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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘Why did you run when we first tried to question you in Tunstall High Street? Clearly you’re hiding something?’ Blake got straight to the point.

  Bolton shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me?’

  Bolton glanced at his lawyer who gave him the nod.

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘Of what exactly?’

  ‘That you’d fit me up for the Gibson murder.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. We don’t fit people up.’ Blake made air commas.

  ‘Yeah right.’

  ‘We have witnesses who saw you arguing with Barry Gibson not long before he was murdered, in the White Horse gents.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I killed him.’ Bolton said in defence.

  ‘Well, the fact you ran is highly suspicious. So, let’s hear what you have to say. It’s your chance to set the record straight.’ Blake said.

  He looked to the solicitor again. ‘You know I’ve got a record, for ABH. I just thought you’d look at that and try to pin this on me. So, I legged it. Thing is I can’t hack any more prison time, it would kill me. Been suffering with post-traumatic ever since last time. My head’s a bit mashed.’ Bolton said.

  ‘I see. And have you had this confirmed by a doctor.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s on my medical records. Been on Fluoxetine ever since.’

  ‘Fair enough, but if you didn’t kill Barry Gibson, surely it makes sense to be eliminated from the enquiry?’

  ‘I don’t trust the police.’

  Blake changed tack. ‘Do you know the victim?’

  ‘No.’ Bolton said nervously.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re bullshitting us. We have evidence that shows you do.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘DS Murphy, show Mr Bolton the photographs.’ Blake said.

  ‘We know from this, and several others like it, you worked on the kilns of the William Adams pottery firm alongside Barry Gibson between 1988 and 1993.’

  The colour drained from Bolton’s face.

  ‘Why did you lie about knowing him?’ Blake asked.

  Given the evidence Bolton knew it would be hard to dodge. ‘I was trying to score from him. Not the sort of thing you advertise, is it?’ Bolton lied. He didn’t want them to find out about his brother’s beating at the hands of Gibson. He wouldn’t have bought pills from that tosser, he hated him. Initially when they worked together on the kilns, being three years younger than Gibson, he’d looked up to him, but as time passed he began to dislike the skinhead’s antagonistic mannerisms.

  ‘So, you’re saying Barry Gibson was a dealer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Speaking of dealers, do you know someone called Stomper?’

  ‘No.’ Bolton said without hesitation.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What exactly where you buying from Barry Gibson?’

  ‘Kilnee’s,’ Bolton kept up the pretence.

  ‘And those are?’ Blake knew, but wanted Bolton to confirm it.

  ‘E’s.’

  ‘We’ll be checking your mobile records to see when you called him?’

  ‘It’s pay-as- you- go.’

  Blake tried not to show his disappointment. ‘How many did you buy?’

  ‘None, that’s why he wound me up. Idiot arranged to meet us. Said he had loads of pills, then when we turned up he’d already sold them all.’

  ‘And your mates will confirm this, will they?’

  ‘Yeah defo.’ he said, knowing they’d back him up, and with Gibson dead there was no proof to say otherwise. Besides he was a dealer.

  ‘So, what about the beer spilling incident witnesses saw?’

  ‘Oh, that happened after I’d had words with him earlier. Some dick head shoved into my back, and I spilt a bit of Stella down his top. That’s when he started mouthing off and the landlord interrupted. It was no big deal, just a bit of banter really.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to disagree. One of the older regulars is on record saying he had to stand between you, to stop things from escalating into a full-blown fight.’

  ‘That doesn't mean I killed him though?’

  ‘Yes, but the fact you’d already had an argument with him, earlier in the evening, shows the animosity and intent on your part.’

  ‘He was asking for it!’ Bolton raised his voice.

  ‘So, you butted him in the gents: but you didn’t expect him to slip over and end up unconscious? That’s when you realised if he came around he could dob you in to us, so you killed him.’

  ‘I'm telling you now, apart from the verbal, I never laid a finger on him,’ Bolton protested.

  Seeing Bolton back himself into a corner the solicitor interrupted. ‘Can I have a minute with my client please?’

  ‘You’ve got five minutes, to go over the case notes again.’ Blake said standing, as he and DS Murphy made their way to the door.

  ‘My client stands by his earlier statement that he did not murder Barry Gibson. The evidence you have is purely circumstantial. So, unless you can produce forensics linking him to the actual murder, I suggest you release him?’ Bolton’s solicitor said.

  Blake glared at him. ‘Well, I’m afraid we beg to differ on that point. Not only was Mr Bolton seen arguing with the victim in the White Horse; his fingerprints were found at the crime scene, and he arranged to meet him to buy drugs on the day he was murdered. Add to that, he resisted arrest, then absconded, and denied knowing the victim, clearly shows he’s withholding information from us. Until we find out why, he’ll remain in custody.’

  ‘As you now know, Mr Bolton suffers with PTSD, therefore it would be detrimental to his health to keep him locked up for longer than necessary,’ the solicitor glanced at Bolton who was sweating profusely and becoming agitated, as if he was re-experiencing a traumatic event.

  ‘Given his condition has only just been disclosed, until we’ve looked at his medical records, he’ll remain in custody.’

  ‘Very well Inspector, I can see you won’t be persuaded, but it’s on your head. Look at him, it’s obvious he’s not reacting well to the situation?’

  The thought of spending up to forty eight hours in custody increased Bolton’s anxiety even further, and he flipped out. Rising to his feet his anger quickly escalated. He slammed both fists on the table, knocking half-full plastic cups of tea all over it and onto DS Murphy’s trousers. Blake hit the panic button on the wall. Within seconds, three uniformed officers barged into the room and assisted the detectives in restraining the giant, as his solicitor cowered in the corner, clutching his briefcase like a frightened puppy.

  ‘Get him back to his cell, and call the duty doctor; looks like he needs something to calm his nerves.’ Blake shouted to DS Murphy, as they bundled Bolton back down the corridor towards the cell blocks.

  CHAPTER 129

  ‘Put it this way, I know whose bringing gear into Stoke, man; big amounts, it’s well on the money; straight from the horses.’ Jayland Russell informed Blake.

  ‘By that I take it you mean you know the source?’

  ‘Bang on.’ he said mimicking a pistol with two fingers.’

  ‘I see. You’ve just done four years for aggravated burglary and dealing. I can’t promise anything, but we can speak to the CPS. If your info's reliable, you might get less than twelve months, or even a suspended sentence, just depends on how they see it. How does that sound?’ Blake said glancing at his notes?

  ‘Yeah mega man, I’ll buy that all day long. It’ll get those skanks off my back for a while.’

  ‘Okay here’s how it works. You read these terms and conditions, accept them, and sign the exchange of information confidentiality form witnessed by us and countersigned in the presence of the Chief Inspector. Then if your info is on the money like you say, the deals done.’ Blake said, handing over the contract.

  Russell looked at them for confirmation. ‘Twelve months, or a suspended you reckon, defo man?’
/>   Blake confirmed. ‘Thereabouts, yes.’

  After moments contemplation he opened up. ‘Prisoners swap shit. Right? One night after lights out I was spilling to this guy about smashing this bloke with his own bat. Prick chased me out of his drum. Anyways this guy spills about how some nasty Turkish supplier from Stoke cut him outa the game because he refused to supply this mad skinhead with any more Kilnee’s; crazy bastard been selling them to teenagers, and a sixteen year old girl died. Guy said the Turk set him up. Got someone to break in his drum, and plant loads of extra gear all over the place, even in his scooter. He got this bird he was shagging to grass on him to the old bill. She put him in da frame for a murder in town, but turns out you lot had shit all on him. That’s why he was doin the stretch; possession with intent.’

  Blake felt a cold shiver, as all the ducks lined up inside his head. Could Russell’s cell mate have supplied Barry Gibson with the ecstasy that killed the girl, maybe he murdered Gibson after all? ‘Just to be clear, you mean ecstasy, embossed with a bottle kiln logo?’

  ‘Dats da one.’

  ‘And this guy was dealing for a Turkish supplier? A player, you say?’ Blake asked him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s this guy’s name?’

  Russell sucked his teeth again. ‘Ah no man, that would make me a grass.’

  ‘Hate to state the obvious but, isn’t that what you’re doing now. Grassing? Besides, we can easily check prison records.’

  Russell frowned. ‘Suppose but, I ain’t given no names up.’

  ‘I’m afraid to say if you want to cut a deal with the CPS, we need names, so we can investigate properly. What’s this prisoner’s name?’ He wanted to hear Russell say it.

  ‘Said his name was Stomper, but his real name Carl Bentley.’

  Blake looked surprised. So, Carl Bentley was Stomper. It seriously annoyed him why they hadn’t made the connection before. In hindsight it seemed, Tracy Gibson’s confession about Barry’s drug use linked him to Carl Bentley: who probably supplied Barry with ecstasy on the night he was murdered. With both men being dead, they’d never know for sure, he thought. He couldn't help feeling sorry for that poor bastard Bentley. Had they known about the drugs plant sooner he would have got a lesser sentence, but there was no way they could have predicted he’d be accused of murdering a fellow inmate.

  ‘Who’s the Turkish supplier?’ Blake asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘A geezer called Benzar, that’s all I know I swear boss.’

  ‘And you'd be prepared to testify this in Court?’

  ‘You never said nutting about no Court!’

  ‘I’m afraid so, its clause ten on the forms you’ve just signed. Unfortunately, as things stand it’s your word against the perpetrators.’

  ‘Fuck, that’s bad man. I’d be a grass; those maniacs will come for me.’

  ‘It’s the only way. We can get you moved and in a protection program, or if you do get a custodial, vulnerable prisoners’ wing, segregated from other inmates. What do you think, do we have a deal?’

  ‘I’m not sure now. Fucking Courts!’ He shuddered.

  ‘We’d push for a suspended sentence,’ Murphy enticed.

  ‘Yeah but I’d be marked.’

  ‘As I said, we can offer you protection.’

  Seeing despondency and hesitation in his eyes, Blake proffered him an ultimatum.

  ‘We’ll go for a coffee, give you a chance to mull it over, but we need to know in the next fifteen minutes or the deals off?’

  ‘Fuck! OK Mr Five-O, I’m hearing ya.’ he mocked.

  CHAPTER 130

  ‘John, the knife Jayland Russell found turns out to be a drop point blade; just as the pathologist described. The forensics picked up microscopic traces of blood under the rubber handle; Barry Gibson’s. The prints and DNA, excluding Russell’s belong to Dave Millburn, the boss of M8 security. We’re going to arrest him now.’ Blake said confidently down the phone.

  Two teams left the station, sirens blaring as they pulled onto the ring road. One headed towards M8’s office, the other bound for his home address.

  Blake had a suspicion that Millburn wouldn’t be in his office and he was right. His gold Lexus was parked in the drive, as the two police cars screeched to a halt outside his home.

  Blake stood leaning against the car in his stab vest. ‘You cover the rear entrance. If that gate’s locked, kick it through?’ he said addressing PC Haynes, pointing to a five feet high wood panelled gate leading into what looked like the backyard. ‘Go! POLICE, POLICE OPEN UP!’ He banged on the door, but there was no reply. He tried the handle, it was locked. He nodded to Davis.

  He launched the big red key just above the chrome handle. The locking edge of the dark wood effect, PVC door cracked, leaving the handle swinging from its thin bolts. Davis shoulder-barged his way in, closely followed by Blake and DS Murphy, with DC Longsdon following up the rear.

  ‘Spread out, living room and kitchen?’ Blake signalled, just about to tackle the stairs.

  He and DS Murphy charged towards the landing above.

  ‘Bathroom clear!’ Murphy shouted from the end of the landing.

  ‘Bedrooms clear!’ Blake shouted, stuffing what looked like a car hire dispatch form into his trouser pocket, whilst looking out the window into the back garden, which led out onto rough fields loosely scattered with mongrel horses, in all shades of brown and white.

  ‘All clear!’ came the rallying cry from downstairs.

  ‘Bollocks!’ they’d missed him. Blake groaned, banging his fist into the windowsill in frustration. Then from the corner of his eye, he saw something move in the leylandii trees clustered together to form a high hedge, separating Millburn’s garden from the fields, ‘The back garden now, he’s hiding in the sodding trees. DC Longsdon, you and Haynes stay here and search the place for incriminating evidence.’

  The other four officers stormed out of the unlocked kitchen door and ran towards the trees.

  ‘Nothing here sir,’ PC Davis said separating the dense branches with his hands.

  ‘Through there! The bastard is legging it across the fields,’ Blake bawled, watching the figure of Dave Millburn disappear a couple of hundred yards into the distance, through a hole where the greenery had died back. He jumped over the small fence separating Millburn’s garden from next door, opened the gate leading onto the field, and gave pursuit, closely followed by his team. The horses scattered, running wildly towards their makeshift stables at the bottom end, as Millburn showed no signs of stopping.

  He looked to be heading towards a large cast-iron waste pipe crossing the River Trent.

  ‘Anyone know what’s the other side of the river?’ Blake shouted. Murphy had already capitulated and stood bent over, hands on his knees gasping for air, in the middle of the field.

  ‘More fields by the looks of it,’ PC Davis said, drawing level with Blake.

  They watched Millburn clamber up the concrete cube the pipe exited from, and navigate his way around the spiked fan shaped iron bars, designed to stop kids using the pipe for a bridge. Wobbling, he ran across like a tightropist. Blake tossed his tie into the grass and followed.

  ‘Careful sir, it could be slippy,’ Davis shouted as he reached the middle, stopped and just about managed to stay on.

  By this time Millburn had disappeared over a small grassy embankment, but Blake wasn’t defeated yet. Finding renewed energy, he continued to chase him across what looked like the remains of an industrial site. Millburn darted through a door-less entrance, into an old outbuilding. Visions of the Grant Bolton pursuit flashed through his mind. He knelt down and picked up a rusty iron bar lying on the concrete before entering. At the doorway he stopped and cautiously scanned left and right into what looked like an old storage facility. Half the roof tiles were missing and trees grew out of the guttering. Millburn stood motionless in the far corner, hiding in the shadows.

  Blake was rooted to the spot, dizzy from the chase. ‘The games
up Dave, you’ve got nowhere to run, and two of my officers will be here any second. It’s over,’ he said pacing towards him, lowering the bar to his side, attempting to appear less threatening.

  As Blake got closer Millburn reached inside his trouser pocket and withdrew a small knife from its scabbard. Back arched, legs spread, he held the blade out to his side ready to attack.

  ‘Fuck off pig! Let me pass, or you’ll get it!’ Millburn threatened, moving within five feet of Blake.

  Blake stared him down, adrenaline surging through his veins. Images of the Miami Beach fight flashed through his mind. ‘Do you really want another death on your conscience?’ he said, raising the bar to show he’d fight back.

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘We know you battered, then murdered Barry Gibson, with a knife.’

  Millburn’s hand shook. ‘What knife? This is bullshit.’

  Blake edged back, ‘The one sitting in a bag, in our evidence store, back at the station. Traces of Gibson’s blood are on it, and your DNA is all over the handle.’

  Millburn took a swipe. Blake jumped further back, his grip tightened on the bar.

  Beads of sweat ran down his face. ‘Put the knife down, now!’ he demanded, wondering what was delaying his backup team.

  Millburn’s eyes fixed on the bar. He stiffened, and then charged. Blake swung the bar, just missing his face by a few inches.

  Millburn stepped back, changed the knife to his other hand, attempting to trick Blake. He lunged at him again. Blake swung the steel bar and slammed it hard across his wrist. He screamed out in pain as his radius bone snapped and forced its way through his skin. Blood spurted from the gaping wound, his hand hung limp, inches away from the knife. Still wielding the bar like a knight’s sword, Blake whacked him in the ribs. Millburn crashed to the ground in a heap, and rolled around crying out in agony holding onto his mangled wrist.