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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘It’s a fucking set-up. I’ve never seen those before!’ Yusuf pleaded, desperately trying to detach himself from the implications of the evidence. But his irritability showed. Lately his coke usage had spiralled out of control. Most weeks there’d only be one wrap in the glove box, six made him look like a small-time dealer.

  ‘Interview terminated at nine-thirty. Take him back to the cells, sergeant. We have more than enough evidence to charge your client with,’ Blake said, addressing the lawyer who, judging by the solemn look on his face, knew there was little he could do to help Yusuf, apart from stopping him digging an even deeper hole.

  CHAPTER 43

  The drug squad looked like a bunch of muppets after they failed to detect Yusuf Benzar leaving his property on the fifth day of surveillance. Whilst he was in custody, DI Moore and his team raided his terraced house in Hanley, but didn’t find anything apart from beer, condoms, a wrap of personal, and a credit card statement. All six officers returned to the station with faces like smacked arses, and questions to answer.

  This, added to DS Murphy’s premature arrest of Benzar, made them all look like a bunch of amateurs. The Chief Inspector would be furious. DI Blake unwittingly heaped further embarrassment on Moore’s team when he pointed out the credit card statement was registered to an address in Cliffe Vale. Deflated, in fear of additional failure, Moore passed the search over to his colleagues in CID.

  Yusuf Benzar’s second property was a cedar-clad apartment overlooking Caldon Canal. Newhaven Court was part of a complex that included the restoration and conversion of the world-renowned 1887 Twyford Sanitary factory facing Etruria Road. Before cheap imports flooded the market in the eighties, thousands of the UK’s sinks, troughs and toilets originated from the factory. Now it was the desired location for young professionals.

  They parked opposite a couple of hundred-and-twenty year old bottle kiln ovens protected to preserve local heritage.

  Blake and DS Murphy climbed out of the Astra pool car and made their way around the front of the building. ‘Nice location, Tom,’ Murphy said as they climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment.

  Blake retrieved Yusuf’s confiscated car keys from his jacket. Aside from the BMW key-less fob there were only two other keys on the ring. ‘I’m guessing it’s this one,’ he said, slipping the newish-looking key into the lock on the light oak-panelled door.

  The open plan apartment took Blake by surprise; it had the stamp of an interior designer. The living room and kitchen merged seamless top end modern design with high-tech gadgets. A huge black corner sofa dominated the far corner of the room. A long, white, granite worktop floated over four backless high stools and ran parallel to dozens of high-gloss concealed kitchen cabinets. Floor-to-ceiling glass fronted windows leading out onto a decked balcony overlooking the Caldon Canal ran the opposite side. The whole place had had thousands thrown at it.

  ‘Looks like Benzar’s spent serious wedge on this gaff,’ Blake said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy jested. ‘Whoever said crime doesn’t pay.’

  ‘There is one consolation.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Depending on whether we find anything, he might not be enjoying this for the next few years.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Murphy remarked.

  ‘We’ve got him for possession and assault; as long as the victim presses charges, that is.’

  ‘Always tricky that. We both know career criminals intimidate their victims. The guy he pummelled was just a kid; doubtful he’ll stand his ground against that nasty bastard.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Before the pair started searching the doorbell chimed.

  ‘That’ll be Evans,’ Blake said, making his way to the door.

  ‘Really?’ Murphy said with a glint in his eye.

  ‘John, you’re old enough to be her father.’

  Most of the coppers at the station thought PC Casey Evans was beautiful. They’d nicknamed the fearless five-foot-eight brunette Daisy Cutter after Daisy Rose Cutter, the famous American female wrestler, after she took down and arrested a six-foot-four shoplifter single-handed. She had a figure most women would kill for and, at just twenty-one, a promising career in front of her.

  ‘Wow, this is plush,’ she said entering the apartment.

  ‘It’s very nice, but we’re not here for a viewing. Let’s get to it. We’re looking for anything incriminating. Drugs, cash, mobiles, stolen goods and information on Benzar.’

  ‘OK, boss. Where should I start?’ Evans said, removing her hat.

  ‘You do the bedroom?’ Murphy said, giving a crafty wink to Blake, who shook his head, disapproving of his suggestive innuendo.

  ‘I’ll take the living room and bathroom,’ Blake said.

  Murphy moaned. ‘That’s right, leave me to sift through all those bloody kitchen cupboards.’

  Blake grinned. ‘DI privileges. Got to pull rank on you sometimes, John.’

  ‘Tell you what. You lie on the sofa and I’ll let you know when we’ve finished,’ Murphy said sarcastically. The banter between them helped to ease tension through long fourteen-hour shifts when tempers could fray through tiredness.

  Murphy was on his second cupboard when PC Evans shouted from the bedroom.

  ‘In here, sir. I think I’ve found something.’

  ‘She’s a quick worker, Tom.’

  They both entered the bedroom to find her rummaging inside a sliding mirrored wardrobe.

  ‘Look, sir, there’s a safe.’ She pointed to the heavy-looking box sat in the bottom.

  It was an old cast-iron job; the kind you might see in the finance office of a pre-WW2 factory. On the front of the rusting grey chest was a circular brass plate with a coat-of-arms in the centre, and the words ‘Milner’s 212 Patent, Fire Withstanding’ embossed around the plate.

  Blake scratched his chin. ‘Well, that’s weird. What do you make of it, John?’

  ‘Looks like something from the Museum uptown.’

  ‘Yeah, Benzar must be hiding something valuable to use this antique fortress?’

  ‘Must weigh a bloody ton!’

  ‘Makes you wonder how the hell they got it up three flights of stairs? Anyway, I’ll give the station a call and get them to lean on the suspect for the keys. We need to get moving on this. His solicitor will be pushing for bail. Have you found anything else, Casey?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Carry on looking.’

  Fifteen minutes after Blake had called the station his mobile rang. The desk sergeant informed him the prisoner was uncooperative about the keys. Blake suggested giving his car another search.

  Murphy returned to the kitchen and carried on rummaging through the cupboards. He smiled inwardly after discovering the majority of them were empty, apart from one which contained three packets of dried pasta meals, an assortment of tinned soup, beans and spaghetti. Judging by how clean the oven was and the stack of microwave meals in the freezer, he concluded Benzar was an archetypal bachelor who didn’t cook.

  ‘Anything, John?’

  ‘Nothing yet, boss.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Bugger all. It’s too clinical in here… there’s no newspapers, coffee rings on the table. Dirty dishes in the sink. It’s almost as if no one’s lived here for a while. Mind you, he was moonlighting at the house in Hanley.’

  ‘Might have a cleaner?’

  ‘Might be OCD?’

  ‘Doubt it, but you never know.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘My gut’s telling me any incriminating evidence is locked in that humping great antique in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Definitely. No point in having a safe if you’re not going to use it. Any news on the keys yet?’

  ‘Williams has one of his PC’s giving Benzar’s BMW the once over just to be sure.’

  ‘Maybe, it’ll turn up here?’

  ‘It’d save a lot of hassle. I’ll let you know once I’ve done the bathroom.’

&n
bsp; Blake looked in amazement. Loads of space in the main living area, but the bathroom was tiny. So small in fact, they’d fitted a bi-fold door to save space. Compromised interior design he thought, emptying the linen basket next to the walk-in shower. Two pairs of socks, and a skimpy red thong spilled onto the floor. Looked like he’d had female company recently, although he avoided scrutinising the knickers closely. Whilst replacing the basket lid, he noticed something strange about the toilet roll holder. It’d been fixed on a raised tile, much smaller than the others, whereas the rest of the wall tiles were flush; an afterthought or just bad workmanship? Judging by the amount of cash spent on the rest of the place he doubted it. Removing the toilet roll revealed the tile was covering something. He pulled at it but it wouldn’t budge, although there was minor movement there. A knock on the tile gave a hollow sound. He shouted through the hallway. ‘John, I think I’ve found something.’

  DS Murphy joined him in the bathroom. ‘Cosy.’

  ‘There’s something not right with this tile. I’ve tried pulling, but it won’t budge.’

  ‘Try sliding it?’

  They both gazed in anticipation. ‘Bingo!’ Blake said, animated, as the tile inched to reveal a recess containing an old brass key held in place with modelling clay. ‘Let’s see if we can unlock his secrets.’

  They made their way back into the bedroom. PC Evans had emptied the entire wardrobe onto the bed and was diligently rummaging through the pockets of a pile of tailored jackets. ‘Got expensive taste this one. Boss, Armani, Ralph Lauren.’

  ‘Hold fire a minute, I think we’ve found the key to the safe.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Seek and ye shall find,’ proclaimed Blake with a philosophical grin.

  ‘Couldn’t have done it without me though,’ Murphy hinted, trying to bolster his male ego in front PC Evans.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, John. Let’s open Pandora’s box?’ He inserted the key, turning it anti-clockwise to an audible click. Grasping the handle on the edge of the door, Blake pulled, but it remained steadfast. Murphy leaned in and turned the handle in the centre to the six o’clock position.

  ‘You’d have been shit on the Crystal Maze, Tom. Try now?’

  ‘OK, here goes.’ The door creaked open, revealing a compartmentalised interior. Stacked at the bottom on the left-hand side were three hardwood boxes. Sitting above those on a shelf were piles of twenty-pound notes, each one bonded with a red sleeve. A brown A5 notebook sat on top.

  ‘Looks like he’s been busy, John.’

  ‘What’s in the book?’

  Blake retrieved it and removed the elastic strap. On the first page there was a list of postcodes, written in neat capitals, each one assigned a number. These numbers repeated down the right-hand side of the next few pages. Next to each one were a series of dates, and amounts in pounds, spanning twelve months.

  Blake scanned the postcodes. ‘Judging by this, he’s a bloody loan shark. Jesus! There are initials BG in here, and there’s a grand next to them.’

  ‘No kidding. What’s the postcode? I’ll give DC Moore a call to see if they match.

  ‘ST6 8DL.’

  Murphy dialled the number. Minutes later DC Moore confirmed it was Barry Gibson’s address.

  ‘Looks like Benzar might have put a contract out on Barry Gibson. As I mentioned before though, unlikely they’d do it in such a public place.’

  ‘That means the other poor buggers in this book are at risk. We’ll need to contact them soon as,’ Murphy said.

  ‘You’re not kidding. Unscrupulous bastards, loan sharks. Any known associates?’

  ‘Several, according to his record. Two were sent down last year, but Benzar’s always distanced himself from the shitty end of the stick until now.’

  ‘He’s shot himself in the foot this time.’

  ‘We need to pull in some of his associates. See if any squeal. Keep an eye out for mobiles and SIM cards we can get names off. There’s more than enough evidence to do him for ABH and unlicenced money lending, and that’s excluding what we find in those boxes.’

  ‘He’s got enough capital here. I’ll wager you a tenner there’s more than twenty grand,’ Murphy proposed to his boss.

  ‘How about drinks at the Smiths Head instead?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  PC Evans looked on in amazement as the pair of them jested.

  ‘I’m going for thirty K.’

  ‘Thirty-five. I tell you what, if we nail him before play’s out, I’ll buy everyone in CID a pint.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘I think I have been,’ Blake said, leaning in to retrieve the boxes, which appeared to be locked. ‘This guy’s paranoid. Any more keys in there? Have a look in that drawer,’ he said, referring to a small metal panel inside the safe.

  ‘We’re in,’ smirked Murphy, jangling three tiny skeleton keys in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Casey, you stay here, count and bag the cash, whilst John and I scrutinise these in the kitchen.’

  Blake laid the first box onto the granite worktop. ‘Should be interesting. What do you reckon, Murph; smack, crack or coke? Deal or no Deal?’

  ‘Could be any, but judging by the apartment and the motor I’ll take a stab at coke.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to phone a friend?’

  ‘Just open it, man.’

  ‘Deal!’ Blake scoffed.

  ‘Well, would you look at that?’ Blake said, gawping inside. ‘A box of sex toys, dildos and lubes.’

  ‘Picture the scene. I’m charging you for possession of illegal vibrating cocks.’ Murphy burst into laughter, slapping his palm on the granite.

  Like teenage lads discovering their dads’ porno mags, full of hairy chicks, under the bed, the pair of them cracked up.

  PC Evans popped her head round the door. ‘Have I missed the joke?’

  Blake slammed the box lid shut and the two detectives gave each other a covert glance.

  ‘Looks like it’s your round, sir. Forty grand in total.

  ‘OK, thanks, Casey. Anything left to sift through in the bedroom?’

  ‘Just the bedside drawers.’

  ‘If you could finish up in there, we won’t be much longer.’

  ‘You reckon he pushes poo uphill without a wheelbarrow?’ Murphy said after she’d gone.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Let’s get these other two boxes opened and head off back to base.’

  In the second box the detectives found a digital video camera containing graphic photos of the suspect performing sexual acts with a pretty brunette. All of which were time-stamped Friday the 5th of June, the night of the murder.

  ‘I think that confirms he’s not gay, John.’ Blake dropped the box back onto the worktop, but noticed the bottom lift a touch. ‘Hang on, the bottom of this box is loose.’

  ‘False one, maybe?’

  Blake pushed one side of it. ‘Voila!’ he said, retrieving an old faded blue Nokia mobile. Not seen one of these for years.’ He pressed and held the on-off button, but the battery was dead. Sliding it into an evidence bag, he said, ‘We’ll get this scanned with the Radio Tactics data acquisition. And finally!’

  ‘Have we won a car?’

  ‘Nope, it’s a bag of brown powder. Looks remarkably like the one we found in Dean Taylor’s man bag; it’s even got the same bottle kiln logo. There’s loads of empty bags in the box. I reckon this will have the same chemical compound as that heroin.’

  ‘Shit, there’s a few grams there. Bad habit, or dealer?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Dealer, I reckon. Smack’s too street-level for this guy. Whichever, we’ve more than enough to charge him.’

  CHAPTER 44

  Yusuf Benzar sat in interview room three with a look of desolation on his face. He’d been festering in a cell for five hours, pegging out for a fag and a decent cup of coffee. The two lines of coke he’d snorted before caving his tenant’s front door in had worn off and his head was swimming in paranoia. The thought of the pi
gs rummaging through his apartment mortified him. Worst of all, if those bastards found his stash he was fucked. When they pressed him for the keys to the safe he’d stalled them by feeding the desk sergeant a bullshit story about losing them six months ago.

  DS Murphy entered the room, followed by Blake who was carrying a pile of clear bags containing his gear. A sudden look of dread appeared on his face and he slumped in the chair.

  Murphy hit the record button on the tape machine. ‘Mr Benzar, do the contents of these seven evidence bags belong to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape I’m showing Mr Benzar evidence recovered from the safe in his flat. A large bag of uncut heroin, forty grand in twenty-pound notes, a digital camera containing sexually explicit images of Mr Benzar and an unknown female, a notebook containing the initials and postcodes of people he appears to have loaned money to, implicating him as an illegal money lender, a three-inch hunting knife and six wraps of cocaine.’

  ‘None of that is mine.’

  ‘Funny that, because we found four of them locked in an antique safe inside the wardrobe at flat number twenty-eight New Haven Court, and the other two in the glove box of your BMW. If the items don’t belong to you, then please divulge the name of the person you’re looking after them for so we can contact them to corroborate? Do you know a bloke who goes by the nickname Stomper?'

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Furthermore the initials and postcode of a recent murder victim Barry Gibson is listed as owing £1000 in the aforementioned notebook, giving you a motive to kill him. And guess what? Gibson was stabbed in the head with a knife like the one you carry around. The forensics lab is looking at it.’ Blake glared at Yusuf’s solicitor, who sat prostrate, fingers entwined, knowing there was bugger all he could do for his client apart from recommend him to plead guilty to the looming possession charges in return for a more lenient sentence.