The Wharf Butcher (22 page)

Sir Jeremy’s eyes filled with terror.

‘The newspapers say you’ve uncovered his hideout, I–––’

Carlisle didn’t need to listen to the rest of his story; he’d already made up his mind. He watched as Sir Jeremy pulled out a silver watch from a waistcoat pocket, tapped the face with his fingers, and held it to his ear. Beneath the underlying twitches and nervous facial contortions, the old fox was definitely up to something. Whatever it was, his was a dangerous game he was playing.

Half an hour later, after dropping off Wallace, Carlisle continued to drive south. Still deep in thought, nothing seemed straightforward anymore. Even Sir Jeremy’s political morality was now in question. There again, it wasn’t too difficult to find a bent politician nowadays. That much he was certain of.

No, it was something else that was bothering him. To catch a psychopath was always going to be a major challenge. Carlisle knew that. Even under stress these people showed little or no remorse towards their victims. Most psychopaths he’d ever met in the interview room were quick to blame others for their crimes. It was never their fault, and it was always all about them. Now, even more than before, he was convinced their killer wasn’t a Gilesgate director. If not, then he had to be someone else – someone close to these people with a personal hate grudge.

But who? Carlisle asked.

The answer to that was proving more difficult.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Henry Fraser had deliberately chosen an alternative route that morning, just in case he was followed. It was 9.22am. With plenty of time on his hands, he called in at his favourite corner shop and picked up a dozen cold beers. Cramming them into a battered cool bag, he checked his surroundings and climbed back into the waiting taxi. A stiff south-easterlybreeze was blowing in off the North Sea, when his cab finally drew up alongside North Shields Fish Quay. Apart from a few dog walkers, the place looked deserted. He stood for a while, and stared up in bewilderment at Cleveland’
s
tall mast
s
.
Over thirty metres high, they carried upwards of a dozen sails when fully rigged out. Amazing, he thought. At one-hundred feet long and modelled on a Baltimore clipper, when riding on a good trade wind, she could average speeds of around sixteen knots. She was an impressive ship, but one he had no intentions of ever sailing in.

‘Welcome on board,’ Cleveland’s Master called out.

Greenfingers Armstrong was a small man in stature, mid-fifties, balding, with harsh blue eyes that sat squarely behind thick rimless bifocals. His real name was Peter Armstrong, but amongst his other talents, he was a dab hand at growing his own strain of cannabis. A likeable character, Greenfingers had always managed to stay clear of trouble. Not anymore. Less than a hundred metres away, above one of the many local fish restaurants, a lone undercover surveillance officer had trained his binoculars on the early morning proceedings. Henry Fraser was the fifth Gilesgate board member to arrive at the Fish Quay that morning. Something was afoot, and the police were determined to get to the bottom of it.

Moving to the quarterdeck, Fraser was met by the rest of Gilesgate’s executives. Acknowledgements were minimal, each preferring to leave the talking to the other. The thud of Fraser’s cool bag hitting the ship’s wooden deck made everyone jump. He knew then, he was back in control.

‘Henry . . .’ said Tony Harper, extending out a hand.

Harper was unreliable, and so were the others. Fraser trusted no one, not even his granny. That’s why everyone’s mobile phone was laid out on the table in front of them.

‘I’ll be brief,’ said Fraser, mopping his brow for the umpteenth time. ‘There have been a few new developments.’

Greenfingers Armstrong looked genuinely surprised.

‘What developments are these, Henry?’

‘Did I say something?’ said Fraser, thumping his huge fist into the table.

Everyone knew why the big man was here, and what was to be done, but questioning him was a different matter. As yet, a plan still had to be hatched, and that was down to the big man. For the past twenty years, Henry Fraser had always handled Gilesgate’s muscle. That was his thing; he was good at it, especially at resolving other people’s problems. Financial matters were not his speciality; besides, it was the faceless backroom boys who always took care of his hard earned cash – investing in non-traceable assets. That’s how the system worked, that’s what set Fraser apart from the rest of the organisation.

The big man splayed his huge hands out in front of him, a threatening gesture that brought an instant response. ‘The hit on John Matthew has been called off. And, before anyone asks, it’s for technical reasons.’

‘Called off, I–––’ Greenfingers’ voice tailed off.

Someone’s mobile phone vibrated on the deck table, but no one dared answer it.

Fraser shook his head. ‘So, what is it you people want to know?’

Fred Sharkey, a veteran board member in his late sixties, stared anxiously across at him. ‘If the contract on Matthew has been called off, who’s handling Riley’s killer?’

‘It’s already been taken care of,’ Fraser assured him.

‘Anyone we know?’

‘All you people need to know is Matthew is now in police custody. ’

‘So, the pigs finally caught up with him?’ said Starkey, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I always knew the man was an arsehole.’

Fraser tapped the side of his head, a puzzled look. ‘Yeah, but they’ve charged him with attempted murder. You’re forgetting, Fred, he was working for us.’

‘Murder!’ gasped Greenfingers.

Fraser shifted his position. ‘You’re beginning to annoy me, little man.’

Greenfingers turned to the others for support, but none came. His voice barely a whisper, and eyes like frightened little birds, he slowly plucked up courage. ‘What about the hospital guards?’

‘That part of the operation has been closed down,’ said Fraser. ‘It wasn’t Matthew who killed Derek Riley; it was this maniac, the Wharf Butcher.’

Benny Woodall leaned over the deck table. His pock-marked face twitched but his lips barely moved. Always the height of fashion, Benny loved to dress snappy. Wearing an Yves Saint Laurent grey pinstripe suit, blue silk shirt and Church New York Oxford brogues, he looked immaculate. His gold oyster perpetual Rolex watch not only looked expensive, it was expensive. It was Benny’s pride and joy, and he thrived on the attention it brought him.

‘So,’ said Benny. ‘Why the sudden shift in direction?’

Fraser flexed his huge biceps. ‘That’s a good question, Benny. There’s a rumour doing the rounds, it was this Wharf Butcher who slit Ernest Stanton’s throat.’

‘But that was ten months ago.’

‘Don’t play on my words, Benny. It doesn’t suit you.’

Greenfingers’ jaw dropped in numb disbelief. The mere sight of Fraser’s huge fists had dampened the little man’s appetite for conversation.

‘This Wharf Butcher moves too fast for my liking,’ said Benny Woodall. ‘What assurances do we have that he’s not working for another organisation?’

‘Cos he’s not,’ said Fraser.

‘So why is he targeting the board?’

Fraser stared down at his empty beer can and sighed. The big man loved nothing more than being the centre of attraction. He thrived on it, and right now he was centre stage. ‘He’s eliminating you one at a time, Benny, and he’s thorough with it. It’s my guess that somebody has upset him, and whoever that is, he intends to get even with them.’

‘He’s making me feel nervous,’ Benny Woodall shrugged. ‘God knows who his next victim will be.’

Stony faced, Fraser leaned over and unzipped the cool bag and took out another cold beer. He was thirsty: it was a beautiful day and he was bored with small talk. Close to the river estuary, between the two piers, his interest levels had been drawn towards a small flotilla of sailing boats. Having rounded a series of bright red marker buoys, the lead boats were racing towards the finishing line. Following in their wake, the choppy seawater was throwing up huge plumes of spray. Mesmerized, Fraser slid his massive frame along the galley seat, stretched his legs, and peered over the starboard rail to watch the unfolding finale.

He wasn’t alone.

‘What’s your problem?’ said Fraser, turning sharply.

‘Just curious,’ Greenfingers replied.

‘Curious . . . curious about what?’ demanded Fraser.

‘Why you never sail in her.’

‘It’s not my scene,’ said Fraser, taking another huge gulp of his beer and leaning heavily back against the handrail. ‘Besides, I’ve more important things to do with my time.’

Fraser turned his back on him, and continued to watch the small racing flotilla as it ran for the finishing line. He frowned on small talk; it achieved nothing. Time was precious and the demands much greater. Talk was about bargaining, saying the right things. ‘You were right about one thing though, someone has infiltrated our ranks and whoever he is, he’s walking a tight line.’

‘I’ve had my suspicions for weeks now.’

‘I know you have.’ Fraser stepped back a pace, and spun to face him. ‘Keep your ears to the ground, and see what you can find out. The minute you hear something . . . anything, you’re to contact me. If the word leaks out, then I’ll know where the noises were coming from.’

‘You can count on me, Henry.’

‘You bet I can.’

Greenfingers’ face nervously twitched. ‘It’s the crew I’m worried about. There’s talk of a power struggle at the top, and the men are on edge. If you ask me, shifting sands are dangerous, especially now that John Matthew is behind bars.’

The tide on the ebb, Fraser caught sight of a small piece of driftwood as it bobbed up and down in the water. Bored, he threw his empty beer can at it. ‘Stop making judgements; others will do that for you. The rules are straightforward. We close ranks . . . move around the fringes so to speak. Any contact from above, will come directly through me.’ Fraser turned sharply to confront him. ‘Tomorrow you’re to hold a crew meeting. Whilst that’s taking place, your ship will be bugged.’

‘
Tomorrow
!
’ gasped Greenfingers.

‘Did I mention any other day?’

‘You’re asking too much, Henry. It’s impossible to pull a crew together with such short notice. Besides, five of my men are already on shore leave.’

‘Make sure it happens; if not you’ll join the rest of them at the bottom of the North Sea.’

A troubled expression corrugated Greenfingers’ brow. Everyone knew what happened to those who’d overstepped the mark.

Fraser stepped aside, and felt the cool breeze against his face. ‘Everyone will attend. Those who don’t will face the consequences. I want names. This Wharf Butcher is killing his victims to order, and he’s carving his way through the organisation as if it was a slaughterhouse waiting room.’

‘But how do I explain that to my crew?’

‘With a mouth the size of yours, I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ said Fraser grinning as if to show off a new set of teeth.

Fraser leaned over and retrieved another cold beer from the cool bag. Tugging on the ring-pull it exploded with a loud bang, sending Greenfingers’ nerves into overdrive. ‘Try keeping it simple for a change, let’s see what tomorrow brings. If the killer isn’t a member of your crew, we move on. Look elsewhere. At some stage or other this maniac will eventually surface, and when he does––’

Fraser smashed a huge clenched fist into the ship’s handrail.

Greenfingers winced. ‘Goodbye, Mr Chips . . .’

Ignoring him, Fraser tucked the cool bag under his arm, and walked ashore across the gangway. He was a huge man, and an easy target for the police undercover surveillance team.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It began in the temporary control room. Then spread throughout the entire network, before finally ending up on Jack Mason’s computer console.

‘
I do enjoy a good funeral, Jack; we must meet up again sometime.’

The Wharf Butcher’s audacity had not only shocked the backroom technicians, Jack Mason was furious. Just five days into uncovering the killer’s hideout, he had somehow managed to infiltrate the Northumbria police multi-million pound computer security system.

Heads would roll.

The Police Central e-crime unit was onto it like a flash, tracing the culprit terminal to an online internet café on Westgate Road. Close to Newcastle’s busy city shopping centre, and within easy walking distance of the Central Station, the location had been carefully chosen. Popular with locals, the interior was nothing flash – somewhere you could grab a quick bite to eat and stay in contact with the rest of the world. The café had a different character at night-time; it was that kind of place.

Jack Mason was in no mood for time wasters. Having pinned the proprietor up against the wall, the open flap of his jacket revealed the butt of his Smith & Wesson model 36. The humour had gone, and with it his patience.

‘How often has he visited the place in the past fortnight?’ Mason demanded.

The proprietor pushed back from the counter; there was genuine concern in his voice. ‘I’ve told you all I know, Chief Inspector.’

‘Is he a regular?’

‘No. I’ve never seen him in here before.’

Mason’s face was scarlet. He took another deep breath, before releasing his grip on the proprietor’s arm. ‘You let that little piece of chicken shit get away.’

‘How was I to know who he was?’ the proprietor replied.

Glancing around the room, Mason could not believe his bad luck. Two hours earlier, his killer had sat here, drinking coffee, surfing the internet. It felt incredibly unreal that someone could simply slip in and out of society at will. Now a major crime scene investigation, the warren of narrow streets that sprawled out from Westgate Road were now in lockdown. From what Mason could gather forensics had got there first, even before the Crime Scene Manager had arrived on the scene. Kitted out in their white disposable coveralls, they were now about their business. God it was chaos. It reminded him of one of those scenes in a silent Keystone Cops movie where incompetent police officers played out pandemonium on the streets of downtown New York. He counted at least a dozen police vehicles parked up in Westgate Road – with more arriving by the minute. It wasn’t always like this he cursed, surely not?

Seconds later, he watched as Luke James climbed out of his patrol car and ambled towards the internet café. Mason could hardly contain himself, let alone think straight.

‘The bastard has slipped through our fingers again, Luke.’

‘How long ago was this, boss?’ asked Detective Sergeant James.

‘Thirty minutes ago according to this maggot.’ Now hovering over the serving counter, Mason’s face was as black as thunder. ‘He paid his bill and coolly slipped back into the street unnoticed.’

‘Do we have a description?’

‘Yeah, he’s your typical Mr Average.’

The sergeant shook his head in disbelief. Sometimes, Mason thought, it was all too easy to underestimate the traits of a serial killer’s cunning. There were no witness statements, no eyewitness accounts, nothing. It was as if their suspect had simply vanished from the face of the earth. In all the years he’d worked as a copper, he’d never quite come across anything like this before. It felt like he was cradling a cat in his arms. All the while you kept thinking to yourself, those terrible claws, they can rip you apart in the blink of an eye. Not that it was ever going to be easy, he realised that. Nowadays Westgate Road was a notorious multicultural melting pot where almost anything could happen, and usually did. This time felt different though; the person responsible for this malicious prank was probably a notorious serial killer.

The next fifteen minutes were spent checking the surrounding properties. Whoever their suspect was, he certainly had a good understanding of the area. Still no further forward, Mason glanced at the buildings opposite. People were hanging out of the second floor windows, as if puzzled by all the commotion. Further afield, at the bottom of Westgate Road, huge crowds were gathered. Not the best of starts, he thought.

‘If this is the Wharf Butcher’s doing,’ said James, ‘then he’s made a grave mistake in my opinion. This is a notorious drugs catchment area, so we should have plenty of CCTV coverage at our disposal.’

‘You’re right Luke; he may not be as clever as I first thought.’

The Detective Sergeant removed his police cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Of all the things that could have gone wrong that morning, this had to happen. James was married with two doting teenage daughters, but his Caribbean wife had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having undergone a course of chemotherapy at the Freeman Hospital today was her last course of treatment. James was beyond himself.

‘He must have sussed this place out long before he sent you the e-mail, boss.’

‘I know. It’s Sod’s law he was wearing some sort of protective gloves when he used the café keyboard to log into my e-mail account.’

‘You’ve got to hand it to him,’ said James. ‘Carlisle always said he was local. In my view, he couldn’t have chosen a better place had he tried.’

‘He’s local all right, and no doubt working within his comfort zone.’ Mason shrugged. ‘What about local pubs, Luke?’

‘I’m not so sure about that, but there must be a million CCTV cameras covering the area.’

‘Yeah, but how many of them work?’

‘We must have something on him boss, surely?’

‘Maybe, but from what I’ve seen of some of the footage lately, the quality is crap.’

‘Perhaps we should concentrate more effort around the local Metro stations.’

‘Really . . .’

‘Why not, at least we can question everyone who walks with a limp.’

Mason shot him a glance. ‘And what the fuck do I tell the human rights activists when they accuse me of showing prejudice towards disabled people?’

The sergeant gave him a puzzled look.

God, Mason cursed. James had a point. So why was he shouting at him? The trouble was, most of the CCTV footage he’d ever come across could never be used as permissible evidence in court. It was his one big pet hate at the moment, and it annoyed him intensely.

A familiar voice suddenly boomed over the Sergeant’s radio.

‘It sounds like Ken Morrison has another TWOC on his hands,’ said DS James. ‘How the hell he does it, I’ll never know. That’s the third Mondeo he’s pulled this morning.’

‘Let’s hope it’s one of our police bait cars.’ Mason shrugged.

‘Chance would be a fine thing, boss.’

James’ radio suddenly crackled into action again; the driver of the stolen vehicle, a well-known shoplifter, was now under arrest. What a pity, Mason cursed. There must be at least a dozen bait Mondeo’s parked up outside Metro stations – surely one of them would take the killer’s fancy?

‘Ask Morrison to keep me informed,’ Mason said, pointing down at the sergeant’s handset.

‘Will do, boss.’

As another unmarked police vehicle screeched to a halt outside the internet café, Mason gritted his teeth. How many more police officers would it take? Westgate Road was fast turning into a police parking lot and if the press picked up on it, they’d be having a field day. What’s more, the surrounding area had been thoroughly searched in a grid pattern – that too had thrown up nothing. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

Back inside, Luke James stared in puzzlement. ‘I hear Henry Fraser has been involved in another nightclub security incident. He certainly has a fierce reputation amongst the hard-core criminal fraternity,’ said James. ‘If h
e
i
s
working for Sir Jeremy, then it can only mean one thing . . .’

The Sergeant was right; it had taken a long time to set the investigation in motion, but Henry Fraser was fast becoming his number one target. Having spent two years in Frankland Prison for grievous bodily harm, his criminal record wasn’t exactly squeaky clean either. No thanks to a sharp defence barrister named Tom Pollard – the big man had somehow managed to steer clear of trouble. Fraser was a muscle man, a leveller, someone you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. All the same Tom Pollard was a right pain in the arse, if not a damn good barrister. Too good if the truths were known.

Stretching his arms behind the back of his head, Mason was having another bad day. There were times, and there had been many of late, when Luke James’ relentless gossip gave him a headache. The man meant well, but he could talk the hind legs off a donkey in his opinion.

‘How’s the wife, nowadays?’ he asked, casually.

‘Today’s her last visit to the hospital, boss. Hopefully they’ll give her the all clear, but you can never tell with cancer.’

‘I thought her appointment was yesterday, Luke?’

‘No, it’s today. Two o’clock at the Freeman Hospital.’

Mason checked his watch: 11.20am. Realising that there was little more any of them could do, it was pointless him hanging around. What to do he thought?

‘You should have told me earlier, Luke.’

James nodded. ‘The job always comes first, boss.’

Mason forced a smile. ‘My ex-wife always used to say that to me, every time we went on holiday together. You can never relax, she would say, you check out hotel guests as though everyone is a potential criminal. She was right of course. Once a copper, always a copper, I’m afraid.’ Mason grinned. ‘Get your miserable arse out of here, and give my regards to the missus.’

Luke James’ face lit up. ‘Cheers boss, it’s much appreciated.’

The Sergeant tipped the peak of his cap as he made off towards his police vehicle.

‘Let me know how you get on,’ Mason said.

Despite his vigorous protests, the media were still out in large numbers. News travelled fast; too fast, in Mason’s opinion. Someone was feeding them inside information; if not; these people were damn good at their jobs. Informants, whistle-blowers, call them what you will, Mason was sick of them. Where would it all end? Even governments were caught up in it. What with the Freedom of Information Act, and the pursuit of transparency, nothing was sacrosanct anymore. No thanks to the power of the computer and the mobile phone camera, censored material could be downloaded at the drop of a hat. The speed of sensitive information transfer was alarming. And that reminded him: it was time he brought the Assistant Chief Constable to heel. His interference in the case had cost them dearly.

He stood for a while, knowing just how crucial the next twenty-four hours would be. Get it wrong, and the wolves would come knocking at his door. Still, he wasn’t going to let it get to him. Just how he was going to catch the Wharf Butcher, he had no idea. Something would turn up; it usually did. If not, then he would soon have some serious explaining to do.

His mobile phone pinged.