The Wharf Butcher, page 6
‘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 question, 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.
Chapter Eleven
The address on the envelope read: Companies House, 4 Abbey Orchard Street, Westminster, London. Two blocks south of Victoria Street and within easy walking distance of Victoria tube station, it was Jack Mason’s old stamping ground. He knew the area well. Too well if the truth was known. Not the best neighbourhood to patrol at night, Mason thought, but at least he still had some fond memories of the place. However, for a small fee and in the relative comfort of his office, he’d purchased a DVD ROM Directory direct from Companies House. The only thing he knew for certain was that listed amongst the directory’s central archives was the past ten-year business accounts for Charles Anderson’s legal practice. A very useful tool, and one Jack Mason was slowly getting to grips with.
He soon discovered that Charles Anderson, operating from Grainger Street – within close proximity of Newcastle’s city centre – had been joined by his lifelong colleague and fellow member of the European Law Society, Thomas Schlesinger. Together they’d formedAnderson & Schlesinger Law Firm, an upmarket legal practice serving the North East of England. He hadn’t given too much thought to it, but within a two year period of starting up, their legal practice had moved from rundown premises on Scotswood Road, to an upmarket property block in the heart of Newcastle’s prestigious business sector. No doubt Thomas Schlesinger’s professional influence had something to do with it. Nevertheless, the company’s meteoric rise to success was remarkable. On the surface everything appeared in order, but the deeper he dug, the more Mason began to uncover. Ninety-six per-cent of Charles Anderson’s business, it seemed, had been tied in with a conglomerate called Gilesgate Construction. To make matters worse, its Chairman, an articulate self-made multi-millionaire and ruthless local politician called Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, immediately set alarm bells ringing.
Not the most trustworthy person to do business with, Mason reasoned, Sir Jeremy was a renowned Machiavellian type. Mason hated bureaucrats at the best of times, but the contrast between the imaginary world of virtues, and the real world of vices, couldn’t be plainer. Clouding the issue was the fact that Gilesgate Construction was Europe’s leading company in the building of national sea defences. Six billion pounds, as Vic Miller had said, was an enormous sum of money. But that’s what the UK’s Environment Agency had spent on climate change initiatives in 2010. The figures were mind blowing, let alone the potential business opportunities that were slushing around in the system. Vast fortunes were being made out of other people’s misery, and Sir Jeremy was a central figure in all of it.
Mason clicked the keyboard, and suddenly felt an adrenaline surge.
There, jumping out at him, were the answers he’d been looking for. Charles Anderson and Derek Riley were not only major shareholders in Lowther Construction; they were listed on Gilesgate’s Board of Directors.
How convenient was that.
Scribbling down the details, he decided to call it a day. At least for now, that is. Spring had arrived, and after weeks of continuous bad weather, things had changed for the better. Pleased with his findings, the sun was shining when Mason finally drove south towards the outskirts of Newcastle. The traffic wasn’t particularly heavy, but at the roundabout with the A69 he swung east into West Road and suddenly ground to a halt. Typical, he cursed. Not the best of places to be stuck in traffic.
