The Wharf Butcher (21 page)

Chapter
Thirty-Four

The ten-thirty briefing trumped up all the usual faces, thought Carlisle, and the operations room smelt of fear and sweat. Owing to the vast amount of physical material recovered from the Wharf Butcher’s flat, Forensics was struggling. Whilst most of the evidence had been meticulously logged, packaged and labelled, it still required considerable laboratory effort to sift through the mountains of detail. It was painstaking work, but one that could not be rushed.

Jack Mason had kept his media statement brief that morning. The national television networks were out in force, most of them running live news bulletins. The public’s insatiable demand for answers had ensured the Northumbria police were kept constantly on their toes. As usual, Mason gave very little away. Dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, white buttoned down shirt and blue polka dot tie, the moment he entered the operations room, he looked more like a television presenter than a senior police officer heading up a major murder investigation.

Taking centre stage, the DCI removed his jacket, and stood to face the team. In what was promising to be a long drawn out meeting, the next fifteen minutes were spent running back over the last twenty-four hours’ events. When they came to the discovery of the suspect’s computer, true to form, Mason dug his heels in.

‘John,’ said Mason, pointing to a dour-faced member of the police Computer Crime Unit. ‘What information have you managed to recover?’

From what Carlisle could make out, John Cutmore was a thirty-something year old computer geek who carried a huge chip on his shoulder. Unquestionably an oddball, what Cutmore lacked in dress sense he certainly made up for in intellect. He had one of those annoying, high pitched squeaky voices, and spoke in snatches as if his words wouldn’t come out fast enough.

‘Your suspect was operating a high-end Lenovo’s fourteen-inch ThinkPad X1Carbon Touch computer,’ Cutmore said, oozing computer jargon. ‘It was part of a large consignment, stolen from a lorry park in Leeds. None of it was ever recovered, until this one turned up.’

The noise levels heightened.

‘When was this?’

‘Last August,’ Cutmore replied.

‘Where from exactly?’ Mason asked

‘The Tingley Lorry Park, it’s near junction twenty-eight as you head west along the M62 towards Lancashire.’

Mason jotted down some notes. ‘What else can you tell us?’

‘Not a lot. He’s not registered with any of the usual social networking sites. If you ask me, he seems a bit of lone wolf in my opinion.’

‘What about chat rooms?’

‘No, nothing,’ shrugged Cutmore, as if it was another stupid question.

‘Did he ever use Skype?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

Mason checked with his notes. ‘Does he search any particular websites?’

‘He’s addicted to American crime reporting, if that’s what you mean.’

He watched as Cutmore leaned back heavily in his seat and yawned, as if bored by it all. Not the best of moves, Carlisle inwardly groaned.

‘And that’s it?’ Mason said, staring at him, eyes like daggers.

Cutmore sat bolt upright as though a thousand volts had suddenly passed through his chair. His face now bright red, he put his mug down and tried to gather his composure. ‘I . . . err . . . no, I’m not sure.’ Cutmore was silent for a few moments, looking around, and eyes like a frightened rabbit. ‘He seems to have downloaded an awful lot of material involving notorious serial killers. His computer was crammed full of the stuff.’

‘Anyone in particular spring to mind?’

‘Not really, but he does seem to have a morbid fascination with Ted Bundy’s trial.’

‘I see. What other things has he stored?’

‘He shows a lot of personal interest in his own murder crimes.’

Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘Such as––’

‘Newspaper reports, YouTube clips, that kind of stuff. It starts with the Ernest Stanton trial, and progressively carries on from there.’

‘If you ask me, he seems to be interested in what other people are saying about him?’

‘Yeah, I suppose you could say that.’

‘What about login passwords?’ Mason asked.

‘He uses several, boss. But the main one i
s
devilsmypal.
’

Carlisle’s eyes narrowed as Mason moved towards a large whiteboard and tapped it with the back of hand. Now covered in photographic evidence taken from the suspect’s flat, it made chilling viewing. Taking everyone by surprise, the DCI stopped short, changed his mind and smartly turned to face the team again.

‘Vic. What’s the latest on Trevor Radcliffe?’

Caught unawares, a spray of coffee exploded from Vic Miller’s lips. ‘We’re still running with our 24/7 surveillance, Jack,’ Miller said, wiping the dribbles from his chin. ‘Nowadays, Radcliffe spends most of his spare time at the boathouse. That’s the one nearest to the North Shields Fish Quay.’

‘Have there been any more sightings?’

‘Apart from Henry Fraser’s occasional visits, it’s been relatively quiet.’ Miller shuffled awkwardly, as if feeling the pressure. ‘I should also point out that ‘Cleveland
’
is due back into the Tyne on Friday.’

‘Just to pick up on that,’ Mason cut in. ‘Clevelan
d
is a one-hundred foot schooner commissioned by Gilesgate to carry out its coastal survey operations. She’s been involved in drugs trafficking in the past, and is known to have slipped under the coastguards’ radar on several occasions. So we need to stay vigilant. When is she due back, Vic?’

‘Early that morning, boss. She’s taking the six-twenty tide,’ said Miller, staring down at his notes.

Harry Manley raised a hand as if to speak. ‘Any chance of getting me fixed up with a cheap happy baccy weekend cruise, Vic?’

The team fell about laughing; even Jack Mason saw the funnier side.

‘OK,’ Mason said eager to press on. ‘Any sign of the suspect showing up at the Bethel Court flat?’

‘It’s all gone quiet, Jack,’ Vic Miller replied.

Mason thanked him, and then turned his attention to other matters. ‘Luke, what’s the latest on Lakeside House?’

Luke James stared into the bottom of his empty plastic coffee cup, before turning to face them. ‘We’ve seen an upsurge of activity, but I’m a bit miffed that Thomas Schlesinger still hasn’t shown up,’ said James. ‘I’m convinced he was involved with John Matthew in the Barrow Burn affair, and––’

‘I take it Fraser is still in regular attendance?’ Mason muttered.

‘Fraser and Sir Jeremy are as thick as thieves, boss.’ James lowered his head. ‘They’re up to no good, I’d wager.’

‘Wait a minute!’ said Mason. ‘What’s happening about Fraser’s car?’

‘We’ve now fitted it with one of our new GPS tracking devices,’ said James, looking smugly upbeat.

‘Nice one!’ Mason acknowledged. ‘That means we can now keep track of his movements.’

For some minutes, they ran back over dozens of Ford Mondeo sightings – ninety-six in total – none of any interest. The killer, it seemed, was refusing to take the bait.

Mason looked at his watch. ‘Sue, how did your interview with Bradley Jenkins go?’

Apart from Mary Holt, a backroom forensics scientist, Detective Sue Carrington was the only other female present that morning. Not surprisingly, thought Carlisle, the young detective gave a very confident account of their findings and seemed determined to pull no punches. The moment she sat down, it took Jack Mason all of three seconds to make the connection.

‘So,’ Mason said, weighing up the facts. ‘We know that Annie Jenkins was Sir Jeremy’s PA, and had access to some highly confidential material.’ Mason paused for effect. ‘Are we now suggesting that Gilesgate are using Lakeside House for some sort of dodgy business activities?’

‘That’s my understanding,’ Carrington nodded.

Mason paced the floor again.

‘OK. Apart from a possible cover up, is there a case to suggest that someone wanted Annie Jenkins silenced?’

‘I wouldn’t discount that theory either,’ Carrington advised.

Mason allowed himself the suggestion of a smile. ‘These late night meetings, did Bradley Jenkins give any indications as to who might have attended them?’

Detective Carrington referred to her notes. ‘He described them as prominent people, stockbrokers, politicians, bankers, police officers . . . people in high office,’ she said, nervously chewing the end of her pen.

‘Do we know who these police officers are?’

The young detective lowered her head. ‘Yes, he did mention the Assistant Chief Constable’s name.’

In all his years on the force, Carlisle had never witnessed an operations room fall so deadly quiet before. At this point, someone would usually make a snide remark. Not today. He could have heard a pin drop. The mere mention of the ACC’s involvement had knocked everyone for six.

All eyes now strained towards Jack Mason.

‘Good work, Sue. Unfortunately the only person who can verify Bradley Jenkins’ statement is now dead.’ Mason seemed rapt in some thought or other. ‘Do you have anything to add, David?’

‘No. Not at this stage,’ Carlisle replied. ‘If nothing else, it confirms our suspicions about Gilesgate and the difficulties we are now faced with.’

‘What’s your take on these Lakeside House meetings?’

‘Annie Jenkins had close ties to these people, which undoubtedly placed her in a very precarious position. Nevertheless–––’

‘Could she have been singled out?’ Mason questioned.

‘It’s possible, but highly unlikely. The person we’re dealing with has already outlined his intentions. Annie Jenkins wasn’t murdered for what she knew; she was murdered because of who she was. I’m convinced of that. In my opinion, she was always an integral part of the killer’s plans, and that’s why he killed her.’

Mason perched on the edge of the table. ‘In other words, we now have two possible strands running here. One involving a serial killer, the other involves Gilesgate’s Board of Directors. Find the link, and we may find our killer.’

Carlisle glanced at Carrington.

‘Dave,’ said Mason. ‘What’s the latest on your Metro station investigations?’

A relatively new member of the team, Constable Dobson was slowly working his way through George Wallace’s Metro CCTV footage – two-hundred and forty hours to be precise. Not the best of tasks, thought Carlisle.

‘We’ve managed to narrow it down to eighty-six possible suspects,’ said Constable Dobson. ‘All are male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, and all used at least two Metro stations on the day of Annie Jenkins’ murder.’

‘How many stations are we talking about here?’

‘Ten, boss.’

Carlisle did a quick mental calculation. With sixty stations in the system, he wasn’t exactly holding his breath. Maybe he should have thought of that in the first place. Even so, they were starting to make progress.

As the meeting drew to a close, Mason made a bee-line towards him.

‘It seems we now have a major problem on our hands,’ said Mason, pulling him to one side. ‘How do we deal with the delicate matter of the Acting Chief Constable?’

Several thoughts crossed Carlisle’s mind, but he chose to ignore them. This was an internal issue. Any accusation aimed at a senior police officer was the Northumbria force’s concern, not his. Besides, outsiders were usually frowned upon when it came to internal disciplinary matters.

Carlisle gave a faint smile. ‘It’s a difficult one, Jack.’

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,’ said Mason. ‘Before the shit hits the fan, let’s hope we can quickly get to the bottom of Gilesgate’s illicit activities. Even so, my primary objective is to catch this maniac regardless of any outside distractions. But catch him I will.’

Carlisle leaned back and cocked his head to one side. ‘By you uncovering his flat, it may have sparked him into killing again.’

‘In which case, I need to step up my surveillance operations.’

In more ways than one, Carlisle concluded.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Shortly after two-thirty, Carlisle locked the office and drove north through the Tyne Tunnel. At a pre-arranged lay-by near Cramlington, he picked up George Wallace who was waiting for him in front of his undercover blue Peugeot 308. The rain that had threatened yesterday had now arrived, making driving conditions hazardous. Ten miles north of Morpeth, they pulled up in front of a pair of wrought iron gates leading to a long tarmac driveway. Lakeside House, a nineteenth-century stately manor and now the family home of Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, was nowhere to be seen. On the surface things appeared normal, but Carlisle knew otherwise. High security fences and a heavy presence of surveillance cameras gave the place a Fort Knox feel.

Joined by a gum chewing security guard who stank of cigarette smoke and stale sweat, DS Wallace flashed his warrant card under the security guard’s nose.

‘Police,’ said Wallace. ‘We’re here to see Sir Jeremy . . . he’s expecting us.’

The security guard gave them a cursory once over, tipped his peak cap, grinned, and waved them through. ‘Continue straight on ahead, sir. I’ll inform them of your arrival.’

The drive took them along a series of long narrow lanes, surrounded by woodlands on either side, with a mix of rolling countryside and well-kept landscaped gardens. Then, at the turn of a sharp bend, Lakeside House came into view. It wasn’t the stately grandeur that had attracted Carlisle’s attention towards it; it was the Cyclops eye of the CCTV camera perched high on the manor roof. They were being observed.

At the reception desk, they were met by a tall skinny redhead, with bright red lipstick and an overpowering stench of cheap perfume. She appeared on edge, as if she’d had previous run-ins with the police. Seconds later, they were ushered along a narrow palatial hallway, high ceilinged with magnificent oak panelled walls and luxurious carpets underfoot. Inside a dimly lit lounge, lavishly furnished with stunning views overlooking beautiful rolling parklands, they were shown to their seats. Carlisle sat opposite Wallace, across a large walnut conference table which took centre stage in the room. Neither spoke.

Then, from a side door, Sir Jeremy appeared.

Wearing a grey, pin-striped suit, pink shirt and crimson polka dot blue tie, the Gilesgate Chairman carried a sombre look. ‘I’m reliably informed you’ve been snooping into our financial affairs, Mr Carlisle?’

Wallace took up the gauntlet. ‘That’s correct, Sir Jeremy. The police have found it necessary to open up a new line of enquiries, it’s––
’

‘It would have been courteous of them to inform me first,’ Sir Jeremy interrupted. ‘Let’s hope your people have found what you were looking for.’

The Detective Sergeant sighed, but did not reply.

Easing back in his seat, Sir Jeremy stared inquisitively down at them. It was then Carlisle noticed the diamond studded gold cuff links. Everything about the man reeked of success, or so he would have them believe.

‘I hope today’s visit finally brings an end to the matter.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Wallace replied grimly.

‘What is it now, Sergeant?’

Wallace cleared his throat. ‘We’ve recently had cause to reopen our enquiries into Charles Anderson’s death. I believe he once worked for you, Sir Jeremy?’

The Gilesgate chairman looked at each of them in turn. ‘The tone of your voice tells me you already have a suspect in mind,’ said Sir Jeremy, shifting awkwardly in his seat. ‘Perhaps I may be able to assist you gentlemen?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Wallace replied.

‘Oh and why not?’

‘I must warn you that anyone remotely connected with your organisation is now a suspect.’

‘Really!’ gasped Sir Jeremy. ‘And what brings you to that conclusion?’

‘Three of your board members are dead, isn’t that enough?’

‘You don’t think for one minute that anyone in my organisation is remotely connected with these murders, surely not?’

‘We’re certain of it,’ said Carlisle.

Sir Jeremy hesitated for a second. ‘You sound convinced, Mr Carlisle?’

‘I am.’

‘And what brings you to that conclusion, may I ask?’

Carlisle turned to George Wallace. ‘We believe that another murder, one which took place last November . . . may be connected.’

‘May be connected––’

‘We can only deal with the facts,’ Carlisle conceded.

‘I knew it!’ said Sir Jeremy, launching into them. ‘You people never cease to amaze me. Do you ever get anything right?’

It was anxious moments like these, and there had been many in Carlisle’s long undistinguished career, when he enjoyed a challenge. Ignoring the Chairman’s outburst, he opened his briefcase and took out a large green folder, placing it on the table in front of him. He ran another minute in silence, just enough to heighten the chairman’s curiosity.

‘Do you recognise any of these people?’ Carlisle said, handing Sir Jeremy a large monochrome photograph taken from the folder.

Sir Jeremy extracted a pair of silver half-eye reading spectacles from an inside pocket and sat them on the tip of his nose. He stared at the image for a few seconds, before giving it a long-suffering sigh.

‘When was it taken?’ Carlisle asked.

Turning it in the light, the Chairman brought it up to his face until it almost touched the tip of his long nose. ‘If I’m not mistaken, this is the Nottingham Flood Contract.’

‘What can you tell me about it?’ said Wallace, eager to join in.

‘That’s not too difficult, Sergeant. At the end of every contract we hold a small social gathering. It’s our way of thanking everyone who has taken part in the project. You might say it’s an informal handover ceremony, between Gilesgate and the client.’

Wallace gave him a thin wintery smile, but said nothing.

‘And the people in the photograph . . . who are they?’ Carlisle quizzed.

Sir Jeremy peered over the top of his glasses. ‘How did you come by this?’

‘Tell me,’ said Wallace. ‘Was this picture taken before or after the Nottingham contract?’

‘After, if I’m not mistaken––’

‘And the so called client team,’ Wallace pressed. ‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t like the tone of your voice, Sergeant.’

Wallace dug his heels in. ‘Would you keep records of the people who attended that day? An invitation list . . . perhaps?’

‘We may well have done, yes.’

Sir Jeremy was lying, and Wallace had picked up on it. The detective gave him a look that would freeze a blast furnace. ‘Such a document would be very useful,’ said Wallace. ‘Of course, we may wish to interview everyone involved. Those still alive, that is.’

‘That’s absurd,’ Sir Jeremy protested.

‘Not really when you consider that any one of these people may be withholding some vital piece of information. You seem to forget,’ said Wallace, holding Sir Jeremy’s glances, ‘there’s a serial killer out there and he’s targeting your board of directors.’

‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements, Sergeant.’

Carlisle glanced at his colleague, with the kind of look he normally reserved for halfwits. ‘There is, of course, the question of protection, George.’

Wallace nodded. ‘Ah, protection.’

‘
Protection
!
’ gasped Sir Jeremy.

‘That’s what we do best,’ Wallace replied stoically. ‘We protect you people from these so-called maniacs.’

That had done the trick.

Carlisle glanced at the folder in front of him, a thick, well-thumbed document. It had nothing to do with the case, but he tapped it with his pen all the same – purely a diversionary distraction. Milking it for all it was worth, he peered down at the heading:

GEORGE GRADY, OPERATION SPARROWHAWK.

And then he remembered. The case involved a horrific child sex offender, a low-life who had met more than his match inside Durham jail. Having served five months of a twenty year sentence, Grady was found dead in the showers. He’d been stabbed to death by a fellow inmate, a crazy lifer who’d lost his only son in a freak road traffic accident. George Grady’s prison sentence, it seemed, had been cut short by good old fashioned criminal justice.

Carlisle opened the file – another annoying distraction.

‘I’ve remembered the location,’ Sir Jeremy said, flamboyantly. ‘It was Rexroth Hall.’

‘One more thing,’ said Carlisle, turning to the photograph again. ‘Is that not Ernest Stanton seated next to your good self?

‘Yes, it is now that you come to mention it.’

‘An
d
wha
t
exactly was Stanton’s role in this so called . . . Nottingham Flood Contract?’

Sir Jeremy rolled his eyes. ‘Stanton was employed by the Environment Agency. Why do you ask?’

‘And what did that entail?’

Not for the first time, Sir Jeremy’s bottom lip had tightened. The mechanics of a murder investigation could be daunting, and the interview techniques no different. Prior to their meeting, both Carlisle and Wallace had agreed to spring the Ernest Stanton murder on Sir Jeremy. It was all about timing, and now seemed the perfect moment. The Chairman was floundering, and like a rabbit caught in the headlights there was no hiding place.

‘Stanton was involved in global warming initiatives,’ Sir Jeremy went on. ‘His particular interests lay with the European Flood Directives and his involvement in RAP. That’s the Risk Assessment Panel, if you’re not familiar with the title.’

Wallace made a note of it and lifted his head. ‘And what was Stanton’s involvement in this so called . . . RAP?’

‘He was a government advisor, that’s how he became involved with the Risk Assessment Panel in the first place. Stanton’s main responsibilities were to oversee the contract tender bids.’ A rare smile cut across Sir Jeremy’s face. ‘All in the best interests of government, of course.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Carlisle nodded, knowing they’d touched another raw nerve.

‘I don’t want to give you people the wrong impression here,’ said Sir Jeremy, flamboyantly gesticulating with his hands, ‘but Ernest Stanton was a bit of an enigma as far as Gilesgate was concerned. Besides, these gatherings were purely a corporate hospitality exercise, and nothing else.’

You’re lyin
g
, Carlisle cursed. Stanton was a slippery bag of worms at the best of times. He knew how to manipulate people, extract their money. Honesty and integrity played no central part in Ernest Stanton’s work role. Money talked, it influenced people’s decisions and was fundamental to the way Stanton had operated. It was time to cut to the quick.

‘One further question if I may,’ Carlisle said, pointing down at the photograph again. ‘The person whose face has been partially scratched out, who is he?’

‘That’s Derek Riley,’ Sir Jeremy sighed.

‘Wasn’t he a sheep farmer?’

‘Derek Riley was a speculator, Mr Carlisle, and as such, he played no active role in the running of this organisation. These people are purely financial investors . . . they’re what’s known as Sleeping Partners.’

Sir Jeremy was merely making a broad sweeping political statement, but foremost in Carlisle’s mind was: he’s lying through his back teeth. He thought for a moment. ‘So that would account for Riley’s involvement in . . . Lowther Construction?’

Sir Jeremy’s jaw slackened. ‘I thought that this was a murder inquiry?’

‘It is, Sir Jeremy, and one involving three of your directors,’ Wallace explained.

The chairman’s face darkened. Having told countless untruths, Sir Jeremy had exposed himself for what he really was – a true Charlatan.

‘On Monday it was our financial affairs, today it’s contractual agreements. Tell me, Sergeant, just how far your people are intending to go with this––’

Wallace cut him short. ‘It’s our job to solve a murder crime, Sir Jeremy, and in doing so, we intend to use every means at our disposal.’

‘This is absurd.’

‘You may not be aware of this,’ said Carlisle, ‘but this photograph was taken from the wall of the killer’s flat. You could say it’s his calling card, a method and means by which he selects his next victim.’

A moment’s hesitation shot across the chairman’s face. ‘You’re not suggesting these people are in grave danger, are you?’

‘Those of you still alive are.’

Sir Jeremy’s hands were shaking. ‘And this is how he selects his victims?’

‘I’m afraid so!’ Wallace grinned. ‘Which means that every board member still alive is now a potential target?’

Carlisle’s looked at Wallace. ‘What do you think, George?’

‘I’m not a betting man,’ Wallace shrugged, ‘but the odds seem pretty crap to me.’

Sir Jeremy shut his mouth and seethed. There was tension between them, unease. The chairman hesitated, still wary of where this was all going.

‘This is ridiculous, gentlemen. What kind of monster is he?’

‘I wouldn’t go there if I were you,’ Carlisle insisted.

‘So why has he chosen . . . Gilesgate?’

Carlisle observed the man’s concern, closed the green folder, and then said. ‘That’s a very pertinent question, and one that leads us to believe that someone in your organisation may hold the answers to. Perhaps the killer has a personal grudge against one of you. Who knows? Whoever he is, he will not stop until he’s eliminated every single board member. These are very dangerous times, Sir Jeremy. I’m sure you’re aware of that.’