‘It looks that way, John.’
CHAPTER 38
Blake sat in between Chief Inspector Robert Coleman, and Alice Lowe, the station’s press officer. For some reason unknown to him, the Barry Gibson murder case seemed to have generated interest further afield than the Staffordshire Borders. Apart from the usual suspects from the local rags, a group of seven unfamiliar faces sat three rows in, eagerly awaiting to speculate on the available evidence. Rightly or wrongly he put the press in the same category as the majority of scrotes he nicked. A bunch of parasitic losers living off the misfortune of others. However, in certain circumstances he knew they played a vital role. Especially when mass distribution of CCTV images were needed.
Alice Lowe opened proceedings. ‘Ladies and gents. Thank you for attending the Barry Gibson case press release. Before we begin, just a few house rules to take note of. In the event of an emergency there are two fire exits, the entrance which you all came through and another on the sidewall.’ She pointed to her left, like an air hostess. ‘Usual rules apply. Please don’t interrupt the police officers unless you are prompted to do so. There will be an opportunity at the end to ask all relevant questions. If you really can’t resist the urge to interrupt, please raise a hand and wait patiently for a response.’
Blake smirked inwardly knowing this bunch of muck rakers wouldn’t last until the end before picking holes in their case and questioning their integrity. Glaring across the room he adjusted the microphone, and addressed the eagerly awaiting ensemble of around fifteen journalists. ‘As you know, on the fifth of June, at approximately ten-fifty p.m., the body of Barry Gibson, formally of the Heath Hayes Estate, was discovered in the gents by the doorman of the White Horse pub in Hanley city centre. Our SOCO team processed the crime scene but unfortunately due to there being too much cross contamination we were unable to identify a specific suspect. Forensic evidence leads us to believe Barry Gibson was involved in a fight, during which he slipped on a wet floor and in the process hit his head on the stainless steel urinal trough.
‘Realising his victim was still breathing, his callous assailant forced a sharp object, possibly a knife through the skull into his brain, which the coroner informs us accelerated blood loss. The murderer then dragged him across the floor and hauled his body into one of the cubicles, where he bled to death. The good news is we have CCTV footage of a stocky man, approximately six-feet tall, wearing a black cagoule with the hood up, leaving the scene and heading up Stafford Street at ten-thirty p.m. On the left arm of the coat there was a distinctive badge. This relates to the Northern Soul music scene and shows a fist within a circle with the words “keep the faith” around the inner edge. We have issued a warrant for the arrest of another man. Grant Bolton was seen arguing with the victim in the pub, not long before he was killed. He is currently on the run, and we are very keen to speak with him. There are also three undisclosed witnesses helping us with our enquiries, and we’re looking to identify a fifth man known to the victim by the nickname Stomper.’ Blake concluded, surprised that there’d been none of the usual unhelpful interruptions.
Taking back the baton, Alice Lowe prompted the press for a show of hands. The Evening Sentinel’s crime reporter was first in line.
‘Jim Roachford, Evening Sentinel. Judging by what you’ve just said it’s possible any of these men could be the murderer, Inspector Blake? And, can you tell us how the perpetrator managed to escape the pub unnoticed?’
‘Again, forensic evidence shows our man exited the gents’ toilets through a small window leading onto Old Lane.’
‘Surely someone must have seen him?’ Roachford asked.
‘As I just said, we have CCTV evidence of our primary suspect. Come on, Jim, keep your eye on the ball,’ Blake said sarcastically.
Changing tack, Roachford asked. ‘In your opinion was this a stranger killing or could the killer be known to the victim?’
Blake gave him a noncommittal glance. ‘It’s hard to say really. All family have been eliminated as suspects. However, because of the lack of forensic evidence we are continuing to look at Barry Gibson’s associates, amongst other lines of enquiry, but the arrest of Grant Bolton, and CCTV angle are our primary objectives.
Like an MP on Question Time, Blake continued to begrudgingly engage with the hacks.
‘Brian Welland, Birmingham Mail. Inspector, is it true the victim was an alcoholic and therefore could he have goaded his attacker, and got the upper hand before the knife came into play?’ He threw Blake a curve ball.
‘Naturally that’s something we considered before the post-mortem, but the truth is we’ll never know exactly what happened. All you need to know is the killer is still out there, and we’re doing everything in our power to catch him,’ Welland clamped up.
Like a lemming, Jim Roachford’s familiar ginger beard popped up again. ‘Is it true you questioned The White Horse landlord, Darryl Connor, in connection with the murder?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at this time,’ Blake said bewildered at how the bloody hell he’d got hold of the information, concluding he’d probably badgered Connor’s wife. They’d soon know he’d been released without charge.
His reply caused a ripple of gossip until a pretty young woman in black-framed geek-chic glasses waved from the back. ‘Lisa Faulkner, Leek Post. It’s rumoured that the victim could be violent and made a lot of enemies due to his alcohol addiction. Can you confirm that?’
Being from a fairly rural paper he was expecting a more subtle approach from her, but should have known better. She was a journalist after all. No doubt she’d bunged cash-strapped Audrey Cliff a wad of notes in return for dishing the dirt on her pariah of a son-in-law. ‘Please let’s show some respect for the deceased. To clear this up, I can confirm Barry Gibson was an alcoholic; however we have yet to substantiate any links between his drinking and his untimely death. Wild speculation and alcoholic clichés won’t help us find Barry Gibson’s killer. Let’s not vilify the victim just because of his drink problem?’
Seeing Blake wading through a mire of journalist antagonism, his chief inspector jumped in to bolster his detective. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s keep the questions relevant and civilised; as DI Blake quite rightly pointed out we don’t deal with speculation, but rather forensic evidence and facts. We’re trying to enlist your help here.’ He gave a nod to Alice.
‘That concludes today’s press conference. Thank you for taking the time to attend and respond. If you have any further questions you can contact me via the usual channels.
After Coleman had left the room. Blake sighed deeply, gathered up his notes and zipped them into his folio. ‘That never gets any easier,’ he said to Alice Lowe. Hacks really wind me up!’
‘I’ve become immune to it. Dealing with them all the time nullifies their verbal drivel. It’s either that or I’ve subconsciously developed a bullshit filter. Although I do think they can really help on this case?’
‘Hate to admit it but I have to agree. Considering the woeful lack of forensics we’ve got.’
‘How you getting on with the landlord and the bouncer?’
‘Had to release them. The CPS won’t charge either; too much circumstantial evidence. Either could have done it, but we just don’t have anything concrete, even though both had strong motives and opportunity. Gibson was a real nasty bastard, and it looks like he was a sex pest as well as a violent drunk. Unfortunately both have a history of violence. Nathan Dukes actually broke Gibson’s arm last year and the landlord’s got form for GBH. He spent two years in Featherstone, but until we can eliminate the mystery CCTV man, we’re no closer to a conviction.
‘Any leads on the whereabouts of Grant Bolton? The fact he absconded looks extremely suspicious. Seems to me he could be a strong contender?’
‘We’re working on it, but as yet there have been no sightings, or intel on him.’
CHAPTER 39
The man sat slouched down in the seat of his car, and stealthily watch
ed the security guard and his German Shepherd lock up and climb into his car just outside the front entrance to the Furlong Social Club in Baptist Road, a former seventies working men’s club in the back streets of Burslem, not covered by cameras. It was ten p.m. and he’d use the cover of darkness, and the back alley to break into the property.
The heat was definitely on. The police were probing deeper into the Barry Gibson murder case. He couldn’t risk them finding evidence linking him to the victim. The night before he sat contemplating how to get the pictures into his possession over a few cans of lager. He weighed up several options and but nothing seemed viable, except getting the photos back and destroying them. This would buy him valuable time. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem, he’d broken into several of these types of properties over the years. All of them had dark alleyways leading to backyards with high gates. In this instance the adjacent business properties were unoccupied; up for sale, and the other side looked empty too: judging by the shuttering ply covering the windows.
He grabbed the top of the old rendered breeze block wall with both hands and shimmied up, before dropping down into the yard. A dog barking startled him. Bollocks! Had that security guard come back? He stood there frozen to the spot, hand on a PAVA spray in his jacket pocket, before realising the noise was coming from down the street. Breathing a sigh of relief he moved closer to the back door, fished in his jacket and pulled out a fifteen inch jemmy bar. Considering this was a community centre the security was crap; whoever ran the place was failing to protect the property. A cheap shitty aluminium lock seemed to be the only thing stopping him entering, although there could be shot bolts as well, but he doubted it. He jammed the chisel end of the bar between the frame and the door, forced it deeper, before yanking hard to the side. The softwood frame splintered and cracked easily. He worked the bar around until it freed the locking mechanism. Leaning on the door he gave it a gentle shove with his shoulder; it swung open with ease. As he stepped cautiously inside the large catering kitchen, light filtered through a gap in the door. He popped his head through the door to double check it was unoccupied
He moved forward and pushed the door with his gloved right hand, and entered the large meeting room; its decor still a throwback to the seventies. Thankfully the blinds were down so anyone passing in the street couldn’t see in. He made his way past the PVC red padded bar, over to the back end of the room. Two wall lights, with low watt bulbs cast shadows across the empty lino dance floor. Looking around he spotted what he’d come for. Three locked display cabinets fixed to the artexed wall, containing photos and memorabilia from several decades of the now derelict William Adams & Sons factory. It was years since he’d last visited the place on an open day welcoming ex-employees from the pottery firm. He remembered sitting there drinking pints of lager with the others, reminiscing on the five years they worked at the factory: young men in the prime of their life with good wages, and an even better social life. Twenty-nine years later he occasionally thought about the place.
He couldn’t remember exactly which cabinet the photos were in, so started with the first one on the left, but the light was too dull to see properly. He fished his mobile from his pocket, tapped the LED torch on, and scanned the six by four inch black and white, and colour pictures pinned to the blue felt back panel.
The first picture was a group shot of nearly all the employees, in their clay-stained white trousers and tops in the courtyard next to the factory entrance. He spotted a stone and half lighter version of himself, with a mullet hairstyle on the second row back. The others were scattered amongst the group.
Preceding pics followed various stages of a typical pottery factory production line. He quickly scanned through them. Where the hell are those snaps of the kilns?
He moved onto the second board, which seemed to be full of shots from Christmas 1988. He remembered being leathered at the works do here; dancing around with older women from the Sponging and Lithograph departments. Putting nostalgia to one side he moved on to the third board. There they were, a series of photographs of him with the old crew, albeit he had his back to the camera, pushing a trolley away, but the others could name him. God they were crazy times. Soon as they got paid on a Friday lunchtime, they’d hit the pubs until four p.m. Then head home for a bath and get straight back out around seven until the pubs and clubs closed at two the following morning. They were like wild Embassy-smoking dogs who’d shag anything that moved in a skirt.
A twenty year old Barry Gibson leaned on a cart full of ware waiting to be loaded into the kilns. The group of young men were all of similar height and build apart from one youth, who was broader across the shoulders. The only one he couldn’t remember stood on the end of the group of five, with a red cap obscuring his face. There was only three years between the four of them, although the broad lad was considered the baby of the bunch, being almost five years younger than Gibson, who was twenty-two at the time.
The next few pictures were taken in a social environment. They showed the group drinking with three women, he couldn’t remember their names, except one, he’d never forget her. Karen Kennedy. A very pretty but troubled redhead, who came down from Dundee with her abusive stepdad and mum in ’86. She was his first love until things went badly wrong in her home life and she dumped him. The stepdad buggered off back to Scotland and twelve months later the mother died from a heroin overdose leaving her 18-year-old daughter homeless around the Potteries. At the time the devious Barry Gibson was dabbling with drugs; chasing the dragon, and dropping acid at the weekend at illegal warehouse raves in the Midlands. He copped off with Karen, and within a few months got her on the skag. When she was off her head, he pimped her out like a sex slave. Within six months, like her mother, she became totally dependent on heroin: then just seemed to disappear. Where did she go, he thought, glaring at that vile parasite Barry Gibson?
He glanced at his watch. Shit, his trip down memory lane had wasted twenty minutes, and he needed to get the pictures and get out of there. He was about to fish the jemmy bar from his jacket when a sudden noise startled him.
‘Come on boy, I think I left it in here.’
Should he go now or wait? Adrenalin surged through his veins, his heart thrashed wildly. Taking deep breaths, he prayed the guard would leave after a quick look around. He stealthily dropped to the floor and hid behind a DJ booth cobbled together with shuttering ply, painted black. The last thing he needed was to tackle a bloke, especially one with a vicious dog in tow. He was a hard bastard, but definitely not a stupid one. Hand on his PAVA spray he crouched trying hard to lower his breathing. God forbid the dog would pick up on his scent.
‘It’s here,’ the guard said to the dog, retrieving his mobile from a table near the bar, ‘Bloody battery’s low; I might not be able to ring your mum after all. We’ll just have to chance it with the chips. Come on boy?’ But the dog wouldn’t budge. It started to growl and pull on its lead.
‘What’s up lad? There’s only us here. We checked everything earlier.’
The dog stood rooted to the spot. The guard flashed his torch down the bottom end of the room. For a split second it passed over the DJ booth. The man watched the light arc back across the bar. He waited with gritted teeth; hand on his PAVA in preparation for a fast exit.
In those tense few minutes his heart thrashed wildly, as he listen to the guard step up to the edge of the bar. He lifted the latch on the top and paused behind it. Lowering his breathing he could hear the dog panting. He prepared for the worst.
The guard’s footsteps came closer; he stopped again in the middle of the dance floor and scanned the torch around. He was just about to make a run for it back through the kitchen, when the guard’s phone rang, its ring tone echoed in the darkness. ‘Hello? It’s your mum, old lad. Okay, okay. We’ll be home in half an hour, going to fetch some chips, if you fancy them? Great, mushy peas as well? Ta-ra! Come on lad there’s nowt here. I’m bloody starving.’ He made his way back across the dance floor through the me
eting room, towards the front entrance, closing the doors behind him.
He heard the distant sound of keys turning, and breathed a huge sigh of relief, as a car engine turned over. He crept from behind the booth, dashed silently across the room, and stood in the window peering cautiously through the slotted blinds into the darkness outside. He watched the guard’s car headlights illuminate the front windows of the houses opposite and disappear out of the street.
Back at the opposite end of the room he began to work the jemmy bar into the centre of the first cabinet’s doors. He yanked it hard and the tiny lock on the front bust open. He sneezed loudly, then again. Bloody allergies. He must have dislodged years of dust settled on the inside, top edge of the cabinet doors. One by one he removed the pins holding the pictures, and placed them on the floor. He moved on to the second cabinet. Only this time the glass cracked, and a large shard dropped out, almost slicing into his shin on its trajectory to the floor. It shattered into pieces across the floor, just missing the photos. Fuck!
Stepping over the glass he retrieved the pictures. He couldn’t take the risk of leaving any behind, even if he wasn’t in them. It would look royally suspicious only stealing the ones containing him and the others. Standing looking around the room doubts whether this was such a good idea after all entered his head. Maybe it was unrealistic to think the cops would find the twenty-nine year old photos, and connect them to the murder victim. Ultimately, he couldn’t take the risk. A quick check of his watch revealed he’d been in the Furlong Social Club almost an hour; it was time to get out, whilst he still could.
CHAPTER 40
After their fruitless search of the Stoke-on-Trent area, Hanley police widened the net to encompass the Staffordshire moorlands. Because it was a murder enquiry Blake twisted the Chief Inspector’s arm into commandeering a NPAS helicopter from the national operations centre in West Yorkshire. Their on-board search camera technology was brilliant at identifying suspects from the air. And because of the amount of ground it could cover, although expensive, it saved masses on manpower.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 14