The Wharf Butcher (7 page)

Mason ran the flat of his hand over the top of short-cropped hair, and expelled another long drawn out breath. Thumbing through the pages of his notebook, he turned to face him. ‘This lone drifter, seen in the vicinity of Dove Farm,’ Mason said. ‘It has a nice ring about it, and I need you to take a look up there for me.’

Mason explained.

‘Where the hell is Alwinton?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Not far from Rothbury, I’m told, and within spitting distance of Dove Farm.’ Mason grinned. ‘There’s an Inn there . . . called The Hanging Tree.’

‘Blimey, that’s aptly named.’

Their conversation was interrupted by the lone figure now staring in through the office glass partition wall. Mason raised two fingers and mouthed the word
s
two minutes.

The officer disappeared.

With thoughts now elsewhere, the DCI reached over and handed him a well-thumbed document. There was another awkward exchange of glances, before Carlisle leaned over and peered at the label: CHARLES ANDERSON – PATHOLOGIST REPORT.

‘It’s a real horror story,’ Mason said, shaking his head. ‘But this time I need to know what your thoughts are.’

Carlisle nodded.

And with that, Mason took off in a hurry.

Chapter Nine

Looking far from relaxed, DCI Jack Mason stood before the assembled team in what was now the tenth briefing o
f
Operation Appletree
.
Even the weather seemed to echo the team’s sombre mood. It had rained incessantly that morning, with no signs of abating.

Fresh out of police training school, the late arrival of a windswept female Probationary Constable brought the usual friendly banter.

‘Jesus,’ said Mason. ‘I was worried you might not make it, Constable Ellis.’

‘Sorry, boss, I’ve only just finished duty.’

Mason shook his head.

They sat around three central tables hurriedly pushed together. A drop-down projector screen and two white boards were now the dominant features in the room. Scribbled across the top left-hand corner of one of the white boards were the words: KILLER STRIKES FEAR INTO THE CITY.

Mason shuffled a few papers together, and waited for the noise levels to die down.

‘Today’s headlines,’ Mason groaned, banging the flat of his hand against the whiteboard. ‘I can well imagine what the Chief Constable will say when he reads this crap in his morning newspapers.’

Carlisle, sat huddled around the middle table, listened with interest as Mason ran back over the past few days’ events. Not for the first time, the nature of the crimes had certainly attracted more than the media’s attentions. Grotesque killings and badly mutilated bodies made good press. It’s what sold newspapers, it was part of society’s bigger picture. Even so, the local radio channels were pushing out regular bulletins at an alarming rate. Someone was feeding them insider information. If not, the news teams were damn good at their jobs – too good in Carlisle’s opinion.

‘It’s a well-known fact that most murder victims in the UK knew their killers,’ Mason explained. ‘So what does that tell us about our killer? Two of his victims were strung up like wild beasts in a hunter’s trophy room. Charles Anderson’s naked corpse was found strapped to a warehouse door. Arms outstretched, legs straight, and six-inch nails driven through his wrists and ankles. It was broad daylight, close to the main street, and there was no CCTV coverage.’

Now the DCI had mentioned it, it seemed pretty obvious, thought Carlisle. But how would the others react? Vic Miller raised his hand in a request to speak. A member of Northumbria’s Armed Response Team – or NART as it was better known – DS Miller had a keen eye and a cool head for detail.

‘Pathology found minute strands of car seat fabric in Anderson’s right hand,’ said Miller. ‘Could a cadaveric spasm have taken place, in which case death would have occurred inside the killer’s vehicle . . . and not as we first thought . . . outside of it?’

‘Good point, Vic. In other words, after killing Anderson, did the killer drive to Gateshead where the body was later discovered?’

‘It’s plausible,’ Miller nodded.

‘OK,’ said Mason, sounding a little more upbeat. ‘What do we know about Anderson’s business partner, Leo Schlesinger?’

Miller checked with his notes. ‘We know that Schlesinger had a major stroke four years ago, and that’s when he sold out his half of the business to Charles Anderson. Apart from that, we have very little else on him.’

As thoughts gathered pace, Mason’s cold eyes toured the room.

‘Yes, Luke,’ said Mason, pointing to a middle aged, balding detective who had positioned himself at the far end of the table.

All eyes now craned towards a tall black officer, mid-forties, with strong facial features that Carlisle took to be of Afro-Caribbean origin. Having spent the past fifteen years working with the London Metropolitan’s Special Investigation Branch, Luke James seemed a natural selection to Mason’s team.

‘CCTV coverage points towards a black Mk3 Ford Mondeo seen in the vicinity. Used in the Anderson murder, it was stolen from the Gateshead Council offices car park on the twenty-fourth. Two days later, it was found abandoned close to Walkergate Metro station.’

‘Remind me of the car used in the Riley murders, Luke,’ Mason said.

‘That was another Mk3 Mondeo, only that one was silver.’

‘And was that stolen too?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And where was that from, exactly?’

‘The Malting House car park in the Felling,’ James confirmed. ‘It was later found abandoned by a passing police patrol car on Shields Road. That’s near Chillingham on the north side of the river, for those not familiar with the area.’

‘Anything else we should know, Luke?’

‘There was no CCTV, but tyre tracks left at Dove Farm match those of the stolen vehicle.’

‘So, he’s partial to Mk3 Mondeos,’ said Mason, thoughtfully stroking a thickset jawbone. ‘What about DNA and fingerprints?’

‘We believe he wears disposable rubber gloves. They’re a common brand, sold mainly to the medical and domestic markets. With well over two-million pairs sold last year, I’m not holding my breath on this one.’

‘And the six-inch nails,’ Mason muttered. ‘Where are we with those?’

James appeared hesitant. ‘I’m a bit disappointed about our enquiries into that, boss.’

‘Disappointed . . . disappointed about what?’ Mason insisted.

‘Having concentrated our efforts on reputable hardware outlets in the North East, we now find they’re being sold in huge quantities on the internet.’

Carlisle sensed the mood change; this was no pushover. The killer, whoever he was, was well organised and extremely devious.

‘Just a thought, boss,’ said Miller. ‘Could this be the work of a religious freak?’

‘Meaning––’

‘It’s the way he displays his victim’s bodies?’

‘I’m still not with you, Vic,’ Mason shrugged.

‘Well, the act always appears sacrificial, similar to that of a crucifixion homicide.’

Mason petulantly pushed out his bottom lip as though carefully balancing the facts.

‘What’s your take on it, David?’

Carlisle breathed out slowly, as he stood to address the team.

‘The person we’re dealing with here is a loner, someone who can move in and out of society at will. He’s single, probably local, and has a fairly good knowledge of the area. Never underestimate him. He’s cunning, extremely dangerous and can kill at the blink of an eye. He’s certainly not the spontaneous type,’ he said, to hushed audience. ‘The crimes he commits are carefully orchestrated, long before they are ever committed. And yet, his thought patterns are totally illogical, which makes him an extremely complex person to analyse. Believe me, subjects who can keep one step ahead of us are no fools. Whilst you are investigating their latest murder, they’re planning their next. It goes without saying that nobody should underestimate this man’s capabilities; these people are craftsman at their work.’

‘Just a thought,’ said James, referring to his notes. ‘Could he be working with an accomplice?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ Carlisle replied.

‘What makes you say that?’ said James.

‘Of course I can only base my findings on the evidence; supposition must never overcome facts, especially when you are dealing with a serial killer.’

Gasps rang out around the room.

‘Your statement surprises me,’ said DC Manley, better known as ‘Humbug’ to the rest of the team. ‘You’ve said we’re dealing with a serial killer, and yet, we’re being told not to rule out feud killing.’

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Carlisle said, collecting his thoughts. ‘His victims are all connected. That’s why they were targeted.’

‘So why assume he’s a serial killer?’ Manley questioned.

‘Past experience and the complexity of his crimes tell me so,’ he replied. ‘The behavioural profile of fantasy, his exhibitionism and his notoriety seeking traits are the trademarks of a serial killer.’

‘And how exactly would you describe a serial killer?’ PC Phillips asked.

Although Constable Phillips was an expert diving instructor, much to Carlisle’s relief his explanation was well received.

‘So this one strikes selectively, like prostitutes, college students or the gay community?’ said PC Philips.

‘That’s correct,’ Carlisle nodded.

Jack Mason took the floor again.

‘Regardless of what he is, will he strike again?’

‘If he is who I suspect he is, his current murders are merely the tip of the iceberg.’ Carlisle paused in an attempt to gauge the rest of the team’s reactions. ‘Until your subject eliminates the source of his problem . . . his final solution, he’ll not rest.’

‘So he’s not a hired man?’ said DC Manley.

‘Assassins, hired guns, call them what you like, these people generally eliminate their subjects for monetary gain or revenge.’

DC Manley took another humbug out of its wrapper, and annoyingly popped it into his mouth. The man was addicted, and seemed to carry an endless supply of them in his pockets.

‘So what brings him to do it?’ DC Manley questioned.

That’s a bloody good questio
n
, he thought.

Carlisle spent the next fifteen minutes broaching the subject of unstable backgrounds, and how as young children, most serial killers’ had experienced some form of child brutality or childhood abuse in their lives. Despite all his best efforts, he was still being bombarded by questions.

‘More to the point,’ said Mason, cutting in. ‘What’s his current state of mind?’

‘He probably sees himself as the only person who can resolve his own problems,’ Carlisle replied. ‘To him it’s a personal crusade, a compulsion he’ll endure until he reaches the final solution. Nothing will get in his way, and he will tear down every barrier to accomplish his aims.’

The room fell silent again.

Constable Ellis held her hand up. ‘You’re losing me, sir.’

‘Oh, in what way?’ said Mason.

‘Please tell me who I’m looking for?’

Everyone fell about laughing. Even Mason saw the funnier side.

‘Vic,’ said Mason, wiping the tears from his eyes.

‘There’s been another development, boss,’ said DS Miller, flicking through his notepad. ‘Both Anderson and Riley were active members of the Green Party. In Riley’s case, he relinquished his membership six months prior to his being murdered.’

‘But they were both active members?’ queried Mason.

‘Yes,’ Miller nodded.

‘Good work, Vic. We need to get uniforms to run a few discreet checks into these people’s social activities. I’m looking for a connection . . . what brought these people together.’

As the briefing came to a close, Mason made a special point of reminding everyone about the next meeting time. ‘That’s ten-thirty tomorrow morning, Constable Ellis.’

‘I’m on it, boss,’ Ellis replied.

Mason shook his head despairingly as he returned to his office.

Chapter Ten

Locking the car door, David Carlisle stood for a moment and took in his new surroundings. The inn had appeal, and an hour’s long drive from South Shields had given him a thirst. There was nothing to suggest why the inn was named – The Hanging Tree. Even the sign above the door offered few clues. Locals preferred to tell the tale of a notorious murderer called William Winter, a hardened criminal who was caught, tried and executed in Newcastle in 1791 for the murder of Margaret Crozier. Winter’s body was purportedly hung from a gibbet not too far from the inn. It was that kind of place.

It was with no surprise that Carlisle found the innkeeper an obese, middle-aged self-appointed voice of the community. The locals fared little better. Steeped in petty prejudices delivered in low whispers, they formed part of the inner sanctum of matters of unimportance. To Carlisle’s approval, free drinks readily opened up minds and soon tongues began to wag. The ringleader, a man in his late sixties, had a dry sense of humour and cynical, darting eyes filled with curiosity. He wore a grubby threadbare jacket, buttoned down shirt, and a pair of baggy brown trousers slung low at the waistline. Every now and then he would bang the table with the flat of hand, and raise his empty glass as if to attract attention towards it. Nobody paid much attention, which annoyed him intensely.

‘And what of this stranger you talk of?’ Carlisle said.

The innkeeper stared at him quizzically. ‘He wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap around the village, that’s for sure.’

‘Was he aggressive?’

‘Nah, he was more withdrawn, I’d say.’

‘What did he look like?’ Carlisle asked.

‘He was scrawny looking, with a pockmarked face and dark inquisitive eyes. He always wore black gumboots, a knee length coat and wool Beanie hat pulled down over his ears.’

Carlisle watched as the Innkeeper continued to wipe the top of the bar down with a stained wet beer cloth. He was determined to get to the bottom of it, find a way of teasing the information out of these people. Theirs was an isolated community, full of suspicion and mistrust. It was precious moments like these, that he wished he was a fly on the wall.

‘So where was he living?’

‘Rumour has it that he was sleeping rough,’ the innkeeper shrugged.

‘Do you know where?’

‘Yeah, a place called Barrow Burn. It’s North of here, near Shillhope Law.’

‘Did he speak to anyone?’

‘Not to me he didn’t,’ the innkeeper replied. ‘From the moment he set foot in the bar, I knew he was going to be trouble. There was something about him, if you know what I mean.’

‘Menacing?’

‘Yeah, menacing. That’s the word I was looking for. He had those horrible shifty eyes, spooky looking. Mind, he never caused any bother.’

‘It sounds like he was a bit of an unsociable sod.’

The innkeeper eyed him with suspicion. ‘He was more than that, mister. This one definitely had a chip on his shoulder.’ Arms unfolded now, both hands firmly placed on the bar top in front of him, his story began to unfold. ‘It was the same routine every night; you could almost set your watch by him. He would arrive at seven, and leave dead on the stroke of eight. Same order every night, a pint of Foster’s lager and packet of salted peanuts . . . this one never failed.’

Carlisle stood for moment, and tried to get his head around it all. Whoever this stranger was, he was undoubtedly the talking point of the village. How much of the innkeeper’s story was pure fantasy, he had no idea. But he guessed most of it was.

‘What about you guys?’ said Carlisle, swinging on his barstool to confront the inner sanctum. ‘Did he talk to any of you?’

The ringleader glanced at the others.

‘What is it you’re after, mister?’

‘Netherton, that can’t be far from Barrow Burn,’ Carlisle said.

‘Barrow Burn covers a lot of ground, mister,’ said the man in the threadbare, blue jumper.

Carlisle’s eyes narrowed as the ringleader banged the flat of his hand on the table, and raised his empty glass. There was mischief in his face, as if another free pint of beer was in order. ‘Out there is hostile territory, mister, especially in winter. Besides, it all depends on which direction you’re travelling from.’

‘Not an easy place to get to?’ Carlisle acknowledged, feeling somewhat pressurised.

The ringleader breathed more quickly, and his face had grown pale. ‘Not from here it ain’t, especially on a dark winter’s night. A person can easily get lost.’

‘But that’s where this stranger was living rough . . . Barrow Burn?’

There followed an awkward silence, a coming together of the inner sanctum.

Fast running out of ideas, and conversation, Carlisle was desperate to break the deadlock between them. But how? That was the question. These people were far too set in their ways. Perhaps the stranger never existed in the first place, he reasoned. It was then he noticed the pub had no CCTV, only an alarm.

‘This stranger you talk of, did he have a car?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Nobody said he did,’ the innkeeper replied,
fervently.

‘But it’s logical, especially if he was living rough out there.’

‘How would I know?’

‘So he must have walked here every night,’ Carlisle shrugged.

He watched as the innkeeper began to pull another fresh pint of beer, the froth tumbling over the side of the glass and down into the catch tray. Seconds later, he placed the half-filled glass on the bar and moved to confront him.

‘For a stranger, you ask an awful lot of awkward questions.’

Carlisle hunched his shoulders, a defensive stance. ‘I’m just making conversation, that’s all.’

A faint hint of a smile crept across the innkeeper’s face. ‘Well, if he didn’t have a car, then yes, he would have had a bloody long walk home every night, wouldn’t he.’

Laughter broke out over his shoulder.

Fast losing his patience, the innkeeper began to clear a few empty pot glasses from the corner of the bar. There was suspicion in his glances. ‘So tell me, mister, what’s your interest in Netherton; you’re not a reporter by any chance, are you?’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘What then?’

‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds that two farmers around here were viciously murdered in the middle of the night. Just wondering if there’s any truth in the story?’

‘I wouldn’t know, you’re asking the wrong person,’ the innkeeper said, guardedly.

Carlisle shoulders slumped. ‘It’s not a problem.’

The innkeeper stared at him, the distance between them as great as ever. ‘The next time you go poking your nose round these parts, try asking questions at the local Post Office. Not here.’

That had done it. The mere mention of murder had changed everything. Perhaps there was some truth in the lone drifter after all. Stepping out from behind the bar, the innkeeper began another tour of empty pot glass collecting. Stacking them one inside the other, he purposely made towards the inner sanctum. Now deep in discussion over matters of monumental unimportance, they had decided to turn their backs on him.

Left in the cold, Carlisle finished his pint and slipped out of the building through the side entrance. Glancing round, the man in the threadbare, blue jumper was staring out of the pub window at him. Smiling to himself, Carlisle unlocked the car door and clambered into the front seat. Why on earth, he wondered, would someone walk twenty miles every night, to stand in a bar full of miserable morons?

It was time to make tracks.

*

No sooner had the Riley murders hit all the headlines, than shock waves reverberated throughout the city. The very nature of the crimes had captivated the attention of even the most cynical press reporters. To a packed media gathering, and representing the Northumbria police force, Jack Mason was about to embark on yet another consummate performance. The public’s insatiable demand for answers was unrelenting. TV cameramen, sound engineers with long boom microphones, reporters and photographers with powerful satellite transmitting cameras, were all crammed into the tiny interview room. Up close and intimate, the atmosphere was electric.

As the noise levels heightened, a young female TV reporter moved forward and towards a solid bank of microphones set up in front of the broadcast table. After making some final adjustments with her sound engineers, she returned to her seat. Broadcasting live across the networks, the DCI did not disappoint. Skilfully using the power of the media to his greatest advantage, he waited for the shuffling to die down before reading a brief statement.

Mason’s face had remained expressionless throughout.

Gathering up his notes, the DCI thanked everyone, and coolly slipped from the room. It was that kind of meeting, the bare facts and nothing more.