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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘What time you in the office?’

  ‘In five minutes. Needed a coffee kick start.’

  ‘There’s new developments in Friday’s murder case.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Evidence.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘I’ll tell you once you get here.’

  ‘OK, see you in a minute.’

  CHAPTER 23

  He knew it would only be a matter of time before the pathologist discovered the fatal knife wound in Barry Gibson's brain. The police would be looking to find the weapon, so he’d got rid of it. He considered himself a calm operator, but Barry Gibson’s killing was a frenzied attack, and in a panic, he’d tossed the knife in some nettle shrouded bushes half a mile along the Caldon Canal towpath in Shelton, whilst on his way home on that fateful night. Problem was when he’d gone back to retrieve the weapon the next day, with plans of destroying it, it was gone.

  Fearful he may be arrested this was the best he could do to cover his tracks, and although he’d wiped that scumbag’s blood off the blade, there’d still be forensic traces all over it; what an idiot he’d been! In hindsight he should have been far more cautious with his liberty at stake.

  The missing blade would have to remain in limbo. All he could do was pray that whoever found it wouldn’t hand it in to the authorities: it was a poisoned chalice.

  He’d always carried. There was no way he'd go out without protection. The world had become a much more dangerous place recently. At least he was prepared to go down fighting tooth and nail.

  One night in the pub, his mate had told him about how Barry Gibson had tried to rape his 14-year-old daughter on a dark winter’s night, while she was coming home from her karate class. Luckily the feisty 14-year-old kicked him in the bollocks before he could ruin her life. But, because the incident happened in an alleyway at the back of some derelict shops, and the bastard was wearing a hood and gloves, the police didn't have enough evidence to convict him. In fact, they couldn't even place him at the scene, and he walked scot-free.

  The vile scum had it coming. Every time he heard his name mentioned a wave of anger rose in him. In the end justice had been served his way. He exited the house, climbed in his car and headed to work.

  CHAPTER 24

  Blake swiped his pass and entered the city’s police headquarters situated opposite Crown Court. He trotted up the stairs to the first-floor incident room. Nick Pemberton, his office manager, had laid out case files around the briefing table. Several members of CID had weekend leave cancelled and their arrival was imminent. The SOCO team were processing the evidence, and Blake had established a line of enquiry in the community. Preliminary boxes ticked, it was time to brief the team, sift through the available evidence and pick the bones out of it.

  ‘What have we got then?’ he asked Pemberton.

  ‘SOCO have just informed me they found traces of the victim’s blood in the sink basin in the ladies toilets.’

  Blake shook his head in disbelief. ‘In the ladies…? How did that get there?’

  ‘Looks as if someone has washed it off their hands, or clothing.’

  ‘Any prints on the taps?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Sounds significant. I’ll call them, thanks Nick.’

  Before he could access the number from his contact list, the majority of the murder investigation team entered the incident room, followed by Chief Inspector Robert Coleman, Blake’s stuffy boss. He sported a grey Edwardian moustache, and behind his back the team referred to their lofty chief as Kernel Mustard. He was a stickler for details and punctuality.

  Coleman kicked off proceedings. ‘Morning, everyone. DI Blake was the duty officer attending last night’s crime scene at the White Horse pub in town. Can you take the floor, Tom, and bring everyone up to speed with what we’ve got so far?’

  ‘Last night at around eleven p.m., we were called out to the White Horse in town to investigate what the door staff described as a potential fatality. On arrival we entered the crime scene in the gents’ toilets, and discovered the body of a forty-nine-year-old white male known as Gibbo by some regulars. We later identified the victim from his driving licence and debit card as a Mr Barry Gibson of Heath Hayes Estate. The pathologist estimated time of death between nine-thirty and eleven. Witness statements taken from the forty punters present provided no clear leads. Those are being looked at by DS Murphy. Persons of interest are Nathan Dukes, one of the bouncers, and Darryl Connor the landlord. We’ll be bringing in that pair in for further questioning. Forensic evidence is being fast tracked so we may have something to work with today.’ He nodded toward the exhibits officer. ‘Over to you, Langford.’

  Langford Gelder was the SOCO team’s obsessive exhibits officer. To the displeasure of his wife he often worked around the clock with only cheese-door wedges and energy drinks for company. The balding 43-year-old had been a police scientist for twenty years, and this nit-picking compulsive always delivered the goods in Court.

  ‘Because the floor was wet, SOCO recovered some good footprints. However, closer inspection of those shows they are smooth leather soles, which makes them more difficult to identify.’

  Nick Pemberton, the stations trusty office manager, also ran a tight ship. The divorced 51-year-old had a taste for ladies much younger than him. Sexual conquests aside, Pemberton was an extremely officiant office manager.

  ‘As you all know the next forty-eight hours are crucial; the suspect will be desperate to cover his tracks. The absence of informative witness statements makes things trickier. Some of the forensic evidence recovered from the scene shows that the victim either slipped or was pushed during an altercation, leading him to crack his skull on the corner of the stainless steel trough in the gents. The police surgeon has pointed to massive blood loss resulting from this fracture. The fact our man dragged the victim across the floor and then seated him on the toilet indicates he tried to callously hide the body and made no attempt to preserve life by contacting emergency services. With this in mind we are probably dealing with a non-premeditated murder. DI Blake is scheduled to meet the pathologist this afternoon and will reveal the post-mortem findings later. The forensics team have yet to identify any conclusive DNA pointing towards a clear suspect. There is limited fingerprint evidence due to there being far too many sets of elimination prints. What’s interesting is the perpetrator emptied the bin onto the floor and removed two plastic bags. Placed them over his hands whilst moving the body. This is very significant, showing we are dealing with someone with previous, who is on the national fingerprint database. Ultimately, he’s smart and didn’t panic.

  ‘The perpetrator exited the crime scene through a small window leading on to Old Lane behind it, but there were no cameras covering the gents, or outside,’ Coleman said before passing the baton over to Blake.

  ‘DS Murphy, I need you to go through all the surrounding-area CCTV footage for the last twenty-four hours. Langford and I will go through the forensic evidence with a fine-tooth comb, see if there’s anything we’ve missed. See if we get a hit on the fingerprint database from the available prints. Sue, our family liaison officer, is heading up to Heath Hayes Estate this morning to see the victim’s family. Luciano, if you could schedule a press conference for Monday morning and put together a media pack. Nick will track progress and liaise with you all to make sure everything is done by the book. We have an excellent record with this type of crime. So let’s get to it.’

  CHAPTER 25

  DS John Murphy stood up and arched his spine like a cat working out the kinks. He’d spent the last few hours trawling through grainy CCTV footage from Friday evening and his back was killing him. This process often proved invaluable in tracing a victim’s last movements, identifying witnesses and potential suspects.

  Positives aside, it was still a ball ache sifting through hours of mind-numbingly uninteresting, jerky footage of pissed revellers wobbling around the city centre,
puking up the odd kebab here and there.

  Just as the screen’s time-stamp displayed 10.20 p.m. he noticed someone emerge amongst the groups of Friday night drinkers: a shadowy hooded figure pacing up Stafford Street. The fact he was wearing a cagoule with the hood up was suspicious. Friday was a warm summer night, which made this appear odd behaviour. Closer inspection of the image showed a stocky guy wearing dark trousers, possibly jeans. Murphy zoomed in, froze the frame and fetched Blake for a second opinion.

  ‘I think I’ve found something, Tom. Take a look at this bloke. Might just be a coincidence, but he’s within the vicinity around the murder time frame. Body language looks suspicious with the hood up.’

  ‘Rewind, John. Let’s see it from the start.’

  Murphy hit the keyboard, spinning the footage backwards to where the suspect was pacing up the street.

  ‘Zoom closer. A touch more – stop! What’s that badge on the arm of his coat?’

  ‘Looks like a fist.’

  ‘Do you reckon it could be some kind of brand?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll search online.’

  He typed ‘fist logo’ into the search engine, returning 25,000 results. Over the years, tons of organisations had used the symbol, everyone from the civil rights movements to the economic freedom fighters.

  ‘Could be any of these?’ Murphy said.

  ‘Hang on… zoom in closer, closer. Stop! Look at the bottom of the circle. There’s a slogan?’ Blake said, squinting his eyes, drawing up closer to the screen.

  ‘Is that a K, John?’

  ‘Have a look, your eyesight’s better.’

  ‘Keep… the… Fa. “Keep The Faith.” Well, bugger me, looks like our suspect is into Northern Soul music. My sister’s boyfriend was mad for it in the seventies… used to go the Golden Torch in Tunstall and travel to Wigan Casino. It was a big movement, back then, similar to the rave scene in the nineties. Kids used to dance all night, off their heads on slimming pills. Mani Brown! He always used to bring a box of records round our house and play them on our Josie’s little red turntable.’

  ‘Just because he’s wearing that doesn’t mean he’s into the music?’

  ‘You joking? Northern Soul was a bloody religion round here; still is. Read in last night’s Sentinel there was an all-nighter at King’s Hall, Stoke. People came from all over the country; apparently the scene is going through a resurgence. People into the music wear the fist logo. You can get bags, T-shirts, key fobs and loads of other stuff with it on.’

  ‘Still don’t see how this could help us identify the perp?’

  ‘Surely one of the witnesses must remember a stocky guy wearing a dark coat with a fist badge on the arm?’

  ‘What if he wasn’t wearing the coat in the pub; it was a warm night, he may have dumped it on a seat?’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The all-nighter on Friday. There’d have been dozens wearing that badge in one form or another.’

  ‘Maybe, but that was in Stoke.’

  ‘Yeah, but these gigs don’t get going until late. I’d imagine locals would use a few pubs in town first, then taxi to Stoke later.’

  ‘OK, brilliant spot, John. It’s bizarre how something like this can trigger a memory from the past.’

  ‘Can you check out online ticket sales? See what names come up. Our perpetrator looks local judging by how he’s navigating the streets.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do it next.’

  ‘Zoom back out again and let it play?’ Blake pointed at the monitor. ‘Suspicious! Look how he turns his head, obviously attempting to hide his face away from the camera angle. Why would you do that if you nipped up an alley for a quick piss in-between pubs?’

  They both watched the hooded figure use a little-known blank spot in the camera’s scope and disappeared down Old Hall Street.

  ‘Definitely a local. Could be our man?’

  ‘We can’t rule out our mystery man who argued with Barry Gibson in the pub. Any further leads on him?’

  ‘Nothing, yet.’

  ‘Somebody must know him?’

  ‘Get onto the ticket company, ask them for a list of males who purchased tickets with Stoke-on-Trent postcodes. Get DC Moore to search online for local and Internet stockists of those types of badges. See if that throws up any names.’

  ‘Don’t want to piss on your parade, boss, but there’s thousands of them in circulation on eBay.’

  ‘Point taken. Tell him to have a stab at the local stockists for an hour, covering sales in the last twelve months to see what he can find?’

  ‘Capture and print images; we need to include this in tomorrow’s press release. Someone knows who this guy is. Anything else worthy?’

  ‘Nothing. Just the usual crap, drunks, and stuff. Great YouTube material,’ he jested with a sarcastic smile. ‘Girl changing a tampon, a lad barfing over his mate’s shoes.’

  Blake beamed. ‘Ha, you think they’d learn. Weekend binge antics never cease to amaze. Oh, to be young! It’s going to be difficult, though, without a face. We can’t get sketches done. Great work though, Murph. I’ll get back to you later, just off to meet the pathologist to find out if Barry Gibson’s PM has revealed anything we can use.’

  ‘Don’t envy you on that one.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Blake arrived at the city mortuary just before lunch; he donned scrubs and a paper mask before entering the examination room. Unlike the state-of-the-art glass viewing platforms in BBC cop dramas, this was more down-to-earth. Officers had to observe PMs in the actual examination room: a clinical depressing theatre of death dominated by three huge stainless steel autopsy tables. To the left of the entrance seven cold storage units stood side by side. No doubt cadavers lay inside on stainless steel body trays, waiting to reveal their secrets.

  Over the years Blake had endured many post-mortems, but he still hated this part of the job. Witnessing human organs being removed, weighed, dissected and probed left him with hard-to-bury mental images. It always amazed him how coroners could detach from the foul imagery and putrid stench of death.

  Hoping to diagnose a problem, Felix Wimberley Smithson leaned over the peeled-open corpse of Barry Gibson, looking inside his chest cavity as if gazing under a car bonnet. Glancing up he addressed Blake in his usual detached cheery manner.

  ‘Good of you to join us, DI Blake.’

  ‘Sorry, Felix. I’m running late today.’

  ‘Nothing new there then?’

  ‘You know how it is. Cuts and demands on police time are getting worse. What’s the verdict on the victim?’

  ‘We’ve completed our preliminary post-mortem report, and initially I thought the cause of death was a fatal blow to the back of the skull, causing a massive haemorrhage in the brain, leading him to bleed out. That was until Sarah took a cast of the fracture. Not all the dimensions match those shown in the forensic photos of the corner of the stainless steel trough. In fact, the depth of the wound is around an inch, and closer examination revealed torn tissue; the kind of thing you’d see in a stabbing. It looks to me that your killer has forced a sharp instrument into his brain to accelerate blood loss, and death. It’s quite possible, if the victim had been discovered, and paramedics stemmed the bleeding straight after the fall he may have survived. To back this up, blood has been wiped from a flat pointed instrument onto the victim’s polo shirt. See how it’s dispersed here?’ He said showing Blake a photograph of the 49-year-old’s blood-smeared Fred Perry.

  ‘So, to be clear you’re saying this is murder? And we should be looking for a knife?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. Because of its dimensions I would say the knife is possibly a small hunting weapon, the type that can be purchased from survival websites; blade no longer than a few inches, around an inch wide. Having encountered this type of stab wound before it could be what’s known as a drop point type. Usually their stainless steel curved blades are about three to four inches in length, but only the inner edg
e is sharpened. The back edge is blunt so when used in a stabbing, or probing way it leaves a wound that appears to be clean cut on one side and swollen on the other. Because of their strength, drop point blades are popular survival knives.’

  ‘So you’re saying the murderer could be one of these survival types, or just a nutter who got his hands on one?’

  ‘Problem is Inspector, anyone with a credit or debit card can buy one online, but if I was to stick my neck out I’d say it’s mainly males who either collect weapons or have survival tendencies.’

  ‘I think the recent knife amnesty proves how many nutters there are out there; leaving us with potentially a lot of suspects.’

  ‘Unfortunately I have to agree. Ironically, further examination of his liver revealed serious damage. I know Mr Gibson has been killed but I don’t think he would have lived much longer anyway, judging by the state of his liver, which shows clear signs of severe cirrhosis, the type associated with excessive alcohol consumption. At a push I’d say he would have had six more months propping the bar up. We’ve also had the blood toxicology tests back from the lab which shows a high strength MDMA compound in his system; ecstasy no doubt.

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised; according to his wife he’s been on a self-destruct mission ever since he lost his job.’

  On a minor note his medical records show his right arm had been pinned in three places in February this year. I’ll compile my report later today and have it sent over to the station. Then the body can be prepared and shrouded ready for the next of kin to view.’

  ‘That’s grim, although it looks like his untimely death has saved him from a lot of suffering later down the line.’

  The pathologist arched a sly brow. ‘I’d call it a sick blessing, Inspector. Any leads on the suspect yet?’