The Wharf Butcher (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Annie Jenkins, dressed in a cream floral dress, tights and white trainers, sat impassively on the edge of the bar stool. She was a slim built woman with hazel eyes, a ruddy complexion, and long brown curly hair swept back from her face and tied back. A confirmed alcoholic, just three months short of her thirty-sixth birthday, Annie had worked tirelessly with every organisation in the land to rid herself of her drink addiction. None had succeeded. Not even the Probation Criminal Justice Service. Placed on a detox treatment program using chlordiazepoxide, even that had failed miserably.

Come rain, come shine, Annie was a creature of habit. Every morning at ten, she would stand at the top of Gateshead High Street and await the first pub door to open. Today was the turn of ‘The Grove’ and Annie was its first customer. Eight hours later, after staggering into her favourite watering hole on Bensham Road, she looked decidedly the worse for wear. Now amongst friends, no one gave a damn about Annie’s inebriated condition. It was that kind of pub: all were welcome and not judged.

‘Same poison?’ The barman said, in broken English.

‘Yeah,’ Annie replied, fumbling in her purse to grab a handful of loose change.

Nowadays, alcohol was the only remedy that could mask Annie’s panic attacks. It gave her false courage, helped her to sleep and, above all, allowed her to cope with everyday life. Little did she realise just how much damage it was doing to her health. Not that she cared. Looking back, things had not always been this way, at least not until the depression kicked in. Nowadays, Annie’s entire life seemed to revolve around her comfort zones.
They were the only mental boundaries that Annie felt safe in. Depression and drink were inseparable in Annie’s crazy upside down little world. Both were evil, and both utterly debilitating. Besides, who gave a damn that her husband had walked out on her, or that she’d lost her job because of it. Nobody! Even close family and friends had deserted her. But hey, did anyone really understand what she was going through? The emotional battles, the drink demons, and her divorce problems with Luke? Now that was an episode in Annie’s life that she could never quite come to terms with. It was the beginning of the end, a desperate downward struggle that had driven her to the very depths of despair.

Through bloodshot eyes, Annie’s attentions had inextricably been drawn towards a tall, dark stranger now playing the gaming machine. He was scrawny looking, and wore a black open neck shirt, black trousers and a stylish black leather bomber jacket drawn tight at the waist. His hair was cropped short, and he was sporting a three-day stubble. It wasn’t the ridiculous Totectors safety boots he was wearing or the cold steely glint in his eyes. No, it was something else that had drawn Annie’s attention towards him.

At a glance, he wasn’t as old as Annie had first made him out to be. He was younger, much younger. Not handsome, just scrawny, perhaps a little jaded around the edges. Amused by the stranger’s antics, she sat spellbound as the four large chance wheels tumbled into free-fall again. What followed was an endless cacophony of jingles, thumps, bangs and pulsating coloured lights.

Then it struck her.

The stranger was wearing a leg brace.

The room was extremely busy tonight, two deep at the bar; standing room only. Annie recognised a few regular punters in the crowd
,
The Stay Clear
s
as she liked to call them. These were the local drug pushers, the no-goods who plied their evil trade on the vulnerable and brought nothing but misery to the rest of the local community. Not all were bad of course; there were a few decent people amongst them, including her drinking partner Scrumpy Jack. Everybody’s friend, Scrumpy was a bit of an oddball. He always wore a black Pork Pie hat full of badges, and had a great sense of humour. There again, he could be extremely violent at times, especially when drunk on cheap cider. Like so many of Annie’s so-called drinking partners, the majority had ended up in the gutter of life.

‘Hi,’ the stranger whispered.

‘Piss off.’

‘You okay?’ he asked.

Annie dug her heels in on the bar stool and spun to face him.

‘Lost all your money, pet,’ Annie slurred.

There followed a moment’s hesitation, a recovering of balance. When the stranger spoke, his words were lost in the general noise of the room. It unsettled her. Devilment shone in his eyes, as he temptingly slid a large double whiskey towards her. It was already too late. Without thinking she leaned over and grasped tight hold of the whisky tumbler as if her whole life depended on it. Her head was swimming, and the drink wasn’t helping any either. Leaning over, she playfully tugged on his coat lapel and caught the strong whiff of garlic on his breath. It was weird, the notions that sometimes came into Annie’s head. If he wasn’t a vampire slayer, then who the hell was he?

‘I don’t remember asking you for this.’

‘You didn’t.’

They stared long and hard at one another.

‘I don’t take drinks from strangers,’ Annie mumbled.

‘Not even from Lexus?’

Annie wasn’t sure what she wanted at this moment, and that name certainly didn’t mean anything to her. Should she end it now – before it all got out of hand? What the hell, she cursed. She was beginning to enjoy herself and the stranger seemed fair game.

‘Don’t push your luck, I’m no whore.’

‘You’re Annie Jenkins – aren’t you?’

Annie drew back. ‘Everyone around here knows who I––’

‘But do they know you once worked for Gilesgate?’ the stranger interrupted.

How could he have possibly known that? She never talked to anyone about her private life; it was her one golden rule. Her past was sacrosanct, and she cherished it beyond everything. Drawn by an irresistible magnetism, Annie sat spellbound by the stranger’s alluring antics. He reminded her of an unfinished chapter in a book; incomplete, wanting and yet intriguing. She tried to think logically, anything but this. Then, as another large whiskey tumbler fell into her grasp, she suddenly felt vulnerable.

Twenty minutes later, and the room began to spin. She steadied herself, reached out, and grabbed tight hold of the bar rail. It was then she notice
d
the deep scar running diagonally across the stranger’s brow. Its ugliness fascinated her.

‘Tell me about this,’ Annie said, teasingly running her finger along the scar line.

The stranger pulled back, brushing her hand aside.

‘Don’t touch!’

‘And why shouldn’t I?’

‘Cos,’ the stranger replied. ‘It’s not for you to touch.’

Overcome by an overwhelming sense of uncertainty, fear gripped her like never before. Hit with a sudden wave of panic, she lurched for the bar rail, slipped, and fell awkwardly to the floor. Her brain cells were no longer functioning, and the roof of her mouth felt numb. Not for the first time in her life Annie Jenkins had drunk herself into another semi-conscious stupor – she was no longer in control. Amidst the confusion the barman telephoned for a taxi, but it was already too late. The stranger had taken over.

*

There were no other cars in the car park that night, except one. And that was a Mk3 Mondeo. Well it had taken him long enough, hadn’t it? This was the perfect end to a perfect evening, Lexus thought. Both arms firmly wrapped around Annie’s slim waistline, he bundled her into the back of the stolen vehicle. This was his moment, his part of the bargain, and nothing could stop him now. Camera-free and dimly lit, the car park was the ideal location for what he now had in mind. As he slid in behind the driver’s wheel and fired up the engine, he checked his surroundings. Perfect.

Then the voices returned.

Who would have thought of that?

‘You’re beginning to annoy me – I know what I’m doing.’

You’re ever so clever.

‘I know. So why must you keep reminding me?

Just checking––

Chapter Twenty

July 2012

The tide was on the ebb as David Carlisle pulled into St Peter’s Wharf. Along the marina wall the receding waterline had left its damp tell-tale mark behind, evidence of another high tide. Black mud slime ran steeply down from the wooden jetty to be met by a narrow central water channel. A small flotilla of fishing vessels lay low in the water; the day’s catch now in North Shields fish market. Still hung over, Carlisle felt terrible. Rubbing weary bloodshot eyes, he glanced at his watch. It was 7.25am.

‘You’ll need to suit up,’ the familiar voice rang out behind him.

Carlisle straightened in anticipation of what was about to follow. A stickler for detail, any contamination such as minute fibres from his clothing or soil from the soles of his shoes could lead to a false trail. It was Stan Johnson’s responsibility to ensure that didn’t happen. Not at any cost. Returning to his car, Carlisle struggled into the hooded white paper coveralls, which he’d purposely kept in his boot for such an occasion.

Ducking beneath the police cordon tape, Carlisle was met by the SOC photographer, Peter Davenport. A slightly built man, of average height, with a shock of long blonde hair, Davenport had huge inquisitive eyes that protruded from their sockets like a bubble-eyed goldfish. Above all, it was the little man’s exuberance that irritated him most. He was intelligent, with an overpowering sense of enthusiasm that Carlisle found difficult to comprehend.

‘What can you tell me?’ he asked.

‘I believe he’s struck again, Mr Carlisle.’

‘What do we know about the victim?’

‘Young woman, early-forties, slightly built, around five-six. She was found earlier this morning by an old guy walking his dog,’ said Davenport, pointing towards a short wooden jetty. ‘The dog found her first, but she’d been dead a few hours by all accounts.’

‘Any indications as to how she was murdered?’

‘It’s difficult to say at this stage,’ Davenport replied. ‘From what I can make out, she’d been badly mutilated.’

‘Mutilated?’

‘Well, she’d certainly been knocked around a bit,’ the SOC photographer said, his huge eyes scanning the marina. ‘From the marks on her neck and by the colour of her skin, there’s a twenty-quid note says she died choking.’

Carlisle took a step back. His day had started badly; rude awakenings never did put him in a good frame of mind. Out across the river he caught sight of a large gull as it raked close to the water’s edge in search of food. He knew the feeling; two paracetamoland a mug of strong black coffee was as much as he could handle himself that morning
–
nothing comes easy my frien
d
– he cursed.

Davenport moved at a canter, and Carlisle had difficulty in keeping up with him. He had a peculiar walking style, unsynchronized, reminding him of an agitated chicken in search of food scraps. Scurrying along the wharf, the police photographer’s digital camera continuously thudded against his narrow waistline.

‘Do we know who she is?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Good question.’

‘I take it that’s a no?’

‘Yes, but we’re working on it.’

‘What time was she found?’

Davenport stopped in his tracks, and then turned. ‘According to George Wallace, it would have been around five-thirty.’

‘Where’s Wallace now?’

‘He’s assisting the police surgeon, a Doctor Hindson.’

Gathering his bearings, Carlisle stretched his arms and gained some mobility into stiffened limbs. Clambering down a steep wooden ramp, they reached the first of a series of wooden walkways leading out onto the marina. On either side a large array of sailing boats were moored, their halyards clattering against tall metallic masts as a stiff westerly breeze cut directly across their path. It was then he noticed a white tent, standing at the end of the jetty. Following closely in Davenport’s footsteps, he approached the last few yards with trepidation. It was little moments like this that always sent his adrenaline racing.

The outstretched gloved hand felt sincere, and the face had a familiar look.

‘In here,’ said DS Wallace, holding back the flap of the forensic tent. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, I’m afraid.’

‘Where’s Jack Mason?’ he asked.

‘He’s on his way.’ Wallace grinned, glancing back along the empty jetty as if to confirm his statement. ‘That should give us plenty of time before the shit hits the fan.’

Stepping aside, Carlisle caught sight of the young woman’s half naked body. She’d been strung up like a ship’s figurehead. Arms extended, the palms upturned and hammerhead nails driven through both wrists. Her dress, torn away from the upper torso, revealed a small pair of white breasts. Deep lacerations ran diagonally across the soft fleshy tissues, suggesting a blunt instrument had been used. He stood for a while, staring at her face. She had an understated beauty, as if posed in freeze frame. Her head had fallen forward, tilting slightly right; the chin pressed heavily against the breastbone keeping the mouth firmly shut. All the warnings were there. The sickening egoistic signs of ritualized mutilation, systematic crucifixion violently displayed as an artist’s brush strokes.

Who are you
,
he asked himself
?
What has he done to you?

Whoever she was, she had met an untimely ending. Of that he was certain.

‘How long has she been dead?’ Carlisle asked.

‘It’s difficult to be precise,’ said Wallace. ‘Not more than six hours, I’d say. No doubt the doctor will fill you in on the details, but I fear the Coroner will insist on a full investigation.’ Wallace shuffled awkwardly. ‘Which means it’ll take much longer.’

Carlisle squeezed past the doctor’s portly figure, but said nothing. He studied the victim’s eyes, wide open, frozen and staring into emptiness.

‘Any indications as to how she was murdered, Doc?’

The doctor glowered. ‘Asphyxiation . . .’

‘Was she strangled?’

Ignoring him, Dr Hindson continued to run a wooden spatula beneath the young woman’s fingernails, placing his findings in a small flat plastic dish. ‘Had you looked closer, you would have found no sign of garrotting. The throat bruising, especially around the region of the trachea is typical with throttling. There’s also heavy bruising at the nape of the neck, consistent with concentrated thumb pressure.’

Taken aback by his clinical abruptness, Carlisle was immediately put on the defensive. Dr Hindson’s professionalism was unquestionable, but his arrogance unforgivable. Turning to face him, Carlisle refrained from retaliation.

‘I take it she was attacked from behind?’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor grunted.

‘Any trace evidence?’

‘Ah. Now that should have been your first question,’ Dr Hindson replied, truculently. ‘It appears your killer wore gloves. He came prepared in other words, which suggests to me we’re dealing with a pretty shrewd cookie here.’

The doctor made a little grimace as he bent over to examine the dead woman’s hands.

‘I would have anticipated seeing more blood––’

‘She wasn’t killed here,’ interrupted Wallace.

Carlisle stood to face him. ‘You mean she was deliberately brought here before he carried out his handiwork. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It rather looks that way,’ Wallace nodded.

The sound of heavy footsteps along the wooden jetty signalled Jack Mason’s timely arrival. His approach was direct, and straight to the point.

‘Anyone know who she is, Wallace?’

‘No. Not at this stage.’

Mason brushed past him, peering inquisitively at the woman’s body. ‘Well, it certainly looks like his handiwork,’ said Mason, pulling out his notebook. ‘And he’s definitely gone to town on this one.’

‘It would appear so.’ Wallace nodded.

Mason turned to Carlisle. ‘What do you think, David?’

Carlisle recognized the signs, and chose his next words carefully. ‘He definitely likes to display them with a certain artistic panache. It’s not your everyday kind of murder.’

‘He’s persistent; I’ll give the bastard that,’ Mason retorted.

‘Predictable more like,’ Carlisle sighed. ‘And it’s fast becoming his trademark.’

Mason turned sharply towards where George Wallace was now standing. ‘I want this whole area sealed off. No press, no cameras, and no budding TV presenters spouting off unnecessary panic. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Wallace, now pinned up against the tent wall in an attempt to avoid Mason’s flaying arms.

‘And you can––’

‘I would concentrate some effort around the new development area, Jack,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘She was dragged here after she was murdered – you’ll need to establish where.’

‘Did you hear that, Wallace?’ said Mason.

‘I’m on it, boss.’

‘Report to the Crime Scene Manager, I want this place run over with a fine tooth comb . . . no stones unturned. Nothing moves in and nothing moves out of here, until you’re completely satisfied that you’ve covered every inch of the ground.’

George Wallace’s complexion had turned a jaundiced colour.

‘I’ll see to it, boss.’

Pen poised at the ready, Mason’s look was stern.

‘What else do you have for me, Henry?’

The doctor flicked an annoying strand of silky white hair away from a wizened face. He looked late fifties, chunky with an overhanging belly that suggested he was fond of good living. His movements were methodical, deliberate as though speed was an intolerable word in his personal diary. ‘There are no physical signs of a struggle, and the heat generated from the brain suggests she’s been dead around five hours. That would place the time of death around . . . one, one thirty,’ the doctor said, pausing to recover his breath. ‘She’d been brutally beaten about the head and body before manual strangulation took place, I’m convinced of that. There’s also heavy loss of skin tissue on the backs of both heels, which suggests she was dragged here after he killed her.’

Carlisle watched as the doctor ran his spatula over the deep lacerations on the young woman’s breasts, before continuing. ‘Any visible mutilations such as the ones seen here, and here, were carried out post-mortem interval. In other words, the time that elapsed after he strangled her to the time of her being brought here.’

‘Anything else I should know?’ Mason asked.

‘One thing’s for sure, Jack, your killer’s no surgeon.’

‘Any indications as to where this could have all taken place?’

‘Where he practised his surgery,’ the doctor sighed. ‘He probably did it within thirty minutes of killing her. Exactly where, you’ll need to talk that over with forensics. By the loss of skin tissue on her heels, I’d say she’d been dragged here over a considerable distance. Find her shoes and you’ll not be far away from the scene of the crime.’

Mason checked his notes.

‘And you’re convinced she never put up a struggle?’

‘I’m certain,’ the doctor replied.

‘That’s strange; they usually put up some form of resistance. Surely, she must have known that she was about to meet her death?’ said Mason.

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps she was unconscious through drink, or smacked out of her mind on drugs. Under either of those circumstances, the victim is usually in no fit state to put up a fight. There is of course the use of Rohypnol, but I doubt your killer used that method. He’s far too advanced to stoop that low.’

‘Not much to go on, eh?’

‘I’m afraid not, Jack. We’ll need to bring her in and open her up. Let’s see what the Coroner’s investigation throws up.’

Mason pointed to the side of the young woman’s head. ‘The bruising and lacerations to the face?’ he asked.

‘Like I say, she’d been knocked around a bit before she was strangled.’

‘Any sign of a weapon being used?’

‘No. The wounds are pretty consistent with physical blows, in my opinion.’

‘It sounds like her exit was a horrific affair.’ Mason shrugged.

The doctor removed his surgical gloves, tossing them into his medical bag. ‘For her sake, let’s hope it was quick.’

Mason shook his head. ‘What a fucking mess!’

‘Murder is never pleasant at the best of times, I’m afraid,’ the doctor replied.

‘Unfortunately I’m left with another stiff on my hands – and, a whole lot of explaining to do,’ Mason conceded grudgingly.

‘You’ll think of something, Jack,’ the doctor grinned. ‘You always do.’

Stepping aside, the doctor closed the lid of his medical bag and made to leave. Amidst the mumbling, Mason turned to face him. ‘It’s ironic to think that it would take another murder to bring us a little closer to the truth, Doc.’

Dr Hindson shook his head. ‘It’s always the case, Jack. By the look of things, this one’s methods are pretty consistent.’

‘Damn!’ Mason cursed. ‘What kind of a monster are we dealing with here?’

Carlisle sensed the unease. This was no vendetta killing; this murder had all the hallmarks of another psychopathic killing. At times such as these, the strange intricacies and bizarre fantasies of a serial killer’s mind didn’t bear thinking about. Their victims, nearly always hapless pawns in a wicked world of reverie, were regarded as mere instruments of pleasure to satisfy their warped minds. Sadly, and to make matters worse, there was the chilling factor of their rational and calculating approach to their work. Yes, he’d faced plenty of it before, but this murder was brutally different.