The Wharf Butcher, page 26
‘Maybe I should have flashed my tits off and stimulated your brain into action.’
The officer touched the peak of cap in salute, and stepped back a pace.
‘Oh, come on,’ Carrington shrugged, still staring up at him. ‘You don’t think for one minute I was going to do that, surely not.’
‘Not while you’re on duty, ma’am,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Another time perhaps . . .’
Carlisle ran his hand over a two-day stubble, and tried not to laugh.
‘What the hell was all that about,’ she sighed, as the sergeant trudged smug faced back towards his marked patrol car. ‘A fat lot of bloody good the two of us sat here on surveillance operations, when some dick head RTO decides to blow your cover. What a Pratt!’
Seconds later the police patrol car pulled away from the curb and swung west, back over the road bridge and towards Wallsend. As the vehicle’s red tail lights trailed into the distance, Carlisle sat back and studied the old Ship Inn opposite. Its windows and doors now boarded up, there was a large gaping hole in the roof where the tiles had been removed. Further afield, beyond the overgrown car park and derelict waste ground, was emptiness. If anyone wanted to lie low, this was the perfect place, he told himself.
‘So,’ said Detective Carrington, turning to face him. ‘Do you still believe the Wharf Butcher is holed up inside the building?
‘It’s definitely his kind of place . . . and he’s predictable.’
The young detective gave him a mistrusting look. ‘This sounds like I’m about to get my bloody hair wet,’ she groaned. ‘Maybe I should have got that dick-head Sergeant to check it out for us in the first place.’
Adjusting to the dark, Carlisle worked his way through what was once the downstairs bar. The Ship Inn – a once popular drinking hole with local shipyard workers – was now in a sorrowful run-down state. The vandals had moved in, and most of the fixtures and fittings were missing, and water was pouring in through the roof. The place had a fusty smell and stank of stale urine. Then, in a corner of the room, he found what he looking for – a makeshift bed. Whoever was holed up here was obviously intending to stop a while.
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Carrington said, shining her torch beam beyond the wooden staircase and into the upper level of the building. Seconds later, Carlisle stumbled across a heap of discarded blood soaked rags and bent down to take a closer look.
‘Someone’s in big trouble,’ he called out.
Detective Carrington shone her torch beam down at his feet.
‘Shit,’ she gasped, as if rooted to the spot. ‘Those look pretty new to me.’
‘And similar to the ones I found near North Shields Fish Quay,’ he replied.
‘You were right all along. He was here.’
It was then Carlisle spotted the sketches, not too dissimilar to ones found in the Wharf Butcher’s flat. He studied their content; they were unquestionably the killer’s handiwork. All the signs were there, the little idiosyncrasies that drew them ever closer towards one another.
It had to be him.
‘What is it?’ whispered Carrington, her face now pallid.
‘We’re closer than we ever dared to imagine.’
‘How can you possibly say that?’ she questioned. ‘You’re spooking me, David.’
‘Sometimes you get so close to these people, you eat and sleep at the same times as they do. You become as one.’
The young detective stared at him in utter disbelief. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘I’ve never been more serious. Psychopaths are very grandiose, and their world is all about them,’ Carlisle replied. ‘They believe they’re smarter than anyone else, more powerful. This one stays close to his kill zone. He’s territorial, and he’s feeding off it.’
‘Just as a salmon returns to its spawning ground . . .?’
‘Hmm. Something along those lines.’
Her words, and the manner in which she spoke them, were a new revelation to him. Carlisle shone his torch beam into the old pub lounge, and swore he felt a presence. Where darkness concealed the dangers, the young detective hovered close to his heels. Deep down Carrington appeared physically shaken by it all.
‘Are you sure it’s him. I mean . . . the Wharf Butcher?’ she whispered. ‘Could it not just be kids using this place as a play den?’
‘No. It’s him all right. I’m one-hundred percent certain of that.’
They searched the building together, but found nothing more. Then, the young detective pulled out her cell phone and rang Jack Mason.
Seconds later she turned to face him.
‘Bugger!’ she groaned. ‘My shift ends in twenty minutes and Jack Mason is already on his way over. Let’s hope your hunch pays off, David, as the old sod sounds in a real foul mood.’
They did not wait long. First to arrive was George Wallace, quickly followed by DC Manley. The moment the burly Constable poked his head in through the open pub doorway; Carlisle caught a whiff of Humbugs. That was it: no turning back. Over the next fifteen minutes, one by one the rest of the team arrived. Then, finally, the frosty faced figure of Jack Mason appeared in the doorway.
‘What have we got, Sue?’ said Mason, his cold penetrating eyes touring the building and taking in the detail.
‘Whoever he is, he’s badly in need of medical attention, boss.’
Mason took another look at the collection of faces now present.
‘Well! Anyone got any bright ideas as to where he might be?’
‘He can’t be far away,’ Carlisle said, pointing down at the pile of blood stained rags now scattered about the floor. ‘By the look of things, I’d say he’s not long moved out of here.’
‘How did you find the place?’
‘Intuition,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘I guessed he’d stay close to home.’
Someone’s mobile rang, but it was quickly silenced.
With all the media hype in the case, it wouldn’t be long before someone would come poking their noses around the area. Everyone knew that. Hands in pockets, head hunched slightly forward, Mason was deep in thought. ‘If he is in dire need of medical attention,’ said Mason, ‘we’ll need to warn the medical services.’
‘Tread carefully, Jack,’ said Carlisle pensively. ‘If he feels trapped in any way, he’ll want to end it all.’
He watched as the DCI took a step back, and furrowed his brow.
‘So where the hell is he?’ Mason huffed.
Carlisle rolled his eyes and tried not to think about where this was all heading. The way the killer’s mind was working right now, he would need to feel in control. If not, then he would simply go to ground. It was a fine balancing act, a game of chess where one false move would end in checkmate.
‘After each attack there’s a cooling off period,’ Carlisle said, thinking out aloud. ‘Then the fantasies take over again, and that’s when he feels the urge to kill. He’s cold, calculating, and right now full of terrible rage. It which case, he’s a major threat to anyone who chooses to challenge him.’
Mason stood transfixed. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘He’s been badly wounded, Jack, and his ego has been severely dented.’ Carlisle hesitated. ‘If he’s running out of time, it can only mean one thing.’
Mason shook his head. ‘The bastard is about to strike again.’
Carlisle acknowledged the somewhat obvious comment with a faint nod. ‘Whoever drove him to kill in the first place is now in the firing line. I’m certain of that. His thoughts and the feelings he is now experiencing are way beyond his fantasies. He’s reliving his childhood past, and he’s so full of rage and hatred it’s tearing him apart. He’s out there, Jack, and he must be stopped.’
‘Bugger,’ Mason shrugged.
‘If we don’t spook him, we have every chance of catching him,’ Carlisle said, addressing the rest of team. ‘He’s a wounded animal, so he’ll need to stay low for a while.’
Mason’s grin broadened. ‘And when he does surface, I’ll be ready and waiting for him.’
Easier said than done, Carlisle thought.
*
News travelled fast and the crowd of journalists had grown. Several outside broadcast vans were already parked up in the area, their satellite dishes brushing the tree line. Detective Carrington said very little as she strode past the cameras and microphones that were pushed in her face. Carlisle sensed her displeasure, but refused to comment as they climbed back into the undercover vehicle.
It had stopped raining, but the ground underfoot was still damp when they eventually pulled up outside the Powder Monkey public house. Halfway between Police Headquarters and his South Shields office, the sign outside the pub door read: TWO MEALS A TENNER.
‘Fancy a quick pint and a bite to eat?’ the young detective asked.
The pub wasn’t busy, but still had welcoming appeal. The clientele – a mixture of pensioners and young couples with children – made for a homely atmosphere.
Carlisle ordered drinks, and then glanced at the menu.
‘Thanks for sharing our find back there,’ said Carrington. ‘There are those on the team who would have taken all the credit for themselves.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Carlisle nodded.
They stood at the bar for a while, before grabbing an empty corner table close to the window, and overlooking the main street. It was weird sitting down to a meal with another woman. Sue Carrington was the first since Jackie’s passing. Although not an unattractive young woman, the though suddenly crossed his mind that she was at least ten years his junior. What the hell, he thought.
‘How long were you married?’ Carrington asked.
Carlisle thought about it before answering. ‘Almost six years; why do you ask?’
‘Are you able to talk about it still? I mean––’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Carlisle replied.
Jackie’s sudden death had cast a constant dark shadow over Carlisle’s life, and he was only too pleased to talk it over with someone. Unlike other women, who were shallow and only interested in exploring the morbid details, this felt different? Touched by the young detective’s caring approach, he felt comfortable in her presence.
‘Jackie’s been dead over a year now,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She died in a freak accident whilst we were on holiday together in India.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she added.
There was genuine understanding in her face and voice.
‘It’s OK,’ he acknowledged. ‘I’m slowly coming to terms with it.’
‘What happened?’
How direct was that? Carlisle thought, but restrained himself from saying it. ‘It was one of those last minute bookings,’ he replied. ‘You know how these things go, we were both trying to get away from it all, I––’
A memory tugged him.
Her face clouded for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his. ‘Sorry. I have a nasty habit of opening my big mouth at all the wrong times,’ the young detective said, lowering her head in embarrassment. ‘When I was younger, my mother used to tell me I would need to know the far end of a fart about everything. Some things never change, I guess.’
He hesitated, and took another sip of his lager before placing the glass back down on the table in front of him. Oblivious to their surroundings, the old couple sat opposite were deep in conversation over some financial problems or other. He watched as the old man’s weather beaten face contorted, as if disapproving of his partner’s comments. Somehow the timing felt right, as if the dark clouds that had hung over him for months now, were slowly being pulled apart.
‘Jackie was itching to travel on the local river ferry that morning. She always wanted to see the real India . . . to be amongst its people. She never cared much for the tourist attractions; it wasn’t Jackie’s thing.’ Their meals arrived, along with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. He collected his thoughts again. ‘The quayside was crowded when we arrived there that morning, thousands of people all jostling for position and wanting to catch the same ferry. It was quite something, I can tell you. We could see there was a problem, but no one gave a damn. Overcrowding, it seems, is an everyday part of life in India. That’s how these people move around, thousands of them, travelling between cities and all desperate to get to their next destination.’
Carrington fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘I’ve seen pictures of people sitting on the roofs of trains before. Is it really like that . . . India, I mean?’
‘That’s the real India,’ he smiled. ‘And that’s the part of India that Jackie always wanted to explore, she––’
‘Are you sure you’re OK to talk about this?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Sorry, it’s just––’ she hesitated. ‘Please do go on.’
It was obvious Carrington just wanted to sit and listen to him. He could tell by the look in her eyes, and the tone in her voice. She knew the world he was talking about, its people, its cities, and its vastness; and yet her knowledge of them was that of the blind. He gathered a few chips on the end of his fork, and popped them into his mouth. ‘Boats and ferries are a common form of transport in India’s remote rural regions, but the safety standards are appalling.’ A memory tugged him. ‘We understood the risks we were taking, but we still went ahead with our journey. There we were, the two of us looking over the ferry handrail when this great big lorry appeared at the dockside. You should have seen the vague look on the other passengers’ faces – nobody took a blind bit of notice. Somehow, and I don’t know how, they managed to squeeze this beaten up old wreck of a lorry onto the back of the ferry.’
‘Gosh!’ Carrington gasped. ‘It sounds horrendous.’
‘I know, and the more I think about it now the more ridiculous it all sounds.’ He paused for a moment, and wrestled with his emotions. ‘Barely five minutes into our journey and there was this terrific jolt . . . seconds later . . . and it could only have been seconds, the ferry rolled over and capsized. The noise was deafening, and everything was thrown into utter confusion. And that was the last time I ever saw Jackie alive.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘The next thing I remember, after being plucked from the water, was this sweet old Indian lady staring down at me. She had the face of an angel, and I will never forget her kindness.’
The look on the detective’s face told him everything he needed to know.
‘Life’s shit,’ she said. ‘It’s unfair, and you never know the moment.’
They talked a while, but Carrington never broached the subject again.
The sea was remarkably calm when she finally dropped him off on South Shields’ promenade. The wind had got up, but he still felt the need to clear his head. It was weird how some things turn out, and how just talking to someone could cut through the mental barriers. For the first time in months, it felt as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders and life was worth living once more.
Chapter Forty-Five
David Carlisle watched the morning press conference unfold from his iPhone. Beamed live across the major News networks, Jack Mason opened with a brief statement concerning the brutal murder of Trevor Radcliffe. The Detective Chief Inspector appealed to the general public for any information regarding a black MK3 Ford Mondeo – seen in the vicinity of Wallsend during the early hours of September 15th. He closed by saying the police were satisfied the net was closing in.
The reality, of course, was very different.
After grabbing a cup of coffee from the dispensing machine, Carlisle made his way towards the operations room. Met by DC Harry Manley, together they chewed over the latest developments. Having moved to her new moorings on the Quayside, Cleveland had seen more than its fair share of Gilesgate boardroom directors of late – too many in Manley’s opinion. Something was afoot, and whatever it was the police were determined to get to the bottom of it.
Jack Mason’s timely arrival brought with it the usual good-humoured banter, and after a brief exchange of words, Carlisle was ushered into Mason’s office. The DCI’s mood seemed relaxed, and it wasn’t long before they got down to the business in hand. Following Monday night’s live ‘Crimewatch’ TV broadcast, an anonymous viewer had phoned in with new information regarding the Wharf Butcher’s identity. Sceptical of hoax calls, a few discreet enquiries soon uncovered the caller might be telling the truth.
Mason gave him a contemptuous look. ‘You don’t seem convinced.’
‘Serial killers’ identities never surprise me anymore, but the motivation that drives them to kill and the reasons behind their killings certainly do.’
Sipping coffee and eating a KitKat whilst jotting down a few notes, Mason was deep in thought. The one thing that Carlisle had learned about hard hitting coppers was never to underestimate the reasoning behind their feelings. Mason was annoyingly tight lipped, withdrawn, and at times lost in his own little world.
‘Thanks to you, and Sue Carrington, we now know our killer is suffering serious gunshot wounds. Even so, he still hasn’t surfaced and that worries me.’
‘He’s territorial, Jack.’
‘You have a very specific way of thinking about things, my friend, but unfortunately we have more pressing matters to deal with.’ Mason shook his head, and flipped the pages of his notebook. ‘I recently put it to Sir Jeremy’s that his son could be responsible for these killings. Naturally he denied it. Not only that, his legal team advised that unless I intend to press charges against their client, he is under no obligation to answer any further questions.’
‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ Mason shrugged. ‘His solicitor was a right pain in arse, but he needed to be. Those maggots certainly know how to play the system.’
‘That’s politicians for you.’
‘The guy’s a hypocrite, if you ask me,’ Mason shrugged.
The noise of laughter ebbed and flowed from the ops room. Distracted, he watched as Mason pushed back in his seat. His jaw was set tight, and the tiny muscle in his left eye kept twitching. Behind the occasional grunt, he detected a deep resentment towards clever-arse solicitors. Mason hated legal jargon at the best of times, and could never get to grips with it. As his story began to unfold, the more Mason elaborated, the more resentful he became. Reading between the lines, Carlisle’s concerns over the Wharf Butcher’s upbringing had been well founded. After their marriage fell apart, Maria Agrioli – Sir Jeremy’s ex-wife – had been given custody of their only son. Half Italian, as the name suggested, amongst other things that Maria possessed was a volatile temper. A single-minded woman, she soon began to place unreasonable demands on young Samuel. Unable to cope herself, she not only subjected him to terrible emotional, physical and verbal abuse, she was extremely violent towards him. A disruptive youngster, young Samuel had spent the best part of his childhood in a youth offenders’ institution. Why his mother had singled him out for such harsh treatment was anybody’s guess; even so, the courts had failed miserably in their duty. In the end, it was left to Social Services to pick up the pieces, and in doing so young Samuel was eventually placed into foster care. When that didn’t work out, that’s when he finally went to live with his aunt.
The officer touched the peak of cap in salute, and stepped back a pace.
‘Oh, come on,’ Carrington shrugged, still staring up at him. ‘You don’t think for one minute I was going to do that, surely not.’
‘Not while you’re on duty, ma’am,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Another time perhaps . . .’
Carlisle ran his hand over a two-day stubble, and tried not to laugh.
‘What the hell was all that about,’ she sighed, as the sergeant trudged smug faced back towards his marked patrol car. ‘A fat lot of bloody good the two of us sat here on surveillance operations, when some dick head RTO decides to blow your cover. What a Pratt!’
Seconds later the police patrol car pulled away from the curb and swung west, back over the road bridge and towards Wallsend. As the vehicle’s red tail lights trailed into the distance, Carlisle sat back and studied the old Ship Inn opposite. Its windows and doors now boarded up, there was a large gaping hole in the roof where the tiles had been removed. Further afield, beyond the overgrown car park and derelict waste ground, was emptiness. If anyone wanted to lie low, this was the perfect place, he told himself.
‘So,’ said Detective Carrington, turning to face him. ‘Do you still believe the Wharf Butcher is holed up inside the building?
‘It’s definitely his kind of place . . . and he’s predictable.’
The young detective gave him a mistrusting look. ‘This sounds like I’m about to get my bloody hair wet,’ she groaned. ‘Maybe I should have got that dick-head Sergeant to check it out for us in the first place.’
Adjusting to the dark, Carlisle worked his way through what was once the downstairs bar. The Ship Inn – a once popular drinking hole with local shipyard workers – was now in a sorrowful run-down state. The vandals had moved in, and most of the fixtures and fittings were missing, and water was pouring in through the roof. The place had a fusty smell and stank of stale urine. Then, in a corner of the room, he found what he looking for – a makeshift bed. Whoever was holed up here was obviously intending to stop a while.
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Carrington said, shining her torch beam beyond the wooden staircase and into the upper level of the building. Seconds later, Carlisle stumbled across a heap of discarded blood soaked rags and bent down to take a closer look.
‘Someone’s in big trouble,’ he called out.
Detective Carrington shone her torch beam down at his feet.
‘Shit,’ she gasped, as if rooted to the spot. ‘Those look pretty new to me.’
‘And similar to the ones I found near North Shields Fish Quay,’ he replied.
‘You were right all along. He was here.’
It was then Carlisle spotted the sketches, not too dissimilar to ones found in the Wharf Butcher’s flat. He studied their content; they were unquestionably the killer’s handiwork. All the signs were there, the little idiosyncrasies that drew them ever closer towards one another.
It had to be him.
‘What is it?’ whispered Carrington, her face now pallid.
‘We’re closer than we ever dared to imagine.’
‘How can you possibly say that?’ she questioned. ‘You’re spooking me, David.’
‘Sometimes you get so close to these people, you eat and sleep at the same times as they do. You become as one.’
The young detective stared at him in utter disbelief. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘I’ve never been more serious. Psychopaths are very grandiose, and their world is all about them,’ Carlisle replied. ‘They believe they’re smarter than anyone else, more powerful. This one stays close to his kill zone. He’s territorial, and he’s feeding off it.’
‘Just as a salmon returns to its spawning ground . . .?’
‘Hmm. Something along those lines.’
Her words, and the manner in which she spoke them, were a new revelation to him. Carlisle shone his torch beam into the old pub lounge, and swore he felt a presence. Where darkness concealed the dangers, the young detective hovered close to his heels. Deep down Carrington appeared physically shaken by it all.
‘Are you sure it’s him. I mean . . . the Wharf Butcher?’ she whispered. ‘Could it not just be kids using this place as a play den?’
‘No. It’s him all right. I’m one-hundred percent certain of that.’
They searched the building together, but found nothing more. Then, the young detective pulled out her cell phone and rang Jack Mason.
Seconds later she turned to face him.
‘Bugger!’ she groaned. ‘My shift ends in twenty minutes and Jack Mason is already on his way over. Let’s hope your hunch pays off, David, as the old sod sounds in a real foul mood.’
They did not wait long. First to arrive was George Wallace, quickly followed by DC Manley. The moment the burly Constable poked his head in through the open pub doorway; Carlisle caught a whiff of Humbugs. That was it: no turning back. Over the next fifteen minutes, one by one the rest of the team arrived. Then, finally, the frosty faced figure of Jack Mason appeared in the doorway.
‘What have we got, Sue?’ said Mason, his cold penetrating eyes touring the building and taking in the detail.
‘Whoever he is, he’s badly in need of medical attention, boss.’
Mason took another look at the collection of faces now present.
‘Well! Anyone got any bright ideas as to where he might be?’
‘He can’t be far away,’ Carlisle said, pointing down at the pile of blood stained rags now scattered about the floor. ‘By the look of things, I’d say he’s not long moved out of here.’
‘How did you find the place?’
‘Intuition,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘I guessed he’d stay close to home.’
Someone’s mobile rang, but it was quickly silenced.
With all the media hype in the case, it wouldn’t be long before someone would come poking their noses around the area. Everyone knew that. Hands in pockets, head hunched slightly forward, Mason was deep in thought. ‘If he is in dire need of medical attention,’ said Mason, ‘we’ll need to warn the medical services.’
‘Tread carefully, Jack,’ said Carlisle pensively. ‘If he feels trapped in any way, he’ll want to end it all.’
He watched as the DCI took a step back, and furrowed his brow.
‘So where the hell is he?’ Mason huffed.
Carlisle rolled his eyes and tried not to think about where this was all heading. The way the killer’s mind was working right now, he would need to feel in control. If not, then he would simply go to ground. It was a fine balancing act, a game of chess where one false move would end in checkmate.
‘After each attack there’s a cooling off period,’ Carlisle said, thinking out aloud. ‘Then the fantasies take over again, and that’s when he feels the urge to kill. He’s cold, calculating, and right now full of terrible rage. It which case, he’s a major threat to anyone who chooses to challenge him.’
Mason stood transfixed. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘He’s been badly wounded, Jack, and his ego has been severely dented.’ Carlisle hesitated. ‘If he’s running out of time, it can only mean one thing.’
Mason shook his head. ‘The bastard is about to strike again.’
Carlisle acknowledged the somewhat obvious comment with a faint nod. ‘Whoever drove him to kill in the first place is now in the firing line. I’m certain of that. His thoughts and the feelings he is now experiencing are way beyond his fantasies. He’s reliving his childhood past, and he’s so full of rage and hatred it’s tearing him apart. He’s out there, Jack, and he must be stopped.’
‘Bugger,’ Mason shrugged.
‘If we don’t spook him, we have every chance of catching him,’ Carlisle said, addressing the rest of team. ‘He’s a wounded animal, so he’ll need to stay low for a while.’
Mason’s grin broadened. ‘And when he does surface, I’ll be ready and waiting for him.’
Easier said than done, Carlisle thought.
*
News travelled fast and the crowd of journalists had grown. Several outside broadcast vans were already parked up in the area, their satellite dishes brushing the tree line. Detective Carrington said very little as she strode past the cameras and microphones that were pushed in her face. Carlisle sensed her displeasure, but refused to comment as they climbed back into the undercover vehicle.
It had stopped raining, but the ground underfoot was still damp when they eventually pulled up outside the Powder Monkey public house. Halfway between Police Headquarters and his South Shields office, the sign outside the pub door read: TWO MEALS A TENNER.
‘Fancy a quick pint and a bite to eat?’ the young detective asked.
The pub wasn’t busy, but still had welcoming appeal. The clientele – a mixture of pensioners and young couples with children – made for a homely atmosphere.
Carlisle ordered drinks, and then glanced at the menu.
‘Thanks for sharing our find back there,’ said Carrington. ‘There are those on the team who would have taken all the credit for themselves.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Carlisle nodded.
They stood at the bar for a while, before grabbing an empty corner table close to the window, and overlooking the main street. It was weird sitting down to a meal with another woman. Sue Carrington was the first since Jackie’s passing. Although not an unattractive young woman, the though suddenly crossed his mind that she was at least ten years his junior. What the hell, he thought.
‘How long were you married?’ Carrington asked.
Carlisle thought about it before answering. ‘Almost six years; why do you ask?’
‘Are you able to talk about it still? I mean––’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Carlisle replied.
Jackie’s sudden death had cast a constant dark shadow over Carlisle’s life, and he was only too pleased to talk it over with someone. Unlike other women, who were shallow and only interested in exploring the morbid details, this felt different? Touched by the young detective’s caring approach, he felt comfortable in her presence.
‘Jackie’s been dead over a year now,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She died in a freak accident whilst we were on holiday together in India.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she added.
There was genuine understanding in her face and voice.
‘It’s OK,’ he acknowledged. ‘I’m slowly coming to terms with it.’
‘What happened?’
How direct was that? Carlisle thought, but restrained himself from saying it. ‘It was one of those last minute bookings,’ he replied. ‘You know how these things go, we were both trying to get away from it all, I––’
A memory tugged him.
Her face clouded for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his. ‘Sorry. I have a nasty habit of opening my big mouth at all the wrong times,’ the young detective said, lowering her head in embarrassment. ‘When I was younger, my mother used to tell me I would need to know the far end of a fart about everything. Some things never change, I guess.’
He hesitated, and took another sip of his lager before placing the glass back down on the table in front of him. Oblivious to their surroundings, the old couple sat opposite were deep in conversation over some financial problems or other. He watched as the old man’s weather beaten face contorted, as if disapproving of his partner’s comments. Somehow the timing felt right, as if the dark clouds that had hung over him for months now, were slowly being pulled apart.
‘Jackie was itching to travel on the local river ferry that morning. She always wanted to see the real India . . . to be amongst its people. She never cared much for the tourist attractions; it wasn’t Jackie’s thing.’ Their meals arrived, along with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. He collected his thoughts again. ‘The quayside was crowded when we arrived there that morning, thousands of people all jostling for position and wanting to catch the same ferry. It was quite something, I can tell you. We could see there was a problem, but no one gave a damn. Overcrowding, it seems, is an everyday part of life in India. That’s how these people move around, thousands of them, travelling between cities and all desperate to get to their next destination.’
Carrington fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘I’ve seen pictures of people sitting on the roofs of trains before. Is it really like that . . . India, I mean?’
‘That’s the real India,’ he smiled. ‘And that’s the part of India that Jackie always wanted to explore, she––’
‘Are you sure you’re OK to talk about this?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Sorry, it’s just––’ she hesitated. ‘Please do go on.’
It was obvious Carrington just wanted to sit and listen to him. He could tell by the look in her eyes, and the tone in her voice. She knew the world he was talking about, its people, its cities, and its vastness; and yet her knowledge of them was that of the blind. He gathered a few chips on the end of his fork, and popped them into his mouth. ‘Boats and ferries are a common form of transport in India’s remote rural regions, but the safety standards are appalling.’ A memory tugged him. ‘We understood the risks we were taking, but we still went ahead with our journey. There we were, the two of us looking over the ferry handrail when this great big lorry appeared at the dockside. You should have seen the vague look on the other passengers’ faces – nobody took a blind bit of notice. Somehow, and I don’t know how, they managed to squeeze this beaten up old wreck of a lorry onto the back of the ferry.’
‘Gosh!’ Carrington gasped. ‘It sounds horrendous.’
‘I know, and the more I think about it now the more ridiculous it all sounds.’ He paused for a moment, and wrestled with his emotions. ‘Barely five minutes into our journey and there was this terrific jolt . . . seconds later . . . and it could only have been seconds, the ferry rolled over and capsized. The noise was deafening, and everything was thrown into utter confusion. And that was the last time I ever saw Jackie alive.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘The next thing I remember, after being plucked from the water, was this sweet old Indian lady staring down at me. She had the face of an angel, and I will never forget her kindness.’
The look on the detective’s face told him everything he needed to know.
‘Life’s shit,’ she said. ‘It’s unfair, and you never know the moment.’
They talked a while, but Carrington never broached the subject again.
The sea was remarkably calm when she finally dropped him off on South Shields’ promenade. The wind had got up, but he still felt the need to clear his head. It was weird how some things turn out, and how just talking to someone could cut through the mental barriers. For the first time in months, it felt as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders and life was worth living once more.
Chapter Forty-Five
David Carlisle watched the morning press conference unfold from his iPhone. Beamed live across the major News networks, Jack Mason opened with a brief statement concerning the brutal murder of Trevor Radcliffe. The Detective Chief Inspector appealed to the general public for any information regarding a black MK3 Ford Mondeo – seen in the vicinity of Wallsend during the early hours of September 15th. He closed by saying the police were satisfied the net was closing in.
The reality, of course, was very different.
After grabbing a cup of coffee from the dispensing machine, Carlisle made his way towards the operations room. Met by DC Harry Manley, together they chewed over the latest developments. Having moved to her new moorings on the Quayside, Cleveland had seen more than its fair share of Gilesgate boardroom directors of late – too many in Manley’s opinion. Something was afoot, and whatever it was the police were determined to get to the bottom of it.
Jack Mason’s timely arrival brought with it the usual good-humoured banter, and after a brief exchange of words, Carlisle was ushered into Mason’s office. The DCI’s mood seemed relaxed, and it wasn’t long before they got down to the business in hand. Following Monday night’s live ‘Crimewatch’ TV broadcast, an anonymous viewer had phoned in with new information regarding the Wharf Butcher’s identity. Sceptical of hoax calls, a few discreet enquiries soon uncovered the caller might be telling the truth.
Mason gave him a contemptuous look. ‘You don’t seem convinced.’
‘Serial killers’ identities never surprise me anymore, but the motivation that drives them to kill and the reasons behind their killings certainly do.’
Sipping coffee and eating a KitKat whilst jotting down a few notes, Mason was deep in thought. The one thing that Carlisle had learned about hard hitting coppers was never to underestimate the reasoning behind their feelings. Mason was annoyingly tight lipped, withdrawn, and at times lost in his own little world.
‘Thanks to you, and Sue Carrington, we now know our killer is suffering serious gunshot wounds. Even so, he still hasn’t surfaced and that worries me.’
‘He’s territorial, Jack.’
‘You have a very specific way of thinking about things, my friend, but unfortunately we have more pressing matters to deal with.’ Mason shook his head, and flipped the pages of his notebook. ‘I recently put it to Sir Jeremy’s that his son could be responsible for these killings. Naturally he denied it. Not only that, his legal team advised that unless I intend to press charges against their client, he is under no obligation to answer any further questions.’
‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ Mason shrugged. ‘His solicitor was a right pain in arse, but he needed to be. Those maggots certainly know how to play the system.’
‘That’s politicians for you.’
‘The guy’s a hypocrite, if you ask me,’ Mason shrugged.
The noise of laughter ebbed and flowed from the ops room. Distracted, he watched as Mason pushed back in his seat. His jaw was set tight, and the tiny muscle in his left eye kept twitching. Behind the occasional grunt, he detected a deep resentment towards clever-arse solicitors. Mason hated legal jargon at the best of times, and could never get to grips with it. As his story began to unfold, the more Mason elaborated, the more resentful he became. Reading between the lines, Carlisle’s concerns over the Wharf Butcher’s upbringing had been well founded. After their marriage fell apart, Maria Agrioli – Sir Jeremy’s ex-wife – had been given custody of their only son. Half Italian, as the name suggested, amongst other things that Maria possessed was a volatile temper. A single-minded woman, she soon began to place unreasonable demands on young Samuel. Unable to cope herself, she not only subjected him to terrible emotional, physical and verbal abuse, she was extremely violent towards him. A disruptive youngster, young Samuel had spent the best part of his childhood in a youth offenders’ institution. Why his mother had singled him out for such harsh treatment was anybody’s guess; even so, the courts had failed miserably in their duty. In the end, it was left to Social Services to pick up the pieces, and in doing so young Samuel was eventually placed into foster care. When that didn’t work out, that’s when he finally went to live with his aunt.
