The Wharf Butcher, page 8
‘Nobody said it would.’
‘Be careful, he’ll resist you all the way.’
Mason swung to face him. ‘Stopping him is one thing. But stop him I will.’
After what felt like an eternity, Mason stormed towards the open office doorway. His mood was explosive, and Carlisle could not remember the last time he’d seen him in such a state as this.
‘Wallace,’ Mason shouted. ‘You need you to organise the dog teams . . . first light tomorrow morning.’
‘How many teams, boss?’
‘Two, that should be enough, anymore and it will all get out of hand.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Wallace replied.
Mason thought for some moments, and then said. ‘We’ll need air reconnaissance to cover the Barrow Burn area. Make sure they understand what’s required.’
‘Let’s hope the bastard doesn’t drag us into the marshlands,’ Wallace replied.
‘Possible,’ said Mason, ‘but highly unlikely, don’t you think?’
Wallace nodded, but did not reply.
‘Remind everyone that my briefing starts in five minutes,’ said Mason.
Seconds later, Carlisle could hear tables being hurriedly dragged into position. Now on auto-pilot, Mason’s eyes toured the rest of the room. Things were moving at a pace, and everything that could be done, was being done. Under the terms of a voluntary agreement between the Association of Police Officers and the media, Mason had requested a total news blackout. How long it would hold was anyone’s guess. But at least it gave them some comfort.
‘It’s a pity you’ll not be joining us tomorrow,’ Mason groaned.
‘I wish I could,’ Carlisle replied, ‘but I’m a key prosecution witness in an embezzlement trial. Not the best timing, I’m afraid, but these things happen unfortunately.’
‘What a shame. Let’s hope it’s all worth your while, eh.’
The moment they stepped into the ops room, Carlisle felt the tension. Mason’s powerful presence exuded authority, as if sucking the rest of the team into a deep black hole – a central vortex full of unknown. He watched as the senior detective unfurled a huge map across two adjoining tables. Leaning over, he picked out several features with a red marker pen and stepped back.
‘OK. Listen up everyone. At first light tomorrow morning two dog handler teams will move into position north of Alwinton. Everyone else is to take up their respective positions by 6.0am. The main assembly point is close to the village. Here . . . and here,’ said Mason, pointing to two pre-marked positions on the map. ‘Directly after this briefing, those officers assigned to team ALPHA are to check with Luke James, and those assigned to team TANGO, report to George Wallace. Anyone got any questions?’
Nods of approval gathered pace. Everyone understood what was required of them – or so it appeared. Mason moved freely now, almost robotic. ‘At midnight tonight, all roads within a twenty mile radius of our suspect’s last known position will be closed to the general public. Without transport, our suspect’s only hope of escape is to move around on foot.’ Mason paused for effect. ‘Three teams, each made up of thirty officers, are to block any potential escape routes. At first light tomorrow morning, that’s 4.30am, two dog handler teams will begin their sweep of this area.’ Mason brushed an index finger across a large section of the map. ‘Their objective is to flush him out of hiding. Once out in the open, the rest should be pretty straightforward.’
Vic Miller raised his hand, and then said, ‘The Armed Response Teams, Jack. We still haven’t received our instructions.’
Mason stroked his chin in a sort of dutiful disapproval. ‘I was coming to that, Vic,’ he replied, as if quick to dispel any notions that there were flaws in his plans. ‘Every team will be accompanied by an armed response officer. Remember, we’re dealing with a crazed psychopath here, so no one is to take any unnecessary risks.’
‘Like what?’ said Harry Manley, annoyingly sucking on another Humbug.
‘You’re to work as a team, Harry. The last thing I need is gung-ho-heroes.’
Looking somewhat confused, Vic Miller scratched his forehead.
‘So what’s our brief on this one, Jack?’
‘Armed police officers are under strict instructions to use only the minimal of force. Unless a police officer finds himself or herself in a life threatening situation, only then will my “Shoot to kill” policy be implemented. Do I make myself clear on that?’
Nods of approval all round. No one spoke.
‘What about backup?’ DS James asked.
‘Good point, Luke. For that I’ve organised two rapid response teams, each made up of twenty officers. These will be placed at strategic positions . . . here and here,’ said Mason, pointing down at the map again.
As notes were taken down and opinions exchanged, a nervous fervour gripped the team. Mason raised a hand as if to draw their attention towards a more important issue.
The room fell deadly silent.
‘On this occasion it seems I’ve drawn the short straw, gentlemen. I’ll be directing operations using the services of the North East Air Support Unit’s helicopter. My call sign, should you require it, will be ‘Roger One––’
A loud jeer broke out around the room.
As the briefing drew to a close, Carlisle felt a hint of disappointment in his total lack of involvement. In turning to leave, Mason pulled him to one side. There was a glint of devilment in the Chief Inspectors eyes, as if sensing victory.
‘With any luck, by tomorrow night we’ll have this bastard behind bars.’
Carlisle said nothing, still full of grave doubts.
Chapter Fourteen
Close to a stone bridge that crossed the River Coquet, a lone undercover police car pulled discreetly into a roadside lay-by. Stepping from the vehicle and wearing a green bomber jacket, blue jeans and a black casual jumper, Jack Mason checked his bearings as he moved towards the yellow Mobile Command Truck. It was 5.45am, and the whole area was swarming with police officers, many of whom had been drafted in from specialist units from up and down the country. In what had been a well-guarded secret, Mason’s voluntary press agreement was still holding firm. But for how much longer was anyone’s guess.
Shortly after six, a lone helicopter could be heard approaching the village of Alwinton. Equipped with a Nite Sun 30 million candlepower searchlight, earlier that morning the aircraft’s powerful video and thermal imaging cameras had been put to good use. With a top cruising speed of 130 knots per hour, it was ideally suited for the work in hand. At a pre-arranged rendezvous point – a grassy knoll not more than sixty metres from the stone bridge – the helicopter finally came to rest. With its rotor blades still turning, Jack Mason climbed into the back seat of the helicopter, fastened his seat-belt and put on his communications headset. As the door slid shut, the pilot increased his rotor blade speed and began a vertical climb.
Airborne at last, Mason caught his first glimpse of the unfolding police activity below. Two miles north of Alwinton village, a mountain rescue team could be seen heading north towards the base of the Cheviot foothills. Following in their wake, two armed police officers looked distinctly at odds in such a picturesque setting. Mason was taking no chances: a potential serial killer was at large and he was determined to finish it.
Further north, after climbing out of Shillmoor, the first of the three man dog handler teams were making steady progress into the neighbouring foothills. Thick overcast skies threatened rain. It was 8.0am, and ‘Razor’, a five year old German Shepherd, was already showing early signs of fatigue. The dog was panting heavily, and his huge head was lolloping ever closer towards the ground. Too close for the man in charge of the dog handler teams. Recognising the animal’s distress, Sergeant Manton pointed towards a large wooden gate set back some thirty metres up ahead.
‘Let’s rest these mutts, or they’ll not last the distance,’ the sergeant ordered.
As the last of his men settled down into the long grass, he reached into his backpack and retrieved a large aluminium water bottle and green plastic bowl. Unscrewing the water bottle cap, he poured the contents into the green plastic bowl and gave the signal. Obligingly, ‘Razor’ pushed his long snout towards the inviting clear water.
It was gone in seconds.
‘Five more minutes, lads,’ the Sergeant ordered.
Pleased with their progress, the sergeant removed his police cap and wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow. At least the men were bearing up to the intolerable conditions, if not the dogs, he thought. Gathering his bearings, the climb ahead looked reasonable. Only the middle ground appeared tricky. Ahead lay a small ridge, along which ran an extensive meandering track leading to the summit of Inner Hill. With any luck, the dogs would soon pick up the suspect’s scent and they’d be home and dry by lunchtime. Turning to face his companion, there was an air of reassurance in Sergeant Manton’s voice.
‘The son of a bitch is still out there.’
‘I’m not convinced,’ Constable Smart replied.
The two men had been good friends, for as long as anyone could remember. A few days shy of his fortieth birthday, Constable Dick Smart was still living in hope of getting his foot on the first rung of the promotion ladder. Having spent the last six months working with the Police Firearms Team, things were looking up. Beaver, his four year old Belgian Malinois, was an expert in sniffing out and detecting explosives. They worked well together, and his dog’s reputation was second to none. Having taken part in several recent counter-terrorist operations – including work with the North East Border Agency – they’d forged a formidable partnership together.
The sergeant shifted his position.
‘I say he’s still out there.’
‘Nah, the humidity getting to you, Tom,’ Constable Smart chuckled.
Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the sergeant suddenly pointed to the valley below. Barely visible to the naked eye, and in extended line, a group of police officers were closing in on a series of derelict outbuildings. Had they spotted something?
Twenty minutes later, having reached the summit of Shillhope Law, the team began its long winding descent towards the village of Barrow Burn. The ground underfoot was treacherous, made worse by the damp slippery undergrowth. As the mountain dropped away, their final approach was met by the unexpected presence of the police helicopter, as it swooped low over their position.
Acknowledging with a thumbs up signal, the sergeant adjusted his communications headset and spoke directly with DCI Mason.
‘We’re moving north,’ Sergeant Manton shouted, through cupped hands.
‘Do we know where?’ asked Constable Smart.
‘No. But ‘Roger One’ has picked up a heat trace.’
‘Is it static or mobile?’
‘Mobile, and heading in a northerly direction by all accounts,’ the Sergeant replied.
Brushing down the dust thrown up by the downdraft of the helicopter’s rotor blades, the sergeant consulted his map. Spurred on by the noise of the advancing helicopter engine, there was a new sense of urgency in their stride. On dropping down into White Bridge, set back some two-hundred metres from the footpath was a narrow wooden footbridge.
‘That water looks inviting,’ the lead handler said, pointing the way ahead.
Caught in the moment a thin smile swept across the sergeant’s face. It wasn’t what Constable Taylor had said that had made him grin; it was the way his colleague had said it. Harry Taylor was reputedly the most experienced dog handler in the County. Well known to the criminal fraternity, his faithful companion, ‘Oscar’, had been setting a cracking pace that morning. Too fast if the truth was known.
Ten minutes later, after crossing a fast flowing mountain stream, the ground suddenly gave way and they were facing a more difficult challenge. Rising some eight hundred feet above their position, a steep vertical gully – lined on either side by exposed rocks – ran centrally towards the summit. It was a formidable climb, the sergeant thought, and one that involved tired dogs. Anxious, he turned to the others and gave out a new set of instructions. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the advancing helicopter suddenly swung left as it cut a northerly path between two distant rolling hills.
‘It looks like they’ve spotted something.’
‘And moving towards the summit by the look of things,’ said Constable Smart.
‘This bastard certainly knows how to pick his ground,’ another cursed.
Raising a hand in acknowledgement, the sergeant cast a critical eye over the surrounding slopes. Progress was slow, painfully slow. The heat was unbearable, made worse by the low-lying clouds forming an impregnable barrier between land and sky. No one spoke, each preferring to suffer his own torment in silence.
Then gunfire broke out.
‘Man down!’
‘Take cover,’ someone shouted.
As another bullet ricocheted perilously close to his position, the sergeant crawled towards a steep overhang. Outwitted, and hopelessly pinned down in the gunman’s deadly crossfire, he could only watch in horror as Constable Smart struggled to keep his dog in check. Fit as he was, the slightest movement and they’d both end up as tomorrow’s headlines. Drawing comfort from a large projecting boulder, Sergeant Manton readjusted his binoculars and reconsidered his options. To his left lay a steep central gully. Guarded on two sides by a sheer vertical rock face, its steepness surprised him. Like a lot of other demanding climbs he’d encountered, the higher up you went the more challenging it became. He realised that, but there were no other options left open to them. It was their only route of escape.
Exhausted and cut to pieces by falling rocks and debris, they clawed their way to the summit. As far as Sergeant Manton could see, the crest was a long flat plateau – running north to south for about one-hundred yards, and ending in a sheer vertical drop on two sides. Then, as his eyes rolled sideways he spotted some other movement. Barely forty metres separating them stood the gunman. He was a small man, lean and feeble looking, not as he’d imagined him to be. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the gunman shifted his position, and with lightning reflexes dropped to one knee.
Death came quickly and mercifully to Beaver – a well-aimed bullet to the dog’s upper torso. Scattering in every direction, police officers now dived for cover. With little or no time to think, the sergeant unleashed his dog and hit the ground heavily in front of him. In that split-second judgement, it felt as if the whole world had suddenly turned against him. What to do next? Rounds were falling perilously close to his position, much too close for comfort.
‘Take cover,’ he shouted.
Everyone heard the screams; the blood curdling pleas that rang out across the mountain top. No one dared to move. Even the wind held its breath. As the surge of adrenaline died away, the sergeant popped his head above the long grass and peered towards the gunman’s last known position. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Hit on his blindside, Razor had lunged into the gunman’s upper torso, sinking his huge teeth into his upper forearm. From what he could see, the gunman was bleeding heavily with the dog now standing guard over him.
It was over.
The helicopter’s rotors still turning, Jack Mason hit the ground running.
‘Check him for weapons,’ the DCI yelled.
Jack Mason wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to get on the wrong side of, especially in tight situations. Within seconds, the sergeant was joined by a dozen armed police officers, all eager to assist. Unconscious and still bleeding heavily, the gunman was unceremoniously rolled over and onto his back and his legs spread-eagled. Taking stock, the sergeant knelt down and checked for hidden weapons.
‘He’s clean, boss.’
‘Nice work, Sergeant,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘Your dog did a fine job.’
Glancing up, the sergeant watched as Jack Mason bent down and rolled back the gunman’s trouser leg. From what he could see, the injuries to his face were superficial. Apart from the upper forearm, which had been terribly mauled by his dog; everything else seemed fine. Then, as Mason checked the suspect’s footwear, he caught the look of concern on his face. Something was wrong, and whatever it was they were about to find out.
‘It’s not our man, George.’
‘It must be, Jack,’ Wallace replied, as a dozen fellow officers crowded forward to get a better look.
‘I’m telling you, George. This isn’t our man.’
Uncertainty spread like the plague.
‘If he isn’t our man, then who the hell is he?’
His face as black as thunder, Mason took a deep breath as he turned to the nearest plainclothes police officer. ‘Lock this bastard up, and whilst you’re at it throw away the key.’
Everyone stood gobsmacked as Mason turned and stormed off towards the waiting helicopter. No one spoke. Whoever the gunman was, Jack Mason was far from happy.
Seconds later, the helicopter took off in a northerly direction.
Chapter Fifteen
Dave Carlisle sat in the hospital waiting room, his patience severely tested. It was two in the morning, and the long hours spent hanging around for Jack Mason to show had left him irritable. Clinging to the memories of his mother’s last few months of life, Carlisle detested hospitals at the best of times. The familiar smell of disinfectant, clean linen sheets and the long nights of empty conversation all flooding back. Alone by her bedside, slowly wasting away, until in the end the gaunt figure of a woman that he once called mother, had changed beyond all recognition.
The hospital décor was modern, impersonal, he thought. To one corner, a green plastic sign bore the inscription: EAST WING RVI – STAFF ROSTER. The clock on the wall – now stuck in time – was already three hours slow. Part way down a narrow corridor stood an armed police officer. Motionless, with arms folded tight across his chest, he was barring the entrance to another part of the building. Then, through the main entrance admissions doors, Carlisle caught sight of yet another yellow NHS ambulance as it drew up alongside A&E. As the vehicle’s back doors swung open, an old lady strapped into a wheelchair was placed onto the tail-lift of the vehicle and carefully lowered to the ground. Christ, thought Carlisle, how many more patients do these people have to deal with tonight?
