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

by J. F. Burgess

  ‘That’s what we’re pushing the CPS for.’

  ‘Such a devious psychopath.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. The military grade rifles and bullet-making equipment we found in his loft show what a dangerous individual he is. He claims his arsenal was used purely for hunting trips to Scotland: legal deer shooting. When we looked into his bank accounts, we found five payments to a small deer management company, who provide deerstalking holidays in the Highlands.

  ‘Sounds pretty barbaric?’ Taylor said.

  ‘Apparently, it’s all legal and above board. Unlike Millburn’s rifles, which aren’t even registered; and the fact that bills for each trip include the hire of stalker rifles, shows he has an alternative use for them. Quite what that is, we’ve yet to establish, but I’ll leave that to your imagination.’

  ‘Bloody hell! You reckon he could be a contract killer?’ Jamieson asked.

  ‘It’s possible, but hard to prove because he made his own bullets. Ballistics informed me no two would be the same, and they’ve yet to find the jigs that made them, just shell casings. The fact Millburn had a hundred grand stashed in a locked gun cabinet in his loft, is hugely suggestive. So far we’ve been unable to trace where he got it from, but it definitely wasn’t by legal means.’

  ‘Sounds like a Hollywood script,’ Taylor shuddered.

  Blake continued his narrative. ‘Jayland Russell’s arrest was a massive stroke of luck. I’m convinced if we hadn’t found the murder weapon with Barry Gibson’s blood, and Millburn’s DNA on it, we wouldn’t have caught him, because I probably wouldn't have got the second forensic sweep of the Furlong Social Club in Burslem. That’s where we discovered his DNA on some broken glass.’

  ‘Usually, if you put enough effort into a case something always turns up. But on this occasion I’d say you were very lucky,’ Taylor agreed with Blake.

  ‘That’s the way it goes sometimes, it would be unrealistic to think we can solve every crime. The Staffordshire Hoard case is a prime example.’

  ‘No sign of the Saxon Gold yet then, fellas?’ Robert Taylor asked.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Murphy replied. ‘They must have sold it, but to whom remains a mystery.’

  ‘I reckon it was stolen to order. It’s not like they could knock it out piece by piece on eBay,’ PC Davis joked.

  ‘That’s one theory,’ Blake informed them. ‘But according to Colin Jacobs, who’s head of the Specialist Art and Antique Bureau, most stolen antiquities are taken by criminals intent on selling them back to the market, although everything reported stolen ends up on the Art Loss Register, making it virtually impossible for it to be sold back to the legitimate market.’

  ‘So, how do they flog it then?’ Pemberton asked.

  Blake continued his attempt to steer them in a certain direction. ‘Jacobs reckons organised criminals often use artefacts as currency, to pay off debts or as collateral to finance deals. In some cases they’ve even returned the goods and collected the reward, which is ridiculous when you think about it.’ Deep down he had suspicions the American he’d encountered in Miami was probably the buyer.

  ‘Like kidnap and ransom?’ PC Davis said, realising too late that it was a touchy subject considering what recently happened to Isabel.

  ‘Yeah, same principle,’ replied Blake.

  ‘The Cayman Island account balance tallies roughly with the Hoard’s value.’ Nick Pemberton said.

  ‘Truth is, we’ll never know for sure,’ Blake said. ‘Hopefully the gold will be recovered, but I wouldn’t bank on it. According to the Art Loss Register, recovery rate is only fifteen per cent. It’s a bloody shame considering the history involved.’

  ‘And a real blow to local tourism,’ Rob Taylor added.

  ‘We could debate about it all night. Don’t know about you, fellas, but I’m off to get some sleep. Early morning start tomorrow, John, on a missing persons case that came in yesterday,’ Blake said, collecting their empty glasses and placing them in the sink ready for washing.

  Twenty minutes later another taxi arrived and ferried the merry crew home as Rob Taylor stumbled to his bungalow next door.

  In bed Blake stared into the darkness contemplating the events of the past few weeks. He felt mentally and physically drained. Thank god Isabel was on the mend; her strength increased each day. Upon reflection things hadn’t turned out too badly. The overwhelming kindness of donations to her JustGiving page restored his faith in humanity. But the reality was, without fencing off two pieces of stolen Hoard for forty-five grand in America, the outcome may have been very different.

  The conclusion to the Staffordshire Hoard and Barry Gibson murder cases didn’t leave him satisfied, but he knew through experience acceptance was all part of the job. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything.

  Besides, he didn’t want to rock the boat unnecessarily, for fear of exposing what happened in Miami. God forbid. That genie would hopefully stay in its bottle.

  CHAPTER 136

  The following morning Blake woke earlier than planned due to a drink-induced headache, so decided to let Isabel lie in whilst he took an early breakfast. There were oatcakes in the freezer, a block of mature cheddar in the fridge, and an unopened pack of Lavazza Grand Filtro coffee waiting to be sampled. He wrapped himself in his towelling dressing gown, and padded into the bathroom, ran the waterfall tap, and doused his face in cold water.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the Daily Mail poked out of the letterbox. As he extracted it, a small brown manila envelope, stiffened with cardboard, slipped onto the mat. Still not fully awake he scraped it up and headed for the kitchen.

  Dropping the newspaper and envelope on the kitchen table, he filled the kettle and set it to boil. Minutes later the wonderful aroma of freeze-dried coffee filled the room. While it brewed, he fished oatcakes, cheese and bacon from the fridge and made them up and grilled them.

  Morning rituals completed, he perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and tucked in whilst glancing at the headline news on the front page of the Mail. Nothing but the usual depressing stories regarding corrupt government officials. Turning the page a suspicious death report piqued his interest. Halfway down his eyes widened. Dropping his half-eaten oatcake onto the plate, he felt a sudden coldness spread through his body.

  Suspicious deaths. Bodies found at remote

  Shetland farm named!

  Orkney Isle police are making house-to-house enquiries regarding the discovery of four male bodies, two of which were found by ramblers at a remote farm overlooking Pegal Bay. The walkers called on the farm to top up their water bottles and discovered an overwhelming smell of gas when they opened the kitchen door. Concerned, they called the police immediately, who arrived fifteen minutes later, entered the property and found two local men; one slumped across the sofa, the other in an armchair. Both were dead. They traced the source of the gas leak; an old cooker had been left on. The deceased are brothers – Fraser and Bryce Kennan – who were local wool farmers.

  Officers performed an extensive search of the property and its outbuildings and discovered the bodies of two black males of African origin in an industrial log furnace. The police have been able to identify them through bus passes found in their jeans pockets. Jozef and Frederick Simbala were illegal immigrants hailing from the Midlands city of Stoke-on-Trent in England. Police are still investigating why they were so far north of the border. In a statement to the press, DCI Burrel of Kirkwell Police, said:

  ‘The pathologist’s assessment is that the Simbala brothers both died from single gunshot wounds to their heads, but no weapon has been recovered from the crime scene, which bears the hallmarks of a contract killing. The Kennan brothers had consumed a high level of alcohol and it’s thought they may have fallen asleep and been slowly gassed to death before they had a chance to dispose of the bodies.

  ‘Anyone with information regarding this crime can call Crimestoppers on: 0800 555 122.’

  Like a match illuminating the depths of his brain, the
haze cleared. Once they’d liaised with the Orkney Force, the bus passes should point to an address in Stoke-on-Trent. If they could link that to Ibrahim Benzar the association might provide vital evidence linking him to Isabel’s abduction, and the contract killer who took out the Simbala brothers: who he suspected was Dave Millburn. It wasn’t a huge leap of faith. However, locating Ibrahim Benzar would take time and wasn’t guaranteed. Millburn was looking at life inside for Barry Gibson’s murder. Hopefully, the bullets embedded in the Simbala’s brains could be linked to him.

  He finished the oatcake, folded the paper and put it on top of his leather folio, ready to take to work. Hurriedly he opened the manila envelope and emptied its contents onto the granite worktop.

  He gulped nervously staring at a collection of twelve compromising photographs taken in Miami, ranging from him counting $45,000 in the American’s Corvette, to passing the envelope under the table in the diner. Horrified, he scrambled them into rows of three and sat staring at them like a bewildered rabbit in headlights. Clearly this damning evidence proved his stateside encounter wasn’t covert after all. The devious bastards had used him as a pawn in their audacious heist of the largest Saxon gold ever found, although admittedly Yusuf Benzar’s arrest was down to his own sheer stupidity, rather than by design, leaving the gang limited choices regarding his participation.

  The key question was, would those pair of killer shadow thieves ever be found? This would play heavy on his mind. Worst of all, if the photographs ever fell into the wrong hands his career would be over and he’d potentially face a custodial sentence!

  The note read:

  Just a little insurance policy in case you decide to inform anyone about our settlement.

  Have a nice day.

  Worrying about it wouldn’t change anything. He now knew how the Hoard heist was planned, but his daughter being knocked down may have been the reckless act of one of Ibrahim Benzar’s foot soldiers disobeying him. Ironically, if it hadn’t been for her accident, and the brain scans, Isabel’s tumour may not have been discovered until it was too late. For that at least he was grateful. Moving forward, he just wanted to spend a meaningful life with her and get his police career back on track. Methodical detective work helped by a dose of karma might one day bring the Benzar brothers to book.

  THE END