The Wharf Butcher (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

David Carlisle stood in numb disbelief. Sixty years had passed since this concrete jungle had forged itself onto Gateshead’s skyline. Built to answer a housing crisis in post-war Britain, the ideologically inspired dreams of cheap, quality, high-rise housing was quickly neglected and demonised by the middle classes. Little more than a concrete ghetto, maintenance was abysmal, lifts seldom worked, rubbish chutes were always blocked, and garages regularly burnt down by vandals. These were dispiriting surroundings to live in, and the decent people who lived here hated it with a vengeance.

Ducking beneath the police line tape, Carlisle flashed his ID at an irate police officer and made his way towards Bethel Court high-rise tower block. Around the forecourt, there was plenty of evidence to suggest a major crime investigation was now under way. At the foot of the stairwell, to the left of the building, were two marked police cars, each occupied by uniformed officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit. Further afield, he caught sight of several figures in white coveralls, moving between the floor levels with a purposeful conviction. As ever, a strong contingency of media was busily snapping away at anything that took their fancy. Security was tight, but not tight enough, thought Carlisle. How little these people understood the workings of a serial killer’s mind – the behavioural patterns and different levels of intellect. This was no ordinary individual they were dealing with; did they not realise these people nearly always camouflaged themselves into contemporary anonymity?

Up on the nineteenth floor, he found Jack Mason grilling a blubber faced witness. He barely gave him a second glance. Like most crime scenes he’d ever visited, Carlisle never felt comfortable entering a killer’s lair for the first time. It was the not knowing that he could never quite get his head around, even though he’d done it a thousand times before. In the past he’d learned to live by his first impressions. This time felt different – much more sinister.

Poking his head in through the open doorway, he began to take in his first real images of the Wharf Butcher’s world.

Who are you, and what makes you kill?

The room had a musky smell, and was damp underfoot. Graffiti adorned every wall, macabre child-like sketches of death and horrific torture. It reminded him of something out of the Chamber of Horrors, unnatural, wicked and vile. He closed his eyes and searched for a moment of inspiration that would bring them ever closer. This was the nearest he’d come to actually confronting his killer, and his mind was all over the place.

‘Most of the evidence has been bagged and taken away,’ Mason said. ‘He’s been gone twenty-four hours by the look of things.’

‘How secure is the building?’

‘Water tight, from top to bottom, why do you ask?’

‘It’s the press I’m worried about, Jack. They are everywhere!’

‘Those cockroaches can sniff out a headline a thousand miles away,’ Mason frowned.

Carlisle frowned in a sort of dutiful disapproval. ‘What if he’s posing as one of them?’

‘Rest assured,’ Mason sighed. ‘If the killer is amongst us, we’ll have him on camera. This tower-block has twenty-four seven CCTV monitoring. It’s a notorious drugs neighbourhood, and well known to us.’

Drawing in the air, Carlisle could still smell the suspect’s sweat. Stripped of all physical evidence, the room had a hollow sound and void of any character.

‘What about personal effects?’

‘Everything’s been bagged and taken away for further forensic examination.’ Mason made a little grimace. ‘Before anyone moved in here, I made pretty damn certain a video camera was run over the place. Believe me, this building has been stabilised from top to bottom.’

‘Anything show up?’

‘Not yet, but Hedley’s examination was thorough.’

Mason had a tendency to rush things, thought Carlisle. The man had very little patience. He was impulsive. His eyes toured the room, as he began to take in the detail.

‘Your suspect’s confident; you’ve got to hand him that.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Mason sighed. ‘The Computer Crime Unit has taken away a laptop, so I’m hoping we’ll uncover more about him.’

The CCU’s search will be thorough, Carlisle reasoned. They usually were. If he did have any electronic secrets to hide, these were the people to find it. Was this a big mistake – had he been careless? In the silence that followed, Carlisle began to take in his new surroundings.

‘Do we have a name?’

‘Not yet,’ Mason replied.

‘You mentioned contamination?’

‘Forensics’ had a field day. They have bagged enough trace evidence to fill a bloody transit van. Let’s hope we finally have something on him.’

‘Hedley’s a good man,’ Carlisle acknowledged. ‘He’s thorough with it. Did anything else show up?’

Mason pointed at the walls. ‘Apart from these sketches, a dozen photographs, and several boxes of personal junk, that’s about it I’m afraid.’

Carlisle swung on his heels. ‘What kind of photographs are these?’

‘Group gatherings . . . black and white, professionally taken I’d say. Some loose in boxes, others blue-tacked to the walls.’

‘They could be relevant, Jack. I’d like to see them.’

Mason jotted down his request, as if it were some kind of shopping reminder. So much was churning through Carlisle’s mind, whilst everything else around him seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. Turning from the window, he noticed a damp patch in the corner of the room and dabbed his finger in it. It smelt of fish – sardines. Was this the suspect’s last meal? It could well have been.

‘You can almost reach out and touch him,’ said Carlisle, pointing to the sketches.

‘They mean bugger all to me,’ Mason shrugged.

‘Take another look, Jack.’

The DCI stepped back a pace and fixed his gaze on the walls. ‘If you want an honest opinion, they remind me of the drawings my five year old daughter used to bring home from school. It’s kid’s stuff, basic, the kind you’d expect to find pinned to a child’s bedroom wall.

‘I’d admit he’s no artist.’

Mason’s eyes burned like embers. ‘Spare me a thought––’

‘And yet they reveal so much about his personality.’

‘To you maybe, but they do bugger all for me. As far as I’m concerned, the Wharf Butcher has the intellect of a five year old child.’ Mason raised an eyebrow looking far from convinced. ‘He was in such a bloody hurry; he forgot to turn off the sink tap.’

Only too pleased that Mason still had some appetite for conversation, Carlisle drew breath. Usually by now, the DCI was ranting and raving at everyone. He lifted his spectacles onto his forehead, and cast a critical eye over a small section of wall.

‘He lives in a world of fantasy, which certainly fits the component makeup of a serial killer. Forget revenge or any other theories, this one’s serious about his work. In fact I’ll stand by my first impression of him, he’s a sensationalist.’

Mason barely glanced at him. ‘He might well be, but he’s spreading a lot more than the gospel about the place.’

The adrenaline racing, Carlisle delicately ran an index finger back over a series of sketches, only this time tracing their contours. There was a definite childish mentality about his style, but the subject matter was distinctly that of an adult nature. He’d witnessed its evil before – the characteristics were predictably repetitious. Deep down he found the killer’s state of mind to be insidiously different from those he’d ever come across before. There was a definite arrogance in his style, decidedly unsettling.

‘These sketches are sending out all the wrong vibes,
Jack.’

‘How do you come to that conclusion?’

‘The person behind them has more than a few emotional issues.’

Mason glowered at him. ‘Don’t tell me you can read into this sort of crap?’

‘Isn’t that what you pay me to do?’

‘OK. So what is he telling you?’

‘He’s re-enacting his childhood, but he’s fighting it. It shows in his mental state, hence the childlike way in which he presents his images. Even kids would find difficulty in drawing this kind of stuff.’

‘I would bloody well hope so, goddammit,’ Mason asserted.

For a brief moment the room fell silent again, broken only by the wind, playing against the window latch. Dropping to his haunches, Carlisle studied the sketches from a different angle. In places the hand had been steady, in others erratic. He sensed mixed emotions. Standing now, he took another look at the subject matter. Only this time, his nose was almost touching the wall. ‘He’s dominant . . . and likes to express his powers of achievement.’ Carlisle paused in reflection. ‘And that would account for his exhibitionism.’

Mason stuck his hands deep into his trouser pockets, and looked on in bewilderment. It was as though the mental cogs were working at full stretch, but his brain still wasn’t functioning.

‘Don’t tell me these sketches represent his victims?’

‘I’d say so,’ Carlisle nodded.

‘Tell me you’re joking––’

‘Here we see Riley . . . the blow to the head. Over there . . . crucifixion, which bears all the hallmarks of Anderson’s horrific ending.’ Carlisle drew breath. ‘Notice how the killer sees himself; he always draws himself twice the size of his victims. He’s the dominant figure, commanding power over everyone else.’

‘
Unbelievable
!
’ Mason said, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘You see. Even you can reach into his world.’

They spent the next fifteen minutes going over the possibilities, Mason hanging on his every word. As the dangerous psychological cat and mouse game began to unfold, the innermost workings of a serial killer’s mind slowly became more apparent. Then, Mason pointed down towards a small strip frame of sketches in the corner of the room. The victim’s throat had been torn open, the head falling back, and blood spurting out of it. Carlisle caught a hint of excitement in Mason’s voice, as a child discovering his first magic trick.

‘What sort of person are we up against here?’

‘He’s mentally unstable, that’s for sure.’

‘Hell man, even I know that,’ said Mason. ‘How many of these people are dead?’

‘It’s hard to say.’

With the eye of a hawk, Carlisle began to take in the detail again. Every now and then he would home in on one of the sketches, but he still found the images distracting. Then it struck him. What if these sketches were unfinished thoughts?

‘What the hell is going on?’ Mason said, sounding even more nervous.

‘Look carefully, Jack. What do you see?’

Mason took a step back in search of an answer.

‘A crane mechanism, the kind found in a boat yard. Why?’

‘These are more than just mere thoughts, I’m convinced of that. These are a pictorial record of his past achievements, and his future aims.’

‘It will take more than a few sketches to convince me,’ Mason insisted.

Mason had a point, but only a trained eye could see through the fog. Suddenly it felt as if the rug had been pulled from under him. ‘Our suspect is proud of his work, and dedicated to the point of showing off. If all these murders had already been committed, then I’d suspect we’d have found a lot more bodies by now. No, the person we’re looking for is a pure exhibitionist who likes to display his work as if the world was his public art gallery.’

‘What worries me,’ Mason sighed, ‘is that he’s improving with practice.’

Carlisle shuddered inwardly, sensing its vulgarity. Inside the tiny room he felt a new affiliation with his subject, as if he was closer to him than ever before. Not with-standing his motives, their suspect’s style of killing were consistent. ‘He’s methodical, Jack, systematic to a point of being organised. His victims, all members of a specific group, Gilesgate, are the perfect fit of the missionary killer. The question is – could he be one of them?’

‘God knows.’

‘These black and white photographs you mentioned, they could be of major significance,’ Carlisle confirmed. ‘They’re part of his modus operandi. Pictures are memorabilia, events of the past. I need to take a look at them.’

His request was greeted with another shake of the head. Even with the windows fully open the room still stank of urine. It played on their nostrils, a foul bitter odour.

‘I’ve already made a note of it. I’ll arrange to have copies sent over.’

‘Did Hedley give any indications as to when he might have something ready?’

‘Tonight with any luck––’

‘Our suspect’s had a very troubled past, and may well have been abused as a child.’ Carlisle was thinking aloud now, as he often did. ‘Whatever happened to him in the past, it’s left a deep-rooted impression on his mind.’

Mason shot him a sideways glance. ‘Could that have triggered him into killing?’

‘It’s possible, but it’s hard to say at this stage as his mind is fuelled by fantasy. In our discovering his hideout, it may have sparked off all kinds of mental warfare inside his head.’

Mason paced the floor.

‘I’m considering stepping up my 24-7 covert operations on Gilesgate, but I don’t have the available resources.’