The Wharf Butcher (4 page)

Chapter Five

January 2012

The first thing that struck David Carlisle was the bleak isolation. Nestling between the foothills of Cold Law and Harden Hill in Northumberland National Park, Dove Farm was barely a ten minute drive from the picturesque village of Netherton and fifteen miles from Morpeth. By eleven o’clock the sun had burned away most of the lingering mist that had persistently clung to the valleys that morning, but there was still a hint of a breeze. The views from up here were spectacular, a mixture of mosaic heather land and rolling hills, sprinkled with ancient settlements, castles and fortified buildings; reminders of Northumberland’s tempestuous and rich history. Many of the rural farmsteads were widely dispersed, often located on higher ground, or at river crossing points. In his opinion, Dove Farm was no exception.

At a glance the farmhouse looked to be 18
th
century, although parts of the existing east wing probably dated much earlier. It had thick walls built of random rubble, with irregular window openings on two levels. The adjacent farm buildings consisted of barns, stables and shelter sheds, and a south facing row of stone built cottages. Death, it seemed, was no stranger to the farm. Built on the site of a bastle or fortified farmhouse, down the centuries the region had played a central role in the border wars between Scotland and England.

Like most murder scenes that Carlisle had ever attended, the place was a hive of activity. Beyond the yellow barrier tape marked: CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS, he spotted the slightly built figure of Peter Davenport. Camera poised at the ready, the SOC photographer was busily snapping away at anything and everything in sight. Nothing was taken for granted. Everything was being meticulously recorded and taken down. Further afield, a group of forensic officers were hard at work. Their mood appeared relaxed, but Carlisle knew otherwise. Fingertip searches were a painstakingly slow process, as there was always a slim chance the perpetrator had left a vital piece of evidence behind.

No sooner had the car engine shut down, than the familiar thick-set figure of Jack Mason appeared in the doorway of the mobile Major Incident Room vehicle. Wearing white paper coveralls, latex gloves and paper overshoes, he descended the short flight of stairs and approached with an air of casual confidence. He wasn’t a conspicuously tall man, five-nine, with powerful shoulders and a large moon-like face. His nose had been broken several times, and appeared to be stuck back on a face that had seen more than its fair share of trouble.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Mason said, extending out a hand. ‘I had a hunch this case might interest you.’

Behind a narrow lipped smile was an unbending ruthless streak. The last time they’d worked together, Mason was having marital problems. It went with the territory. Major crime investigations usually meant long periods spent working away from home. That was the nature of the beast; it played havoc with family and social life.

‘What have we got?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Nothing certain yet, but it looks like we have another vendetta killing on our hands.’

‘Vicious?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Mind if we take a poke around?’

‘There’s not much to see,’ said Mason, stepping aside to allow Jane to slide her long slender legs out of the passenger seat. ‘It’s mainly down to forensics, I’m afraid.’

Sensing Jane’s awkwardness, Carlisle came to her rescue. ‘Miss Collins will be working with me on this one, Jack.’

‘OK by me,’ Mason shrugged, ‘but I’ll need to run it past the Acting Chief Commissioner all the same.’

Carlisle nodded, but offered no reply.

They were joined by Stan Johnson, the Crime Scene Manager. Late forties, with an unruly mop of curly black hair, the man had a touch of the eccentric about him. He bred budgerigars for show, and was the honorary president of his local Morris dancer’s society – whatever that meant. He knew Stan vaguely, enough to know that he was a stickler for detail. Any evidence left by the perpetrator, such as DNA, fingerprints, footprints, fibres, and even tyre tracks had to be preserved untouched for the forensic teams.

‘You’ll need to suit up,’ Johnson said. ‘There are a couple of spare suits in the ops truck.’

Wriggling his way into the fresh white paper over-suit, Carlisle slipped on a pair of disposable overshoes and moved towards a large wrought iron gate. On closer inspection, he noted the whole area had been cordoned off, including many of the adjoining out-buildings. Dove Farm appeared a remote location, secluded, and off the beaten track. The wind up here seemed to be blowing in all directions. It was then he caught sight of several yellow crime scene evidence flags fluttering on the breeze. Each carried a number, each an important piece in the forensic jigsaw puzzle. Nothing, it seemed, was being left to chance. Everything that could be done was being done.

‘Let’s deal with Derek Riley’s murder first.’ Mason’s jaw was clenched tight as he stared at them. ‘I take it you’ve both read Charles Anderson’s case files?’

They nodded in unison, but neither spoke.

Not the best of starts, thought Carlisle, as they made their way through thick, heavily congealed sheep droppings. Nearing the west barn – a large stone building set back on the west wing of the courtyard – they stopped for a while, and between them managed to drag open the huge timber door. As the daylight poured into the building, he could see the interior had been built on two levels. The upper floor, slightly set back, was used as a hayloft. The ground floor – recently covered in a fresh layer of straw – had a strange pungent odour.

Mason turned to face them again. ‘It all begins here. This is where Derek Riley first met with his killer.’ There followed a quick check of notes. ‘Early Post-mortem results confirm he was struck a massive blow to the cranium, puncturing a fifty-millimetre diameter hole through the skull parietal bone. The force of the blow probably rendered irreparable damage to the cerebellum, but it did not kill him at this stage.’ Mason pointed to the heavily congealed bloodstains splattered across the inner timber walls of the barn, an index finger following the blood trace. He appeared on edge, and the veins on his neck stood out like a roadmap. Every now and then, he would pause to point out where the victim had attempted to stem the blood flow. ‘Take a look at this,’ Mason went on. ‘This is where Derek Riley finally met his ending. From here, his body was hoisted up into the rafters and then he was crucified. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you.’

Sometimes it was easier to say nothing.

For one frightening, incomprehensible moment, Carlisle imagined they were dealing with a copycat crucifixion killer. All the signs were there . . . the arms outstretched, six-inch nails driven through the wrists and feet, and the body posed for maximum effect.

Mason turned to face them again. ‘Not fifty metres from here, we recovered a two-metre heavy steel jack lever. DNA traces and body flesh tissue match those of the victim’s blood group. In other words, we now have our murder weapon.’

‘And fingerprints?’ asked Jane.

‘I’ll come back to that later.’

Jane glanced at Carlisle, but said nothing. Mason had lost none of his pragmatic bullishness, it seemed.

‘To call this
a
frenzie
d
attack . . . would be an understatement. Derek Riley’s facial features and the top of his skull had been pulverised beyond all recognition.’ Mason drew breath, as if reliving the moment. ‘This was a brutal attack as you can well imagine, and we found extensive traces of cerebral matter spread over a wide area.’

‘Who discovered the body?’ Carlisle asked.

‘The farm’s General Manager, a man called Eugene Briggs.’

‘When was this?’

‘Six thirty the following morning.’

‘And the estimated time of death?’

‘Between six and eight the previous evening,’ Mason replied.

That meant the victim would have been dead twelve hours, thought Carlisle, ample time for the killer to carry out his business. He cupped his face in his hands, and tried to imagine the scene. Thirty feet up, nailed to the rafters and the victim’s face staring down at him. The profiler’s eyes suddenly shot open again. Without an accomplice it would have been an almost impossible act to perform. Unless...

‘What kind of person commits such atrocities?’ Jane asked.

Mason rolled his eyes. ‘What makes him tick? Now that is an interesting question.’

Distracted by the rapid fire shutter of Peter Davenport’s digital camera, they made slow progress across the farmyard. On reaching the farmhouse, a large north facing building, Carlisle took stock. The entrance, guarded by two ornate pilasters supporting a heavy scalloped lintel and carved from solid stone, had a look of stately grandeur. To each side of a solid oak door stood a large earthenware plant pot; the shrivelled unattended remains of a previous summer still lying lifeless in damp soil.

Herded along a stone floored hallway, they swung left and down a steep flight of stone stairs. The kitchen had that familiar whiff, a sweet coppery metallic smell reminiscent of death. To one corner stood a large black open-range fireplace, its huge mantel and fender now void of any warmth. All that remained were the burnt ashes lying in the bottom of the fire basket, discarded, and frozen in time. Unlike a dozen other crime scenes that Carlisle had attended, this one felt different. The room had an eerie presence, whitewashed walls and a low beamed ceiling. Pots and pans of every imaginable shape and size hung in profusion from smoke charred rafters. Slung by their handles, they reminded him of a medieval army ranked in tight formation and about to do battle.

‘We found Mrs Riley’s body slumped beneath this table,’ Mason explained, pointing to the floor.

‘How did she die?’ Carlisle asked.

‘She was bludgeoned to death. The manner in which this bastard mutilates his victims ranks amongst the worst I’ve ever come across. It disgusts me to think that such vile crimes can still be committed in a modern civilised society.’

Jane flinched. ‘I take it her wounds were extensive?’

‘Death would have been instantaneous.’

No attempt had been made to clear away the congealed bloodstains where the victim had fallen. The press would have a field day, he thought, but that would come later. In his notebook, he scribbled dow
n
Serial kille
r
and underlined the word
s
.

‘Any particular side?’ he asked, rasping a few days’ stubble.

‘The right side, along the suture line midpoint between the frontal and parietal bones.’ There was bitterness in Mason’s voice. ‘She was struck with such tremendous force, she suffered multiple skull fractures. You would normally only anticipate seeing this type of injury in an automobile accident, or someone who’s fallen from a high-rise building.’

‘What do we know about her attacker?’ Carlisle asked.

‘He’s male; around six-two, and of medium build. Early indications confirm the angle of entry makes her attacker left-handed.’ Mason stepped back as if to enforce a point. ‘In answer to your previous question, Miss Collins, we found heavy latex deposits on the jack lever. We also found transfer blood on the cooking pot handle. It was Derek Riley’s.’

‘So he came prepared?’

‘Let’s wait for forensics before we go jumping to any conclusions,’ Mason replied.

At last a physical description, thought Carlisle. Not much, but at least something to work on? From what Mason had told them so far, none of this made sense. Why the killer had made every effort to avoid personal detection and yet, audaciously display his victim’s body as art forms was clearly a conflict of interests. Surely a more natural reaction would have been to dispose of the evidence, bury, or even burn it. Somehow the pieces didn’t fit.

Mason hesitated. ‘If you ask me, this whole damn business reeks of another vendetta killing.’

‘Feudal killing,’ Carlisle nodded. ‘Now tha
t
i
s
an interesting consideration. At least it would account for his wanting to avoid personal detection, whilst allowing him sufficient time to display his artistic talents.’

‘We agree on that point then?’

‘I’m not convinced,’ Carlisle replied.

‘So we’re still at odds?’

‘It’s not a clear-cut case . . . I wish it was.’ Carlisle paused in thought. ‘Suppose this wa
s
a retaliatory crime, one carried out by a hired assassin; call it what you must. The motives would be straightforward, and they’d have followed a logical pattern. However, if we’re dealing with a multiple personality disorder such as paranoid schizophrenia, that’s an entirely different matter.’

Mason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Here we go; surely you’re not suggesting that this is the work of some deranged psychopath?’

‘And why not?’ Carlisle shrugged.

‘I agree he comes prepared, but that’s a bloody ridiculous statement.’

Carlisle looked at Mason before he answered. ‘In that case you’d better prepare yourself for a few more sleepless nights, Jack.’

‘How can you possibly say that?’

‘Because this one’s organised, I’m absolutely certain of it.’

‘Planned executions, eh?’