At ten a.m. the next day a taxi pulled up in Coals End Street, Shelton. A broad man about six feet, wearing a camel trench coat, retrieved a small black overnight case, from the cab’s boot. His slick hair was gelled back, and his clean-shaven face gave no clues to his business. To the groups of students heading toward the university, he was just another non-descript businessman. This was exactly the type of professional the Collector used: someone who could blend in with their surroundings undetected, working under the radar, leaving no trace like a ghost in the shadows.
Veda Brimnull, AKA the Executioner, was only known by a handful of shady gangsters, as one of the UK’s most dangerous assassins who’d never been caught. People who acquired his services did not know his name. They simply wired fifty per cent of his thirty thousand fee and the details of the contract.
Within two hours of an encrypted conversation with the Collector, Brimnull knew where the African brothers lived and, using Google maps, had identified a vantage point behind their house from where he could take the shots undetected. But first he needed coffee and a sandwich. He hated takeaway food; it was unhealthy garbage. A Parma ham and cheese salad baguette nestled in his case alongside the tools of his trade.
It was far too risky to break and enter during broad daylight, so he checked into the Grand County, a Victorian hotel situated close to Stoke train station, to freshen up before changing into street clothing. After showering he lay on the bed reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula, fascinated by the atmosphere of the period and the vampire’s ability to seduce women. A recent series of BBC Two programmes on Gothic horror and their authors had rekindled his interest in the classics. He’d polished off Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein just the week before. He loved books, because, unlike films, they lasted much longer, immersing the mind in another world for days; providing pure escapism from any troubling thoughts.
An hour later he strolled up College Road, using his mobile satnav to guide the way. Once in Coals End Street, he glanced at the African’s house, before briefly checking out the alleyway and derelict row of properties opposite.
Later that evening, under the cover of darkness, he returned to the alleyway and stealthily moved towards the house directly opposite the Simbalas. He pushed the rotten black tongue-and-groove gate; it swung open, and he entered the heavily littered terraced yard, sliding the bolt across behind him. Surprisingly, it was still intact.
The usual galvanised security panels were screwed to all the downstairs windows and doors.
He clicked on his mini LED torch and shone its powerful beam into his rucksack, retrieved a battery screwdriver and set to work removing the eight screws securing the panel over the back door. Within minutes it was leaning up against the window.
He entered through the rain-sodden door into a galley kitchen, with empty cupboard carcasses attached to the walls. He flashed the torch around the foul-smelling back room to ensure it was empty. A rat’s eyes glinted back at him before scurrying off under the stairs. Pistol in hand, he crept up the stairs carefully making sure each tread was safe.
Once in position in the bedroom overlooking number 32, he saw the entire row was derelict so the chances of being disturbed were minimal. The upstairs window wasn’t boarded, which made things a lot easier. He retrieved his headlight from the bag, switched it on and assembled the twenty-grand purpose-built sniper rifle, which fitted with ease into his rucksack and could be dismantled in less than one minute. He made all his own bullets. Each untraceable batch was different, and he always destroyed the jig after the job.
He attached the night vision sites, then propped the rifle against the far wall and moved over to the window to assess opening it. It was pointless using a silencer if you were going to shoot through glass, pure stupidity. Disappointingly, sliding a jemmy bar under the sash window revealed it was jammed. He sprayed the sides with liquid oil and waited a few moments for it to work free. Moments later the rifle poked through a four-inch gap and rested on the windowsill pointing directly at the darkened rear windows of number 32 opposite.
Would they be on time, was the key question in his mind? Ibrahim had informed the Collector he’d made arrangements for the pair to be in the property for 10.30 p.m. They were unwittingly expecting a payoff for the kidnapping. It was now ten p.m. He waited, listening to soothing classical piped through headphones plugged into his mobile.
Suddenly, the lights came on and one of the African brothers stood in the bedroom window smoking a cigarette. Could he take the first shot now, or would that alert his brother? Where was he, he thought, angling the rifle’s sights onto the downstairs window overlooking the backyard? ‘Gotcha!’ He was sitting in an armchair in semi darkness, swinging a chain of rosary beads.
Veda knew the window of opportunity was slight and the guy downstairs was likely to be there longer than his brother, who, after finishing the cigarette, might leave the room. Decision made, he adjusted the sights a fraction until Frederick Simbala’s forehead was dead centre in the cross hairs. Without hesitation he eased the trigger. No kickback, no tracer fire, just a silent thud as the rifle discharged its deadly shot through its silencer. Motionless he watched the victim drop to the floor like a deer being felled. Seconds later Jozef Simbala lay slumped in his chair, head pegged back, blood flowing from a hole the size of a penny like a lazy stream into his left eye and down his face.
He stayed put for a further twenty minutes of observation, just to make sure, before stealthily drifting away like winter clouds passing under cover of darkness. A 7.30 a.m. the taxi ferried Brimnull away, just as a dark-blue unmarked delivery van pulled curbside of number 32 Coals End Street, Shelton.
CHAPTER 66
Two men in black overalls climbed out of the dark-blue unmarked transit van. The first and broader man walked around to the back of the vehicle, opened the doors and latched them. The second retrieved a key to number 32 from a disposable bin liner and glanced around the street to make sure nobody was watching.
He opened the front door wide and dropped the bag on the carpet. They both returned to the van and slid out a fully assembled wardrobe covered with protective bubble-wrap. Jostling it into the front room, they closed the door behind them without uttering a word. Before stepping any further, both donned silicone gloves, forensic body suits and booties over their shoes. Padding through into the sparse middle room, they scanned around. It was dominated by a dated-looking 80s-style cream leather sofa and armchair.
Jozef Simbala lay motionless in the armchair, head leaning towards his left shoulder. A handful of blowflies danced around a small gunshot wound an inch above his bulging eyes, staring towards the bullet entry hole in the back window as if they’d almost seen it coming. Which they both knew was impossible; bullets exceeded three thousand feet per second.
In sync the two men made the sign of the cross. The unofficial undertakers adopted catholic protocols and felt it was important to ask for God’s blessing.
‘Murder victims they may be, but everyone’s entitled to a blessing,’ said the broader man in a rough Scottish accent, through his paper mask.’
‘Wi’out doubt,’ said his brother in agreement.
Rituals over with, they peeled the corpse precariously from the chair and carefully heaved it into an open body bag laid out on the dank floral carpet. The only sound in the room was the bag’s long zip being drawn. Moving the body to one side they climbed the stairs.
The sinister cleaners had devised a devilishly simple but effective way of removing cadavers undetected. Their MO involved delivering a brand-new wardrobe and removing an old one, if indeed there was one. The older vessel acted as a coffin. In the absence of an old wardrobe they simply unwrapped the new one and used that instead. They took advantage of the fact that, unlike the old days, people living in ethnically diverse areas such as this often didn’t know their neighbours. Half the properties were landlord-owned with a high turnover of tenants, which meant vans moving furniture were a common sight and rarely raised an eyebrow.
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They located a sturdy plywood wardrobe in the front bedroom, but on opening it were shocked to find an evil-looking shrine daubed in black paint built inside its interior. An old wooden fruit box covered in occult paraphernalia sat vertical upon a shelf spanning the middle. On top of it a devil’s head sat in the centre of two animal skulls, staring at them with its tongue hanging out. A crucifix hung from the end. Two six inch skeletons swung on chains below the ominously smirking figure of Lucifer.
Startled, the broad man said nervously, ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Looks like a shrine.’
‘You dunni say,’ the other said sarcastically. ‘I know it’s a bloody shrine! Seen a film with stuff like this in it. It’s Voodoo. That’s what that is. Bad medicine, doll’s curses and all that shite!’
‘Makes sense since the deceased are African?’
‘Whatever it is, it’s giving me the bloody creeps. Let’s get him bagged and away outa of here quick, sharp,’ he said, glancing at the slumped corpse of Frederick Simbala lying in a heap on blood-stained carpet under the window.
‘You dunni think we’ll be cursed for this?’
‘That’s all bollocks,’ the other said, scattering the sinister objects from the shrine onto the bed. With that they levered the wardrobe through the door and inched it down the stairs manning the top and bottom.
Moments later the Simbala brothers lay side by side in the middle room, bagged like cargo waiting to board a ship. It was a squeeze but both corpses just about fitted inside the wardrobe leaving the door about an inch from closing. They tightened two ratchet straps around the top and bottom clamping the doors firmly shut.
With the makeshift coffin loaded onto the aluminium trolley in the front room, the men removed all forensic attire, apart from their gloves, glanced around the street again, before wheeling the wardrobe to the back of the van.
Within twenty minutes the vehicle and its cadaver cargo hurtled northbound up the A500 towards the M6 motorway. With no passports, visas, national insurance numbers or birth certificates, like a passing storm in the night, the African brothers never existed.
By the time they reached the North Link Ferry crossing at Scrabster, Scotland, the light was fading. A flame-orange and salmon glow painted the sky as the setting sun on the horizon signalled another warm summer day would follow. The Hamnavoe Ferry crossing to Stromness on the Isle of Orkney took one and a half hours. The sea rolled calmly as the ferry cut through the deep waters.
The two men relaxed in the Hawksfall lounge sipping tea, gazing in wonder at Britain’s highest vertical cliffs and Orkney’s famous Old Man of Hoy, a 449 foot high sandstone Sea stack jutting out from the cliffs of the island of Hoy like a castle turret guarding the island.
They disembarked the ferry and headed along the winding B9047, which curled like a snake through the violet heathers that carpeted the island. After thirty minutes they turned into the gravel path leading up to their remote stone cottage and its outbuildings overlooking Pegal Bay. Forty thousand pounds richer.
This was their fiftieth clean-up job in the last ten years. Soon they would have enough to retire, but for now their huge fifteen by thirteen feet outdoor log furnace needed stoking to a temperature of a hundred and seventy degrees.
Climbing out of the transit Bryce Kennan gave his brother Fraser a sheepish grin. ‘A wee dram?’
‘Oh aye, definitely. It’s been a nightmare of a dee. The furnace can wait, there’s nae rush.’ Bryce retrieved the keys to the stone cottage from his jeans and opened the back door to the kitchen.
‘Glen Grant or Old Pulteney?’ Fraser asked opening a pine corner cupboard, which they stored their expensive whisky collection in.
‘Fancy a touch of vintage Glen Grant.’
‘Coming up, son.’ He laid out two cut-crystal tumblers on to the worktop and poured out a generous two-finger slug in each.
They chinked glasses and took a ritualistic sip in unison.
‘Superb!’ Bryce said, savouring the dry cheek pulling, spicy cinnamon and raisin ten-year-old single malt.
‘Aye, better than a shag that.’
‘No’ quite, son. I’d prefer banging the back out of a filthy trollop, but I kin where you coming from.’
‘Same again?’
‘All day pal, all day.’
Twenty minutes and four glasses later they drew the transit closer to the furnace ready to load the cadavers once it was hot enough. The Tennessee Furnace’s door was thirty-five inches wide, which enabled them to load and incinerate large objects with little fuss. Irrespective of what they shoved in, it kept their cottage warm during the severe Highland winters.
Fraser stumbled whilst lighting the pilot light. His brother almost spilt the logs from the wheelbarrow. The pair were half cut, acting, like a couple of amateurs.
‘I’m pissed, bro!’
‘I know; it’s our last job. Let’s take another drink and come back later. This pair ain’t going anywhere.’
Wobbling back to the house they decided to finish the job under the cover of darkness. By three a.m. the bottle of Glen Grant was empty and they could hardly stand.
‘Let’s call it a night, I’m creamed,’ Bryce said.
‘Why did we sink all the Granty. Not good, we’ve got business to take care of.’
‘Fancy a tea to lubricate your throat?’
‘Just the one mind?’
Fraser staggered into the kitchen, but slipped on the tiles and upended a chair. ‘Shite, man!’ he groaned, lying in heap rubbing his leg. Dragging himself up he regained his balance by holding onto their ancient gas stove, a relic they couldn’t bear to part with because their dearly departed mother spent fifty years cooking the best lamb dishes on the island on it.
He turned the ring nearest the front on and tried to light the gas with matches. After three attempts and a burnt finger, the blue flame danced under the kettle. Fraser staggered back towards the living room using the walls and doorframes to keep him vertical. Bryce lay across the sofa snoring loudly.
‘Tea for one it is!’ he slurred, slumping into the armchair opposite his brother.
Outside heady summer winds gathered, sweeping across the cotton grasses and dense scrub of Pegal Bay, towards the cottage. In the kitchen a small transient window was propped open about an inch, its arm lightly jammed, but unlatched. A sudden gust of wind blew the gas ring out. The kettle stopped boiling as a second blast blew the window shut. Deadly butane gas from the large outside storage bottle hissed slowly into the kitchen, replacing oxygen with its silent death.
CHAPTER 67
Airbus 4580 from India landed on time at terminal one of Manchester airport. Mickey Connor intercepted the small black trolley case with the luminous green address tag, displaying the code word Midas. He placed it on a trolley of damaged cases and wheeled it away from the CCTV monitored conveyor belt of inbound luggage, to a storage facility where lost and damaged cases were placed temporarily before being dispatched. Once the door shut behind him, there was a small window of opportunity to transfer the boxes of Hoard replica pieces into his rucksack unobserved.
He fumbled nervously with the suitcase zip. A quick glance at his watch revealed he’d been in the storeroom for one minute already; any longer than five minutes would appear suspicious. Flattening the rucksack he slotted it into a gap in the trolley’s wooden pallet base and exited the room. The cameras would pick it up as an empty trolley. It had taken a week of sleepless nights mulling over several permutations to devise this simple but ingenious method.
To his annoyance he’d have to give up a grand of his fourteen thousand smuggler’s fee to a minor customs officer named Jeff McIntyre. This was the amount they’d agreed for him to turn a blind eye when checking staff bags at the end of the shift. Greedy Scottish twat stated he wouldn’t do it if drugs were involved. The bastard practically blackmailed him, though Connor never divulged what the goods were, instead fed him a line about fake designer watches from India.
Later that evening he met Ibrahim in the Silk Wheel pub and staggered home pissed as a newt, fourteen thousand richer, but after weighing in McIntyre, and paying off the credit cards his ex-Mrs had run up he’d be left with nothing.
CHAPTER 68
DI Blake took compassionate leave to look after Isabel, during which he subtly asked about her abductors. Unfortunately, because of the head trauma, her memory hadn’t fully returned. The only thing she could remember was two black men in a silver BMW; everything else was a blur. He passed this information onto DS Murphy.
Ever since her discharge from hospital he’d been fussing around her like she was an invalid, although there was no denying the horrendous migraines the doctor said would pass were debilitating.
Since regaining consciousness she developed a bizarre craving for warm, Staffordshire oatcakes smeared in peanut butter; nothing else seemed to appeal. And because Blake had no work to occupy him, he’d taken the opportunity to blitz the house, acutely aware that the vacuum cleaner was off limits.
During the time she’d spent camped on the sofa, they’d watched White Chapel series two, at least one episode of Waking the Dead, and laughed at Tony Hill’s plastic carrier bags and eccentricities in the award-winning BBC drama Wire in the Blood. It was ages since they’d spent any quality time together. Just a pity it wasn’t under better circumstances, Blake thought with a worried look at the scar on his daughter’s partially shaved head.
The sight of it brought horrible memories of the fatal hit-and-run that killed his wife and son flooding back. He took a deep breath to calm roller coaster emotions that could drag him into a downward spiral of dwelling on the past. Clinging to Isabel, he swore to make the bastards who did this to her pay severely. But first he needed to focus on her convalescence.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 22