‘Afraid I can’t tell you at present but let’s just say we need to speak to him urgently. Is he on the premises?’
‘If you could just bear with me a minute, Detective, I’ll find out.’ She picked up the phone and dialled internally. ‘Is Grant still here? The police want to speak to him in reception. OK, thanks. I’m afraid he’s gone out on a job.’
‘How long ago?’ Blake asked.
‘About an hour ago. He’s on a fitting job in Tunstall. Sorry I can’t be more help.’
‘Can you provide us with an address?’
‘Not sure… it’s against company rules. I’ll ask my dad; he’s the boss.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, but I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. We need the address as soon as possible. Also I’m asking you not to warn Mr Bolton we are coming. We have a warrant for his arrest; anything that hinders that process will lead to further arrests.’
‘Oh right, Sharon will get it for you,’ she said, nervously turning to her assistant.
DS Murphy spotted a Warmer Windows van parked on Tunstall High Street. Assisted by a young lad, Grant Bolton was drilling fixing holes into a PVC window frame resting on the pavement. The two police cars pulled over onto double yellow lines behind his van. Full of concentration, Bolton carried on drilling – until he saw the four officers pacing towards him with intent. He tossed the drill and fled up the high street like a fox being chased by hounds.
‘Go, go!’ Blake ordered the two uniformed constables who were younger and faster than either he or DS Murphy.
Bolton disappeared around a sharp right-hand bend leading down towards the A5271 and the retail park. He hurdled the railings and suddenly dashed out in front of oncoming traffic, dodging and swerving through cars blasting their horns. The two uniformed officers stopped on the opposite pavement tracking him. As the lights changed they continued the pursuit. Bolton took a sharp left up the boulevard past the library into Green Gates Street.
Slightly breathless, PC Haynes signalled through his Airwave set. ‘Suspect heading towards a derelict factory, over. Following on foot.’
By now PC Davis had caught Haynes up and overtaken him. Attempting to lose them, Bolton dived through the archway of the factory entrance. Davis was gaining on him. But as he entered the building, he stopped dead. Bolton seemingly disappeared without a trace into the cavernous dark of a three-storey turn-of-the-century pottery factory.
Davis hit his radio. ‘Suspect disappeared into derelict factory on Green Gate Street. Requesting immediate assistance. Over.’
A minute later he was joined by PC Haynes, shortly followed by DI Blake and DS Murphy.
‘Sir, I followed the suspect in here but he could be anywhere,’ he said, retrieving a small torch from his belt.
‘We’ll need to split up into two groups, but this building looks dangerous so don’t take any risks. No climbing or any other crazy moves? Clear?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘DS Murphy, you go with Davis and take the second floor while Haynes and I scan around this one.’
Haynes pointed the torch in front and swept it around the factory. The huge expanse of concrete was strewn with broken cups, saucers and plates with the famous Blue Willow pattern lithographed upon them. Under different circumstances it would be classed as an urban collage; modern art. In the far corner a row of ancient pottery machinery stood rusting under a hazy shroud of almost a century of dust. A sudden movement startled them.
Blake’s heart skipped a beat. He shouted into the darkness. ‘Police, stop there!’
Haynes moved forward, cautiously zoning the torch beam onto a moving target, his extended baton clasped tightly in the other hand. Blake darted to his left. Together they stealthily moved closer to a frightened figure crouched against the far wall, its face hidden inside a hood. They were within a few yards, when without warning the dishevelled figure suddenly rushed them. Screeching like a madman, arms raised like a gorilla attacking. PC Haynes swiped his baton hard across their assailant’s knees. He dropped, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
They stood over the figure of a young homeless man, no more than twenty-five years old. His piercing blue eyes reflected in the torch light like a wolves. His skin was taut over his skull like a skeletal creature from another world. His clothes were filthy from rough sleeping.
Blake looked concerned. ‘Are you OK, son? What you doing in here?’
The man paused. ‘I live here.’
Blake was saddened by his predicament. ‘We may be able to get you into a hostel. But first, did you see a large bloke enter this factory about fifteen minutes ago?’
Rising to his feet he said, ‘Yeah, he ran up to the second floor.’
‘Thank you. Once we’ve arrested the suspect I’ll see if we can get you sorted out,’ Blake said compassionately.
The homeless man nodded and shuffled off towards the light emanating from the entrance.
Blake called after him. ‘Is it safe?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not really.’
Blake looked a PC Haynes. ‘Get Davis on your Airwave. Find out what’s happening up there.’
‘Haynes, over. Have you located the suspect yet? Over.’
After a moment’s silence Davis replied. ‘Not yet, it’s pitch black up here. We need more light. Over.’
The sudden sound of glass smashing prompted them to act. Blake grabbed Haynes’ Airwave set. ‘Davis, is everything OK? Over.’
‘My foot’s trapped. I think it’s broken. Can’t find DS Murphy, sir?’ He groaned in obvious pain.
‘We’re coming up now! Over.’ Without caution, Blake bolted towards an oak staircase fifty-feet to the left of the entrance. He bounded up the steps with PC Haynes at the rear.
‘Sir, it’s not safe!’
‘Davis is injured and DS Murphy could be in danger.’
At the top of the steps there was a small landing leading into the darkness. At the back of the floor, daylight streamed through a smashed window, projecting an eerie corridor of light across the floorboards. They could hear PC Davis’s radio set crackle somewhere in front.
Haynes passed Blake his torch. Rooted to the spot he scanned the dark. ‘John, are you OK?’ His voice echoed into the abyss. Haynes tried to locate his colleague but his radio had died. He’d forgotten to fully charge it.
Blake bawled into the darkness. ‘Davis, Murphy, where are you?’
‘Over here, sir! Davis’s strained reply echoed. ‘I think DS Murphy chased the suspect to the floor above.’
His foot was lodged in a hole left by a broken floorboard. He lay in agony, his first metatarsal bone protruding and pressing against his boot.
‘Shit! Where are the stairs?’
‘To your left, sir.’
Blake quickly spun the torch and located another set of oak steps leading to the next floor. ‘Haynes is coming to you now!’
‘I’ve already called for backup, sir.’
‘Never mind that, get an ambulance!’
‘On its way,’ Davis said, pain resonating in his voice.
‘Hang on in there.’ Blake tried to keep him talking, but he didn’t reply.
He must have passed out, thought Blake, wondering how the bloody hell a straightforward arrest could turn into this carnage.
At the top of the stairs, daylight streamed through dozens of smashed windows, illuminating the floor. Over in the far corner he spotted DS Murphy desperately grasping onto something attached to a rusty cage, spanning floor-to-ceiling.
‘John, what’s happening?’
‘It’s Bolton! He’s jumped into an old lift trying to escape. Get over here now… I can’t hold it much longer!’
Blake darted to him. His DS had jammed the chain mechanism, which lowered and raised the lift, with an old broom handle.
‘It won’t hold much longer; the crazy bastard keeps jumping on the platform so the lift will drop to the ground floor. He won’t listen to me!’
Blake leaned on t
he rusty cage and shouted down to Grant Bolton, who’d started frantically jumping up and down again like a wild animal trying to escape its captor. His neighbour Denise Sumner was right: he was a bloody maniac.
Suddenly the strain on the broom handle became too much. Fearful of losing an arm, DS Murphy released his grip and dived onto the floor. The tension on the chain cut through the remaining quarter inch of the handle and the lift descended rapidly, but before it hit the bottom with an almighty thwack, a corroded link exploded. The chain snapped and was dragged into the lift shaft like a killer snake attacking. Grant Bolton let out a deathly scream.
Both detectives lay on the concrete, afraid to look. Blake edged towards the cage and peered down through dusty eyes. The lift was empty. They exchanged a look of astonishment. Blake shook his head in disbelief as sirens reverberated outside the derelict pottery, echoing through its crumbling walls.
CHAPTER 34
After they’d failed to arrest Grant Bolton, both DI Blake and DS Murphy received a bollocking from Coleman, which they just had to soak up. The Chief Inspector suggested Murphy needed to shift a few pounds. It was only a month since occupational health had referred him to his GP for a follow-up appointment for cholesterol management; which provided his colleagues in CID ammunition for regular piss-taking jibes such as ‘Blobby Bobbie’ and ‘Who ate all the pies’ regularly being directed at him and another portly duty sergeant.
The shoddy, white Astra pool car came to a halt outside the murder victim’s house, on the notorious Heath Hayes Estate, three miles from the city centre. The detectives were permitted entrance into the seventies’ council house on Bloodland Road by Audrey Cliff, Barry Gibson’s mother-in-law. The flaky looking 70-year-old ushered them along the threadbare hallway carpet into Tracey Gibson’s nicotine-stained artexed living room. The pungent mix of fag and dog odours was rather gag-inducing, thought Murphy.
Mrs Gibson sat on a tatty, green, leather sofa, glaring at a huge state-of-the-art wall-mounted TV, which looked at odds with the rest of the house. She slurped tea from a stained mug, whilst watching the popular TV show Con-men & Crooks. Oddly, she seemed put out by their presence and took longer than necessary to turn it off.
Five minutes into the interview, both detectives thought she didn’t appear too shaken by the death of her husband, which seemed suspicious.
‘Can’t say I’m surprised; that bastard was always pissed!’ she ranted as if talking about a complete stranger.
‘What was your relationship like?’ Murphy asked. Considering her first caustic comment it sounded a stupid question.
‘Bazzer used to be a decent bloke, until Crown Porcelain in Burslem closed. He was never the same after losing his job. Bloody loved the place, he did. Years he give ’em. They paid him and three hundred others a grand before chucking ’em all on the scrapheap. Same happened in ninety-three when William Adams closed. That’s when it started. I saw no money; he pissed the lot up the wall. Never trained do nothing else apart from kiln placing. Bloody good money and all.’
Blake put her anger down to grief, so continued probing. ‘Did Barry have any enemies that you know of? Anyone with a grudge or someone he’d fallen out with recently. Maybe someone in the pubs?’
‘He was always rowing with people,’ Tracey Gibson moaned, ‘especially after too much ale. Nice as pie until he’d had a skinful, then he was a real nasty bastard. Kicked off at anything. He’s barred from most pubs in Hanley.’
‘Apart from ranting off in the pubs, was there anyone specific he mentioned?’ Blake continued.
She paused for a moment. ‘Couple of weeks ago he turned up with that TV. Said he’d won it at the bingo in Hanley, which is bullshit. He’d never played bingo in his life; bloody hated it. A few days later this bloke came round looking for him… said he owed money.’
‘What did this bloke look like?’
‘I don’t know; I was down the food bank. Barry must have been in the pub, for a change. Next door neighbour told me.’
‘Did Barry know a man called Nathan Dukes, or a bloke named Grant Bolton, both in their late forties?’
‘She thought for a few seconds. ‘Not as I know of, but he wouldn’t have told me anyway. Secretive bastard he was: never told me nowt.’
‘Fair enough. Who’s your next door neighbour?’
‘Mrs Arlington. She said he was banging on the door, shouting.’
‘We’ll need to speak to her. Get a description?’
Audrey Cliff butted in. ‘Good luck with that. Wini’s got cataracts. Blind as a bat.’
‘Well, it can’t do any harm. Is it possible Barry might have had money stashed in a savings account or something like that to pay for the TV?’
‘I just told you, he pissed it all up the wall, Inspector. Every penny! We can barely afford to put the heating on, let alone get three square meals a day. Mum’s been helping out.’
‘I’m assuming Barry borrowed the money for the TV then, and it wasn’t from the bank?’
‘Knowing him, it would be from someone dodgy down the pub.’
‘So it’s fair to say Barry never had any money because of his drink problem, which led him to bouts of violence?’
‘Twatted her more than once!’ Audrey butted in again, supporting her daughter. ‘Glad to see the back of him. He’s been nowt but trouble these last few years. He came home with black eyes, or something broken, every other week,’ the old woman rasped in a familiar Potteries’ dialect. ‘Smacked her about plenty. Our Tracy’s well out of it now.’
‘Did Barry see his GP recently for any health issues?’ Blake asked.
‘What’s that got to do with him being murdered? Never went. “Quacks”, he called them. Always banging on about packing in smoking and drinking. Same bloody lecture every time you go. Only bloody pleasure we got left,’ Tracey Gibson said, retrieving a disposable green lighter from her tracksuit bottoms’ pocket. ‘Chuck us a fag, Mum?’
‘We thought you should know Barry’s post-mortem revealed severe cirrhosis of the liver. According to the pathologist the prognosis wasn’t good.’
‘You mean he’d pickled his liver,’ the old woman said sarcastically, taking the cellophane wrapper off a twenty Superkings pack.
‘I’m afraid so. Life expectancy six months at the most. Sorry to break it to you like that but those are the sad facts.’
Tracey Gibson’s eyes filled up, and she sobbed in between long draws on her fag.
‘I hate to mention it Mrs Gibson, but Barry’s toxicology report also revealed ecstasy was present in his blood. Did you have any knowledge of him taking drugs of any sort?’
She looked annoyed. ‘E’s! Bloody hell! I knew he did coke sometimes?’
‘How could he afford it?’
‘Exactly!’ Audrey interrupted, ‘You never said anything to me about sodding coke.’
‘I didn’t want the hassle of you going off at me. It was bad enough with the booze.’ Tracy Gibson said to her mum.
‘So, where do you think the money for coke came from?’ Blake asked.
‘I don’t think he paid for it. Told me he was doing errands around the estate for a bloke.’ Tracy said.
‘Errands?’ Blake asked her.
‘Up to no good probably. I begged him not to get involved in anything dodgy, but he just ignored me. Wouldn’t tell me what he was up to. Still never got any money off him though.’
‘Was there anyone in particular he was involved with?’
She thought about it for a minute. ‘Now you mention it there was this one guy called Stomper he hooked up with now and then, but I don’t know his real name. All I know is Barry was out every night of the week, in the pubs with god knows who.’
‘How often did he meet this Stomper bloke?’
‘I don’t know, maybe once every couple of weeks.’
‘Really! So it’s possible, Barry owed this bloke money, and in return he ran errands for him, taking drugs as payment?’
‘I just don’t know.
Like I said he was very secretive. Will you get the bastard that killed him; he wasn’t much of a husband, but he was mine for best part of twenty years?’
‘I can assure you there will be a thorough investigation. We’re looking at several lines of enquiry. If you can think of anything that might be relevant don’t hesitate to give me a call.’ Blake passed over his card. ‘In the meantime, our family liaison officer, Sue Collins, will be your main point of contact. She’ll be keeping you and the family informed of how the investigation is progressing.’
‘Her who was round here yesterday?’
‘Yes. Right, if there’s nothing else, we’ll see ourselves out,’ added DS Murphy, desperate to hurry proceedings along, feeling like he’d choke if they stayed in the stinking living room any longer.
As they got to the front door Blake asked Audrey Cliff, who stood in the hallway, ‘What number does Mrs Arlington live at?’
‘The one on the left… sixty-one.’
‘Thanks.’
Murphy tapped on number 61. After a few minutes standing around, he increased the intensity which did the trick. An elderly lady wearing tortoiseshell spectacles, with jam jar-bottomed lenses opened the door on a chain and peered through the gap like a frightened mouse.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs Arlington, it’s DI Blake and DS Murphy from Hanley police. We won’t keep you long. Is it possible we could come in for a minute?’
‘Not while my son isn’t here. I don’t see too good any more. What do you want?’
‘Not to worry. We can ask you through the door. Mrs Gibson next door told us you spoke to a visitor she had a couple of weeks ago. He was banging on the door shouting after Barry Gibson. Can you remember?’
‘My eyes are failing, not my memory,’ she said, sharp as a tack.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘I told him they were out. He said, Tell Barry I’ll be coming back for the money he owes. Then he went. Barry’s dead, isn’t he? Is that what this is about?’
‘I’m afraid so, and yes, it could be related. Did this man sound local to you?’
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 12