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

by J. F. Burgess

  Malcolm Preston was Ibrahim’s accountant. The 45-year-old bespectacled weasel, who had a weakness for classy escort girls, had followed HMRC tax laws religiously for years when Ibrahim acquired his services five years ago. But due to the economic downturn of the pottery industry all of his biggest long-term clients went into administration, virtually wiping out his business in the process.

  Teetering on financial insolvency, against his better judgement, he set up the usual legitimate tax avoidance schemes for Ibrahim’s businesses, until Ibrahim reeled him in with an introduction to the lucrative business of money-laundering, although he remained frightened shitless that his association with the Turk would be discovered by the authorities.

  To avoid being overheard, Ibrahim ushered them to one of the private booths clustered around the sound stage. Whilst waiting for Yusuf to arrive, he introduced them.

  ‘Charlie, this is Malcolm Preston, my accountant.’ Charlie offered a welcoming hand over the table.

  ‘Malcolm, this is Leonard; he’s a computer whizz who does my tech. You all know my brother Yusuf who’ll be here soon if I don’t have him assassinated before he arrives,’ he joked with a dissatisfied grin. That bastard brother of his was an embarrassment.

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asked the unlikely cohorts.

  ‘Guinness please,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Stella for me,’ Leonard muffled, barely audible.

  ‘My usual please.’

  ‘I’ll join you Malcolm. Chardonnay, bottle OK?’ he nodded. Apart from worshipping cash, one of the few things the accountant and Ibrahim had in common was their enthusiasm for half decent wine, which they quaffed during monthly accounts lunches.

  He drifted over to the empty bar; most of the punters were busy splashing cash on the casino floor, an ideal situation considering the highly illegal proposal he was about to discuss with the gathering of career criminals.

  A tap on the shoulder startled him; he turned to find Yusuf grinning. Just like Ibrahim, his 37-year-old brother was a suave Mediterranean type. Surprisingly, he was in good shape, considering the lazy bastard smoked, ate like a pig, and didn’t rise from his bed until around eleven most mornings.

  Ibrahim scanned his brother, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘Selam,’ Yusuf said, trying to thaw his brother’s reproachful stare.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ Order a drink, sit down, and keep quiet.’

  ‘Nice manners, bro.’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Ibrahim announced returning to the booth, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting. You’re invited because I value your professional opinions about certain aspects of a very lucrative job that’s come my way. In fact, the person bankrolling the job is prepared to pay large sums of cash to each of you in return for your specialist help. I’ll tell you the finer details later, but as always information leakage would fuck things up. Not that I’m implying any of you would blab about this… I can’t emphasise enough the need for strict confidentiality. Even if you decide not to join us in this venture.’

  ‘How much are we talking?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get back from taking a piss,’ Ibrahim said, keeping them dangling.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘One million pounds,’ Ibrahim said with a deadpan look.

  ‘Shit!’ Leonard said, scratching his goatee.

  Malcolm pitched in. ‘That’s a shedload of cash to keep quiet about.’

  ‘Chill, a smart accountant like you knows how to avoid detection. It’ll be two million in used notes, split five ways, and the rest will be an untraceable bank deposit, leaving no paper trail.’

  ‘Used notes?’ Malcolm screeched gulping air. ‘What the hell are we supposed to do with four hundred grand in cash each?’

  ‘Shh! Malc, keep the volume down,’ insisted Ibrahim, ticking him off. ‘Chill out, they’ll be laundered,’ he asserted. ‘But one thing is for sure, you can’t pay those notes into a UK bank, buy fuck-off big, cars, yachts, houses, or anything else that looks beyond your current financial status. More a case of retiring early with some serious mullah under your mattress.’

  ‘Count me in,’ Leonard spluttered without hesitation.

  ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Ibrahim cautioned. ‘You need to know the facts before deciding.’ He leaned closer into the table, scanned around the bar area. double-checking they couldn’t be overheard. ‘The bounty is gold,’ he whispered.

  Leonard grinned like a court jester. ’What, you mean treasure?’

  Yusuf looked at the group smugly. ‘Is he for real, like pirates and all that shit?’

  Shaking his head in annoyance, Ibrahim shot him a dissatisfied look.

  ‘For once Leonard, you’re spot on, it’s treasure.’

  Yusuf shuffled his chair in, looking bewildered. ‘Is this a wind-up?’

  ‘Deadly serious, bro. A cool three-point-three million in gold right on our doorstep.’

  ‘And it’s not a security transit blag, or a bank?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Nope. Nothing like that.’

  Charlie took a slurp of his Guinness, Leonard sat there beaming at his empty pint glass, and Yusuf kept his mouth shut.

  Nervously pushing his specs onto the bridge of his nose, the accountant broke the momentary silence. ‘If we’ve finished playing Cluedo, I’ll put you out of your misery. He wants to knock off the Staffordshire Hoard from the Potteries Museum,’ he said, breaking the tension.

  ‘Correct, Malc,’ Ibrahim interrupted. ‘Seventh-century Saxon gold… all three and half thousand pieces of it. Kind of ironic, since the Saxons plundered most of it from invading tribes and enemies during their battles. The best part is they’re mostly tiny pieces, which makes it easier to steal. The bulk of the Hoard is sword fittings, but there are also several brooches and some decent-sized crosses encrusted with rubies.’

  ‘Someone’s done their homework,’ Yusuf said sarcastically, annoyed that he’d not been informed before the others.

  ‘What did you think we were going to do? Stroll in the place waving shooters, smash the glass with hammers, and meet up in the pub for lunch?’

  Yusuf slid down in his chair like a scolded child.

  Shifting from casual conversation to more pointed questions, Bullard probed Ibrahim. ‘I hate to state the obvious, but Hanley Police headquarters is down the road from the Museum. It would be like trying to slip the police commissioner’s Rolex off his wrist, during his afternoon nap. We wouldn’t get three hundred yards before being pinned to the tarmac by an armed response team.’

  ‘Good point, Charl. All depends on how we plan to get out the building. After discussing our options at length with the buyer, who’s turned over plenty of museums and galleries. I think we’ve found the perfect exit strategy borrowed from the lucrative world of art theft. Just bear with me a minute and I’ll explain the concept we’re considering, then you can give me your opinions.’

  Ibrahim reached inside his jacket pocket and fished out a large android mobile with a six-inch screen. Tapping the device he located the picture gallery. His three co-conspirators shuffled their chairs closer. The slide show began with an opening shot of the entrance to the Potteries Museum followed by consecutive images, leading into a room decked out in the style of a Saxon Mead hall where the Staffordshire Hoard was on display to the public.

  Finally, he whetted their appetites with close-up shots of some of the key pieces of the Hoard; garnet-set sword pyramids, garnet inlaid buttons, a folded cross, the eagle mount and, his personal favourite, a decorative strip of gold bearing an inscription from the Vulgate version of the Latin Bible.

  Leonard piped up. ‘Looks like a load of old brass tat!’ Then he added, ‘Seriously, this gold is worth three-point-three million?’

  ‘Listen, I know it doesn’t look like it’s worth much but you’ve got to understand the significance of this collection. It’s the largest Anglo-Saxon Hoard in the world. To an egotis
tical collector it’s priceless.’

  ‘If it’s worth three-point-three million,’ Malcolm quizzed him, ‘paying out a million each doesn’t make good business sense? The buyer is taking a hit of one-point-seven.’

  ‘Profit is irrelevant to him.’

  ‘Must have money to burn?’ the accountant added.

  Ibrahim shrugged. ‘That’s not our problem. We still get five million split between us all.’

  ‘OK, we get the gist of it, but how do you plan to steal the gold from the Museum undetected?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘That’s the clever part.’ Ibrahim grinned. ‘As I said earlier we’re going to borrow a strategy used by forgers. Basically, we get replicas made of the main pieces on display and do a switch. The idea being only a Hoard expert will notice the difference. The average museum visitor and Dad’s army security guards will be none the wiser. By the time they discover the gold’s gone, it will have disappeared without a trace.’

  ‘Sounds risky,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘All scams are risky, but as they say in the movies, it’s all in the planning. If we get that spot on then we should be able to pull it off.’

  ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Yeah! When do we get the mullah?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘What a surprise Yusuf’s asking about the mullah already. Listen bro, we’ll get an advance for expenses and equipment upfront followed by the balance on delivery of the goods. I’ll personally make sure everyone gets paid. In order for this to work we must trust each other. If you decide you’re in, then we’re buying your silence and your expertise. Remember at this stage I’m just sounding you guys out and there’s no obligation. Although once you’re in, you’re in, no backing out. We’re not turning over the jewellery cabinets at Argos, these are ancient artefacts,’ he said emphasising the point.

  Malcolm swept his hand through the few strands of hair left on his head. With a concerned expression he asked Ibrahim. ‘When do you need to know if we’re in?’

  ‘Soon as, by Monday at the latest. That gives you a whole weekend to think about it. I’ll carry on working on the logistics with Charlie and Leonard over the next week or so, but that will depend on their decision to join us or not. What you thinking, guys?’

  ‘Definitely a million each?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘Yeah. Four-hundred grand cash, the rest in an offshore bank.’

  ‘As long as we can develop a workable plan that covers all bases then I’m in,’ Charlie said. ‘But it would have to be rock solid before I’ll commit. Any slip ups and we’ll all go down.’

  ‘I take your point. Leonard, how about you?’ Ibrahim could tell he was bricking it.

  Vale fidgeted in his chair. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘Erm, what would I have to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry, your involvement will be technical, computer surveillance, and stuff like that.’

  The tech geek felt relieved knowing he wouldn’t be directly involved in nicking the gold, although this didn’t ease the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘OK, I’m in,’ he murmured.

  ‘Good man,’ Ibrahim said, patting him on the shoulder.

  ‘What’s my role in this?’ Malcolm asked, aware that it would be difficult to avoid sharp-end involvement, considering Ibrahim virtually paid his mortgage.

  ‘Same goes for you, Malc. You wouldn’t be involved in the heist, just setting up the best ways we can each splice a million into our lives without detection.’

  The accountant closed his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Yusuf?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Do I ever make you do anything?’ Ibrahim said knowing his brother couldn’t refuse.

  ‘OK, I’m in,’ he surrendered, with a half-hearted shrug, knowing he owed his brother far too much to refuse.

  ‘Don’t worry guys; we’ll have several meetings during the planning stages,’ raising his wine glass, Ibrahim proposed a toast ‘One-million each! OK, now that’s out of the way, let’s hit the casino floor.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Barry Gibson leaned his heavily tattooed forearms on the packed bar of the White Horse pub in the city centre. His highly polished oxblood Doc Martin boots with red laces, and blue Fred Perry polo defined him as an ageing skinhead with attitude; a throwback from a bygone era. He’d been out since seven and was bladdered, meaning he could kick off at any moment.

  Grant Bolton and his mates had finished their pints and it was his turn to get a round in. Pushing through the three deep throng at the bar, the stocky Miltoner accidentally nudged Gibson in the back; stumbling forward he spilt a mouthful of lager down the front of his polo.

  ‘Watch it!’

  ‘Sorry, Bud, it’s all these pushing in,’ Bolton said. It was then he realised it was that tattooed bastard who gave his younger brother a kicking last Christmas in the Burton Stores, but he didn’t let on. Eighteen year old Liam Bolton never reported it to the police, because he knew his big bro would sort it. Grant vowed when his suspended sentence for theft was up, he’d take Gibson out, but this wasn’t the right time: too many witnesses.

  ‘Clumsy twat!’ Gibson uttered stretching his top from the bottom, to stop it clinging to his chest.

  ‘What did you call me?’ Bolton demanded, staring at him whilst easing into an available slot at the bar.

  ‘A clumsy twat!’

  ‘You’re fucking lucky I’m in a good mood tonight, or I’d do you!’ Bolton said.

  The burly landlord Darryl Connor overheard the altercation whilst pulling a pint of Titanic. ‘Come on now, no trouble,’ he said.

  ‘This tit spilt my beer!

  ‘Fuck off you eighties retard,’ Bolton taunted, thinking Gibson would keep until later.

  ‘Any more of that shit,’ Connor asserted, ‘and you’ll both be out!’

  Turning to face the bar, Bolton said, ‘Yeah, OK, do us seven pints of Stella, and five Kopparbergs, Strawberry and Lime flavour?’

  Gibson was seething, judging by his face, which looked like a smacked arse. Taking another gulp of lager, he tried to keep a lid on his temper.

  Arthur Cumberbatch, a regular sitting opposite the bar, also overheard. The 70-year-old alcoholic knew Gibson and squeezed through the tight knit throng in an attempt to stop a major fracas.

  Seeing the old man in the line of fire, the landlord stopped serving and called one of his bouncers to defuse the situation.

  Nathan Dukes faced off with Gibson. ‘Not you again – fucking pervert. Any more mither and we’ll sling you out.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Gibson said, far too pissed to care.

  Dukes glared at him. He then made his way into the back room, slipped his cagoule on and nipped outside for a fag.

  A broad man edged through swathes of drinkers and made his way over to the gents in the White Horse pub. Upon entering he noticed his target hunched over the trough taking a pee. Barry Gibson leaned his head on the tiles as he took aim in a pissed stupor. Whilst emptying his bladder the stocky man glanced sideways at him.

  ‘What you looking at?’ spewed the skinhead.

  ‘Not you.’ The man didn’t want to put Gibson into defence mode: that would just make it harder.

  ‘Yeah, right, you’re giving me the big eye,’ he slurred.

  ‘I’d keep your mouth shut, if I was you, or you’ll be drinking your own piss in a minute,’ the man retorted.

  ‘Yeah, fucking come on then,’ the skinhead said, spinning round with his knob still hanging out, dribbling over his boots and onto the floor.

  ‘I’ll kill you, you scummy twat,’ the man said staring face-to-face. He was supposed to take him out somewhere remote, stab him and let him bleed out, but this was it, his window.

  The skinhead spat in his face: putrid stinking fag and beer saliva.

  Steaming with anger, red mist enveloped the man. Without hesitation he flung his head back and butted the skinhead hard on the bridge of the nose, breaking it on contact. In one fell swoop he slipped in his own urine, crashed b
ackwards violently, smashing his head on the sharp edge of the stainless steel trough, before landing in a heap on the floor. The man leaned over him, his blade drawn ready to finish him off. Getting closer still he noticed the skinhead was still breathing and blood was gushing down the front of the trough from a gaping wound in the back of his skull, pooling onto the tiles behind him. If the bastard somehow survived, he’d be able to identify him.

  Hands on head with indecision, he paced the gents frantically trying to think what to do. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He darted towards a wastebasket in the corner, which was double-bagged with clear bin liners. Whipping them out, he emptied used hand towels onto the floor, then placed them over each hand.

  As he yanked his victims head forward, blood transferred onto the bags. Without hesitation he carefully pushed the tip of the blade into the wound: forcing it until at least an inch had penetrated his brain. Blood gushed from the wound like water from a cracked pipe. He withdrew the blade, and wiped it clean on his victim’s polo shirt. The skinhead’s skull banged against the edge of the trough.

  How the hell was he going to get out unnoticed? Looking around the gents he spotted a wooden door wedge sitting on the windowsill behind the door. He slammed it under the door and kicked it hard to stop anyone entering the gents. ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he uttered under his breath. Think, think.’

  Impulsively he grabbed the skinhead around the ankles of his docks and dragged him across the terrazzo floor level with the second cubicle door, desperately trying not to get blood on his clothes. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he gulped, looking at the stream of blood across the tiles. It was carnage.

  Trying not to leave any fingerprints, he scrunched the bag on his right hand into a fist and banged the cubicle door open. Spiking adrenaline gave him a massive burst of strength as he heaved his victim up on the toilet. Rushing, he got the angle wrong and gravity took over as the skinhead slumped forward, arms dangling limp down his sides. Luckily for him the cubicle was narrow. In haste he leaned the body cross-legged against the graffiti-covered Formica side, and exited, shutting the door behind him.