The Wharf Butcher (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Northumbria Police Headquarters, home to the sixth largest police force in England and Wales, was a twenty-minute drive from Newcastle city centre, located on the outskirts of Ponteland. Carlisle was already thirty minutes late for his appointment with Jack Mason. Clearing security, he was met by DI Archie Swan, a suave, regional counterterrorist officer in his late thirties. Having recently returned from a joint police training venture in Afghanistan, Swan still carried that untrusting look in his glances, as if a bad man was lurking round every corner.

Leaving the lift together, they moved at pace down a long central corridor and towards the rear of the building. Security was tight. Intrusion detection, access control, and video surveillance were all in evidence. On reaching the Operations Room, DI Swan punched a four-figure code into the unlock keypad, and waited for the security door to swing open.

Inside, the room was ‘L’ shaped. One side was laid out as a meeting area; the other was home to some twenty police officers employed in providing a front line service in the hunt for the killer. Every desk had a workstation, electronically linked to the Police National Computer (PNC) system, offering instant access to millions of police records. Three large conference tables served as a focal meeting place, providing seating accommodation for thirty officers. Close to the back wall, several logo boards, an overhead projector and drop screen offered visual communications. Like most ops rooms Carlisle had ever worked in, the place was a hub of activity.

Taking stock, Carlisle was directed towards a glass-fronted office tucked away at the back of the room. He hated uncertainty; the not knowing what was coming next. Taped onto the back of the glass door panel, an A4 sheet of paper identified: DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR J. K. MASON. Someone had drawn a large smiley face in one of the corners; obviously not the occupant’s handiwork. Peering through the office glass partition walls, he found Jack Mason hunched over a laptop computer. Wearing a blue denim shirt, black casual trousers and white trainers, his shirt was drawn tight under the armpits by the cross strap of his shoulder holster. The handle of a nine-millimetre Smith & Wesson Model 36 revolver nosed from its housing; a full cartridge box laid open on the desktop in front of him told Carlisle the handgun was probably unloaded.

Mason forced a smile, and beckoned him inside.

‘You finally found us––’

‘No problems. I simply followed the fresh trail of sheep shit,’ Carlisle replied.

‘Spare me the embarrassment. That damn farm cost me a bloody good pair of shoes.’

Mason’s phone rang. Seconds later, he put his hand over the receiver and asked him if he would like anything to drink.

‘Coffee, black, no sugar,’ Carlisle said, dropping back into the comfort of an old battered leather chair.

Mason repeated the order down the phone, leaned over, and closed the lid on the laptop computer. Late night boozing sessions were beginning to catch up on his old workmate, Carlisle thought to himself. Mason looked haggard, as though he’d been dragged through a hedgerow backwards. There again, who the hell was he to go round criticizing other people’s drinking habits? Having sat up half the night listening to
a
JJ Cal
e
concert, he’d managed to drink his way through another bottle of red wine. Lindeman’s Shiraz Cabernet, his favourite, and one he’d been saving for the weekend. God, that was the third bottle in as many days; he was drinking far too much himself lately.
Not a good sign!

He watched as Mason shuffled a few papers around a cluttered desk, clasped his hands in front of him and slid his elbows onto the desk top. Mason’s body language appeared relaxed, but that could change in an instant.

‘What did you make of the Charles Anderson murder files?’ Mason asked.

‘They certainly made interesting reading.’

‘And the crucifixion bit?’

‘Well, it proves he’s not squeamish, Jack.’

‘I got the distinct impression these were vengeance killings,’ Mason said smugly. ‘It’s as if the killer is taunting someone. The sooner he’s brought to justice, the better.’

Still fresh in his mind, the Coroner’s report had made pretty gruesome reading. Carlisle loved profiling work, getting inside the mind of the suspect. Whoever had killed Charles Anderson was making a serious statement. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence to find a half-naked corpse nailed to a warehouse door, especially in broad daylight.

Mason broke off to acknowledge a familiar face now peering in through the office window. Following a cursory thumb up, he watched as Vic Miller melted back into the operations room again. Seconds later the drinks arrived. Mason lost no time. Leaning over, he grabbed a digestive biscuit and took a huge bite out of it.

‘Sorry about that, it’s a bit manic at the moment.’

Carlisle sighed, and shifted his position. ‘These new developments that everyone’s talking about, I’ve––’

‘Ah, yes,’ Mason interrupted. ‘It seems our suspect has what’s known as a short leg syndrome. Have you heard of it before?’

‘No. I can’t say as I have. Is it common?’

‘God knows!’

‘So, what’s the significance?’ he asked.

‘Well, it certainly narrows the field down,’ said Mason, brushing the crumbs from his mouth. ‘If nothing else, it’s allowed me to open up a whole new line of enquiries.’

‘Anything of interest show up?’

‘Early days, I’m afraid. We know our suspect wears a corrective right boot which has a two-inch lift, or addition to the sole. It’s certainly not a recent affliction.’ Mason leaned back placing his hands behind the back of his head. ‘We’ve got Hedley looking into it. No doubt he’ll soon get to the bottom of it.’

‘That wouldn’t be, Tom Hedley, would it?’

Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know Tom?’

‘We once used the same golf club.’

‘It’s a small world, eh.’

As Carlisle recalled, Tom Hedley had married his childhood sweetheart, Doreen Pearl, a studious type, brainy, nothing stunning, nevertheless a decent looking woman. They’d grown up together, lived on the same council estate, and gone to the same school. Hedley was a stickler for detail, a natural selection for forensic work but an extremely boring person to socialize with.

Mason pushed back in his seat, but didn’t stand.

‘Whatever it was that caused this bastard to limp, it certainly didn’t happen overnight,’ Mason sighed. ‘What’s more, footprint impressions left at both crime scenes indicate his right boot is well worn on the heel.’

‘What about hospital records?’

‘No, nothing of interest showed up. Our prime candidate is serving a six year sentence in Durham prison, and was a right pain in the arse. The other has Alzheimer’s disease. He is eighty-seven, goddammit.’

‘Not exactly a fruitful outcome?’

‘You can say that again. The old guy couldn’t even tie his bloody shoe laces.’ Mason lowered the tone of his voice. ‘Not a good start, I’m afraid. If the truth be known, our killer is still out there and probably preparing his next grand performance.’

‘What about private clinics?’

Mason gritted his teeth. ‘I barely have enough ground troops to keep this place ticking over, let alone any for checking out private clinics. Take a look around, my friend; this is my so called Operations Room. There’s barely room to swing a cat in here, let alone run a murder investigation. If this is what modern day policing has come down to, then God help us all.’

He watched as Mason opened the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet, and took out a thick file marked: FRYER’S WHARF. With the exception of a small computer table, the rest of the office was untidy and cluttered.

‘I had these brought over from Gateshead police station.’

‘More witness statements?’

Mason looked at him sceptically. ‘I was rather looking forward to some feedback on the previous case files I sent you, but hey––’

‘I’m still working on it, Jack.’

‘So is everyone else round here, it seems.’

There was something in Mason’s tone that caused him to sit back. He needed more time, but the Chief Inspector was pushing for answers. Fresh leads had a nasty habit of vanishing quickly; he realised that, but this was ridiculous. He reached over, and opened the folder – a mixture of witness statements, and police interviews involving some of Charles Anderson’s close business contacts. Skim-reading through the first few pages, he recognised the suspect’s MO. It had a familiar pattern to it – a swift death, followed by heartless mutilation. Nailing your victim’s body to a warehouse door was one thing, but to carry out crude disfigurement as an afterthought took a special kind of mentality. The case was deeply disturbing, and bore an eerie resemblance to that of the Riley murders. Just as Jack the Ripper became the archetype lust killer, this one enjoyed showing off his artistic talents. His methods were unnerving, if not demoralising.

Mason stared reproachfully across at him. ‘My hunch says he’s vengeful.’

‘Hmmm, that’s questionable.’

‘But we can agree it’s the same person?’

‘His behavioural patterns are uncannily similar––’

‘Forget the psychology crap,’ said Mason. ‘I’ve said all along these were gangland killings, and I’m sticking to it.’

Carlisle’s heart sank; Mason’s was a thoughtless reply.

‘I’m still trying to understand why he chooses to display his victim’s bodies like something out of a chamber of horrors,’ Carlisle said. ‘There’s no logical reasoning behind his brutality; it’s unnatural in my opinion.’

Their eyes locked.

‘We’ve ruled out drugs, blackmail, and sex,’ Mason shrugged. ‘What other alternatives are we left with?’

‘Don’t rule out selective group killings.’

‘Argh . . . so we’re back to this damn serial killer theory of yours.’

‘And why not, tell me?’ Carlisle replied.

‘I’m not the one who needs convincing here. Besides, you still haven’t persuaded me these aren’t gangland killings. In my book, they fit the bill perfectly.’

‘Surely you’re not suggesting these were planned executions?’

‘Tell me why not.’ Mason screwed his face up, as if the matter was already decided. ‘Someone out there is spreading fear around. It’s an age-old practice, my friend. It’s called payback time. It’s what these people do best.’

‘It’s one way of looking at it I suppose,’ said Carlisle. ‘But I’m still not convinced.’

‘Fear, David. This whole damn business smacks of fear.’

Carlisle elected to stay clear of Jack Mason’s intimidation, preferring a more subtle approach. Fear was an option, but it certainly didn’t fit the bill. Besides, gangland warfare was usually more clinical, decisive and much more direct. This wasn’t the case here, which is why he was intrigued by the singularity of it. Vengeful brutality with a subtle psychological twist, that’s how he now saw it.

Mason eyed him with suspicion. ‘We clearly have a difference of opinion here, my friend. Tell me, which one of us is misreading the facts?’

‘It’s not a straightforward case, and I wish it was.’

Mason’s sighs grew increasingly louder. ‘Let’s turn this on its head . . . what can we learn from the victims’ backgrounds?’

‘Better still, what are his selection criteria?’ Carlisle questioned.

‘Bollocks,’ Mason snapped. ‘That’s a typical psychologist’s remark.’

‘But it stands on firm ground.’

Mason held his hands up in despair. ‘Then convince me otherwise.’

The room fell silent again.

Mason was clutching at straws, challenging his every statement. There were two ways of looking at this, thought Carlisle. Either the killer was trying to mentally poison someone’s mind by killing those around them, or he was purely fulfilling his own fantasies. Whatever he was trying to do, he was certainly going out of his way to achieve it.

Carlisle dug his heels in.

‘He’s a loner, Jack, and he’s targeting a specific group of people.’

‘So why does he mutilate them after they’re dead and not when they’re alive?’

‘Perhaps the reality of the murder never completely fulfils the fantasy, and he feels let down by it. What follows is always more stimulating than the actual crime itself? It’s a typical mindset of this type of person.’

‘It’s an interesting theory, David, but it is what it is . . . a theory,’ said Mason.

In turning to Ernest Stanton’s murder, they were both agreed. There had been no witness statements, no CCTV coverage at the victim’s cottage, nothing. According to Dr Pamela Wilson – the home office pathologist – post-mortem had revealed very little about the weapon used; only that she believed it to be a large kitchen knife. Stabbed in the left side, Stanton’s throat had been slit, severing the carotid artery, jugular vein and windpipe. The blood loss and lack of oxygen alone would have certainly weakened the victim. Whoever killed Stanton knew exactly what he was doing. That much they were agreed on.

The more they talked it over, the more convinced they became. Yes, Stanton’s death had been quick, but no mutilation or theatrical exhibitionism had taken place as it had in the Anderson and Riley murders. Ernest Stanton’s death, it seemed, had certain inevitability about it. Stanton was hated.