The Wharf Butcher (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The following morning

Ignoring the lift, Mason stormed out of his office taking the steps two at a time. On reaching Forensics he threw back the door, a record journey of thirty-two seconds flat.

‘My DNA results,’ he demanded. ‘Are they ready, Chris?’

Doctor Chris Brown was a lean, long-backed, medium-built, balding man, with a stern flushed face and thick bushy sideburns. In all his years he’d worked on forensics, he’d probably never witnessed such a dramatic entrance as this before. Looking distinctly the worse for wear, like a thousand hangovers, Jack Mason edged closer. Dressed in a crumpled white open neck shirt, brown corduroy slacks and white trainers, it was as though he’d slept the whole night out in them.

‘Well! Are they ready?’

The doctor lifted his spectacles onto his brow, and from a large brown folder removed an official looking document, placing it on the workbench in front of him. The look of anticipation on Mason’s face had surely warned him there could only be one outcome.

‘It’s – err––’

‘Good man,’ Mason grinned.

The doctor shuffled awkwardly. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean!’ said Mason, with a face like thunder.

‘We’ve taken blood-samples from your potential suspect, and compared them against the killer’s genetic marker code––’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘We can’t find a DNA match,’ the doctor replied. ‘It’s all laid out in my report, Jack.’

‘Who needs a match,’ Mason shrugged. ‘It was me who arrested the bastard.’

The doctor looked at him with suspicion. ‘That may be the case, but he’s not your man. I can assure you of that.’

Mason backed away, as if a million volts had suddenly passed through his body. His suspect behind bars, it meant he could only detain him for twenty-four hours. After that, he would need to request an extension through the magistrate’s courts – a prospect that didn’t bear thinking about. What’s more, if he didn’t lay charges soon, the press would be all over him like a rash. Too many imponderables, he thought. The pressure was mounting, and people were demanding answers. He needed to find a way out of this, and quickly, before it all got out of hand.

‘According to David Carlisle,’ said Mason, ‘most serial killers operate within a five-mile radius of where they live. It’s called their hunting ground. So tell me, why don’t we DNA every male between the ages of twenty and thirty who live within a five-mile radius of Gateshead?’

‘It sounds a good idea, Jack, but how do you propose we get over ten-thousand volunteers to come forward and eliminate themselves from your enquiry? And, another thing,’ said Dr Brown. ‘How do we know he lives in Gateshead? Derek Riley’s murder was carried out over forty-miles away from here, as I recall.’

Mason’s body language had turned decidedly aggressive. ‘I’m still not convinced. There must be something we can pin on this bastard?’

‘Sorry, Jack. I would like to think it was him, but it isn’t, and the results are conclusive. What’s more, your suspect’s blood group is ‘B’ negative and blood traces found on Annie Jenkins’ body were ‘A’ positive.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means your killer is an entirely different blood group, Jack.’

‘So who the hell do I have locked up in Gateshead police station?’

The doctor shrugged, as though not knowing. He was standing now, as if trying to evade further questioning. ‘I’ve talked this over with Tom Hedley in some detail, and we’re both agreed. Footprint casts taken from your suspect’s footwear certainly don’t match with those taken from the Wharf Butcher’s crime scenes. The evidence is convincing, Jack.’

Mason nearly choked on the doctor’s words. This was the last thing he wanted to hear. He was furious. ‘If it’s not him, then why did he run away from the police?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

In all his years on the force, Mason had never come across anything like this before. He was fuming. ‘I’ve got an ex-wife who gives me grief, a daughter who’s never out of my bloody wallet, and now you’re telling me this lanky piece of shit isn’t the Wharf Butcher. Give me a break, Chris. Where’s the justice in this world?’

Now sat astride a small stool, the doctor placed a fresh glass slide beneath the microscope lens. Closing one eye, he made some pretence adjustment to the viewfinder.

‘There are some positives, of course.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well . . . we’ve managed to recover a few of Annie’s personal belongings from your suspect’s property. I know it’s not a lot, but I’m certain you’ll find it of some interest. If nothing else, it may warrant his current arrest.’

Still trying to come to terms with his disappointment, there wasn’t a lot Mason could do right now. He thought about it – but not for long. Then he began to wonder. What if the doctor had overlooked some vital piece of evidence, a minute piece of fibre from the suspect’s clothing? It was a longshot, but right now anything was better than nothing.

‘So what are we looking at, Doc?’

There followed an infuriating wait, and Mason was almost beyond himself.

‘If you must know, we found a black cardigan, an empty lipstick holder and a couple of shopping receipts in your suspect’s rented property. None of them had traces of the killer’s DNA on them.’

‘Is that it?’ Mason said, pacing the floor. ‘Not a fat lot to get my teeth into . . . eh.’

The doctor flinched from the cutting edge of Mason’s ranting. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it of some interest, Jack,’ the doctor said, pointing down at the sealed plastic evidence bag.

Mason glanced at the package.

‘Well, well, we finally get to the bottom of it. It seems there were some promiscuous activities taking place after all. What do we know, Doc?’’

The doctor gave Mason a curious look. ‘Stop trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Jack. It won’t get you anywhere. The evidence is conclusive, and that’s the end of the matter.’

‘Was this asshole shagging her, Chris?’

‘I doubt it. Besides, presumptions and factual forensic evidence don’t always go together. Even you know that.’

Mason blew out a long sigh. Things were rapidly going from bad to worse, and he could barely contain himself let alone think straight anymore. The palms of his hands felt clammy – a sure sign of frustration.

He managed a rare smile. It wasn’t all bad he reassured himself, surely not.

‘There’s not a fat lot going for me, is there, Chris?’

The doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘If it’s of any consolation, Annie Jenkins’ bodily presence was spread over a very small area of your suspect’s property. She certainly wasn’t sleeping there, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. Let’s face it, he was obviously running away from something or he wouldn’t have barricaded himself inside his property in the first place.’

‘Right, well, like I say, it’s not looking good, is it.’

‘Perhaps something might come out of the interview, Jack.’

Mason’s face contorted. ‘I very much doubt it. If you ask me, he’s beginning to sound like a frustrated parrot. The only answer he gives me is . .
.
no comment
.
’

‘This one obviously knows the system by the sound of things,’ the doctor said, shaking his head.

Mason mumbled a few utterances under his breath, knowing full well he was getting nowhere fast. It was a well-known fact that a suspect is under no obligation to answer any police questions. Besides, police interviews were usually a no-win situation at the best of times. And another thing, he wasn’t feeling particularly proud of his own performance either. Just because the evidence was heavily stacked against him, he’d flown off the handle again. It was moments like this, and Mason had experience far too many lately, that he wished he could control his temper.

Even so, he would need to re-visit the video footage of Annie’s funeral, find out what had spooked their suspect in the first place. Then there was the question of the stolen Lotus Élan – it wasn’t the Wharf Butcher’s style. He should have known that the moment he first clapped eyes on the vehicle. God, what a mess!

‘Just when I thought I had the killer in the palm of my hand, he slips through my fingers again.’

‘You can only work with the facts, no matter how much pressure other people are putting on you, Jack.’

‘Try telling that to those upstairs,’ Mason said. ‘It’s like standing in the middle of a graveyard . . . nobody in there listens to you anymore.’

The doctor lowered his head. ‘If your suspect was acquainted with Annie Jenkins, then he’s bound to know which pubs she hung around in.’

‘We’ve already checked that one out, Chris. Needless to say, there’s not a bar in Gateshead that Annie Jenkins didn’t frequent.’

‘So why is your suspect still refusing to talk?’

‘God knows!’

‘He’s obviously hiding something.’

‘I know, but what do I charge him with?’ Mason shrugged. ‘Apart from stealing a Lotus Élan, there’s very little else we can pin on him.’

‘For God’s sake, Jack, I’m only trying to be helpful here.’

Mason slumped back against the lab wall, and finally came to his senses. ‘Sorry, Chris,’ he said, holding his arms up. ‘This Wharf Butcher is doing my fucking head in.’

‘And he’s still out there,’ said Dr Brown as Mason walked towards the door.

Mason paused and turned. ‘I know, but where do you start looking for him?’

‘Rather you than me.’

‘Thanks a lot, mate.’

Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they had. Taking the lift, Mason was more confused than ever.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles was in no mood for questioning. Still seething over Jack Mason’s recent investigation into Gilesgate’s business affairs, the chairman’s look was grim. As the last of Gilesgate’s board members took up their positions around the large oak conference table, they appeared ill at ease. He’d chosen this venue carefully, with purpose: it was the perfect setting. Deep inside the bowels of Lakeside House and divorced from the rest of the building, Sir Jeremy felt in control. If nothing else, it signalled his intentions. News of the suspect’s arrest had travelled fast: the media were hot on the trail of yet another headline story. It was a time for engagement, a time for ratification.

‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Jeremy said, in words little more than a whisper and lips that barely moved. ‘We seem to be stuck in the middle. On one hand we have the police looking into our business affairs, on the other, a monster who threatens to wipe every single one of us from the face of the planet. What is to be done?’

No one spoke, each avoiding eye contact with one another. Except for one that is –Henry Fraser. Unknown to everyone, Sir Jeremey and Fraser were now under police surveillance. Even so, there wasn’t an area in Newcastle that Fraser didn’t control. All organised – down to the very last money laundering deal.

‘Snuff out this maniac first, and deal with the police later,’ Fraser said.

‘I appreciate your veracity, Henry. But the man now held in custody at Gateshead police station isn’t the Wharf Butcher.’

Gasps rang out around the table.

‘Did your contact say who he is?’ Fraser asked.

‘No, the police are keeping a tight-lid on his identity.’

‘To hell with the police,’ said Fraser, flamboyantly brushing Sir Jeremy’s comments aside. ‘Let’s give them a run for their money.’

Sir Jeremy was a shrewd and educated man, and well aware that many around the table were mere pawns in the grand scheme of things. His beady eyes shot to Fraser and then to the others. ‘Perhaps you have another cunning plan, Henry?’

Fraser’s face dropped. ‘I could have.’

‘So what are you proposing?’

‘I’m still working on it.’

Sir Jeremy thoughtfully stroked his greying moustache, pondering his next words carefully. His look was pallid, withdrawn. He spoke with a soft Irish accent; its pureness tinged with a hint of the West Country. ‘Lewis Paul informs me that our aggregate quarries are already experiencing serious problems. Yesterday, I’m informed, the Bloxter site was crawling with plainclothes detectives.’

‘Paul’s a wimp!’ said Fraser, showing little concern.

‘Rest assured Lewis Paul has nothing to hide. I agree he’s naive, but he’s certainly not privy to affairs around this table.’ Sir Jeremy paused for effect. ‘Jack Mason’s the person we should all be worried about. He’s the one who’s probing into our business affairs.’

‘To hell with Mason,’ said Fraser. ‘What are our lawyers saying?’

‘Not a lot at this stage.’

Fraser stared back at him icily. ‘In which case, let me deal with him.’

‘I’m not sure if that approach will work either,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘What if Mason doesn’t find the answers he’s looking for: what then, Henry?’

‘Does that idiot ever know what he’s doing?’

Laughter broke out round the table.

The Gilesgate Chairman blew out a long stream of air from his lungs, and waited for a sense of order to return. Fraser’s words were hard hitting; they usually were. Sir Jeremy braced himself, and caught the look in Henry Fraser’s eyes. The big man was slowly taking over, and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘What are you doing about this Wharf Butcher?’ Sir Jeremy asked.

‘In my books, it’s Jack Mason who’s calling all the shots here. Not this maniac.’

‘Are you aware that Jack Mason has brought in a criminal profiler?’

Fraser pulled back in his seat, and shook his head in disbelief. Sir Jeremy’s coercive words had obviously taken the sting out of the big man’s huge ego.

‘A profiler––’

‘That’s right, Henry.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘I’m told he can read into other people’s minds.’

A mischievous grin suddenly swept across Fraser’s face. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t look into Mason’s thick skull, cos there’s bugger all in there.’

More titters of laughter broke out around the table – nervous laughter.

It was Trevor Radcliffe, another long serving member of Gilesgate’s board who now took up the reins. ‘His name is David Carlisle, and none of us should underestimate the guy. He’s good at what he does, so we need to tread carefully. I’ve heard the police are struggling to track this maniac down, and Carlisle’s been brought in to assist them.’
 

A short lived silence followed.

‘Lewis Paul seems to think the profiler may offer us an alternative solution,’ added Sir Jeremy. ‘With Carlisle on our side, it may give us a little more room for manoeuvre.’

‘Well, that’s useful to know,’ Fraser shrugged. ‘Can he be bought off?’

‘It’s a consideration, but not at this stage,’ Sir Jeremy replied.

‘So what are we doing about it?’ asked Trevor Radcliffe.

‘We sit tight, gentlemen,’ the Gilesgate’s Chairman said. ‘Before we make any more rash judgements, let’s see what this profiler brings to the table. After all, this could work in our favour.’

Fraser’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even if Carlisle agrees to your terms, what guarantees do we have that Jack Mason won’t come poking his nose into our business affairs?’

‘Nothing’s guaranteed, Henry,’ insisted Sir Jeremy.

‘But with Carlisle on board,’ said Radcliffe, ‘it may keep the police off our backs.’

Fraser pushed back in his seat, and performed an elaborate stretch. ‘It’s time we put an end to Mason’s demands.’

The room fell silent again except for the boardroom clock, as its second-hand began another monotonous circuit. Curious as to what Fraser was really thinking, Sir Jeremy held back, knowing full well that many around the table were barely on speaking terms, let alone prepared to give way to each other’s demands. He watched as Fraser tapped the table with an index finger. His was a perfectly aimed proposal, and one that everyone understood – all except Fraser, that is.

‘Henry’s solution makes perfect sense,’ said Trevor Radcliffe, addressing the rest of the board. ‘It’s not what we know about Mason, it’s what Mason knows about us. That’s the problem here.’

‘Trevor makes a good point,’ another agreed.

Radcliffe nodded his approval, but chose to stay silent.

‘Why don’t we run it past the Assistant Chief Constable?’ another asked. ‘Let’s see what he has to make of it all.’

‘Which one is that?’ Fraser questioned.

Sir Jeremy froze in his tracks. ‘Irrational judgments will get us nowhere, gentlemen. The reality is none of us can sleep in our beds until this monster is either dead, or behind bars.’

Radcliffe leaned closer, his words barely a whisper. ‘Why, I keep asking myself, is this maniac targeting only board members? What does that tell us?’

Fraser shrugged. ‘That’s a bloody good point. I’m––’

Radcliffe cut him short – a big mistake. ‘He could be any one of a dozen people; even someone sitting around this table for all––’

‘Enough,’ Sir Jeremy demanded. ‘I’ll have none of that talk in my boardroom.’

‘Hold on,’ Radcliffe insisted. ‘I’m entitled to my opinion, surely.’

Radcliffe’s sudden outburst had stirred up a whole hornet’s nest. It was Fraser who broke ranks, his huge fist thumping the table with the force of a sledgehammer striking an anvil. ‘Oh. Yeah! Take my advice, Trevor. Button it before I do it for you.’

The silence was short lived.

‘Who’s handling the police investigations?’ another questioned.

‘Jack Mason is, I thought we’d already established that,’ Sir Jeremy replied.

Fraser’s temper was surfacing – another bad sign. ‘Yeah, and why Jack Mason, why not the Assistant Chief Constable? You’re talking out of your ass again.’

Sir Jeremy could barely contain his anger at Fraser. The big man was imposing bullying tactics, putting the others under pressure. It was time to take back control. ‘It’s moved on since then, Henry. Jack Mason was specifically brought in to tackle the Riley murders. Let’s face it; he’s probably as determined as we are at catching this Wharf Butcher.’

‘So why not buy Jack Mason off?’ Radcliffe insisted.

Fraser smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand, and laughed. ‘You dumb bastard, we’ve already discussed that issue.’

Sir Jeremy came between them again. ‘That’s enough, gentlemen. If the Northumbria police continue to go poking their noses into our business affairs, then w
e
al
l
need to think carefully about our futures.’

Fraser reached over, grabbed the water jug from the middle of the table and poured the contents into an empty glass. His lips were quivering, his eyes bulging in rage. He was a huge man, a man of few enemies. Those who were would soon be joining the countless lists of silenced opponents. That’s how Fraser dealt with his problems, no questions asked.

‘I’m pitching my lot in with you, Sir Jeremy,’ said Fraser, suddenly shifting his allegiance. ‘I say we let Lewis Paul deal with this criminal profiler. With any luck, Jack Mason may lead us to the Wharf Butcher anyway. In which case, I’ll deal with it personally.’

Sir Jeremy made a mental note of it. Even though John Matthew had failed miserably in his attempt to hunt down the killer, he had every faith in Fraser’s ability to finish the job.

‘Those in favour,’ said Sir Jeremy.

There followed a show of hands.

The decision was unanimous.

‘Rest assured, gentlemen, the police will listen to a sane man before they’d listen to a mad one. Besides,’ Sir Jeremy grinned. ‘I doubt Jack Mason knows anything about our organisation anyway.’

His words offered them small comfort – the killer’s unpredictable actions had unsettled them. Who would be his next victim?

Only the Wharf Butcher knew the answer to that.