THE
KILLER
SHADOW
THIEVES
A DI Tom Blake Thriller
J.F. Burgess
Copyright © 2017 J.F. Burgess All rights reserved
http://Copyrightindex.com Registration number C1-295058956
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidence.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing, 2018
You can visit the author’s website at:
www.jfburgess.co.uk
Dedication
Thanks to my family for their unconditional love and support, especially my wife Rachel.
About the author
My name is J.F. Burgess and I live with my wife and two children in Stoke-on-Trent, England.
“I write tense, gripping, crime fiction thrillers with a twist – or urban cross breed, as I call it. My dramas take you deep inside the criminal mind.”
After spending many years doing less than ideal jobs in and around the Potteries five towns, I finally took the plunge and quit work to follow my creative side; starting off initially in 2007 publishing horse racing guides and how-to manuals.
Inspired by the success of local author Mel Sherratt, and in need of a new challenge I decided to try my hand at writing fiction.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
CHAPTER 116
CHAPTER 117
CHAPTER 118
CHAPTER 119
CHAPTER 120
CHAPTER 121
CHAPTER 122
CHAPTER 123
CHAPTER 124
CHAPTER 125
CHAPTER 126
CHAPTER 127
CHAPTER 128
CHAPTER 129
CHAPTER 130
CHAPTER 131
CHAPTER 132
CHAPTER 133
CHAPTER 134
CHAPTER 135
CHAPTER 136
CHAPTER 1
Detective Inspector Tom Blake sat drumming his fingers on the wheel of the white Astra pool car parked on Victoria Road, a main artery that fed the city of Stoke-on-Trent. His stomach rumbled in expectation of the return of his partner DS John Murphy with breakfast: hot bacon and cheese oatcakes, a Staffordshire delicacy, enjoyed all over the county.
He turned down Radio Stoke, but Sam Cooke’s soulful tones were suddenly replaced with the unmistakable rumble of a high-performance car rapidly approaching from behind. In anticipation of a pursuit he reached for his seat belt and fired up the engine.
Returning to the Astra, DS Murphy glared at the speeding vehicle as it screeched past them doing at least fifty in the thirty zone. Hastily opening the passenger door, he jumped in, dropped two greasy paper bags onto his lap, before wrestling with his seat belt.
‘You see that?
‘Yeah.’
‘I’d put money on it being nicked. Twenty grand’s worth driven by a maniac in a red cap,’ Blake said, tracing the black Audi TT as it cut straight across the path of an oncoming van and carved through the traffic heading up Lichfield Street.
‘Could be a boy racer,’ Murphy said as his boss hit the siren, then the accelerator and flew towards the busy Joiners Square roundabout. They swerved around a flatbed pickup, avoiding collision with a red Nissan Duke by the tightest of margins. Blake glanced in the rear-view mirror at the chaos he’d caused: cars screeching to a halt, horns blasting, bringing the roundabout to a standstill.
‘Shitting hell, Tom! You trying to kill us before breakfast?’
Focusing on the road ahead he didn’t reply. The back end of the car drifted to pull out as he headed up the incline, slamming through the gears, adrenaline pumping through him like an electrical surge.
Murphy radioed in the shout. ‘In pursuit of a black Audi TT registration NT43 USD. Heading up Lichfield Street, requesting assistance from traffic. Possible stolen vehicle driven at excessive speed?’
Further up the road they closed to within fifty yards of the Audi. It slowed down behind a Citroën people carrier, air brakes hissing, before the driver slammed on the gas and flew dangerously past several other cars on the wrong side of the road. It was ten a.m. and, the commuter traffic had cleared. Thank god, Blake thought, manoeuvring with caution past the line of cars that had eased to the curb.
> A gap of around two hundred yards had now opened between them. The Audi swerved around a tight left-hand bend and disappeared down Regent Road.
Blake pumped the brakes and the back end of the Astra drifted to the right as it swerved round after him. Keeping control he eased off, then, as the road straightened, he put his foot down and slammed through the gears, mindful of a sharp left-hand turn leading onto College Road six hundred yards ahead.
‘You’re losing him, Tom!’
‘Don’t worry, he’s got to slow down before joining College Road because after that there’s speed humps. God forbid he gets that far… there’ll be loads of students milling about!’
Cleveland Road eased to the right before straightening again, and the Audi came back in view.
‘Shit, he’s not slowing.’ Blake clenched the wheel; taking his foot off the gas he jammed onto the brake and winced. Murphy pushed hard into the footwell, hands clenching the sides of his seat. Both men prepared for impact with gritted teeth as the Astra swerved and screeched to a grinding halt across the middle of the road, leaving an arc of rubber burns on the tarmac.
‘Shit, he’s losing it,’ Murphy said in disbelief.
They watched in horror. The Audi’s brake lights flashed. The car skidded, mounted a tarmac island partitioning the bend, locked and swerved before slamming into a solid six-foot high wall on the opposite side of the road. The bonnet crumpled, like a soda can being stamped on, spraying shards of glass and plastic over the pavement as the windscreen imploded. Its back end bounced, flashing a glimpse of the chassis before crashing hard onto the pavement.
Blake froze in his seat, sweating, his heart pounding; a disturbing flashback of the devastating hit-and-run incident that had killed his young son and wife ten years ago flooded his mind. The side impact of the vehicle had spun their car a hundred and eighty degrees into a dry stone wall. His colleagues never caught the driver, and he found himself subconsciously looking for the perpetrator every time the force apprehended a joyrider.
Rooted to their seats they expected the worst. In a moment of deadly silence they watched steam dissipate from the destroyed Audi’s radiator. A blue Volvo stood stationary in the right hand lane of College Road; its driver had exited and stood behind the vehicle warning oncoming traffic. Residents from nearby houses stood rubbernecking behind the safety of their front gates. Time froze for a few seconds while the two detectives processed the carnage.
Without warning the crushed driver’s door was forced open and a young man no more than twenty, nursing what looked like a broken arm, ran frantically across the road and disappeared through the Victorian entrance gates of Hanley Park. Murphy flung his door open and dived out of the Astra in pursuit of the fleeing joyrider.
Blake shook himself out of paralysis and hit the radio. ‘DI Blake, vehicle crashed and abandoned at the junction between College Road and Cleveland Road, requesting immediate ambulance and traffic presence. Suspect left the scene. DS Murphy pursuing on foot.’
Puffing like an old codger DS Murphy gave pursuit, but he was embarrassingly out of shape; too many takeaways and pints after work had increased his waistline enough to handicap him. Sweat ran down his spine. He brushed his fringe out of his eyes and cantered, zigzagging over low flowerbeds and new cut grass, levelling pansies like a portly Jack Russell first time off its lead for a week.
An elderly gent plodding along with his Labrador just about managed to dodge the fifteen stone Sergeant in full pelt. Considering his arm was broken, and he may be suffering the effects of concussion, the kid had some guts to attempt outrunning the cops, Murphy thought.
Flighting three steps at a time down towards the bandstand, Murphy saw his prey was quickly losing pace as he tried to escape through a cluster of ash trees like a pigeon with a clipped wing.
Whilst attempting to rejoin the winding concrete path that meandered through the park, he stumbled over a loose edging stone and crashed to the ground. Seeing him writhe in agony, Murphy decided to spare him the full force of the law. He walked cautiously towards him, knelt and handcuffed his unbroken arm to a belt loop above his backside.
‘Ah! Ger off me, you fucking pig!’ he screeched, flapping on the path like a captured fish.
Totally spent, Murphy bent, hands on his knees, catching his breath. He paused for another few gulps of air. ‘I’m… arresting you… on suspicion of vehicle theft… and dangerous driving.’
The kid struggled for a few seconds before capitulating, as the out-of-breath DS finished reading his rights, his knee rooted in the lad’s back. Up on their feet, the DS jostled the reluctant captive the few hundred yards back towards the park entrance where Blake stood waiting with two paramedics who’d just arrived at the scene.
Blake shouted once they were within earshot. ‘Did he give you much grief, John?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he said, still suffering from his exertions.
One of the paramedics motioned the kid towards the nearest bench.’ Let’s get you checked over, son.’
‘Check my sarge over afterwards, will you? He looks like he’s burst a blood vessel,’ Blake asked, smirking.
‘Sod off, Tom!’ Murphy said, unimpressed.
Although in pain, the kid looked more annoyed at being arrested than anything else. It never ceased to amaze Blake how arrogant these little bastards could be. Joyriding had decreased across the city in recent years. Better education and stringent sentencing deterred teenage potheads from the Estates, but there was still a minority who were difficult to reach, often from dysfunctional families.
The paramedic lifted the lad’s eyelids and flashed a torch over his pupils, then asked him some basic cognitive questions. Apart from the arm and a few facial scratches, he appeared unscathed, which both detectives thought was a bloody miracle considering the Audi was a complete wreck.
‘What’s your name, son?’ Blake probed.
The lad stared, into space.
‘Can’t this wait until the doctors have seen him? He needs that arm plastering,’ protested the paramedic, walking their patient back to the ambulance parked in front of the park gates.
‘Once we get the all clear from A&E we’ll come and collect him for an interview,’ Blake responded.
The cheeky sod shot them a juvenile smirk.
Murphy glared at him. ’Don’t worry, son, you’ll keep till later.’
The two detectives strode back to the Astra in a heightened state of alert. Unbelievably Murphy stood salivating like a ravenous dog at the limp paper bags on his seat.
‘Seriously, you’re still hungry after that?’
‘A man’s got to eat,’ Murphy protested, feeling cheated after his exertions. ‘Did you see that? Pisses me off! Little bastard totals a twenty-grand motor, tries to leg it and he’s frigging laughing at us.’
Blake reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, John. We’ll get him on car theft and dangerous driving. He’ll be looking at twelve months plus and a driving ban.’
‘Some poor bugger’s looking at an insurance nightmare, though,’ Murphy moaned. ‘Those bastards always try to wriggle out of paying.’
‘Suppose. Total write-off that one.’
‘Yep. Premium through the roof next time. I’m just going to check the vehicle,’ he said, making his way towards the abandoned wreck as Murphy dragged his aching carcass behind.
‘Careful, Tom, it could blow!’
Blake ignored his concerns. Peering through the window he spotted a cream manbag lying in the passenger foot well. ‘Any ideas how we’ll get that?’ he asked, tapping the glass.
Murphy was still puffing like he’d done ten rounds in the ring with a heavyweight. ‘Just… give us a minute, will you, Tom?’
‘You OK?’ he asked staring at the moons of sweat under Murphy’s arms.
‘Knackered! Too old for this game; without the broken arm I wouldn’t have caught him. My suspect chasing days are numbered.’
‘After that performance I was thinking of entering you
into the Potteries Marathon,’ Blake teased.
‘Yeah, right, good one, Tom. Traffic will be here any minute. Let’s get back and slap the oatcakes in the microwave. I’m bloody starving!’
‘Not until we’ve fished out that bag.’
‘How? The door’s demolished!’ he said, annoyed the joyriding little shit had delayed his breakfast.
Blake had an idea. ‘Hang fire a minute while I fetch my baton from the car.’
Minutes later he’d caved the window in and fished out the bag like hooking a duck at the fair. He unzipped it and retrieved a package.
‘Shit, there’s thousands-worth here,’ he said, holding a bag of brown powder the size of a regular sugar pack, strengthened at each end with parcel tape.
‘You’re not kidding. Major league quantity?’
‘Could be a mule for a dealer? We’ll know more after questioning him.’
‘Doubt he’ll give us a name,’ Murphy said, his normal pale colour gradually returning. What’s with the logo?’ He pointed to a bottle kiln printed in brown ink on the side of the bag.
Blake turned to face him, oblivious to a thin stream of smoke rising from under the bonnet of the Audi.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Must be some sick branding for the local market?’
‘Tom, get back! It’s on fire.’
Blake darted towards his partner who’d retreated to a safe distance. They both stood behind the park gates and watched in disbelief as flames lapped around the edges of the crumpled bonnet. Within seconds the car was burning intensely, engulfed in red heat, bellowing black smoke as the plastic and foam interior fed the fire.
The residents of Cleveland Road stood motionless as the muted sound of sirens echoed in the distance. That silence was shattered by a deafening explosion. A huge ball of orange flames erupted into the air, showering fragments of glass and plastic onto the road. An electrical cable trailed from the smashed base of the traffic island, which the joyrider had flattened in his insane trajectory into six foot of bricks and mortar. Incendiary blue sparks of electricity arced under the burning remains of what was once a top-of-the-range motor.
CHAPTER 2
The duty doctor in A&E gave the joyrider the all-clear around lunchtime; apart from a broken arm, his injuries were superficial. No concussion, not even a stiff neck. DS Murphy glanced in the rear-view mirror at the agitated youth, handcuffed to PC Haynes in the back of the patrol car.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 1