The Wharf Butcher (15 page)

On the surface, the Assistant Chief Constable seemed a decent guy; he certainly wasn’t the crook that Mason was making him out to be. Besides, there had to be thousands of people involved in global warming investments. That aside, was Mason trying to ride roughshod over them? After all, that was the nature of the beast. With limited resources at his disposal, the pressures were certainly mounting on the DCI. There again, if the killer was a member of Gilesgate’s boardroom, then Mason’s new proposals had leverage. It was a fine balancing act, and one he was gradually warming to.

‘So how do you propose we approach this?’ Carlisle asked.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. ‘In my books it would be impracticable to put a twenty-four-seven surveillance on every Gilesgate board member.’

‘Why not?’ interrupted Wallace. ‘Surely they’re all potential targets.’

‘They may well be, George, but do the maths. Six men to cover every single Gilesgate board member, factor in support, and that’s the number you’re looking at.’

Wallace blew through his teeth. ‘Bugger me, its eighty-odd men.’

‘Now you know why I want this operation kept low-key, George,’ said Mason, thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, David. How would you handle this?’

Carlisle put down his glass.

‘Our killer’s no professional, I’m convinced of that. He’s an opportunist who stalks his victims in their own environment. His mind’s deranged, and he’s using physical not mental violence. But there lies a dilemma: is he displaying his victims for pure self-gratification, or simply getting back at someone?’ Carlisle fell silent for moment, searching a memory. ‘Whatever he’s trying to do, he’s searching for a way to do it and in my opinion he’s still on a learning curve, practising his art- – and building towards a climax.’

Mason raised his eyebrows. ‘God, sometimes you scare the living daylight out of me.’

‘If we’re dealing with a serial killer here, someone with a hate campaign against a specific group of people, then we’re all in for the long haul, I’m afraid.’

He watched as Mason leaned over and recharged his empty glass again. His expression had darkened. ‘I’m concerned more about the ACC’s integrity in all of this,’ said Mason. ‘It’s beginning to get to me . . . big time.’

The truth at last, thought Carlisle.

‘So, what are you intending to do about it?’ he asked.

Mason lowered his voice, realising he was attracting attention towards them. ‘Let’s park that problem to one side for a moment. Before I go sending in the heavy troops, I need you two to carry out a discreet undercover investigation into Gilesgate board members. If our killer happens to be one of them, then you two are best suited to flush him out.’

Carlisle thought about it. At least they were both on the same wavelength at last.

‘It’s a very dangerous ask,’ Carlisle grimaced.

‘I realise that, but what other options do we have?’

‘None I suspect.’

A muscle in Mason’s neck pulsed. ‘It would be nice if we could get our hands on a few Gilesgate documents, medical records, personnel files, that kind of stuff. In the meantime, I intend to run a few discreet checks into employee background details, criminal records, that sort of thing.’ Mason gesticulated by running his fingers across his throat. ‘Let’s put the cat amongst the pigeons, and see what materialises.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Wallace nodded.

‘One more thing,’ said Mason, lowering the tone of his voice to a whisper. ‘If you happen to drive a Mondeo, then my advice is to stay well clear of Gateshead tonight.’

The three of them fell about laughing.

They left Mason to pay the bill; he seemed in no hurry to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Another horrific night spent studying photographs of the Wharf Butcher murder victims had left Carlisle in no doubt about the state of their suspect’s twisted mind. What he saw and what he now felt were two different things. Their killer had remarkable vision, and was capable of creating an entirely different profile to that which others now saw. A ruthless psychopath, he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Whatever happened to Annie Jenkins was now firmly locked away deep inside the killer’s traumatised head. His were dangerous mind games, a test of intellect that only he could perform. Gift-wrapping his victims’ bodies as an artist presenting his latest masterpiece to the world, took a special kind of mentality. And another thing, the element of power and control over his victims’ deaths, and the staging of the victims’ bodies, was very much part of the killer’s MO. The Wharf Butcher, whoever he was, was a dangerous predator who was becoming more predictable.

Carlisle shrugged off that line of thought and got down to the business in hand. Close to the Millennium Bridge, Gilesgate’s Operational Headquarters sat amidst some of the finest architectural structures on Newcastle’s quayside. His first impression was one of opulence and success, which made him think he’d definitely chosen the wrong profession. He should have been an architect, it seemed, as that’s where the money was being made.

Lewis Paul, Gilesgate’s Director of Operations, had the look of an athlete, but the walk of an orang-utan. His clean-cut features and swarthy complexion suggested he was of Mediterranean extraction, more Greek than Italian. Carlisle normally enjoyed investigative enquiries, but there were times when he felt awkward about it. It was a temperament thing, but right now he felt on top of his game. The moment he introduced his business partner, he caught an instant sparkle in Paul’s eye. Bingo, just as Jack Mason had predicted.

‘I hope this is nothing serious, and we can quickly get to the bottom of it,’ said Paul.

‘It all depends on what you consider to be serious,’ Carlisle replied.

‘You can always try me.’

‘Let’s start with murder?’

‘That is serious,’ said Paul. ‘In which case, you’d better step this way, Mr Carlisle.’

Paul ushered them along a long central glass walkway, full of potted plants and wall mounted pictures of Gilesgate’s achievements. The meeting room had a modern feel, spacious with two sides fronted by tall glass windows overlooking the River Tyne. In the centre of the room, a quaint, ancient-looking water pump, sat on a rough stone plinth. It reminded him of some exhibit or other in a museum. It was then he spotted the coffee pot.

These people were obviously expecting this to be more than just a social visit.

His first impression of Lewis Paul was a man suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. His attention to detail was mind-boggling.
Pouring coffee into bone china cups that appeared far too expensive to drink from, Paul meticulously checked and double-checked that everything was in its rightful place.

‘I take it that this is your first visit to Gilesgate’s Operational Headquarters, Miss Collins?’ said Paul.

‘Yes,’ Jane replied, giving Paul another admiring glance before settling back in the comfort of a large leather armchair. ‘It’s certainly a beautiful building.’

‘Have you visited any of our other regional sites?’

‘No. This is our first port of call.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ll be frank with you,’ said Jane. ‘We prefer to visit by appointment.’

Paul reached for the sugar bowl. ‘Security informs me your people have been checking on our flood construction sites.’

‘I can only . . .’ Jane’s voice tailed off.

Typical, thought Carlisle. His business partner had really gone and put her foot in it – big style. But he didn’t care. He still had an ace up his sleeve.

‘Perhaps you would prefer the police deal with the matter, rather than us,’ he said.

‘Do I have an alternative, Mr Carlisle?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, brushing the biscuit crumbs from his trousers.

‘But is there a difference?’

‘I believe so. Besides, we have absolutely no interest in the criminal aspects of this case. That’s strictly down to the police to deal with. Of course, there’s always the off chance they might treat this matter somewhat differently.’

Paul’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s all about trust . . . eh?’

Carlisle nodded, and took out his notebook.

Just as he thought they would, Gilesgate had done its homework. If not Lewis Paul, then someone else in the organisation with a personal interest in the case had. They should have approached this differently, gone for the jugular instead of pussy-footing around. They hadn’t, and now they were on the back foot.

There followed an awkward pause, a repositioning of the sugar bowl.

‘I believe you were acquainted with Charles Anderson, Mr Paul?’ Carlisle said.

Paul squirmed in his seat, as if taken aback. ‘That name’s not familiar – no – why?’

‘Let me remind you,’ Carlisle said, eying up another biscuit. ‘Up until his death, Charles Anderson had conducted well over eighty-million pounds of legal agreements for this organisation. Surely you must have come into contact with him at some stage or other?’

Paul’s reply was blunt. ‘That may well have been the case, but I still don’t recollect the name.’

‘You don’t sound very convincing. I’m––’

‘Let’s be clear on one thing, Mr Carlisle. This site is strictly an Operational Headquarters; here we deal with overseas clients and our European counterparts in the supply of consumables to the construction industry. Legal matters, and in particular financial affairs, are of little concern to us here. May I suggest you take this matter up with Sir Jeremy, or even one of the Board of Directors? Not me.’

Paul was lying; the strained looks on his face had told him so. Carlisle took another sip of his coffee, a brand he did not recognise. ‘You mentioned, Sir Jeremy––’

‘Yes, Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, he’s the Chairman of the Board. He doesn’t work here; he operates from Lakeside House in Northumberland.’

Carlisle made a note of it and flashed Jane a puzzled look.

‘And what about Annie Jenkins,’ he asked. ‘What can you tell me about her?’

‘In what respect?’ asked Paul.

‘How would you describe her?’

Paul clasped his hands, and lowered his head in thought. ‘Annie was a good-natured person, but she did have her difficulties of course. She was a big miss. It was such a shock.’

‘Yes, it must have been.’

There was an exasperated sigh, followed by a repositioning of the milk jug.

‘Of course,’ Paul went on. ‘Annie’s drink problem was no secret to anyone in this organisation. Try running a business when one of your key members of staff has an alcohol problem, it’s not the easiest matter to deal with. I can assure you of that.’

‘I can well imagine,’ he nodded.

Carlisle detected a hint of nervousness in Paul’s voice, and decided to exploit it. ‘Before she resigned her position from Gilesgate, am I correct in saying that Annie was Sir Jeremy’s Personal Assistant?’

Paul drew back looking somewhat stunned. ‘You surprise me; Annie never resigned – she was dismissed for gross misconduct. I thought you people were aware of that.’

Jane’s dark eyebrows raised a fraction, as she took down the details.

‘Are you able to sa
y
wh
y
she was dismissed?’ Carlisle probed.

‘Certainly not, that was strictly between her and Sir Jeremy.’

The atmosphere in the room had suddenly changed.

‘Can you think of any good reason as to why anyone would want to kill her?’

Paul puffed up. ‘That’s outrageous. How can you possibly say such a thing?’

Carlisle sat silent for some moments, thinking, absorbing this. Newcastle had seen its fair share of murders over the years, but this one was totally different. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Was Annie ever threatened in anyway?’

‘No. Definitely not,’ Paul insisted.

‘What about workmates?’ Jane asked.

Paul waved her aside. ‘This is not the place to ask those types of questions, Miss Collins. You need to talk to her ex-husband about that. Not me.’

Carlisle pulled back, knowing full well the police had already eliminated Annie’s ex-husband from their enquiries. As more information began to unfold, the sheer scale of their investigations soon became apparent. This was a massive undertaking, the scale of which Jack Mason had grossly underestimated. His eyes shifted to a pile of folders sitting on a small side table. Written across the top of one of the files were the words: FLATLAND FLOOD BARRIER. He made mental a note of it, and decided to dig deeper.

‘I presume you keep medical records of all your employers?’

‘Jesus!’ said Paul sitting bolt upright in his chair, clutching a half-empty cup of tea. ‘What kind of enquiry is this? I thought you people were private investigators – not the police.’

Carlisle collected his thoughts, and narrowed his eyes towards Paul. ‘I was merely asking if you kept medical records, Mr Paul. That was all.’

‘Then the answer’
s
ye
s
, but where is this all heading?’

‘The police believe the killer has connections to your organisation, Mr Paul. That’s why I raised the issue.’

Paul gave a nervous twitch of his head. ‘What makes them think that?’

‘You need to think carefully. I’m sure we can handle these matters with far more discretion than the police ever would.’

‘That may be true, but––’

‘This shouldn’t be taken lightly,’ Carlisle advised. His tone was calm and controlled, despite the fact that he was angry. ‘You do realise we’re dealing with murder here.’

‘I appreciate your concerns, but I need a little more time.’

Carlisle held Jane’s gaze as he leaned over and set his coffee cup down on the table. His suspicions were well founded; Paul was floundering, and it was time to press home his advantage. If the killer was a member of the organisation, which he now very much doubted, then his medical condition would surely have followed him. If not, then it would prove his theory was correct. It was a win-win situation, in his opinion.

‘You mentioned that Sir Jeremy operates from Lakeside House,’ Carlisle began. ‘How does that tie in with his political interests?’

Paul’s jaw dropped. ‘Surely that’s the Chairman’s business. Not mine.’

‘But wasn’t Annie Jenkins, his Personal Assistant?’

‘I’m not sure where you are coming from, Mr Carlisle.’

He watched as Paul squirmed awkwardly in his seat, and desperately tried to compose himself. The director was trembling, and his breathing was sporadic. ‘You mentioned earlier that this site was strictly an Operational Headquarters. And I quote . .
.
we deal purely with overseas clients and our European counterparts
.
’ Carlisle paused for effect, and then closed his notebook. ‘Unless I’m grossly mistaken, there seems to be a conflict of interest here.’

‘Tell me, what are your concerns?’

‘Five people are dead, Mr Paul, that’s my concern.’

‘I hope those accusations are not aimed at anyone in particular; if they are, then I strongly refute them.’

‘Well I wouldn’t let it––’

‘I know my employees,’ Paul interrupted. ‘None of them are capable of committing such despicable atrocities.’

‘What about sub-contractors, I suppose you can vouch for them too?’

‘I . . . err . . . believe––’ Paul’s voice tailed off.

‘Perhaps we should start by me interviewing everyone in the organisation, Mr Paul.’

‘That’s preposterous.’

‘But is it?’

‘You know it is. Besides, I doubt you understand the implications of such a request. In order for me to sanction that, I would need to speak to someone in higher authority.’

‘I see,’ said Carlisle. ‘And while you are at it, perhaps you might care to mention that a serial killer is at large and targeting your board of directors. That should do the trick . . .’

Feeling pleased with himself, they exited the building into bright sunshine. Lewis Paul was no fool; the young executive was obviously under no illusions as to the seriousness of the situation, but would he cooperate?

Probably not, he thought.