. “Well, well; a Sisley. Slightly larger … yes that really is spectacular. What do you want?” he said, not looking at Celso.

  “Five million euro?”

  Torian moved his hand away and stayed silent.

  Celso sighed. “Ok, four million.”

  Torian stared and took in a deep breath. “How about we make it a nice round six million for those two and … what do they say in poker; ‘show me what you’ve got’.”

  Celso felt his heart racing. It felt like a gazelle leaping away from a lioness. He knew there was no going back if he showed this photo to Torian, who noticed his calmness falter. Celso took his finger off the photo and turned it over.

  Torian’s eyes widened. He raised a hand to his face and stroked his cheeks which were reddening. For a moment he was finding it hard to form words. His hands came together and he started rubbing his flat palms together in a circular motion. “I think … I need to make a few phone calls … and I’ve got twenty-four hours?” he whispered.

  Chapter 36

  Day 10

  Café Balzar, Stansted Airport, Essex

  9.05 p.m.

  Johnnie Gibbs raised a finger towards the barmaid, who walked over to him. He’d been here for two hours and she was obviously reluctant to serve him another drink. That and she clearly thought ‘who’s this weirdo drinking here at Stansted’. He smiled at her. “Another Kronenbourg, please.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds saying nothing then reached up and took down a pint glass. “Four-twenty-five please,” she said, as she started to pour the drink.

  He’d already opened his wallet and taken out another five pound note. He slid it onto the bar beside her. While she poured, he stared at her name badge again, using it as an excuse to catch a glimpse of her cleavage in the poorly fitting work blouse. Their met eyes and he winked at her. “Keep the change, Sarah.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  He looked at his wallet. Every time he touched the plastic texture of these new bank notes he wondered whether they’d been designed by someone who snorted cocaine. They roll and last much better compared to those paper notes. He laughed at the thought.

  The barmaid put the drink down in front of him.

  He pick
ed up the pint and raised it to her. “Cheers.” He tipped in a mouthful, allowing the cool liquid to roll around before swallowing it.

  The second person working behind the bar returned with a tray of new glasses. He placed it on the top of the bar and started placing them in the racks above. “Hey, Sarah, doesn’t your Mum live in Brentwood?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Have you heard about what happened there a few hours ago?” he asked. “It’s all over the news.”

  She’d started helping with the glasses, but was embarrassed as it stretched her blouse even more. “No, what?”

  “There’s been some sort of gunfight outside a pub.”

  “What? In Brentwood?”

  Johnnie picked up his drink and swallowed another mouthful as he listened.

  “Yeah, sounds like a gang fight or something. They’re saying at least eight people have been shot and killed outside this pub.”

  “That’s mad.”

  “Yeah; somethin’ also happened in Thurrock,” he said. “People have been shot somewhere down near the water in some industrial estate. You should see Sky News; they’ve got it on in the kitchen,” he said, noticing a glass that needed another clean. “Probably those fuckin’ terrorists again.”

  Johnnie placed the tips of his fingers on the cold glass and then brought them up to his brow and wiped them across it. He looked at the guy’s name tag. “Hey, Keith. Did they say which pub it was in Brentwood?”

  Keith looked at him surprised by the question. “Yeah, they're all over it. It was the Thatchers Arms in Great Warley.”

  Sarah stopped lifting the glass in her hand. “I know that pub.”

  So do I, thought Johnnie. “Have they mentioned any names of the dead?”

  Keith shook his head. “No.”

  “That sounds mental,” Sarah said, placing the glass above her. “Who would do something like that?”

  Johnnie knew the answer to the question. He looked at the remainder of his drink and in his mind all he could think about was Tommy. They’d sat outside the Thatchers Arms so many times talking about rubbish and laughing.

  Sarah noticed his face change. “Are you ok?”