The Wharf Butcher (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

The day of Annie Jenkins’ funeral, Jack Mason had all but turned Saint Oswin’s church in Wylam into an impregnable fortress. Ten miles west of Newcastle, Wylam village, the birthplace of the famous railway pioneer George Stephenson was now in a state of mourning. Not that it concerned Jack Mason; his main objective was to catch the Wharf Butcher, and he was determined to do that.

The skies, overcast, a light freshening breeze was throwing the occasional splodges of rain on the pavement when David Carlisle stepped into Saint Oswin’s churchyard. Further south and close to Wylam railway station, DC Harry Manley sat guarding the southern approach over the River Tyne. A few miles further north, Sergeant Morrison had parked his unmarked police vehicle in a small overgrown lay-by close to the A69 – an east-west dual carriageway that ran between Newcastle and Hexham. Intrigued by a cluster of journalists sheltering under umbrellas, Carlisle recognised one or two plainclothes detectives mingled amongst them. Nothing had been left to chance, or so it appeared.

Just after eleven o’clock, the slow moving cortege finally came into view. The hearse, carrying the small oak coffin, was adorned with white and yellow flowers and messages of sympathy. All along Church Road, the streets of Wylam – where Annie grew up – were lined with people wanting to pay their respects. It was a large turnout, including a strong contingent of past and present Gilesgate employees. Minutes later, as the four black limousines drew up alongside the ornate wooden lych-gate, close family and friends solemnly filed into the church. High up on St Oswin’s south tower, a lone police photographer was merrily clicking away at anything that took his fancy. If the killer’s curiosity had got the better of him, there was every chance he was now amongst them.

The minute the coffin was carried into the church, Carlisle slipped unnoticed through the east wing vestry door. Never the religious type, he felt uneasy from the moment he first set foot in the place. He loathed funerals at the best of times, believing they were always long drawn out affairs with an abrupt anti-climax. Now a hive of activity, this bat ridden haven had been turned in a temporary operations centre. Packed to the rafters with computers and high-tech electronic recording equipment, the tech boys had done themselves proud.

‘The man in the black shirt and jacket,’ Mason said.

With the speed and dexterity of a top court stenographer, the young police technician sat at the computer keyboard ran a quick facial recognition check over the suspect’s features. Shrouded by dark sunglasses worn across narrow features, the dubious facial image that suddenly exploded across every computer screen in the building sent a shiver down Carlisle’s spine. If this was their man, there was every chance of detaining him.

‘How’s that, boss?’

‘What do we know about him, Parker?’

‘He’s six foot two, weighs around two twenty – late twenties––’

‘
Damn
!
’ said Mason, slumping back against the back vestry wall. ‘Even I can see that – does he have form?’

‘I’m on it, boss,’ Parker grimaced.

Mason mumbled something inaudible, and began rubbing his right calf muscle. This was their first real breakthrough, and the pressure was mounting. The moment the young technician’s fingers danced across the keypad, a ripple of excitement ran through the room.

‘
There
!
’ said Mason, ceasing the moment.

Everyone froze.

Finally, and to everyone’s dismay, the tiny monitor screen flickered, wobbled, and then stuck in freeze frame mode. Something was wrong, but nobody could put a finger on it. Then, from the back of the room, a printer began to spew out a long list of would-be candidates. Impossible odds at the best of times, thought Carlisle, but how would Mason react. To move now would be to blow their cover, to do nothing was unthinkable.

‘It’s got to be him!’ said Mason through clenched teeth.

‘He’s certainly shifty looking,’ DS Wallace acknowledged.

‘And the right build, George.’

‘Yeah, a little over six feet I’d say.’

‘Try zooming in,’ said Mason.

Startled, the technician’s long skinny fingers punched in another series of commands before he finally sat back and waited for the computer to respond.

‘
There
!
’ Mason said excitedly. ‘The bastard’s limping.’

Everyone just stood there as if some deadly virus had struck their midst. As a dozen pairs of eyes bore down in anticipation, the DCI instinctively wavered. In an odd way, Carlisle felt relieved that it wasn’t him now calling the shots.

‘What’s it to be, boss?’ said Luke James anxiously.

Mason’s voice sounded like a dark rumble. ‘Easy, lad’s, let’s not rush it.’

Before David Carlisle had even reached the vestry doorway, their suspect had long gone. Having squeezed his tall lanky frame through the thick undergrowth at the rear of the churchyard, he’d managed to slip the net.

‘He’s heading for the village!’ a voice rang out, from high up on the church tower.

It was Carlisle who spotted him first, the moment the suspect clambered over a tall garden fence and disappeared from view down the other side. Within seconds a dozen police officers had made a bee-line for a long row of terrace houses set back from the village green. After fifty yards they stopped, and peered into the hedgerows and gardens. The light drizzle had now turned into a heavy downpour. Drenched, and knackered-looking, a young policewoman staggered out from one of the side gates. Her uniform, covered in mud, her face flushed.

‘You see him, Constable Ellis?’ Mason asked.

The young Constable shook her head. ‘No. He’s not come this way, boss.’

A voice crackled over a nearby detective’s radio.

‘Suspect heading for the Ship Inn,’ a voice boomed out.

Gritting his teeth, Carlisle sprinted as fast as he could towards the far end of the street. Following in his wake, barely ten paces behind, Mason was breathing deeply and struggling to keep up with him.

‘The bastard’s gone to ground!’ a police officer yelled, pointing to the pub car park.

‘Check under the vehicles,’ Mason shouted.

The rain, now lashing down, was bouncing off the tarmac. The gutters were a river of water, and the pavements full of puddles. Soaking wet, Carlisle followed Mason in through the pub door and into the warm lounge. As a dozen plainclothes police officers stood motionless in the centre of the room, the lounge doors suddenly burst open.

‘He’s not in the bogs, Jack,’ Wallace shouted.

For one brief moment, they could have heard a pin drop.

The rain dripping down Mason’s face, he checked out the clientele. Given the seriousness of the situation, there was every chance he would grab a couple of statements – but he didn’t. It was lunchtime, and the majority of people were still tucking into their meals and completely oblivious to their surroundings.

Outside, the rain was still bouncing down, and another rumble of thunder could be heard. Then the radio waves fell silent. Even the sky continued to grow ominously darker. The only obvious explanation, when it came, was that the suspect had gone to ground. Reluctant to admit defeat, Mason shook his head in disbelief. Whoever it was they were chasing, had simply vanished into thin air. If not, then he would probably be miles away by now.

Carlisle saw the helicopter before he heard it. A couple of miles to the north of them, moving east, its thin white spotlight beam cutting through an overcast sky with such intensity that it created a strange vaporous glow over the tree tops. Nobody moved, but a quiver of excitement stirred the team. A few feet away, Sergeant Morrison’s voice suddenly boomed out over a radio handset.
‘
Oscar Five, I’m in pursuit of a red Lotus Élan sports car – heading east along the A69 dual carriageway
.
’

Jack Mason’s foresight had paid off. The suspect was attempting his escape through the back door – east, towards the city. If anyone had doubts as to the suspect’s intentions, they were quickly dispensed. Then the sudden wail of police car sirens. Moments later, blue lights flashing, as three patrol cars tore past him at speed.

The chase was back on.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It had stopped raining when Carlisle finally arrived at the crime scene. Traced to a row of terraced houses on the outskirts of Newcastle, it would be big news locally, of course. He sat for a while, and weighed up the situation. Skewed across the entrance to a mini supermarket, two police officers in an unmarked Volvo were busy turning traffic away. Even forensics had beaten him to it. Garbed in their white sterile paper suits, overshoes and rubber gloves, they were examining an abandoned red Lotus sports car. Alongside it stood Sergeant Morrison’s empty patrol car. Its driver’s door open, blue flashing lights in stationary mode, the Sergeant was nowhere to be seen.

Carlisle climbed out of his old Rover and stood for moment. After several frustrating minutes, he watched as four members from the Armed Response Team moved down into Woodbine Road. Dressed in their familiar black flack suited body armour, black police caps and traditional high leather boots, they carried with them the familiar Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine. It was a long, straight, narrow road, with cars parked on both sides. Close to a Medical Centre, a group of journalists had been joined by a couple of out-side-broadcast vans. Huddled in a doorway, a news presenter appeared to be checking her notes. It was then Carlisle spotted the two technicians sat operating what he judged to be a long distance listening device; its parabolic microphone pointing at a house some fifty metres away.

Then he heard Mason’s voice.

Gathered round him, and looking like drowned rats, were George Wallace, Luke James, and an elderly gentleman whom he took to be a trained negotiator. They were accompanied by a tall blonde woman, mid-forties, smartly dressed wearing a dark green jacket and clean-cut black trousers. Standing alongside her was the tall, suave figure of DI Swan and another well-dressed gentleman whom he judged to be the Scene of Crime Officer.

‘You eventually made it,’ said Archie Swan cheerily.

‘I got delayed,’ Carlisle nodded.

‘This is George Hill; he’s the man in charge of the situation.’

They shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries.

‘We’ve reached a bit of a deadlock,’ said Hill. ‘Our suspect refuses to answer the door, and has barricaded himself inside the property.’

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

The SOC manager grimaced. ‘We’re running a few discreet checks on the address. The red sports car, the one used in his getaway . . . it was stolen. That’s as much as we know at the moment, but we’ll keep you informed of any new developments.’

Oh dear, Carlisle thought. This wasn’t his style. The Wharf Butcher preferred to do his business in a Mondeo, and this was a red Lotus Élan? Gathering his bearings, he noted that Woodbine Road ran in a north-south direction, approximately two-hundred metres long with terraced houses on either side. Both ends of the street had been cordoned off, as were the nearby approach roads. According to the latest intelligence reports, one of the adjoining houses was occupied by a young Asian woman with two small children. The other, thankfully, was empty. With this amount of firepower available to the police, Carlisle reasoned their best chance of recovering the situation would be one of stealth and surprise. Storming the property was too fraught with danger; even a snatch and grab approach would be difficult. But how Mason would deal with it, was anyone’s guess. Even so, it was a tricky one and not the easiest of stalemates to bring to a close.

Someone spotted movement, and a dozen gun sights homed in on a large black wheelie-bin. Barely ten feet away, Jack Mason had already brushed his jacket aside and unclipped the holster flap of his Smith & Wesson. After some moments the wheelie-bin lid flew open, and out popped a big fat ginger cat.

The look on Vic Miller’s face was priceless.

Approaching from the blind side, two police officers and highly trained explosive experts began to apply breaching explosives to the suspect’s front door frame. At the same time, a dozen red laser pointers from the NART’s Heckler & Koch zoomed in on the ground floor windows. As the door blew inwards under a cloud of white-hot vapour, there followed a second explosion – much louder than the first. As a dozen screaming police officers piled into the building, smoke bellowed out from inside of it.

It was over in seconds, the incapacitating effects of the stun-grenade having effectively disoriented their suspect. Lying face down and handcuffed. Mason had wasted no time. In one swift movement he flashed his badge of authority under the assailant’s nose, and reminded him of his rights.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Mason of Northumberland CID, you’re under arrest.’

Still confused, the suspect shook his head as if he had water in his ear.

The DCI took a step back. ‘I want this whole area sealed off. Nobody comes through that door until Tom Hedley has finished here. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, boss,’ the nearest officer replied.

The situation now strained, Mason grabbed Vic Miller by the arm. ‘As soon as the Scene of Crime Manager gives you clearance, I want this whole building turned upside down.’

‘What are we looking for, boss?’

‘Whatever,’ Mason replied. ‘I need answers, and this place is holding them.’

‘I’m on it,’ Vic Miller replied.

‘Good man.’

Carlisle followed Mason in through the tiny, smoke filled hallway, and out onto the street. The air inside was oppressive, and his eyes were still smarting from the gas released from the stun-grenade. And another thing he noticed, the noise from the controlled explosion had set off dozens of car and burglar alarms. With all the media hype in the case, it wouldn’t be long before one of the news reporters appeared on the scene and began interviewing one of the local residents. There was always someone willing to tell their story, thought Carlisle, even if the truth was heavily distorted.

Mason squinted. ‘Ah! The very man,’ he said, pointing out DS Wallace.

‘Me?’ said Wallace, as if taken aback.

‘Yes, you George,’ Mason replied. ‘You’re to escort our suspect back to Gateshead Police station. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll join you there.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Follow me . . .’

Moving through a throng of police officers, they were met by the Specialist Dog Unit teams. Muzzled, the police dogs appeared agitated. Undeterred, Mason spoke to one of the handlers before re-entering the building. Now back in control, the DCI was in his element, which was more than Carlisle could say for his suspect’s appearance. Completely disoriented, eyes all over the place, he had somehow managed to stagger to his feet. Smoke still filled the building; it hung in the air, a bitter taste.

Carlisle watched as Mason’s eyes swung resolutely left. ‘This cockroach needs suitable accommodation, George.’

‘The luxury suite, I presume?’

‘That’ll do nicely.’

Wallace stepped forward and took a firm grip of the suspect’s right arm. ‘You heard the nice gentleman, you’re nicked.’

‘And while you’re at it,’ said Mason. ‘Tell the desk sergeant to turn up the cell heating. I want this bastard to feel as uncomfortable as possible.’

‘How does deep fry sound, boss?’

‘That’ll do nicely, George.’

The suspect stared at them as though they’d arrived from another planet. His eyes full of hate, the veins in his neck stood out as if he were about to kick off again. Wallace was having none of it, and the moment he protested his handcuffs were too tight, the detective forcibly dragged him outside and bundled him into the back of a waiting police car.

Carlisle’s phone, on silent, vibrated in his pocket. He checked the display screen and returned the call. The stand-off had lasted a little over three hours, but there was no point in him hanging around anymore. The day had flown by, but there was still a nagging doubt over the suspect’s identity. If this was the Wharf Butcher, then why had he chosen a Lotus Élan? Experience had taught him that serial killers seldom stray into unfamiliar territory. So, why the sudden change of mind, he asked. Besides, the suspect’s gait was all wrong, and he looked far too immature. Even so, the cock-sure grin on Jack Mason’s face said otherwise.

Oh dear, Carlisle thought.