THE KILLER SHADOW THIEVES

A DI Tom Blake Thriller

J.F. Burgess

Copyright © 2017 J.F. Burgess All rights reserved

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All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

Printed by GRIPPING CRIME in the United Kingdom

First Printing, 2018

You can visit the author’s website at www.jfburgess.co.uk

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Dedication

Thanks to my family for their unconditional love and support, especially my wife Rachel.

About the author

My name is J.F. Burgess and I live with my wife and two children in Stoke-on-Trent, England.

“I write tense, gripping, crime fiction thrillers with a twist – or urban cross breed, as I call it. My dramas take you deep inside the criminal mind.”

After spending many years doing less than ideal jobs in and around the Potteries five towns, I finally took the plunge and quit work to follow my creative side; starting off initially in 2007 publishing horse racing guides and how-to manuals.

Inspired by authors such as Ian Rankin, and in need of a new challenge I decided to try my hand at writing fiction.

Table of contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Praise for J.F. Burgess

Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Tom Blake sat drumming his fingers on the wheel of the white Astra pool car parked on Victoria Road, a main artery that fed the city of Stoke-on-Trent. His stomach rumbled in expectation of the return of his partner DS John Murphy with breakfast: hot bacon and cheese oatcakes, a Staffordshire delicacy, enjoyed all over the county.

He turned down Radio Stoke, but Sam Cooke’s soulful tones were suddenly replaced with the unmistakable rumble of a high-performance car rapidly approaching from behind. In anticipation of a pursuit he reached for his seat belt and fired up the engine.

Returning to the Astra, DS Murphy glared at the speeding vehicle as it screeched past them doing at least fifty in the thirty zone. Hastily opening the passenger door, he jumped in, dropped two greasy paper bags onto his lap, before wrestling with his seat belt.

‘You see that?

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d put money on it being nicked. Twenty grand’s worth driven by a maniac in a red cap,’ Blake said, tracing the black Audi TT as it cut straight across the path of an oncoming van and carved through the traffic heading up Lichfield Street.

‘Could be a boy racer,’ Murphy said as his boss hit the siren, then the accelerator and flew towards the busy Joiners Square roundabout. They swerved around a flatbed pickup, avoiding collision with a red Nissan Duke by the tightest of margins. Blake glanced in the rear-view mirror at the chaos he’d caused: cars screeching to a halt, horns blasting, bringing the roundabout to a standstill.

‘Shitting hell, Tom! You trying to kill us before breakfast?’

Focusing on the road ahead he didn’t reply. The back end of the car drifted as he headed up the incline, slamming through the gears, adrenaline pumping through him like an electrical surge.

Murphy radioed in the shout. ‘In pursuit of a black Audi TT registration NT43 USD. Heading up Lichfield Street, requesting assistance from traffic. Possible stolen vehicle driven at excessive speed?’

Further up the road they closed to within fifty yards of the Audi. It slowed down behind a Citroën people carrier, air brakes hissing, before the driver slammed on the gas and flew dangerously past several other cars on the wrong side of the road. It was ten a.m. and, the commuter traffic had cleared. Thank god, Blake thought, manoeuvring with caution past the line of cars that had eased to the curb.

A gap of around two hundred yards had now opened between them. The Audi swerved around a tight left-hand bend and disappeared down Regent Road.

Blake pumped the brakes and the back end of the Astra drifted to the right as it swerved round after him. Keeping control he eased off, then, as the road straightened, he put his foot down and slammed through the gears, mindful of a sharp left-hand turn leading onto College Road six hundred yards ahead.

‘You’re losing him, Tom!’

‘Don’t worry, he’s got to slow down before joining College Road because after that there’s speed humps. God forbid he gets that far… there’ll be loads of students milling about!’

Cleveland Road eased to the right before straightening again, and the Audi came back in view.

‘Fuck, he’s not slowing.’ Blake clenched the wheel; taking his foot off the gas he jammed onto the brake and winced. Murphy pushed hard into the footwell, hands clenching the sides of his seat. Both men prepared for impact with gritted teeth as the Astra swerved and screeched to a grinding halt across the middle of the road, leaving an arc of rubber burns on the tarmac.

‘Shit, he’s losing it,’ Murphy said in disbelief.

They watched in horror. The Audi’s brake lights flashed. The car skidded, mounted a tarmac island partitioning the bend, locked and swerved before slamming into a solid six-foot high wall on the opposite side of the road. The bonnet crumpled, like a soda can being stamped on, spraying shards of glass and plastic over the pavement as the windscreen imploded. Its back end bounced, flashing a glimpse of the chassis before crashing hard onto the pavement.

Blake froze in his seat, sweating, his heart pounding; a disturbing flashback of the devastating hit-and-run incident that had killed his young son and wife ten years ago flooded his mind. The side impact of the vehicle had spun their car a hundred and eighty degrees into a dry stone wall. His colleagues never caught the driver, and he found himself subconsciously looking for the perpetrator every time the force apprehended a joyrider.

Rooted to their seats they expected the worst. In a moment of deadly silence they watched steam dissipate from the destroyed Audi’s radiator. A blue Volvo stood stationary in the right hand lane of College Road; its driver had exited and stood behind the vehicle warning oncoming traffic. Residents from nearby houses stood rubbernecking behind the safety of their front gates. Time froze for a few seconds while the two detectives processed the carnage.

Without warning the crushed driver’s door was forced open and a young man no more than twenty, nursing what looked like broken arm, ran frantically across the road and disappeared through the Victorian entrance gates of Hanley Park. Murphy flung his door open and dived out of the Astra in pursuit of the fleeing joyrider.

Blake shook himself out of paralysis and hit the radio. ‘DI Blake, vehicle crashed and abandoned at the junction between College Road and Cleveland Road, requesting immediate ambulance and traffic presence. Suspect left the scene. DS Murphy pursuing on foot.’

Puffing like an old codger DS Murphy gave pursuit, but he was embarrassingly out of shape; too many takeaways and pints after work had increased his waistline enough to handicap him. Sweat ran down his spine. He brushed his fringe out of his eyes and cantered, zigzagging over low flowerbeds and new cut grass, levelling pansies like a portly Jack Russell first time off its lead for a week.

An elderly gent plodding along with his Labrador just about managed to dodge the fifteen stone Sergeant in full pelt. Considering his arm was broken, and he may be suffering the effects of concussion, the kid had some guts to attempt outrunning the cops, Murphy thought.

Flighting three steps at a time down towards the bandstand, Murphy saw his prey was quickly losing pace as he tried to escape through a cluster of ash trees like a pigeon with a clipped wing.

Whilst attempting to rejoin the winding concrete path that meandered through the park, he stumbled over a loose edging stone and crashed to the ground. Seeing him writhe in agony, Murphy decided to spare him the full force of the law. He walked cautiously towards him, knelt and handcuffed his unbroken arm to a belt loop above his backside.

‘Ah! Ger off me, you fucking pig!’ he screeched, flapping on the path like a captured fish.

Totally spent, Murphy bent, hands on his knees, catching his breath. He paused for another few gulps of air. ‘I’m… arresting you… on suspicion of vehicle theft… and dangerous driving.’

The kid struggled for a few seconds before capitulating, as the out-of-breath DS finished reading his rights, his knee rooted in the lad’s back. Up on their feet, the DS jostled the reluctant captive the few hundred yards back towards the park entrance where Blake stood waiting with two paramedics who’d just arrived at the scene.

Blake shouted once they were within earshot. ‘Did he give you much grief, John?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he said, still suffering from his exertions.

One of the paramedics motioned the kid towards the nearest bench. ’Let’s get you checked over, son.’

‘Check my sarge over afterwards, will you? He looks like he’s burst a blood vessel,’ Blake asked, smirking.

‘Piss off, Tom!’ Murphy said, unimpressed.

Although in pain, the kid looked more annoyed at being arrested than anything else. It never ceased to amaze Blake how arrogant these little bastards could be. Joyriding had decreased across the city in recent years. Better education and stringent sentencing deterred teenage potheads from the Estates, but there was still a minority who were difficult to reach, often from dysfunctional families.

The paramedic lifted the lad’s eyelids and flashed a torch over his pupils, then asked him some basic cognitive questions. Apart from the arm and a few facial scratches, he appeared unscathed, which both detectives thought was a bloody miracle considering the Audi was a complete wreck.

‘What’s your name, son?’ Blake probed.

The lad stared, into space.

‘Can’t this wait until the doctors have seen him? He needs that arm plastering,’ protested the paramedic, walking their patient back to the ambulance parked in front of the park gates.

‘Once we get the all clear from A&E we’ll come and collect him for an interview,’ Blake responded.

The cheeky sod shot them a juvenile smirk.

Murphy glared at him. ’Don’t worry, son, you’ll keep till later.’

The two detectives strode back to the Astra in a heightened state of alert. Unbelievably Murphy stood salivating like a ravenous dog at the limp paper bags on his seat.

‘Seriously, you’re still hungry after that?’

‘A man’s got to eat,’ Murphy protested, feeling cheated after his exertions. ‘Did you see that? Pisses me off! Little bastard totals a twenty-grand motor, tries to leg it and he’s frigging laughing at us.’

Blake reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, John. We’ll get him on car theft and dangerous driving. He’ll be looking at twelve months plus and a driving ban.’

‘Some poor bugger’s looking at an insurance nightmare, though,’ Murphy moaned. ‘Those bastards always try to wriggle out of paying.’

‘Suppose. Total write-off that one.’

‘Yep. Premium through the roof next time. I’m just going to check the vehicle,’ he said, making his way towards the abandoned wreck as Murphy dragged his aching carcass behind.

‘Careful, Tom, it could blow!’

Blake ignored his concerns. Peering through the window he spotted a cream manbag lying in the passenger foot well. ‘Any ideas how we’ll get that?’ he asked, tapping the glass.

Murphy was still puffing like he’d done ten rounds in the ring with a heavyweight. ‘Just… give us a minute, will you, Tom?’

‘You OK?’ he asked staring at the moons of sweat under Murphy’s arms.

‘Knackered! Too old for this game; without the broken arm I wouldn’t have caught him. My suspect chasing days are numbered.’

‘After that performance I was thinking of entering you into the Potteries Marathon,’ Blake teased.

‘Yeah, right, good one, Tom. Traffic will be here any minute. Let’s get back and slap the oatcakes in the microwave. I’m bloody starving!’

‘Not until we’ve fished out that bag.’

‘How? The door’s demolished!’ he said, annoyed the joyriding little shit had delayed his breakfast.

Blake had an idea. ‘Hang fire a minute while I fetch my baton from the car.’

Minutes later he’d caved the window in and fished out the bag like hooking a duck at the fair. He unzipped it and retrieved a package.

‘Shit, there’s thousands-worth here,’ he said, holding a bag of brown powder the size of a regular sugar pack, strengthened at each end with parcel tape.

‘You’re not kidding. Major league quantity?’

‘Could be a mule for a dealer? We’ll know more after questioning him.’

‘Doubt he’ll give us a name,’ Murphy said, his normal pale colour gradually returning. What’s with the logo?’ He pointed to a bottle kiln printed in brown ink on the side of the bag.

Blake turned to face him, oblivious to a thin stream of smoke rising from under the bonnet of the Audi.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Must be some sick branding for the local market?’

‘Tom, get back! It’s on fire.’

Blake darted towards his partner who’d retreated to a safe distance. They both stood behind the park gates and watched in disbelief as flames lapped around the edges of the crumpled bonnet. Within seconds the car was burning intensely, engulfed in red heat, bellowing black smoke as the plastic and foam interior fed the fire.

The residents of Cleveland Road stood motionless as the muted sound of sirens echoed in the distance. That silence was shattered by a deafening explosion. A huge ball of orange flames erupted into the air, showering fragments of glass and plastic onto the road. An electrical cable trailed from the smashed base of the traffic island, which the joyrider had flattened in his insane trajectory into six foot of bricks and mortar. Incendiary blue sparks of electricity arced under the burning remains of what was once a top-of-the-range motor.

Chapter 2

The duty doctor in A&E gave the joyrider the all-clear around lunchtime; apart from a broken arm, his injuries were superficial. No concussion, not even a stiff neck. DS Murphy glanced in the rear-view mirror at the agitated youth, handcuffed to PC Haynes in the back of the patrol car.

‘Unbelievable! You’re lucky to be alive after the mental stunt you pulled earlier. That Audi you totalled caught fire and exploded. It could have killed someone. Best if you cooperate with us. What’s your name?’ he asked, indicating to turn into the station car park.

The kid hesitated. ‘Dean.’

‘Dean what?’

‘Taylor.’

‘Well, Dean let’s get you booked in at the desk,’ Murphy said, slotting next to Blake’s Jag, mindful of knocking his boss’s pride and joy. Climbing out of the patrol car. Murphy led the way to the reception with the PC towing the reluctant kid.

‘Sarge, this is Dean Taylor.’

Lowering his specs the sergeant studied him. ‘Back again, lad? I thought you might have learned your lesson by now. What is it this time, Dean?’

Taylor shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. His face reddened as the desk sergeant typed his name into the database. He’d got previous form.

‘You know him then, Sarge?’ Murphy asked.

‘’Fraid so. Dean’s visited us a few times in the last couple of years.’

The kid’s record showed several convictions for drug dealing on the Heath Hayes Estate. After his mother died from cancer he’d been left in the care of his alcoholic father whose parenting skills were non-existent. Social services had intervened, and placed him in care. By the age of fourteen he was a full-time drug mule, distributing cannabis across the Heath Hayes Estate on a BMX before eventually doing six months in Werrington Young Offenders Institute for possession with intent to supply ecstasy. The drug squad came close to prosecuting his supplier, Yusuf Benzar, a local Turkish wide boy. But a search of his property produced nothing; subsequent surveillance also drew a blank, and the case against him fell apart through lack of evidence. At no point did Dean ever shop him.

The sergeant frowned. ‘You’ve excelled yourself today, Dean; joyriding and possession of a large quantity of a Class A. Not looking good.

‘Sarge,’ Murphy said, ‘can you get someone to put him in interview room two? I need a word with DI Blake.’

Half an hour later Blake kicked off proceedings. The overwhelming amount of evidence against Taylor left his solicitor with little to do except observe and take notes regarding his plea.

‘Whose gear is it? You might as well tell us because we’re well aware of your associates.’

Taylor sat with a scowl on his face, and clearly had no intention of revealing his supplier.

‘It’s mine.’

‘Come on, Dean, we’ve tested the one-kilo bag found in the Audi, and it’s ninety per cent pure; that’s rare in this county. Its estimated street value is around eighty grand. We can appreciate you’re scared of what your dealer might do to you if you give him up. I can assure you we’ll keep you safe.’

Frustrated, he said, ‘Yeah, right! Will you be sharing a cell with me?’

‘Given your age and circumstances, we can ask the CPS to place you in a prison where known associates of the dealer aren’t serving sentences? We know the gear isn’t yours. Our records show that only a handful of people in Stoke-on-Trent deal in the quantity found in your possession. I’m going to say a few names, and you just give me the nod? Azeed Akhtar, Barry Chamberlain, Yusuf Benzar.’

To his annoyance Taylor refused to play ball. So he changed approach.

‘Where did you nick the car from?’

‘Car park.’

‘Which one?’

‘In Fenton.’

‘Funny that. The owner says he left it parked on Mill Street car park in Longton.

The teenager sat there, seemingly oblivious to the severity of his situation.

‘Cooperate with us and the judge will take that into consideration when sentencing you. Anyway, we have a few enquiries to make and will have proper chat soon. In the meantime PC Haynes will get you settled in a comfy cell. Should give you time to consider how much trouble you’re in?’

Dean Taylor’s foolish reluctance to cough up his dealer’s name would cost him an extra twelve months’ jail. Thankfully, recent raids put the most serious players away for a long time. Nemesis was a massive coordinated drugs operation, which swept across the whole city, leaving just two dealers who fitted the profile in terms of financial clout. It didn’t take the biggest leap of faith to decide who to bring in first. Turkish wide-boy Yusuf Benzar was a prime suspect.

Taking the initiative, Blake picked up the phone and called DS Jack Landman, his colleague in the drug squad.

‘Jack, how are you?’

‘Good, yourself?’

‘Not too shabby. Listen, we’ve hauled in a joyrider named Dean Taylor. According to PNC records you did him for possession with intent to supply ecstasy, a couple of years ago. He ended up in Werrington for six months.’

‘Taylor?’ Landman paused. Oh, yeah, I remember we did a month’s surveillance on his suspected supplier. Clever bastard shut his entire operation down though. Went to ground and he’s not been on our radar since. Why, has something come up?’

‘Apart from slamming a twenty-six grand Audi into a wall, we caught him in possession of one kilo of ninety per cent pure heroin.’

‘Shit! Ninety per cent? That’s virtually unheard of outside London. Is that definite?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Had it confirmed by forensics earlier; the report should be on the database soon.’

‘So you’re wondering if Yusuf Benzar is back in business?’

‘Exactly. Taylor’s a known associate and we want to pull Benzar in for questioning. Obviously we don’t want to step on any toes and compromise ops you’ve got going on with him?’

Landman glanced at a sheet of A4 next to his monitor, with dealers’ names on it. ‘Hard to say, really. Nemesis put most of the known faces inside, but there’s one or two small-timers still peddling weed. Ninety per cent pure is in a different league though. Turkish transit from Afghanistan probably, which means there could be larger quantities waiting to hit the streets.’

Blake pressed. ‘Are you working him at present?

‘No. Like I said, he dropped off the radar.’

‘OK. We’ll bring him in for questioning then?’

‘Let me speak to Clive first. We don’t want to jeopardise missing out on a significant haul. Benzar’s a clever bastard… keeps his distance from distribution by using self-sufficient criminal cells. Dean Taylor is just collateral. Gimme five minutes and I’ll get back to you?’

Twenty minutes later Blake’s office phone rang.

‘DI Blake?’ DI Moore said. ‘DS Landman’s put me in the picture about Yusuf Benzar.’

‘What do you think?’ DC Moore’s father, Clive headed up the drug squad and had the first say on tactical decisions concerning drug-related suspects.

‘It’s a tough call. I’ve had no intel from Customs or SOCA on Benzar. Problem is pulling him now; would spook him. Based on the kilogram alone I’ll push for surveillance, if Coleman will sanction it, with all these bloody government cuts,’ Moore warned.

‘You’re not kidding; we did bloody stationery inventories last week!’

‘Unbelievable! Counting the pens! Bureaucratic arseholes!’ He groaned. ‘Anyway I’ll put it to him and call you before the end of play. Appreciate the heads up on this one, Tom.’

‘No problem,’ he lied. He wanted to nail Benzar himself, not hand him to the drug squad on a plate.

Yusuf Benzar currently lived in a modest terraced house in the shadow of three 1970’s tower blocks at the top of Limekiln, a long winding hill leading up to the city centre. To the dismay of law-abiding locals, the area was known for heroin users.

A three-man surveillance team hid behind the net curtains of number thirty-two Carson Street. A camera fitted with a field lens sat on its tripod, pointing directly at Benzar’s house. Their task was to watch his movements. DI Clive Moore practically had to beg Chief Inspector Coleman to sanction the operation.

On day two of surveillance the three officers were bored rigid. There was only so much poker and online porn you could absorb. Benzar had only left the property to fetch bottles of lager and fags from a nearby off-licence. He’d had two visitors: the postman who’d delivered a small parcel; and a woman they’d assumed was a prostitute, judging by her garish six-inch pink heels, short skirt, and skimpy top.

‘Does this fucker ever go anywhere?’ moaned the bald officer.

The camera tech scoffed. ’God knows? It’s as if he knows we’re here.’

Wiping beads of sweat from his shiny dome, his colleague speculated. ‘Thing is, he’s not your average dumb ganja dealer; he knows the score. Clive reckons there’s another large consignment on its way.

‘Yeah, I know,’ the camera tech countered. ‘He reckons it’s straight from Afghanistan, which means fucking organised.’

‘What’s the world coming too?’ The bald officer added. ‘It’s so much easier staking out skanks, selling weed and monkey dust.’

‘You’re not kidding. If we sent a team in there now they’d find diddly,’ the tech speculated, ‘apart from a few wraps of personal. I’d put a fiver on it.’

‘A fiver! You tight twat,’ the bald officer remonstrated. ‘It’s got worse since the EU’s open-border policy. That cunt will have multiple identities and funds scattered over Europe.’

‘Yep. I bet most of his mullah’s stashed in small East European countries with antiquated laws and corrupt officials.’

‘Definitely. Pay monkey nuts you get monkey work.’

‘You’re not kidding. That’s why half the Eastern block is clambering to get here. Seven quid an hour looks a bloody good deal.’

‘Honestly, you pair are fantasists,’ said the third cop.

Chapter 3

Barry Gibson sat in the White Horse pub, Hanley; resisting the urge not to buy another pint before his dealer arrived. The skinhead had been receiving gear on the tab for a few months, and he surprised even himself at how he’d managed to pay back what he owed each month and make a profit. But it was getting harder. His heavy drinking was costing more each week and he’d developed a taste for the pills; they blotted out the troubling memories and depression. Because he'd established a level of trust with the dealer, he'd decided to go for broke: ordered a hundred Kilnee’s, thirty wraps of Charlie, and an ounce of Afghani black. Those skanky little fuckers on the Heath Hayes Estate would lap it up. Only this time, he had no intention of paying any of it back.

The dealer known only as Stomper to third parties went straight to the bar and ordered two pints for him and Gibson, before sitting down opposite him.

‘All right?’

‘Yeah, have you got the gear?’ Gibson said, lowering his voice.

‘What's with the big increase in quantities?’

‘Demand! There’s loads of revival rave nights from back in the day going on.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘So?’

‘Usual deal?’

They entered the men’s and Gibson slid a shot bolt on the back of the door. He had an arrangement with the landlord: a free quarter of black for his wife’s back pain in exchange for fifteen minutes of uninterrupted time. Gibson called him an hour before he was coming in the pub, and he whizzed the bolt on with his battery driver, then took it off after they’d gone.

‘There’s no sale or return on this. You know the fucking consequences of not paying in full.’

‘Yeah, yeah I know.’

Stomper fished an eight inch long block of Afghani black resin out of his cagoule. Gibson stood back as he placed it on the marble surrounding the basin. The dealer retrieved a small razor-sharp knife from his coat. He held it in his right hand and ignited a cheap lighter in the other. Once the blade was glowing hot, he sliced through the resin and passed the off-cut to Gibson. Gibson put it in his pocket along with a freezer bag containing the wraps and pills. All he had to do now was shift the gear, before he necked half the profits. Maybe just one pill to calm his nerves, he thought to himself.

Chapter 4

Ibrahim Benzar – the man known as the Ghost by local criminals – stood on the leaded roof of Hanley’s Victorian Town Hall gazing with purpose across the city skyline, his attention focused on one building in particular. But, until the right people were on board, he’d keep the target under wraps. Just the thought of it excited him.

The logistics of a job such as this carried huge risk, as Stoke-on-Trent’s police headquarters were located close by. The whole event could be locked down within minutes, leaving the crew to fight out their exit in the cop’s backyard.

He’d collaborated on months of meticulous planning with the Collector: one of the world’s richest, most reclusive thieves. And everything needed checking and rechecking before finalising with the team he planned to execute the job: a group of experienced professionals in various fields, who he trusted to pull it off.

The muscle end of things was straightforward to arrange; the ruthless Simbala brothers, ex-members of the Kenyan Mafia, would deal with anybody who stepped out of line. Although naturally brains were considerably more important.

With the next phase rooted in his mind, he delved into the pocket of his Ralph Lauren jacket and retrieved the secure mobile the Collector provided. The cunning bastard always used crypto phone technology to communicate with his operatives, including Ibrahim. The two-way encryption and decryption conversations, once in session code, couldn’t be eavesdropped on by anyone. Ultimately, they were far less traceable than amateurish burners.

It was 7.30 a.m. in Miami and the reclusive Collector sat sipping iced grapefruit juice, shading from the blinding morning Florida sun. Gazing over his office balcony he watched the endless cycle of pacific waves crashing on the glorious white sands in front of his forty million dollar beach mansion on the Miami coast.

They’d met eight years ago in what the Turkish classed as hell on earth – Diyarbakir Prison in south-eastern Turkey, where overcrowding and torture were rife. The obscenely rich American was incarcerated for attempting to smuggle stolen artefacts from the Turkish National gallery to America. Ibrahim was in for racketeering. Fearful for his life amongst the murderers and drug lords, the Collector paid him shedloads for protection during his four-year sentence. This was the one and only time he’d been caught and he didn’t plan to repeat the nightmare ordeal.

‘Richard! Just a quick call to inform you I’m putting the team together for our venture.’

‘Excellent! Just choose your people wisely. No amateurs or squealers,’ he said in the familiar Texan drawl Ibrahim was accustomed to.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll only use the best people.’

‘OK, let me know when y’all ready to move.’

‘I’ll call when we have something more solid.’

‘OK. Y’all take care.’

Ending the conversation, Ibrahim retrieved a small diary from his inside pocket and flicked through the contacts. He made a series of calls, starting with his brother Yusuf to arrange an evening meeting at the Genting Casino, Hanley. He gloated; life was sweet when you controlled your own destiny.

Chapter 5

Ibrahim Benzar sat beside Charlie Bullard in the mock Mead hall of the Potteries Museum & Art Gallery, gazing at a glowing orange fire, imagining a fierce Saxon King perched on his throne draped in boar skin, receiving gifts and surveying his stunning gold. They watched a Saxon docu-drama on a large wall-mounted TV. The narrator told the Hoard story.

‘Lichfield seven hundred AD. Two huge shires laboured a two-wheeled cart through meadow grass, daisies and white clover as a gentle breeze carried the subtle smell of summer across the violet skies of Anglo Saxon Staffordshire. In silence seven Saxon warriors followed their esteemed leader – Athelred the Mercian Overlord – as he edged through the grass towards a mound overlooking the ancient Roman road known as Watling Street.

‘Their eyes adjusted to the blue enveloping darkness surrounding the meadows and forests. Mindful no one was watching they strode towards the proposed burial ground. After a guarded glance across the field he signalled to the colossal warrior Abrican to join him with a drawn finger pointing towards a grassy mound.

‘The battle-hardened warrior unclasped his Tri-bird brooch, allowing his wool cape to fall onto the dry summer earth. Then raising his sword-scarred arms, he heaved his hefty chainmail tunic over his head, laying it on the earth beside the cape.

‘“Fetch me the Iron Hoe,” he uttered under his breath at the other six expectant warriors waiting in anticipation by the cart.

‘The small but fearless warrior known as Beadurof lifted a long shaft iron hoe from the pile of digging tools stacked on top of a hessian drape, disguising the Hoard from prying eyes. They’d passed through many villages on their arduous journey to find a burial site. Suddenly, the silent anticipation of the gathering was disturbed by a flock of late summer larks swathing west across the violet skies. The King spoke with clarity.

‘“Balder came to me in slumber two nights past, pointing to this place; we must act now. The wolves prowl over yonder forest and we must heed attack. Pray for his watchful blessing on this morn as we commit our Hoard to the ground, lest into our enemy’s hands it shall fall.”

‘Abrican’s veins strained against his muscles as he swung the iron hoe with raw power. It struck the sun-dried earth with a deep thud, dispersing dust onto the turn shoes of the encircled warriors clasping iron hoes, in readiness to join the dig. Patiently they waited to bury: filigreed gold sword fittings, pommel caps, hilt collars and the twisted cross of their pillaged Hoard, stolen from the slain corpses of their enemies on the Northumbria and East Anglia battlefields.

‘As the iron hoes pummelled the ground, thud after thud, Athelred raised his arms, outstretched his palms skyward and proclaimed to Balder…

‘“Rise, Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate thee be driven from thy face.”’

The pair spent the next half an hour discreetly surveying the room and surrounding area, looking for exit and entry points, cameras, alarms and assessing the locks on the Hoard display cabinets, keeping in mind the Collector’s ten-point blueprint for museum heists: a plan used in several successful robberies from the world’s richest museums. He’d even included video footage of an infamous painting haul, captured by one of his operatives wearing a body-cam.

This was their third visit in two months but to avoid suspicion Ibrahim sent his cousin Stellio to take discreet tourist photographs on his phone. That, combined with a floor plan and architectural plans downloaded from the Internet, and now with the caretaker onside, they’d just about got the measure of the place.

Charlie itched his silver, eighties style moustache. ‘You reckon we can do it then?’

‘Why not? Imagine what you could do with a million quid?’ Ibrahim enthused.

‘That’s a lot of poke!’ Charlie said, not wanting to consider the prospect of going back inside if it went tits up.

‘As long as we stick to the plan everything will be OK. Anyway, don’t worry about that now; the others aren’t on board yet and there’s still shit loads to organize.’

Charlie gave him a suspicious agreeing look. ’OK.’

‘The main thing is we need to be ready by the nineteenth of June, because the other half of the Hoard is being transferred from Birmingham Museum, for a three-week exhibition here. That’s the only time the collection will be complete. All three-point-three million of it.’

‘So, this is only half?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Phew! This might sound a stupid question, but how can we get a million each if it’s only worth three-point-three?’

‘Best if you don’t ask too many questions. Safe to say our benefactor is minted.’

On the way back out of the museum, Ibrahim veered into the visitors’ shop, which stocked a curious mix of handmade pottery, nineteenth-century black-and-white postcards of industrial Stoke, reissue Arnold Bennett books, Spitfire memorabilia and an entire stand dedicated to the Staffordshire Hoard, including replicas of the key pieces. In the end he purchased the official Hoard guide for a fiver.

He winked at Charlie as they parted outside on the block paved bridge way. ‘Bedtime homework.’

Chapter 6

Ibrahim’s mobile rang; it was his brother Yusuf.

‘You won’t fucking believe this. That dumb bastard Dean Taylor’s been arrested and lost our shipment. Pig scum!’

‘How many times? Not over the phone!’

‘We need to meet now.’

‘In an hour. I’m busy.’

‘Are you crazy, bro?’

‘Think, before you say another word? One hour, I’ll call you,’ he said, stabbing the call end button.

Yusuf was such a bloody liability. His coke habit had escalated over the last twelve months and it was cutting into the profits. He was only still breathing because they were brothers, otherwise he’d have eradicated him months ago.

Regaining his composure, he continued climbing the winding slate staircases leading to the second floor of City Central Library.

Inside the Reference Library he sat at a large table circled by floor-to-ceiling shelves of telephone directories, trade directories and local maps. The windows above the bookshelves were narrow slots, designed to maximize storage space. Being a muggy summer’s day several were open. Peering out he saw the massive roofs of the newly completed council buildings stretch out behind the Library.

A helpful librarian provided him with three map resources, including an A4 Street Atlas of Staffordshire, which looked the most promising with its comprehensive coverage, but more importantly large text street and road names of the city centre and surrounding areas. The main buildings were colour-coded. Having lived in Stoke-on-Trent most of his adult life, he recognized the street names, but this map of the city gave him an entirely new perspective.

Chapter 7

Nathan Dukes had been buying gear from his supplier Yusuf Benzar for a couple of years. The brickie’s labourer and part-time bouncer had developed an unhealthy weekend coke addiction. Unfortunately, due to work drying up he was laid off-site for two months, leaving him four weeks adrift on his rent money, and owing Benzar four hundred quid. The money he got from working the door at the White Horse paid for the shopping, and his missus’ part-time hours at the Bargain Galore discount store in town just about covered the bills, but they struggled. Their landline had been cut off, and his car tax was due in a week; leaving him no option but to do some debt collecting for the dealer.

People who owed money were usually scared by big guys turning up on their doorstep unannounced. And, if he was honest he enjoyed intimidating them. It was the only time he was in control. Besides, Benzar promised him a couple of grand to settle outstanding debts, and he wasn’t fussy how he collected the money.

Dukes had already come down heavily on a middle-aged bloke who owed five hundred quid, battered a youth who borrowed money to buy a moped, and confiscated a woman’s new TV.

Today, he was off around the Heath Hayes estate with a telescopic police baton in his combat trouser pocket. He was pissed off at visiting the same people more than three times and someone was having it. If any one really needed scaring he’d flash his blade.

He sat in his car fired up; eagerly waiting for the addresses to be texted through to him. After five minutes he had his first house call, a couple living in flat 23 in the row of maisonettes on Creswell Road. He recognised the address, a pair of scruffy twats in dirty tracksuits he remembered from his last call two weeks ago. They’d better have at least three hundred quid, or there’d be mither.

Dukes parked his BMW in the street just behind Creswell Road. He didn’t want to alert them. He knocked on number 23 lightly, within a few seconds he heard a man’s voice, ‘Hang on I’m coming.’ Great, they were expecting someone. A scrawny thin youth in his late twenties eased the door open about twelve inches and peered through the gap with a fag hanging out of his mouth. The moment he saw Dukes he panicked and tried to slam it shut. Dukes jammed his boot in the gap and barged in, knocking his fag out of his mouth.

‘What the do you want?’

‘Don't play the stupid twat. You know what I want, at least three hundred today, or I'm taking stuff.’

‘Is Dave back with the draw, I’m dying for a spliff,’ a female voice shouted from another room.

‘Babe get here! It's that debt collector! He’s threatening to take stuff if we don't give him three hundred today.’

‘For fucks sake! I told him last time, come at the end of the month, when the housing benefit comes through,’ she moaned standing in the hallway looking at her partner on his arse.

‘I tell you what, how about I take your new TV and stereo and a hundred quid?’ Dukes said giving them the chance to avoid the inevitable.’

‘No chance! We only just got them about a month ago.’

‘You won’t miss them then, will you?’ Dukes replied.

The youth reared up into his face. ‘Piss off!’

Dukes belted him hard on the side of the head. Disorientated, he stumbled and fell back onto the carpet.

Realising they had to pay something, the woman grabbed her partner by the neck of his hoody and dragged him into the living room. She shut the door on her way back into the hallway to confront Dukes.

‘Listen, come in here,’ she motioned Dukes towards another door. It was a small bedroom with the wallpaper stripped off.

‘Sit down Mr; I'm sure we can come to some arrangement?’ she said, rubbing his crotch.

‘You filthy bitch.’

‘I’ll suck you off if you’d accept forty quid today? That’s all I've got.’

Dukes stared at her. Thinking – yeah and you’d bite my dick off as well you mad cow; although, she wasn’t bad looking. ‘Make it a shag and fifty quid, and the stereo to call the dogs off?’ The young woman thought about it for a few minutes, then stripped down to her knickers and lay provocatively across the bed. Dukes undid his belt and dropped his trousers to his ankles, as she reached under the mattress and pulled out a condom.

Grinding her, he looked around the barren room realising these poor sods hadn’t got a pot to piss in.

Chapter 8

‘Carl, what the bloody hell are you doing?’ screamed Katrina Osborne down the stairs of her boyfriend’s terraced house in Cooper Street, Milton. At once she realised there’d be consequences for her outburst. Their relationship was toxic at the best of times, an addictive communion neither of them had the guts to break apart.

Without warning Carl burst out of the kitchen, flew through the sparse living room, and launched his fist into the nicotine-stained door leading to the stairs. Hand throbbing, he stormed up the steps, and grabbed her chiffon blouse, pulling them face-to-face.

‘Piss off, you’re hurting me! What you banging at?’ she grimaced.

‘I’ll bang you in a minute, bitch. I’ve told you not to interrupt me when I’m working on me scooter.’

‘OK! It’s my night out. Just don’t start, please; I’m begging you?’

With reluctance he let go of her and retreated downstairs without another word. She padded back into their bedroom. He loved that frigging scooter more than her, she thought, putting the finishing touches to her blusher.

Turning to the side she studied herself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. Considering she was forty-two, she still had it. A nice set of pins, a great arse, a blonde bob with no grey roots, and pert breasts that had yet to droop south.

She glanced at her outrageously high cork wedges, and felt horny. Hitching up her knee-length leather skirt, she thought, sod him, I’ll go commando, and wriggled her tiny G-string knickers over the shoes. She slipped them into her shoulder bag next to a loaded coke bullet and a joint she’d nicked earlier from Carl’s secret stash in the bottom of his bedside cabinet drawer. Tonight she needed to forget the arrogant bastard.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated on the bed.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, babe.’ It was Luna, her best friend and drinking buddy. ‘I’ll pick you up at half past seven.’

‘See you then,’ Kat said sharply.

‘What’s the matter? You OK?’ Luna asked, detecting despondency in her friend’s voice.

‘Just had a row with that bastard.’

‘You’ll be OK with a few glasses of wine inside you. Did you get that gear?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget him. He’s not worth it. Let’s party?’

‘Ta ra.’

‘Ta ra.’

She took a last look in the mirror before tackling the steep stairs, gripping onto the flaking handrail as she waddled down.

In the living room she perched on the tired, black, leather sofa, and balled through to the kitchen, ‘Carl, can you lend me twenty quid for the taxi? I’ll pay you back tomorrow, promise.’

He poked his head through the kitchen doorframe and ranted, ‘Are you taking the piss?

‘I need to get home. Can’t walk very far in these shoes.’

‘Wear your pumps then,’ he mocked.

‘Real sexy, don’t be stupid.’

‘How you going to pay for drinks with no money?’ he snapped. ‘You daft cow.’

‘I’m going to the cashpoint.’

With a surprise change of attitude he said, ‘There’s eighty quid in my coat on the back of the chair. Take one of the twenty notes, but I want it back in the morning.’

‘Thanks, will do.’ What had come over him; generosity, without questions? She fished in the pockets of his black coat locating his mobile first. Standing with it in her hand, curiosity got the better of her. Tapping the screen she saw two new text messages. One from his mate, and another from his boss.

Meet us at the Millrace at 8.00.

Pick me up at the Slipware Tankard 12pm tomorrow.

She fumbled it back inside his pocket and then found the eighty quid in the other inside pocket. Why was he lending her cash? Seriously out of character, she thought. But, it was Friday night so she ignored it. The twenty quid would do for taxis, but the credit card she’d taken from his drawer earlier would pay for drinks.

She was about to sit when the taxi’s horn beeped. She trotted into the front room, opened the door, grabbed the tarnished brass knocker and slammed the tatty green door of number twenty Cooper Street.

Katrina had met Luna at Club Golden in the mid-nineteen nineties. She looked stunning in her new Primarni PU leather dress, with daringly low cleavage and waistline peep holes.

‘You look hot!’ she pouted, closing the taxi door behind her. ‘Are those new heels?’ She stared at Luna’s black vamp cut-out platforms as the taxi turned right heading along Leek Road towards the city.

‘Got them today.’

‘They’re lush.’

‘So, what you been rowing about?’

‘Not in here, babe, I’ll tell you in the pub.

They left the taxi in Old Hall Street at 7.45 p.m., and crossed the road linking arms. Heading for the nearest cashpoint, they passed the Reginald Mitchell pub across the pedestrianised space opposite McDonald’s, to a chorus of wolf whistles from a group of young blokes sat smoking on the granite street furniture.

Kat lit the joint and inhaled. Glancing at each other they giggled like teenagers. Shit, that felt good, she thought, exhaling the warm ganja smoke.

‘We’re old enough to be their mothers.’

‘Nice to know you can still turn heads though, Kat.’

‘I know,’ she said, passing the spliff over to Luna.’

‘How much you brought out? Kat asked her.’

‘Seventy quid.’

‘You won’t need that.’

‘Depends, if we latch onto any blokes.’

‘I’d better get the same.’

‘Whose card you using? Carl’s? Does he know you’ve got it?

‘What do you think?’

‘He’ll go sodding ballistic!’

Kat sniggered as she passed over the spliff. ‘To be honest, Lune, I couldn’t give a shit any more. He never buys me anything or takes me anywhere. This is payback.

‘Where we going first?’

‘Auctioneers, OK?’

‘Fine by me, babe.’

She knelt and ground the spliff out under her wedge.

‘You dirty cow,’ Luna said, surprised. ‘I’ve just seen your arse!’

‘Let’s hope there’s no wind tonight then!’

‘Where’re your knickers?’

‘In my bag.’

They turned onto Percy Street and hobbled towards the pub. Two chubby bouncers stood on the stone steps leading up to the Auctioneers, one of the oldest pubs in Hanley.

Like so many of the city’s pubs, it was a chameleon, attracting different age groups depending on which day of the week it was. Monday to Friday cheap ale and wall-to-wall horse racing attracted the punters. Fortunately, the Friday night clientele was a mixed-age party crowd. And it filled up with a more discerning crowd later; revellers into Northern Soul and Disco.

‘What you drinking, Lune? I’ll get these, Carl’s treat.’ She laughed as the effects of the spliff mellowed her.

‘Get me a double Jack Daniels and Coke.’

‘Ice?’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll have the same.’

The lanky greasy-haired student behind the bar was so fixated with Luna’s breasts he almost tripped over himself.

They sat on the comfy settees under the front windows, away from the high chairs near the bar. Although they both liked male attention, they could do without pervy stares from beer-bellied middle-aged blokes with too many tats.

Katrina downed her first JD and Coke in one gulp, her cheeks flushed, and Luna could see the tension begin to drain from her.

‘Slow down, you mad cow. We’ve got all night. You’ll be pissed within the hour knocking it back like that?’

‘Don’t worry, duck, I’m feeling much better,’ she said with a warm glow.’

‘What’s that bastard done now?’

‘The usual crap: he explodes like a pissing bomb, for no reason. He’s a bloody nutter. Grabbed me on the stairs, just because I asked him what he was banging at in the kitchen.’

‘Why do you put up with him?’

‘Got nowhere else to go; he owns the house.’

‘You can stay with me until you find somewhere else, but it’s not ideal, with just one bedroom. It’d be like the old days when we shared that flat in Shelton.’

‘That’s good of you, Lune, but I can’t afford to live on my own,’ she said, disheartened. ‘I suppose he has good points. The bills are paid, and there’s always food in. Besides, we’d end up falling out. No offence, babe, friendship is one thing but living together, you know we’d argue.’

‘Remember that big scrap we had because you gave my ex a blow job in the old flat?’

‘Embarrassing wrestling on that shitty lino like kids. You bit a chunk of my hair out.’

‘Yeah. It cost me forty quid to get that filling fixed.’

They both laughed at how ridiculous and immature they had been back then.

‘If I had a decent job I’d consider it, but not at the moment.’

‘OK, the offer’s there if you need it.’

‘Where are we going next? There’s not enough talent in here. Fancy the Slipware Tankard?’

‘Bit of a hike in these shoes.’ Luna glanced at her heels with a smirk.

Feeling a touch stoned and up for anything, Kat grinned. ‘I know, babe, but they’ve got an outside terrace, and it’s a lovely night. We can sink a bottle of Pinot G?’

Luna downed her drink. ‘OK, you’ve convinced me. Let’s go.’

She pushed through a group of leering blokes who’d be single to the grave, Kat thought, by the looks of them.

Chapter 9

To the rest of the world Carl Bentley seemed a popular bloke, but like most people he had secrets, and a reputation in Milton, a village three and half miles from the city centre.

He sat opposite the wall-mounted jukebox in the pub with his two best mates, John McKnight and Terry Clarke, necking lager like there’d be a drought within the hour. His leg bounced under the table to the Northern Soul classic ‘The Snake’, by Al Wilson.

‘Fucking love this tune, man!’ he said nodding to the beat.

The Millrace was a traditional two-room bar and lounge gaffe set back off Maunders Road leading toward the busy Leek New Road. A sixteen-mile stretch linking Stoke-on-Trent to the rolling Staffordshire moorlands countryside. Like plenty of other locals in the city it had gone through hard times during the recession, but thrived under the present landlady.

Bentley and his mates were waiting for a taxi to ferry them to the city centre. Most Friday nights they crawled round the local pubs. For a village of moderate size, Milton had more than its fair share of boozers; five in total and Bentley used them all. Everyone who frequented the pubs knew him. Although, apart from his circle of close friends, no one knew what he did for a living, the general rumours were that he worked for a local businessman. Most suspected he was involved in organised crime, but none dared confront him to clarify his job description, which was wise, considering his reputation as a notorious football hooligan during the late eighties and early nineties.

He slammed his second empty pint glass onto the table and reached inside his pocket for his fags. ‘I’m going for a tab after I’ve had a piss and check on the taxi.’ Passing the pool table on his way to the gents he bumped into a couple of locals. ‘Out on the piss, boys?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said the colossus Grant Bolton. ‘We’re off up town, about twelve of us. Got a minibus coming.’

‘We might bump into you later then? What pubs you going to?’ Bentley asked.

‘’Spoons, White Horse… the usual. A few of us have got tickets for the All-Nighter at King’s Hall. Brilliant last time. You going?’

‘Nice one. Got mine last week. Bought it off Richie for a tenner ’cause he can’t go. If I don’t bump into you uptown, I’ll see you down there.’

‘Yeah, sound, mate. I’ll give you a bell. Still the same mobile?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice one. See you later.’

Minutes later, Bentley stood to the left of the main entrance doorway, and lit up whilst gazing down the road trying to spot their cab through a plume of rising smoke. Whilst stubbing his fag out, he heard a taxi horn blast from lower down the road. Without checking he cocked his head back through the door into the lounge and signalled to his mates with a hooked thumb: ‘Taxi!’

Before they could join him Grant Bolton heckled his mates. A sudden rush of lads shoved their way past the bar over to the entrance. Bentley watched the rowdy group of twelve dive into a silver transit van, which he’d mistakenly thought was for them.

Ten minutes later, Bentley and Clarke jumped onto the back seat of their taxi, leaving McKnight the unenviable task of riding shotgun and picking up the bill in the front. It was a juvenile prank they played when sharing a cab.

He knew as soon as the cab hit the city centre those tossers would jump out like Batman and Robin, pissing themselves laughing while he coughed up.

Chapter 10

Across town, Kat and Luna hobbled towards Piccadilly and cut down the bank through Brunswick Street, past Liquid and the Sugar Mill nightclubs, all the while taking care not to turn an ankle. The hundred-foot Telecoms Tower rose above the buildings like a seventies concrete draughtboard with its thousands of embossed squares.

‘Stop a min, babe. I need a fag!’ Kat said, fishing in her bag.

They crossed Marsh Street, North, heading towards the bar. The Slipware Tankard was the former home of the Staffordshire pottery firm George Ashworth, on Etruria Road, Hanley, and was built in 1807. The sixteen-bay-long factory had two stories, separated by a string course. Above the arched entrance, a tympanum with Venetian-style windows finished off the mixed architectural styles typical of the period on the front façade. The whole place looked like the stable block of a country manor house.

Two of the four original bottle kilns remained standing in the central courtyard; their curvaceous form gave them the appearance of female hips squeezed by a tight corset.

The regular crowd were a mix of hip and trendy eighteen to thirties; into fashion, bands, EDM and weekend partying.

Two doormen greeted Kat and Luna as they entered through the side doors leading into the main bar area.

‘It’s quiet, Kat.’ Luna said, glancing around the huge interior at dozens of empty seats framed by four brick-bonded industrial tiled walls.

‘Don’t worry, it soon fills up. It’s still early yet. Besides, we get to pick the best seats in the courtyard.’

Kat ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio on ice.

‘Seventeen quid!’ Luna said, giving her friend a shocked stare.

‘I know, but that’s the price you pay not to be surrounded by Neanderthals.’

‘Suppose so, Let’s get a seat outside?’

‘In a min, babe. I need a pee!’ she said.

‘Yeah, now you mention it, I need to go.’

With that they asked the barman to hold the wine until they came back from the ladies, up a short flight of steps, to the left of the bar.

Leaving the cubicle, Luna spun in a wild circle proclaiming she wanted to dance and shag all night in that order. They hobbled back down the steps, collected the wine and drifted outside into the courtyard. It was a muggy summer evening and they were both salivating at the prospect of ice-cold Pinot Grigio.

‘Where should we sit, Kat?’ she asked, making eyes at the well-groomed fella in mirror shades, lounging across a pile of sumptuous cushions covering one of the sofas perched on the block paved courtyard. ‘I spotted him first!’ she insisted, staking her claim on passing his table.

‘Calm down, girl.’ Kat smirked jealously.

The man glanced at them with a wry smile.

‘You don’t think he heard me, do you?’

‘What do you think? He’s sitting about ten feet away from us.’

Kat poured, almost draining the bottle since the glasses were more like goldfish bowls than wine glasses.

‘Shit, that works out almost eight-fifty a glass,’ Luna moaned.

‘Sod it, we’re out for a good time tonight. I don’t give a shit, it’s only money, and it’s not mine!’

The man sitting opposite, texting, was in his late thirties, six feet, with dark-brown hair styled short back and sides, swept over to the right. He looked Italian, sporting facial stubble, and wore a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt, jeans and loafers. Very dashing, they thought.

He observed them coolly through his shades, smiled again, then continued checking his messages.

After about twenty minutes they’d demolished the wine over girlie chit-chat and cigarettes.

Where the fuck was Yusuf, he wondered. Although he made allowances because they were brothers, his lack of punctuality enraged him. Bored with waiting, Ibrahim Benzar offered the girls a drink to amuse his curiosity. Confidently he called over, ‘Would you ladies like to join me for a drink?’

‘Yeah!’ they voiced simultaneously, with unblinking eyes, and a slight air of desperation.

His arrogant approach worked and within minutes they sat eagerly awaiting another bottle of wine. Like a gentleman, he moved to the opposite side of the table, giving up the cushions.

‘Please have a seat. What do you want to drink?’ he asked with a slightly foreign accent, ‘More Pinot, or perhaps champagne?’

He didn’t have to ask again. Without hesitation they opted for champagne.

Kat and Luna watched him get up and go to the bar.

‘Shit girl, he’s cute. Even better, he’s got money,’ she said, cosying up to the cushions.

‘Haven’t had champers in ages.’

‘We’ve only been in here half an hour. What a catch: champagne in the sun.’

‘Not quite, babe; he’s just after a shag like most blokes.’

‘I’ll shag him as long as he keeps us topped up with drinks.’ They faced each other and laughed.

Ibrahim returned, and within five minutes the Moët Chandon was sitting in an ice bucket in front of them and they were sipping from tall flutes, bubbles tickling their noses as the straw-coloured liquid slid down to the background sound of Classic Soul.

‘What are your names?’

‘I’m Katrina and this is Luna,’ she said, tugging her skirt down crossing her legs.

‘And you are?’ Luna butted in.

‘Ibrahim.’

‘Unusual name.’

‘It’s Turkish.’

‘Ah! That explains your accent. A mix of Potteries with a hint of eastern European?’

‘I lived in Turkey with my parents until I was sixteen, but that was over twenty-five years ago. I came over here with my brother to get an education. After college I went to Staffs University to do an English language degree.’

‘Where do you work?’ Kat probed.

Luna nudged her with a subtle elbow.

‘I have one or two businesses in Hanley.’

‘What type of business?’

‘You ask a lot of questions?’

‘She’s a right nosy cow,’ Luna said.

Kat felt awkward. ‘Charming, that is, babe.’

He paused and rubbed a hand over his stubble. ‘I own a bar, and a martial arts gym, amongst other things.’

‘What’s the bar called?’ Luna asked unashamed.

‘You’re sitting in it.’

Both their faces animated and in a sudden moment of clarity it dawned on Kat. They were talking to Carl’s boss. He’d mentioned him a few times in conversation but never divulged more than his name, and that he owned the Slipware Tankard and shouldn’t be crossed. At that point she knew the smart thing to do would be to make excuses and politely leave, but against her better judgement, she decided to stay; after all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong, having a drink with her friend and her bastard partner’s boss, even though she did fancy the pants off him. Kat needed a release, a way to forget her mundane life and loveless relationship for a few hours.

‘What do you two do?’ he asked.

‘I work in a call centre,’ Luna said.

‘I’m just in-between jobs at the minute,’ Kat said, chewing her bottom lip with a blush of embarrassment. She fumbled for a cigarette to boost her confidence.

As the conversation progressed, he appeared to have more eye contact with Kat, building a better rapport with her.

After thirty minutes of small talk, he offered them cocktails. The blonde was so hot, he thought, noticing that she didn’t appear to be wearing any knickers, which made him lust after her even more. Although he knew coming on to virtual strangers was a touch lecherous, he could tell by their flirtatious body language that at least one of them would be game, and he’d be in with a chance of screwing one of them in the bridal suite at the Willow Room Hotel in town before the night was out.

‘If you want to follow me, my barman will bring the mojitos in to us.’ He led them across the courtyard to the bottle kiln on the left. Both kilns had been beautifully restored and the glass walkway that joined them was a stunning architectural talking point. The thirty-foot-long frameless structure doubled up as a dance floor; flashing coloured LEDs were fitted seamlessly into the stone-slabbed floor.

Ibrahim opened the large coffin-shaped steel entrance door leading into the uniquely circular space.

‘Take a seat,’ Ibrahim said, pointing towards two vanilla leather Chesterfield sofas facing a coffee table in the centre of the two-hundred-year-old kiln.

They glanced nervously up at the early evening sky peeking through the narrow neck of the kiln high above, as Ibrahim removed a large framed photograph of the bar from the heavily sandblasted curved brickwork, revealing a safe. He tapped in the code, opened the door and extracted a wad of notes. He came back over and to Kat’s delight sat next to her.

‘This place is unreal; it’s like a cave,’ Kat said, looking around curiously at the interior; subtle up-lighters cast strange shadows across the brickwork. ‘Must have cost a fortune to do,’ she said, addressing Luna.

‘You not been inside a renovated kiln before, babe?’

‘No. Seen a few from the outside.’ She gave Luna a puzzled look.

‘I’ll have to take you to the Dudson Centre in Hope Street for a coffee. They’ve got one just like this, but it’s a mini pottery museum inside with a spiral staircase up to a mezzanine level.’

Kat was about to reply when the barman entered, carrying the drinks on a tray. He set them down on the table and nodded to his boss before leaving.

Ibrahim stirred the crushed ice, mint and lime in Kat’s tumbler with the straw. She took a slurp, the sweet and sour rum tasted divine. ‘Not bad.’

Luna gave Ibrahim a slow sexy smile. ‘We don’t normally do this sort of thing, you know,’ she said, trying to sound coy as if being the centre of attention was a new experience to them.

‘I understand the need for escapism as much as anyone else,’ he said.

‘You not having one?’ Kat asked.

‘Maybe later. I have a business meeting tonight and need to keep a clear head.’

His phone rang. Glancing at his watch, he lifted it from his pocket and tapped the green answer button. ‘Yusuf! Excuse me a moment, I have to take this,’ Ibrahim said, edging back towards the entrance.

Practising martial arts had taught him controlled emotion, especially in front of other people. Ranting and displays of anger in public were impolite and a sign of weakness in Japanese culture. Make no mistake; he’d bollock Yusuf properly for the no-show later behind closed doors.

He hated having to involve family in his business, but had promised his mother and father twenty years ago to look after Yusuf, although for how much longer he couldn’t say, as the arrogant bastard pissed him off. Yusuf was becoming a real liability.

‘Sorry, I have to be at a business meeting now. But if you call me on this number –’ he passed over a business card to Kat ‘– we can meet later for drinks. Both of you are welcome to join me and my associates at the casino after we’ve finished.’

With that Ibrahim ushered the girls back out into the fading sunlight of the courtyard, which was filling up with weekend revellers. He kissed them both on the cheek, said goodbye and exited into the bar in front of a few gawping onlookers sipping pints of iced cider.

They both stood in amazement, bemused at what just happened.

‘He won’t answer his phone later,’ Kat declared cynically, with a leery look on her face. ‘Players like him never do.’

‘Probably not. Call it female intuition but he was definitely giving you more attention than me. He fancies the pants off you, babe.’

‘They’re already off.’ She laughed with a mischievous wit in her blue eyes.

‘You dirty cow.’

‘Keep it down, those two over there heard you,’ Luna said, referring to two chubby women in garish floral dresses, seated to the left of where they were standing, fat legs red from sunbathing.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing, then disappeared back towards the loos, bladders bursting with champagne and mojito.

Chapter 11

The Genting Casino was situated around a hundred and fifty yards from the Slipware Tankard bar on the same side of Etruria Road. The converted nightclub, formally known as Valentino’s, looked fairly anonymous in the daytime, but, when darkness fell, this state-of-the-art bronze clad structure came alive. Spectacular roof lighting cascaded waterfall effects in hues of blue down the front and sides of it, casting a shimmering pool of blue upon the concrete driveway leading up to the entrance. The Vegas-style portal provided a late-night playground for tourists, gamblers and high rollers.

Ibrahim smiled at the receptionist as he strolled with confidence past the curved mirrored reception desk, through the sliding glass doors into the huge casino room, split up into five distinctive zones.

God, I love this place, he thought, gazing around the room at the spectacular, glass pendant shades and illuminated ceiling edge. On passing the touchscreen slot machines he scanned the bar.

Unlike his brother Yusuf, he expected the summoned crew members to be on time for the meeting. He spotted Charlie and Leonard unwittingly propping up the illuminated glass fronted bar four stools apart, whilst Malcolm sat hunched over his mobile at a high table behind the glass petition separating the formal bar area from the casino floor. None of these guys had met before, the common thread being they’d worked for Ibrahim in the past. This was an introduction to assess their interaction. A meeting of minds.

He’d known Charlie Bullard for several years. They’d met at Ibrahim’s uncle’s restaurant in London where he’d worked for twelve months during the early nineties. Charlie dined there with a Cypriot crime firm who he’d pulled jobs with. Charlie claimed he’d retired after his last stint inside in ninety-four, which had cost him ten years of his life. Although judging by his dingy council flat in Hanley, and his seventy-three quid a week pittance of benefit payments, Ibrahim was convinced he’d get him on board. Besides, after already discussing the heist, he was in far too deep to refuse.

Loner Leonard Vale didn’t find it easy to mix with new people, especially women, who avoided him because of his repugnant appearance. The 35-year-old’s greasy shoulder-length ginger hair, wispy ginger goatee and shitty-looking fag-stained teeth, made him a pariah. The unemployed tech geek had zero ambition, and previous convictions for hacking in America, and was always looking to supplement his job seeker’s allowance. Most importantly, he was a freaking genius when it came to computers; his specialisms were hacking into financial institutions and illegal surveillance.

Malcolm Preston was Ibrahim’s accountant. The 45-year-old bespectacled weasel, who had a weakness for classy escort girls, had followed HMRC tax laws religiously for years when Ibrahim acquired his services five years ago. But due to the economic downturn of the pottery industry all of his biggest long-term clients went into administration, virtually wiping out his business in the process.

Teetering on financial insolvency, against his better judgement, he set up the usual legitimate tax avoidance schemes for Ibrahim’s businesses, until Ibrahim reeled him in with an introduction to the lucrative business of money-laundering, although he remained frightened shitless that his association with the Turk would be discovered by the authorities.

To avoid being overheard, Ibrahim ushered them to one of the private booths clustered around the sound stage. Whilst waiting for Yusuf to arrive, he introduced them.

‘Charlie, this is Malcolm Preston, my accountant.’ Charlie offered a welcoming hand over the table.

‘Malcolm, this is Leonard; he’s a computer whizz who does my tech. You all know my brother Yusuf who’ll be here soon if I don’t have him assassinated before he arrives,’ he joked with a dissatisfied grin. That bastard brother of his was an embarrassment.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asked the unlikely cohorts.

‘Guinness please,’ Charlie said.

‘Stella for me,’ Leonard muffled, barely audible.

‘My usual please.’

‘I’ll join you Malcolm. Chardonnay, bottle OK?’ he nodded. Apart from worshipping cash, one of the few things the accountant and Ibrahim had in common was their enthusiasm for half decent wine, which they quaffed during monthly accounts lunches.

He drifted over to the empty bar; most of the punters were busy splashing cash on the casino floor, an ideal situation considering the highly illegal proposal he was about to discuss with the gathering of career criminals.

A tap on the shoulder startled him; he turned to find Yusuf grinning. Just like Ibrahim, his 37-year-old brother was a suave Mediterranean type. Surprisingly, he was in good shape, considering the lazy bastard smoked, ate like a pig, and didn’t rise from his bed until around eleven most mornings.

Ibrahim scanned his brother, shaking his head in disgust.

‘Selam,’ Yusuf said, trying to thaw his brother’s reproachful stare.

‘What time do you call this?’ Order a drink, sit down, and keep quiet.’

‘Nice manners, bro.’

‘Gentlemen!’ Ibrahim announced returning to the booth, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting. You’re invited because I value your professional opinions about certain aspects of a very lucrative job that’s come my way. In fact, the person bankrolling the job is prepared to pay large sums of cash to each of you in return for your specialist help. I’ll tell you the finer details later, but as always information leakage would fuck things up. Not that I’m implying any of you would blab about this… I can’t emphasise enough the need for strict confidentiality. Even if you decide not to join us in this venture.’

‘How much are we talking?’ Malcolm asked.

‘I’ll tell you when I get back from taking a piss,’ Ibrahim said, keeping them dangling.

Chapter 12

‘One million pounds,’ Ibrahim said with a deadpan look.

‘Shit!’ Leonard said, scratching his goatee.

Malcolm pitched in. ‘That’s a shedload of cash to keep quiet about.’

‘Chill, a smart accountant like you knows how to avoid detection. It’ll be two million in used notes, split five ways, and the rest will be an untraceable bank deposit, leaving no paper trail.’

‘Used notes?’ Malcolm screeched gulping air. ‘What the hell are we supposed to do with four hundred grand in cash each?’

‘Shh! Malc, keep the volume down,’ insisted Ibrahim, ticking him off. ‘Chill out, they’ll be laundered,’ he asserted. ‘But one thing is for sure, you can’t pay those notes into a UK bank, buy fuck-off big, cars, yachts, houses, or anything else that looks beyond your current financial status. More a case of retiring early with some serious mullah under your mattress.’

‘Count me in,’ Leonard spluttered without hesitation.

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Ibrahim cautioned. ‘You need to know the facts before deciding.’ He leaned closer into the table, scanned around the bar area. double-checking they couldn’t be overheard. ‘The bounty is gold,’ he whispered.

Leonard grinned like a court jester. ’What, you mean treasure?’

Yusuf looked at the group smugly. ‘Is he for real, like pirates and all that shit?’

Shaking his head in annoyance, Ibrahim shot him a dissatisfied look.

‘For once Leonard, you’re spot on, it’s treasure.’

Yusuf shuffled his chair in, looking bewildered. ‘Is this a wind-up?’

‘Deadly serious, bro. A cool three-point-three million in gold right on our doorstep.’

‘And it’s not a security transit blag, or a bank?’ asked Charlie.

‘Nope. Nothing like that.’

Charlie took a slurp of his Guinness, Leonard sat there beaming at his empty pint glass, and Yusuf kept his mouth shut.

Nervously pushing his specs onto the bridge of his nose, the accountant broke the momentary silence. ‘If we’ve finished playing Cluedo, I’ll put you out of your misery. He wants to knock off the Staffordshire Hoard from the Potteries Museum,’ he said, breaking the tension.

‘Correct, Malc,’ Ibrahim interrupted. ‘Seventh-century Saxon gold… all three and half thousand pieces of it. Kind of ironic, since the Saxons plundered most of it from invading tribes and enemies during their battles. The best part is they’re mostly tiny pieces, which makes it easier to steal. The bulk of the Hoard is sword fittings, but there are also several brooches and some decent-sized crosses encrusted with rubies.’

‘Someone’s done their homework,’ Yusuf said sarcastically, annoyed that he’d not been informed before the others.

‘What did you think we were going to do? Stroll in the place waving shooters, smash the glass with hammers, and meet up in the pub for lunch?’

Yusuf slid down in his chair like a scolded child.

Shifting from casual conversation to more pointed questions, Bullard probed Ibrahim. ‘I hate to state the obvious, but Hanley Police headquarters is down the road from the Museum. It would be like trying to slip the police commissioner’s Rolex off his wrist, during his afternoon nap. We wouldn’t get three hundred yards before being pinned to the tarmac by an armed response team.’

‘Good point, Charl. All depends on how we plan to get out the building. After discussing our options at length with the buyer, who’s turned over plenty of museums and galleries. I think we’ve found the perfect exit strategy borrowed from the lucrative world of art theft. Just bear with me a minute and I’ll explain the concept we’re considering, then you can give me your opinions.’

Ibrahim reached inside his jacket pocket and fished out a large android mobile with a six-inch screen. Tapping the device he located the picture gallery. His three co-conspirators shuffled their chairs closer. The slide show began with an opening shot of the entrance to the Potteries Museum followed by consecutive images, leading into a room decked out in the style of a Saxon Mead hall where the Staffordshire Hoard was on display to the public.

Finally, he whetted their appetites with close-up shots of some of the key pieces of the Hoard; garnet-set sword pyramids, garnet inlaid buttons, a folded cross, the eagle mount and, his personal favourite, a decorative strip of gold bearing an inscription from the Vulgate version of the Latin Bible.

Leonard piped up. ‘Looks like a load of old brass tat!’ Then he added, ‘Seriously, this gold is worth three-point-three million?’

‘Listen, I know it doesn’t look like it’s worth much but you’ve got to understand the significance of this collection. It’s the largest Anglo-Saxon Hoard in the world. To an egotistical collector it’s priceless.’

‘If it’s worth three-point-three million,’ Malcolm quizzed him, ‘paying out a million each doesn’t make good business sense? The buyer is taking a hit of one-point-seven.’

‘Profit is irrelevant to him.’

‘Must have money to burn?’ the accountant added.

Ibrahim shrugged. ‘That’s not our problem. We still get five million split between us all.’

‘OK, we get the gist of it, but how do you plan to steal the gold from the Museum undetected?’ Charlie asked.

‘That’s the clever part.’ Ibrahim grinned. ‘As I said earlier we’re going to borrow a strategy used by forgers. Basically, we get replicas made of the main pieces on display and do a switch. The idea being only a Hoard expert will notice the difference. The average museum visitor and Dad’s army security guards will be none the wiser. By the time they discover the gold’s gone, it will have disappeared without a trace.’

‘Sounds risky,’ Malcolm said.

‘All scams are risky, but as they say in the movies, it’s all in the planning. If we get that spot on then we should be able to pull it off.’

‘Any more questions?’

‘Yeah! When do we get the mullah?’ Yusuf asked.

‘What a surprise Yusuf’s asking about the mullah already. Listen bro, we’ll get an advance for expenses and equipment upfront followed by the balance on delivery of the goods. I’ll personally make sure everyone gets paid. In order for this to work we must trust each other. If you decide you’re in, then we’re buying your silence and your expertise. Remember at this stage I’m just sounding you guys out and there’s no obligation. Although once you’re in, you’re in, no backing out. We’re not turning over the jewellery cabinets at Argos, these are ancient artefacts,’ he said emphasising the point.

Malcolm swept his hand through the few strands of hair left on his head. With a concerned expression he asked Ibrahim. ‘When do you need to know if we’re in?’

‘Soon as, by Monday at the latest. That gives you a whole weekend to think about it. I’ll carry on working on the logistics with Charlie and Leonard over the next week or so, but that will depend on their decision to join us or not. What you thinking, guys?’

‘Definitely a million each?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Yeah. Four-hundred grand cash, the rest in an offshore bank.’

‘As long as we can develop a workable plan that covers all bases then I’m in,’ Charlie said. ‘But it would have to be rock solid before I’ll commit. Any slip ups and we’ll all go down.’

‘I take your point. Leonard, how about you?’ Ibrahim could tell he was bricking it.

Vale fidgeted in his chair. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘Erm, what would I have to do?’

‘Don’t worry, your involvement will be technical, computer surveillance, and stuff like that.’

The tech geek felt relieved knowing he wouldn’t be directly involved in nicking the gold, although this didn’t ease the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘OK, I’m in,’ he murmured.

‘Good man,’ Ibrahim said, patting him on the shoulder.

‘What’s my role in this?’ Malcolm asked, aware that it would be difficult to avoid sharp-end involvement, considering Ibrahim virtually paid his mortgage.

‘Same goes for you, Malc. You wouldn’t be involved in the heist, just setting up the best ways we can each splice a million into our lives without detection.’

The accountant closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Yusuf?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Do I ever make you do anything?’ Ibrahim said knowing his brother couldn’t refuse.

‘OK, I’m in,’ he surrendered, with a half-hearted shrug, knowing he owed his brother far too much to refuse.

‘Don’t worry guys; we’ll have several meetings during the planning stages,’ raising his wine glass, Ibrahim proposed a toast ‘One-million each! OK, now that’s out of the way, let’s hit the casino floor.’

Chapter 13

Barry Gibson leaned his heavily tattooed forearms on the packed bar of the White Horse pub in the city centre. His highly polished oxblood Doc Martin boots with red laces, and blue Fred Perry polo defined him as an ageing skinhead with attitude; a throwback from a bygone era. He’d been out since seven and was bladdered, meaning he could kick off at any moment.

Grant Bolton and his mates had finished their pints and it was his turn to get a round in. Pushing through the three deep throng at the bar, the stocky Miltoner accidentally nudged Gibson in the back; stumbling forward he spilt a mouthful of lager down the front of his polo.

‘Watch it!’

‘Sorry, Bud, it’s all these pushing in,’ Bolton said. It was then he realised it was that tattooed bastard who gave his younger brother a kicking last Christmas in the Burton Stores, but he didn’t let on. Eighteen year old Liam Bolton never reported it to the police, because he knew his big bro would sort it. Grant vowed when his suspended sentence for theft was up, he’d take Gibson out, but this wasn’t the right time: too many witnesses.

‘Clumsy cunt!’ Gibson uttered stretching his top from the bottom, to stop it clinging to his chest.

‘What did you call me?’ Bolton demanded, staring at him whilst easing into an available slot at the bar.

‘A clumsy cunt!’

‘You’re fucking lucky I’m in a good mood tonight, or I’d do you!’ Bolton said.

The burly landlord Darryl Connor overheard the altercation whilst pulling a pint of Titanic. ‘Come on now, no trouble,’ he said.

‘This tit spilt my beer!

‘Fuck off you eighties retard,’ Bolton taunted, thinking Gibson would keep until later.

‘Any more of that shit,’ Connor asserted, ‘and you’ll both be out!’

Turning to face the bar, Bolton said, ‘Yeah, OK, do us seven pints of Stella, and five Kopparbergs, Strawberry and Lime flavour?’

Gibson was seething, judging by his face, which looked like a smacked arse. Taking another gulp of lager, he tried to keep a lid on his temper.

Arthur Cumberbatch, a regular sitting opposite the bar, also overheard. The 70-year-old alcoholic knew Gibson and squeezed through the tight knit throng in an attempt to stop a major fracas.

Seeing the old man in the line of fire, the landlord stopped serving and called one of his bouncers to defuse the situation.

Nathan Dukes faced off with Gibson. ‘Not you again – fucking pervert. Any more mither and we’ll sling you out.’

‘Whatever,’ Gibson said, far too pissed to care.

Dukes glared at him. He then made his way into the back room, slipped his cagoule on and nipped outside for a fag.

A broad man edged through swathes of drinkers and made his way over to the gents in the White Horse pub. Upon entering he noticed his target hunched over the trough taking a pee. Barry Gibson leaned his head on the tiles as he took aim in a pissed stupor. Whilst emptying his bladder the stocky man glanced sideways at him.

‘What you looking at?’ spewed the skinhead.

‘Not you.’ The man didn’t want to put Gibson into defence mode: that would just make it harder.

‘Yeah, right, you’re giving me the big eye,’ he slurred.

‘I’d keep your mouth shut, if I was you, or you’ll be drinking your own piss in a minute,’ the man retorted.

‘Yeah, fucking come on then,’ the skinhead said, spinning round with his knob still hanging out, dribbling over his boots and onto the floor.

‘I’ll kill you, you scummy twat,’ the man said staring face-to-face. He was supposed to take him out somewhere remote, stab him and let him bleed out, but this was it, his window.

The skinhead spat in his face: putrid stinking fag and beer saliva.

Steaming with anger, red mist enveloped the man. Without hesitation he flung his head back and butted the skinhead hard on the bridge of the nose, breaking it on contact. In one fell swoop he slipped in his own urine, crashed backwards violently, smashing his head on the sharp edge of the stainless steel trough, before landing in a heap on the floor. The man leaned over him, his blade drawn ready to finish him off. Getting closer still he noticed the skinhead was still breathing and blood was gushing down the front of the trough from a gaping wound in the back of his skull, pooling onto the tiles behind him. If the bastard somehow survived, he’d be able to identify him.

Hands on head with indecision, he paced the gents frantically trying to think what to do. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He darted towards a wastebasket in the corner, which was double-bagged with clear bin liners. Whipping them out, he emptied used hand towels onto the floor, then placed them over each hand.

As he yanked his victims head forward, blood transferred onto the bags. Without hesitation he carefully pushed the tip of the blade into the wound: forcing it until at least an inch had penetrated his brain. Blood gushed from the wound like water from a cracked pipe. He withdrew the blade, and wiped it clean on his victim’s polo shirt. The skinhead’s skull banged against the edge of the trough.

How the hell was he going to get out unnoticed? Looking around the gents he spotted a wooden door wedge sitting on the windowsill behind the door. He slammed it under the door and kicked it hard to stop anyone entering the gents. ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he uttered under his breath. Think, think.’

Impulsively he grabbed the skinhead around the ankles of his docks and dragged him across the terrazzo floor level with the second cubicle door, desperately trying not to get blood on his clothes. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he gulped, looking at the stream of blood across the tiles. It was carnage.

Trying not to leave any fingerprints, he scrunched the bag on his right hand into a fist and banged the cubicle door open. Spiking adrenaline gave him a massive burst of strength as he heaved his victim up on the toilet. Rushing, he got the angle wrong and gravity took over as the skinhead slumped forward, arms dangling limp down his sides. Luckily for him the cubicle was narrow. In haste he leaned the body cross-legged against the graffiti-covered Formica side, and exited, shutting the door behind him.

One of the ceiling strip lights flickered eerily and popped.

In partial light, with the sound of his heartbeat thrashing in his ears, he agonised. ‘How am I going to get out of here?’

Looking round the piss stinking magnolia box, he remembered the window at the opposite end of the room; a small, white, double-glazed unit, which opened sideways. It looked about two feet high, just tall enough to climb through. He dashed towards it, grabbed the handle and yanked it up, thanking his lucky stars that some careless cleaner had left it unlocked.

He clambered through, hands first and dropped four feet onto the concrete below. Up on his feet he spun around but stumbled into a pile of black refuge sacks. Scanning around he realised he was looking onto Old Lane, a courtyard at the back of several premises in the city centre. He slipped his hood up and exited stealthily. This was messy, very messy. He should have bladed him straight away: no questions asked. That vile bastard Gibson had been a dead man walking, but now it looked like an accident, a fight; maybe that would work to his advantage.

A Word From Jon

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