The Wharf Butcher (20 page)

‘Why not run it past the Assistant Chief Constable? After all, he’s the one who insists you to protect, rather investigate Gilesgate’s board of directors.’

‘T
o
hell with the ACC,’ Mason said.

Carlisle’s mind was racing now. Gripped by the suspect’s movement patterns, sadly an empty room offered him few clues. Stripped of personal belongings and sparse of comforts, the flat felt cold, detached, without any personal feeling. Stepping from the room, he drew in the fresh clean air. Nineteen storeys below, he watched as the media circus surged forward – cameras at the ready, sound recorders held high above strained heads. There was no mistaking the glaze in Mason’s eyes, firmly fixed ahead and staring into empty space. The veins on the backs of the detective’s hands stood out, the knuckles predominantly white. He appeared troubled, and whatever it was, it was deep-rooted.

They moved towards the stairwell, and Carlisle felt the cold stiff breeze sweeping in off the river. ‘The Wharf Butcher is stretching us, Jack. It’s his way of dealing with it.’

‘He’s got us exactly where he wants us, if you ask me,’ Mason sighed. ‘But you were right about one thing: he’s definitely using the metro rail system as part of his murder plans.’

They exchanged glances, and under the cover of a tight security ring Carlisle slipped unnoticed from the building. The rain was drumming down when he eventually drove south along the Western By-pass. Late afternoon and the rush hour traffic was nose to tail. Then, close to the Gateshead Metro Centre, it finally ground to a halt. Minutes later, the radio presenter announced that a major police incident had closed many of the approach roads in and out of Gateshead’s town centre.

‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘I wonder what that’s all about.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

Earlier that morning

Even a genius feels pain
.

Those words had hung around inside Lexus’s head for days now. His mind was in turmoil, and it annoyed him intensely. It would be good to be rid of the voices, just for once. He could barely think straight, let alone plan anything anymore. But there lay a problem. Not more than a stone’s throw away, close to the edge of reality, his tiny flat was meticulously being torn apart. It was a weird sight, but he bears no grudges, not today at least. Lexus has more important things on his mind, and more interesting!

Then the voices . . .

What do you see
?

‘Only the darkness,’ he replied.

Can you reach out and touch it?

‘No. Not today.’

Beyond the edge of the world lies a space, where emptiness and darkness collide. If you reach out and touch it, you will surely witness the light.

‘Is it real?’

Of course
,
the voice in his head replied.

Lexus was not deterred, why should he be? The street lighting was on, and the tiny memory stick – the one he’d placed in his pocket earlier – it was still there. It was a lifetime’s work, a masterpiece creation, and everything he had strived for . . . and more, of course.

Taken your medicine today?

‘Do I need to?’ he shrugged.

Maybe not, but do you have a plan?

‘Only a genius would know that.’

Without a doubt
,
the voice replied
.
And I bet it’s a good one
?

All these questions annoyed him, intensely. Besides, he had other things on his mind – more important things. Set back in the shadows, he watched as another plainclothes detective ducked beneath the police cordon tape. There was despair on the officer’s face; it reminded him of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Wait a minute, wasn’t that the Profiler, the very man brought in to hunt him down? Surely not! Yes it was, and wasn’t he much shorter than he had imagined him to be?

How exciting is that?

These people are so disappointing.

‘I know,’ Lexus sneered. ‘I’m such a genius.’

Well then, shall we get on with it?

Moments later, he watched as David Carlisle climbed into a battered old car and sped from the crowded courtyard. He wasn’t happy anymore. Not today he wasn’t. He’d always imaged the profiler to be an intelligent man – calculating just like him. Then, quite by chance, people pushed past him. Everywhere pandemonium – even the television crews had difficulty in jostling for a position. Still smarting from the loss of his beloved flat, he hid in a doorway and waited.

What to do next?

He had absolutely no idea of time; time meant nothing to Lexus. It was an unnecessary nuisance. Then, at the bottom of the stairwell, Jack Mason appeared. Panic gripped him, and his pulse quickened until he could barely breathe anymore. Jack was an astute cookie, unlike the rest. Only Mason could slip in and out of delicate situations at will. And yes, it was a frightening thing being invisible. He knew that, but it still drove him mad all the same.

Then the voices again . . .

What a cunning move. How did you spot that?

‘Yeah, but what to do next?’ he asked.

You will think of something, you always do.

‘I know, so why must you keep reminding me?’

The chaos inside his head was building now, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Lexus could never understand the complexities of uncertainly, it meant absolutely nothing to him. At least today it didn’t. As the light began to fade, he slipped unnoticed into the bowels of Gateshead Metro station. Calm overcame him. The dark was awesome. He loved it down there; the rush of hot air on his face, the hiss of the train doors, and the maze of dark tunnels, gloomy passageways and flashing coloured lights. This was his Shangri-La, a mystical paradise, set in such beautiful surroundings. Lulled into false security, he fell into another light sleep. He barely had time to relax nowadays. How crazy was that?

Then, as the train pulled out and onto the
Queen Elizabeth II
Metro Bridge, his eyes shot open again. He loved up here, high up above the water’s edge where everything was unflustered and so peaceful. Didn’t he know every twist and turn in that river? Of course he did; that was his hunting ground, his peace of mind. He once dreamt he could fly.

‘Is that possible?’

Every genius can fly, Lexus.

‘Including me?’

Indeed . . .

Lexus breathed in heavily. ‘I always thought I could fly,’ he replied.

You’re such a genius.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The drive to Corbridge took them a little over forty minutes. Detective Carrington took the wheel; Carlisle was too busy catching up on the latest Coroner’s report. On nearing the village of Dilston, Carrington turned right at the T junction and dropped down into Linnets Bank. Through a gap in the hedgerow, Carlisle caught his first glimpse of the beautiful rolling landscape. Winter here was a challenge: bleak isolation, with heavy snowfalls and bitter cold winds that cut through you as if you were naked. As the young detective pulled up in front of a small coppice, she switched off the engine and ambled round the front of the vehicle. It was late morning, yesterday’s rain had gone and it was a beautiful summer’s day.

Together, they made their way down a long winding footpath, until reaching a short bend in the river. Opposite stood a white stone cottage. Guarded at the rear by dense woodlands, its front was protected by cultivated blackthorn. From the outside, the place looked deserted. If they were being watched, it was from a distance. On crossing a small footbridge, Carrington pointed towards a thin plume of white smoke drifting out from one of the chimney stacks.

‘Try peeping in through a window,’ Carrington said.

This had to be Bradley Jenkins’ place, thought Carlisle. There were no other buildings for miles. Taking the easy option, he stepped up to the door and rapped the iron knocker. It seemed to go on forever, but when the door finally opened they were met by a slender man with wispy ginger hair and mouse like eyes. Bradley Jenkins looked much older than Carlisle had imagined. He was lean, with barely an ounce of spare fat on his body.

Carrington introduced herself.

‘Police,’ she said, thrusting her warrant card under Bradley Jenkins’ nose.

‘Yeah, what do you people want now?’

They stared at one another for a few seconds, before Carrington explained the purpose of their visit. Jenkins glowered at them through the open doorway, before finally allowing them inside. The modern furnishings seemed at odds with the rest of the building. The sitting room was tiny; low wood beamed ceilings and whitewashed walls gave it a claustrophobic feel. Neatly laid out in one corner stood a large plasma television screen, next to a tall bookcase crammed full of DVDs. An anorak lay over the back of chair, left there in a moment of haste. What’s more, there was rustling coming from the rear of the cottage – Jenkins wasn’t alone.

Focusing on the suspect’s eyes, Carlisle tried to read into Jenkins’ mind. Not the best of circumstances to conduct an interview, he thought, especially when close family and friends were now locked in a bitter dispute over the rightful ownership of the cottage. If nothing else, Annie Jenkins’ untimely demise had certainly sparked off more than its fair share of family trouble.

‘We are here to ask a few questions,’ Carrington explained.

‘What is it this time?’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ve already told you all I know.’

‘It’s about Annie,’ the young detective replied. ‘It will only take a few minutes.’

Jenkins finished off the last of his drink. ‘That’s what you sods said the last time.’

‘In that case we’ll be brief.’

Jenkins scowled at her. ‘So what do you want?’

‘We’re keen to establish Annie’s last known movements,’ Carlisle said, trying his utmost not to sound too overbearing. ‘Tell me, does the name Lewis Paul sound familiar to you at all?’

There was another long pause before Jenkins unfolded his arms and relaxed his pose.

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that name mentioned before. Why?’

‘Two days ago,’ said Carlisle. ‘I put it to Lewis Paul, that Annie may have been threatened after she left her position at Gilesgate.’

‘And what was Paul’s reply?’ Jenkins asked.

It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome that Carlisle had hoped for. He watched as the sunlight played through the small bay windows, making Jenkins squint. All the while rustling continued to come from another part of the building.

‘Well,’ said Carlisle calmly. ‘Paul gave me the distinct impression that Annie was a very amicable person to work with. But in fairness to him, he did advise we speak with you first.’

Jenkins hesitated. ‘Did he?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Carlisle nodded. ‘Did Annie ever mention anything to you about feeling threatened in any way?’

‘I can’t say as she did. Why?’

‘What about workmates?’ Detective Carrington cut in.

Jenkins just stared at her looking annoyed. ‘You do realise we were separated, young lady?’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Carrington acknowledged.

Jenkins’ face clouded over. ‘I’ll admit Annie could be a bit Jekyll and Hyde at times. It was always a matter of how much drink she’d had. She wasn’t the easiest of persons to get on with. She was an introvert by nature, but once the drink demons took over she could be a very obnoxious woman.’

‘What about her friends?’

‘Nah, most of them were alcoholics.’

Carlisle was quick to react. ‘Is there anyone else we can talk to?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea either,’ said Jenkins, scratching the tip of his pointed chin, as though it were an unusual question. ‘As you know, Annie and I were never on good speaking terms at the best of times.’

‘What about close family?’ Carrington asked.

‘What family! She had no family, they all buggered off the moment she hit the bottle.’ Jenkins looked Carrington in the eye, and swore quietly. ‘Annie drank herself into some sorry states at times. I’d even go as far as to say she drank––’ Jenkins checked himself.

The young detective nodded, but did not press the matter further.

They talked openly for a while, but he told them nothing they didn’t already know. However, the minute Carlisle mentioned Sir Jeremy’s name, Jenkins’ body language turned aggressive. ‘Don’t mention that little weasel’s name in my house,’ Jenkins retorted.

Carlisle just stared at him, not expressing any interest in the details.

‘Those are strong words, Bradley,’ answered Carrington.

‘Look,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s not just me; nobody I know likes the little bastard.’

Carlisle let him rant on a bit, before cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘It’s obvious you don’t see eye to eye with Sir Jeremy, and I can’t say as I blame you,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘But how did Annie get on with him?’

Jenkins took a few seconds to compose himself. ‘She didn’t,’ he replied bluntly. ‘She never liked him. How he gets away with running Gilesgate’s operations beggars belief. But he does, and that’s the problem.’

Carlisle raised an eyebrow. ‘Gets away with what?’

‘Now hold on a minute––’

‘I’m confused, Bradley.’ Carlisle confessed. ‘I was under impression that Lewis Paul was in charge of Gilesgate’s operational sites, but your reaction tells me otherwise.’

‘You’re mistaken, Carlisle,’ said Jenkins, shaking his head. ‘Paul’s just a front man. It’s Sir Jeremey and his cronies who run Gilesgate, not Paul. He’s a mere puppet.’

Carlisle probed deeper. ‘What do mean by that?’

‘For God’s sake . . . Annie was Sir Jeremy’s PA; she had access to some highly confidential documents. Think about it, she handled all of Gilesgate’s contracts.’

The room fell silent for a few seconds, a gathering of thoughts. Had Annie stumbled across something she shouldn’t have, he wondered. Was she murdered because of it? There again, they were dealing with a serial killer and that theory didn’t hold a lot of water either. Carlisle felt as though he was onto something, but what, he had no idea. Somehow or other, he would need to get to the bottom of it.

‘These so called cronies, what can you tell me about them?’ Carlisle asked.

Jenkins looked down, examining his watch strap. There was scorn in his voice. ‘It’s just what I picked up from Annie, you know how it is. She always liked to talk these things over when she’d had a few drinks. From what I could gather, these people were not only guarded about their activities and their identities, they were shrewd businessmen by all accounts. And another thing . . . why would you want to hold your meetings in the dead of the night, and behind closed doors?’ Jenkins puffed out his cheeks and expelled out a long drawn out gasp. ‘Annie may have been a lot of things, Mr Carlisle, but she certainly wasn’t daft. If she knew something wasn’t right, she would stop at nothing until she got to the bottom of it.’

‘And did she?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

Detective Carrington flashed him a quizzical glance.

Carlisle thought a moment. Jenkins was scathing, but that was understandable. A confirmed alcoholic, his ex-wife had not only lost her dignity and her position at Gilesgate – what followed was a bitter marriage breakup, a major family rift, and finally murder. Maybe Jenkins felt the need to blame someone else for his wife’s tragic downfall, and Sir Jeremy seemed the perfect person. No, there was something else, something more sinister that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

‘Did Annie ever say who these people were?’ he asked.

‘Nah, as far I’m aware they were professional people, financial brokers, police officers, bankers; people with influence.’

Carlisle studied Jenkins body language. ‘People with money perhaps – financial investors?’

‘People with power more like.’

‘Did she mention any names?’

‘No. Not to me she didn’t.’

‘You mentioned police officers were in attendance at these meetings.’ Carlisle stared back at him, looking for signs of hesitation. ‘Did Annie say who these people were?’

‘She did mention the Assistant Chief Constable’s name, but that’s as much as I know.’ Jenkins screwed his face up and swore. ‘I could never understand what a copper was doing getting involved with those arseholes . . . unless?’

Carlisle caught Detective Carrington’s glances.

‘Is that why Annie became suspicious do you think, because police officers were involved?’ said Carrington.

‘How would I know? Annie was many things to many people, but she was never one to take it lying down.’

Detective Carrington wrinkled her nose. ‘Including, Sir Jeremy?’

‘Oh yes, including Sir Jeremy,’ Jenkins said, spitting his words out.

They chatted a while.

‘Listen!’ said Jenkins. ‘What are the police doing about finding Annie’s killer?’

‘That’s why we’re trying to establish her last known movements,’ Carrington replied. ‘The people Annie mixed with, family, friends, that kind of thing.’

‘It’s Gilesgate you people should be talking to. Not me.’

Carlisle thought about this, but refused to be drawn in by Jenkins’ utter resentment towards Sir Jeremy. He stood to leave. ‘We’re grateful for your time, Mr Jenkins,’ he said handing Jenkin’s one of his business cards. ‘If you can think of anything that may have a bearing on our enquiries, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’

‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Jenkins shrugged. ‘It’s Gilesgate you people should be investigating. Not me.’

Carlisle whistled through clenched teeth. Bradley Jenkins had a point. Had his ex-wife uncovered a darker side to Gilesgate’s operations, and if so, had she placed herself in a vulnerable position? Then, more importantly, there was the question surrounding the Acting Chief Constable’s involvement in Gilesgate. Was Jenkins overreacting, venting his frustrations out on Sir Jeremy – laying the blame for his wife’s sad decline firmly at the Chairman’s door? He had his suspicions, of course, but refused to be drawn in by them. Besides, he would need to talk it over with Jack Mason first.

Carlisle felt a headache coming on. It had been one of those meetings, and they were leaving with more questions than answers. On reaching the coppice, Detective Carrington fished in her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. Leaning back against the undercover pool car, she began taking in the sun’s warm rays. They’d made some progress, not a lot to report, but at least it was something.

Carrington turned to face him. ‘What did you make of Bradley Jenkins?’

‘He certainly has no time for Sir Jeremy.’

‘No prizes there then,’ Carrington smiled.

‘I suspect Bradley Jenkins has told us everything he knows. Unfortunately, most of the hidden detail lies buried with his ex-wife.’

‘Those were my thoughts,’ Carrington said, peering over the top of her designer sunglasses. ‘At least we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’

He watched as the young detective brushed an annoying strand of hair from her face.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Carrington said coyly.

‘What’s that?’

‘Are you still single by any chance?’

Caught unawares, Carlisle felt his jaw drop. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious, that’s all,’ she shrugged.

Her voice had a mischievous tone. Sure he fancied her. Who wouldn’t, he thought. He quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, knowing full well he could never get involved with another woman. Jackie had been his life, his only love. He could never dishonour her memory.