The Wharf Butcher (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It had just turned eleven-thirty when Mason finally ambled into Starbucks, in the heart of Newcastle’s city centre. Carlisle preferred the layout, the place had a cosy atmosphere; besides, the coffee was good. It was Friday, and every available seat in the house was taken. He watched as Jack Mason stepped aside to allow a tall woman with a black buggy squeeze past him. The kid inside it was throwing a tantrum. Thrashing its arms as if the world was full of nasty grownups, it was screaming the place down. Mason just stood there, motionless, observing in silence. Nearby, a young teenage waitress was busy clearing a table already occupied by the next set of customers. Everything seemed a chore to her, as if the end of her shift couldn’t come fast enough. Not a good sign, thought Carlisle.

By now, everyone and his granny knew that the Chief Inspector had received a threatening e-mail that morning. What they didn’t know, not even Jack Mason, was that the killer had probably written it days ago. No doubt he was watching the detective’s every movement, and laughing at him every time he tripped up. His was a dangerous game of cat and mouse that only had one outcome.

‘You missed all the fun,’ said Mason, pulling up a seat. ‘Our friend has made contact.’

‘So I hear!’

Mason took a sip of his coffee. He’d not shaved in days, giving the impression that he’d stopped up most of the night. ‘The cheeky sod even had the audacity to hack into my e-mail account.’

Carlisle thought about it. ‘Tread careful, Jack. He’s trying to ruffle your feathers after you’ve torn his flat apart.’

‘He’s got a bloody nerve, if you ask me.’ Mason puffed his cheeks and blew out a steady breath. ‘It’s annoying to think we pulled the wrong guy in.’

‘So that’s what this e-mail is about . . . he did turn up at the funeral.’

‘It would appear so,’ Mason mumbled.

‘There must be loads of police video footage of Annie Jenkins
funeral service, Jack?’

Mason’s look was puzzled. ‘There is, but we believe he turned up in disguise.’

‘He’s definitely playing mind games with you, Jack. Be careful.’

Mason shot him a withering look, but said nothing.

They spent the next fifteen minutes analysing the possibilities. And yes, just as Carlisle said they would, Mason’s investigations into Sir Jeremy had thrown up a whole new raft of complications. According to intelligence reports, the Gilesgate Chairman now had the press in his pockets. Not only that, he’d built up an impenetrable ring of legal advisors around him, who were now at his beck and call twenty-four-seven. In Carlisle’s mind, Sir Jeremy was using his political position to his utmost advantage. Proving it was another matter, but any investigations into his private life would be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

There was a noise of crockery breaking, which caused Mason to jump.

‘Did you know Sir Jeremy was once accused of child abuse against his only son?’ Mason said casually.

‘What?’

‘When his wife got wind of it and reported it to the local authorities, she got absolutely nowhere.’ Mason tapped the tip of nose. ‘I’ve been doing some digging around, putting my feelers out. According to old case files, there wasn’t enough evidence to lay charges against him. In the end, the case was thrown out of the courts.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘The mid to late nineties––’

‘God, that’s a bloody long time ago, Jack’

Mason stared at him. ‘Maybe, but it shows you what we’re up against.’

Carlisle thought a moment. ‘What if this never happened?’

‘It happened all right. Shortly after, his wife divorced him.’ Mason lowered his head as though speaking from past experience. ‘It was a messy affair by all accounts, but these things usually are. Apart from suffering severe bouts of depression, his wife made several suicide attempts on her life.’

‘So what happened to their son in all of this?’

‘He was farmed off to live with an aunt.’ Mason took a huge bite out of his sausage roll, and fiddled with the greasy wrapping. ‘What’s more, none of this ever made the local newspapers which is interesting to say the least.’

‘No doubt his legal advisers were involved?’

Mason sighed. ‘More than likely . . .’

Infuriated, Carlisle could barely contain himself let alone concentrate on what Mason was now telling him. This kind of stuff never sat comfortably in his mind, and never would. The legacy of child abuse triggered off all kinds of mental trauma inside young people’s minds, and they suffered terribly because of it. Then he remembered. Back in the eighties, all sorts of scandal was taking place behind closed doors. Most of it was either dismissed as utter nonsense, or swept under the carpet as pure fantasy. Thirty years on, and it was all coming back to haunt them.

‘You need to look into it, Jack,’ said Carlisle. ‘The people who commit this type of crime should never be allowed to get away with it.’

Mason gave him a smile that unmasked unease. ‘That’s why I’m bringing him in for questioning.’

‘I doubt he’ll talk.’

‘First things first,’ said Mason, with more than a hint of revulsion in his voice. ‘Before we go throwing the book at him, let’s find out what his business interests in Gilesgate are.’

Mason had a point, and the cold steel glint in his eye told him that someone’s feathers were about to be ruffled. But there lay a problem, as most of Mason’s evidence was hearsay. Any charges laid against Sir Jeremy would need to be watertight. If not, his lawyers would make mincemeat out of him in any courtroom.

‘So, what happens now?’ Carlisle asked.

Mason raised an eyebrow whilst staring into his cup. ‘I haven’t a clue . . . but I’m working on it. You seem to forget, my friend. I still have this problem of the ACC hanging over me.’

‘Blimey! I’d almost forgotten about him,’ Carlisle confessed.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now there’
s
a man who is definitel
y
up to no good.’

‘But that doesn’t implicate him, surely not?’

‘My mind’s made up,’ Mason said, taking another huge bite out of his sausage roll. ‘What’s more, I’m toying with the idea of bringing them both in together. Let’s see if their stories match up. If nothing else, it will certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘Who cares,’ Mason shrugged, indicating the matter was already decided.

Carlisle knew better than to say anything; he just sat there and nodded.

‘Wait till you hear this,’ said Mason, cramming the last of the sausage roll into the corner of his mouth. He was in no hurry. ‘A friend of mine, called Sid Holloway, has been looking into the Global Warming contractual agreements for me. When it comes to number crunching, Sid’s a whiz kid.’ Mason brushed the last of the crumbs from his jacket as if it was the natural thing to do. ‘To cut a long story short, Sid’s found a loophole in one of the European Council’s contract clauses. There’s a section in the fine print which states, that no one contractor can conduct more than fifteen per cent of the overall EC’s budget. According to Sid, it was put there to protect the smaller companies from being frozen out on price. In other words, everyone gets a fair crack at the whip.’

Carlisle placed his coffee cup in front of him, and waited for the punchline.

‘This is no ordinary system we’re dealing with here,’ Mason went on. ‘It’s rigidly run, tightly controlled, and kept under close scrutiny at all times. In a nutshell, when all the sealed bids are in, it’s down to RAP to oversee the selection process.’

Carlisle thought a moment, and then the penny dropped. ‘Isn’t that the Risk Assessment Panel, and wasn’t Ernest Stanton involved in that?’

‘God, you’ve got a sharp memory. It took me a whole damn weekend to figure that one out, and Stanton’s was the last name that sprang to mind.’

‘So how does the system work?’ he asked.

‘Think of it as a large pot of money . . . evenly distributed amongst its European counterparts. Once a company has exhausted its fifteen per cent quota, it’s automatically frozen out from any further bidding.’ Mason’s eyes narrowed. ‘In other words, it must look elsewhere for its business.’

‘Ah. I smell a rat,’ Carlisle said.

Mason almost laughed. ‘On the surface the rules are pretty straightforward. Once you’ve exhausted your fifteen per cent quota, you’re out of it, unless––’

‘Someone has access to the sealed-tender bids,’ Carlisle interrupted.

Mason’s grin broadened. ‘Hole in one, my friend.’

‘So that’s how Ernest Stanton was able to bend the rules?’

‘Yeah, I always knew that bastard was up to no good, and now I know why,’ said Mason. ‘That’s how Gilesgate are able to continue bidding . . . through a system of fictitious Sleeper Companies.’

He watched as the detective chewed over his next statement. Mason was no fool. Had Vic Miller not stumbled across countless contract files, then everything else would have faded into insignificance. It was a clever scam, and one that had netted a significant amount of European Grant money. Mason, it appeared, now had more than enough evidence to press charges. But would he go ahead with it?

His mobile rang, but he chose to ignore it.

‘On paper Gilesgate’s accounts are squeaky clean . . . Charles Anderson always made sure of that. According to Sid, Sir Jeremy has far too many fingers in the pie to be an effective politician. Tell me,’ said Mason, as if to enforce a point. ‘Where do you find an honest politician nowadays?’

‘Maybe he’s genuinely concerned about the environment, or––’

‘It’s sod’s law there’s no one on the European Council who can help us.’ Mason rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s face it: the ACC and Sir Jeremy are a formidable partnership to be up against.’

Carlisle grinned. ‘So that’s how Derek Riley got involved in Lowther Construction.’

‘Too damn right it was,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘The trouble is now, how many more people are involved in these so called Sleeper Companies?’

It was still a clever scam, but proving it would be extremely difficult, he thought. ‘So where do we go from here?’ Carlisle asked.

‘My primary aim is to catch the Wharf Butcher,’ Mason replied. ‘And I’ve got everyone and their granny trying to do that.’

‘So how do we deal with Gilesgate in the meantime?’

The DCI tapped the tip of his nose again. ‘Never interfere with the enemy when they’re making a mistake, just let them get on with it. When the timing is right, we’ll hand all this over to the Fraud Squad. Let them deal with it.’ Mason’s eased back in his seat, as if his mind was already made up. ‘The last thing we need to do is to ruffle the killer’s feathers. Do that and he’ll simply go to ground.’

‘Umm, that’s easier said than done.’

Mason paused as a young waitress homed in on their empty cups.

‘Cast your mind back to the seventies,’ said Mason, ‘and the Yorkshire Ripper case. Do you remember a hoaxer called Wearside Jack?’

‘Who could ever forget that?’

‘This e-mail stinks of it,’ Mason nodded.

‘Be careful, Jack. He’s getting to you.’

‘Nah, I’m convinced it’s a prankster.’

Carlisle collected his thoughts. An internet café was the last place he would have imaged a serial killer play out his fantasies. Maybe Mason had a point. There again, what if he was wrong?

‘Have you given any more thought to stepping up your surveillance operations?
’

‘Don’t go there, we don’t have the available resources,’ Mason grunted.

‘What a pity.’

‘Cut backs, my friend, they’re the bane of everyone’s life.’ Mason rose to his feet. ‘In the meantime, let’s hope the bastard doesn’t decide to strike again.’

The town was busy when they stepped out of Starbucks, and walked the short distance to Greys Monument. As the first spots of rain hit the pavement, they made their way down into Grey Street.

They were not alone.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Earlier that Morning

Grey Street was in confusion. People scurrying for shelter as a light drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour. After a long time – how long Lexus had no idea – his suspicions were finally rewarded. Jack Mason was not alone when he stepped out of Starbucks and into Newcastle’s busy shopping precinct. The profiler was with him. Curious, Lexus decided to follow them. It was Mason he feared most, and he knew he must stay vigilant. The Detective was incredibly unpredictable, and capable of getting up to anything. He had no ambitions to harm him, not at present that is, but he was working on it all the same.

It was truly amazing how many organs a body would offer up before it finally shut down. A nightmare: bucket’s full of blood. He loved to play God, and the thought genuinely excited him. Not everyone knew he was so unbelievably talented. There were those, not many, who believed he was totally mad. He wasn’t, of course, how could he be, everyone knew he was a genius – how could they possibly think otherwise?

Despite his alertness, the two police officers he was following had vanished into Grey Street. It was a stunning area, a slice of Newcastle: granite stone faced buildings, with dark slate roofs against the backdrop of an overcast sky. Parked cars lined the side of the road, and the architecture was stunning. At least to him it was.

Then the voices returned.

Where are you?

‘I’m here, numpty.’

Aren’t you supposed to be following these people?

Lexus stared vaguely into space; his mind was in turmoil. He could barely think straight, let alone decide into which doorway the two police officers had now vanished. Each day was becoming more demanding, he felt. Nothing was real anymore. Everything was deception, filled with the illusion of make-believe and fantasy.

He turned his collar up against the rain, and searched in his head for answers. It was lunchtime, and Gregg’s sandwich shop was alive with pretty young girls arriving from the local banks and nearby estate agents. They were laughing and joking with one another, and talking about their weekend plans. Then, just as he imagined she would, she pulled up alongside of him. She was a pretty young thing, petite, with long black curly locks and ice blue eyes that twinkled like diamonds beneath the soft shimmering strip lighting. It was funny how she unnerved him, not that he cared, but he was fearful of just how much of his uncertainty she might uncover. It was a terrible thing to have your mind taken away from you; insecurity was a daunting state to be in. But hey, he was much bigger than this; besides, wasn’t she the one who was flirting with him.

Lexus often wondered if he would ever fall in love. And what it would be like. She glanced at him with eyes that seemed to burn the colour of sunlight on water, at least to him they did. As he peered down the top of her blouse, the scent of her body excited him. Her eyes, full of fear, she took flight across the wet slippery pavement and hurried down into Market Street. Why he wondered? What had he done wrong this time?

Then the anger surfaced.

Bitch!

‘And she was so . . . pretty.’

The pretty one, who knows she is pretty, is probably not pretty at all.

‘You’re such a genius,’ he smiled.

Under the cover of the Central Arcade, he now faced a more daunting challenge. It had stopped raining, and the two police officers – the ones he was following – they were hiding somewhere. Where, he had absolutely no idea, but he was working on it all the same. Then, on the corner of Hood Street, an elderly couple squeezed out of the back seat of a taxi and set foot onto the wet slippery pavement. Gripped by fear, and a whole lot of suspicion, he ducked back into the shadows.

He checked his surroundings.

How did you spot that? You’re so amazingly talented.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I even knew they were coming.’

Never mind that – just look who’s here!

Perfect, the two of them together at last.

It was the profiler that concerned him now. He was unpredictable, and capable of reading into other people’s minds.

‘Can people really do that?’

Yes they can, but not into your mind, of course
.

‘Are you sure?’

Oh yes, I’m certain of that. You’re a genius – remember?

As the profiler moved north, Jack Mason descended into the bowels of Monument Metro station. He was alone now, just him and the profiler. Even so, Lexus was wary.

There, standing in front of him, was an armed police officer. He was a tall man, with distinct bushy sideburns and protruding eyes that glared back at him as though he was invisible. He wasn’t of course – but he could have been – everyone knew that. Then, as another squad car dashed headlong towards another unknown destination, his mind was thrown into turmoil again. There was work to be done, important work, and he knew he must attend to it. Close to the Bigg Market – in a quieter corner of the city – he spotted what he was searching for. It was a MK3, with reclining leather seats and such an amazing dashboard panel. And guess what, it was filled with an array of clocks and fancy gadgets.

He glanced through the window.

‘Is it a trap?’

Only a genius would know that
–
the voice in his head replied.

‘So why has the previous owner abandoned it?’

It could be a gift––

‘What for me?’

Why not, they knew how important it was to you.

Thirty minutes later, opposite the North Shields Fish Quay, Lexus pulled up onto a shallow piece of waste ground and checked his surroundings. Set back from the river was the boathouse. It was a tall structure, isolated, with high windowless walls and a long flat roof that ran the entire length of the building. He was closer now, much closer than ever before. Inside the building’s wooden structure, was Trevor Radcliffe’s yacht. He knew that, he had seen it before, many times.

The only thing that bothered him now, was space. There wasn’t any, not for what he had in mind.

Then the voices returned.

Stop worrying, you’ve planned this for weeks now.

‘I know, but I can’t help it.’

Yes you can, you’re almost home and dry.

Then, Trevor Radcliffe appeared and a new excitement gripped him.

He was a frail man, unsuspecting, and totally oblivious of the dangers that now surrounded him. His death would be a clinical ending, concise, and not over indulged. There had been others of course, only Jack Mason knew that. Just how many he had no idea, but unquestionably more than a few. He checked the boathouse.

How do you feel right now?

‘Excited,’ Lexus replied.

Me too!