The Wharf Butcher (10 page)

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?

Slowly, the commotion died down.

Opposite him, the duty night nurse sat propped against a large admissions desk. Her long gaunt face buried deep inside a pile of hospital records, she scribbled through patients’ ailments with the conviction of a judge passing sentence. Despite constant interruptions, she somehow appeared impervious to distractions. Suddenly it dawned on him, what the hell was he doing sat in a hospital waiting room in the middle of the night anyway. Two o’clock in the morning wasn’t exactly his favourite time of the day; he could certainly have done without this.

Then, through tired eyes, he spotted a white-coated figure approaching from one of the side wards. He was young, late twenties, short in stature with long blond hair neatly tucked beneath a blue surgical cap. From a side coat pocket hung the ends of a stethoscope – crammed there in a moment of haste.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Mr Carlisle, I presume?’

‘Yes. That’s me.’

Carlisle staggered to his feet. In what had been a long three hour wait, his mouth was dry and the back of his tongue felt like coarse sandpaper. ‘I’m here on official business, Doctor, but I’m waiting for DCI Mason to show. I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.’

The doctor looked at him in surprise. ‘DCI Mason left four hours ago, Mr Carlisle.’

Thinking more clearly now, Carlisle tried to get his head around the doctor’s statement. The anger surfacing, he took another deep breath and tried to steady himself.

‘I’m instructed to serve you with a court order, Doctor.’

The young doctor was quiet for a moment.

‘Ah! Yes. Detective Chief Inspector Mason did warn me about this.’

‘Did he now–– ’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor interrupted. ‘What does it entail exactly?’

‘One of your patients has been charged with attempted murder,’ said Carlisle. ‘The South Shields’ magistrates have refused bail on the grounds of a previous bad record of absconding. This one, apparently, has a nasty habit of breaching his court orders.’

‘Ah, I see. I take it he already has a police record?’

‘In legal jargon,’ Carlisle went on. ‘That means your patient is technically here under house arrest, and that’s why there’s a heavy police presence.’

Carlisle pressed a large brown envelope into an outstretched hand, the official court crest boldly stamped across the top. Tearing back the flap, he watched as the doctor moved towards the reception desk where the light was much brighter.

‘Are you able to confirm the patient’s name?’

Damn
,
Carlisle cursed. What the hell was Mason playing at?

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘There could be.’ The doctor paused in thought. ‘His name’s John Matthew, by the way––’

‘Yes, I know.’

The doctor stared at him. ‘It appears the police have not been forthcoming with their information, Mr Carlisle.’

‘Oh, and in what respect?’ said Carlisle after some moments of thought.

‘Well,’ the doctor replied. ‘What are we to do in the event of an emergency?’

‘I’m quite sure the police will have made their own contingency plans for that.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘Yes. You’re probably right.’

And that was another thing, thought Carlisle, who was John Matthew anyway? He knew very little about the man, or what he even looked like, come to think of it. If this wasn’t the killer, then what the hell was he doing here? Then it struck him. It wasn’t curiosity that had caused him to get involved in the case, it was the intrigue. From the moment he first got involved with criminal profiling, he’d always been fascinated by the mind-set of vicious criminals. What made them tick? And yes, he admitted, it was the very nature of the beast that had drawn his attention towards these people.

‘It’s been a long night,’ the doctor smirked. ‘I’ll get you Matthew’s medical details.’

Carlisle watched as the night nurse handed the doctor a sealed hospital envelope. Noting her eavesdropping on their conversation, he gave her a filthy look. She blushed, and buried her head behind the computer screen again.

‘What’s Matthew’s current condition?’ Carlisle queried.

‘I doubt you people will be able to speak to him, if that’s what you mean. We’ve managed to save his right arm, but it’s still touch and go.’ The doctor gestured towards the official hospital document. ‘These next thirty-six hours are critical in my opinion.’

Hospital jargon that meant he was barely alive, Carlisle assumed. He tilted his head back still unconvinced. ‘I take it he’ll survive?’

‘This patient’s a fighter, his type usually are. They never give in easily.’

Carlisle’s ears pricked up. ‘So when can we see him?’

The doctor shuffled awkwardly; hospital body language for uncertainty.

‘He needs rest. At least another ten hours, I’d say.’

‘Ten hours!’

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure your armed police officers will take good care of his welfare,’ the doctor replied sarcastically.

‘Is he conscious?’

‘No, he’s still heavily sedated, I’m afraid.’

‘At least another ten hours you say?’

The doctor nodded. ‘Do you have any contact details, Mr Carlisle?’

From an inside pocket he took out a business card out and handed it to him. ‘Call this number any time, but I must warn you that your patient is now police property. Any information regarding John Matthew’s medical condition is strictly classified information, and that,’ said Carlisle, raising a finger as if to emphasise a point, ‘means no statements . . . and certainly not to the press.’

The doctor puffed out his chest.

‘You’re forgetting I’m a doctor, Mr Carlisle. We too are bound by certain ethical rules.’

‘Thanks for reminding me . . . just call me the minute Matthew pulls round.’

It had been a long night.

Chapter Sixteen

The sound of the phone jarred Carlisle from a deep sleep, but the caller hung up long before he could reach it. Fumbling for the light, he threw back the blankets and checked his watch. He’d overslept. It was 9.10am, and he should have been in Newcastle goddammit. On lifting the receiver, he punched in the last caller button and watched as the digital display ran through its laborious memory sequence. The moment Jane Collins’ number popped up on the tiny digital display screen; there was no mistaking his relief. Skipping breakfast, he showered, got dressed and checked for any other missed calls. There were none.

The rush hour traffic had eased, but the roads were still relatively busy as he drove north towards the Royal Victoria Infirmary, a journey he made in record time. Parking his car, he made straight for the waiting room. The same dismal building he’d spent the previous evening in. Night security had long gone, replaced by a pokerfaced porter whose lecherous eyes mentally undressed every female who came within ten feet of him. Behind the administrations desk sat a large buxom blonde, who dished out instructions to anyone and everyone who happened to call her way. Not the friendliest of people to deal with, he mused. He made himself known, and managed to find a quiet corner away from the sick and wounded.

Twenty minutes later, Carlisle was joined by the diminutive but attractive figure of Detective Carrington. Fresh out of police training school, and newly appointed member of the team, Carrington was dressed in a dark blue suit, white blouse, black leather shoes, and wearing a thousand-watt smile.

Not at a bad looker either, thought Carlisle.

‘You got my message,’ the young detective said, glancing round warily. ‘When did you get here?’

‘Fifteen minutes ago.’

Carrington swung to face him. ‘I know this is awkward, but Jack Mason told me to contact you the minute that John Matthew pulled round.’

‘So that’s why you called my office.’

‘I tried to call you earlier, but your phone went straight to voicemail.’

‘What time was this?’

Carrington checked her iPhone, as if to mentally reassure herself.

‘Eight-thirty . . .’

Carlisle recognised the signs, the fluttering of eyelashes and the suspicion in her glances. She was far too eager, far too excitable for his liking. Recently assigned to Jack Mason’s ground troops, outwardly she appeared composed, but beneath the surface he sensed her inquisitive mind had to work in overdrive.

‘What do you know about John Matthew?’ Carrington asked, unable to hide the enthusiasm in her voice.

‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. I know he was brought here under armed escort, and that he attempted to kill a police officer in the line of his duty.’

The young detective threw her head back in surprise.

‘There have been a lot of new developments since then, David.’

‘Developments, what developments are these?’

‘Are you aware that Matthew was out on prison licence when the police finally caught up with him?’

Carlisle felt his jaw drop. ‘No I wasn’t?’

‘It seems one of the Strangeways prison officers was tipped off that someone wanted Matthew silenced.’ Carrington’s voice mellowed slightly. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work by all accounts.’

Carlisle fell silent again, hands deep inside his trouser pockets staring down an empty hospital corridor. He admired Carrington’s enthusiasm, but struggled to cope with her questioning. Besides, it was far too early in the day. Then he remembered. ‘I had an inkling that something wasn’t right, prisoners’ seldom talk – do they?’

‘More to the point,’ Carrington said warily, ‘John Matthew isn’t our man.’

‘I already knew that.’

‘Oh!’

Carlisle paused to let his statement sink in. ‘I’m a profiler, Sue. That’s what I do.’

There. It was said. He removed his spectacles and began massaging the flesh around his eyes. If Jack Mason wasn’t so damn arrogant, he could have warned him too. Matthew carried guns; it wasn’t the killer’s style. His was a more subtle approach; the killer’s more grandiose, and decidedly sensation seeking. It was then the young detective brought him up to speed on the rest of the previous day’s events.

‘Nevertheless, Matthew is still a very dangerous man,’ Carrington went on. ‘Apparently he has connections with Newcastle’s criminal fraternity, which may be of interest to the case . . . and Jack Mason of course.’

Carlisle drew back. ‘So, why am I still involved?’

‘That’s Jack Mason’s call, not mine,’ Carrington shrugged. ‘But let’s not get hung up on it.’

Carlisle leaned back and fixed his gaze on the white plastic wall clock. Its batteries replaced, the red second hand had begun another circuit of the clock face. Across the corridor, the armed police officers had changed. This one was younger; athletic looking, fresh out of training school. Always nice to see a young copper; he smiled. Young police officers were becoming a bit of rarity nowadays. Recruitment was down, and the financial squeeze wasn’t helping either.

Then, through the large double glass doors, Jack Mason appeared. Accompanied by a tall middle-aged doctor, wearing green hospital scrubs and carrying a clipboard in his right hand, they approached them at speed. Mason looked relaxed – outwardly at least. After short introductions, they were ushered along a corridor that stank of a combination of disinfectant and waxed floor polish. Despite the doctor’s talkative mood, on reaching a small side ward, he suddenly took off in another direction as though his presence elsewhere was the difference between life and death.

It was then Carlisle noticed the huge white cradle covering the right side of Matthew’s body; an IV tube taped to the back of his only visual hand was feeding a clear liquid. Hooked to an electrocardiogram machine, every now and then it sent out a monotonous bleep across a tiny plasma screen. Not a good sign, he thought.

‘I’m DCI Jack Mason and these two are colleagues,’ Mason announced.

Heavily sedated, Matthew wasn’t in the best of shape. The man had a pallid look, ghostlike, as if he’d just been paid a visit from one of death’s messengers. The flesh around his upper right cheekbone had been fused back together again, and a large white sticking plaster hung over a swollen right eye. His movements were lethargic, almost computerized, and the suspect had difficulty in talking.

‘Aren’t you the detective from the Met?’

‘It’s called question time, if that’s what you’re trying to tell me,’ said Mason.

Carlisle caught the pain in Matthew’s unshaven face. His eyes sockets were black, and the whites bloodshot as if he’d been up all night. At least he was alive, if barely.

Matthew swallowed hard, as though suffering a sore throat from the insertion of the endotracheal tube during his surgery. ‘You’re coppers, Goddammit?’

‘I could be the man from the moon if you care to ask me nicely. There is a subtle difference, of course.’

‘Maybe, but you all stink of the same shit to me,’ Matthew croaked.

‘Shit smells sweet, John, especially when you’re up to your neck in trouble.’ Mason took a step back. ‘We’re here to ask you a few questions, and I need you to cooperate. It’s as simple as that.’

Matthew’s eyes fixed on the young female detectives blouse, and the corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Nice pair of tits, lady. Not bad for an undercover copper.’

Detective Carrington stiffened, but still kept her composure. ‘Don’t tell me something I already know. Try telling me something I don’t,’ she said, firmly.

‘Like what, lady?’

Mason nodded his approval for Carrington to continue.

‘What do you know about Dove Farm?’ she asked.

‘I know my rights, young lady; I’m entitled to legal advice, and––’

‘Maybe,’ Mason interrupted. ‘But you’re forgetting, John, you shot dead one of my police dogs besides attempting to murder a police officer in the line of his duty.’

‘What a pity I didn’t shoot the fucking lot of you.’

The brittle smile reappeared on the young detective’s face. ‘Dove Farm, what do you know about it?’

‘Not a lot. I––’

‘Let me remind you,’ Mason said, cutting Matthew short. ‘It was owned by a Derek Riley.’

‘So?’

‘Three weeks ago, both and he and his wife were brutally murdered there,’ Mason explained. ‘Some callous bastard had it in mind to nail her husband to the rafters. Tell me, John, who would do such a thing?’

‘I prefer listening to the young lady.’ Matthew croaked. ‘Although she too talks a lot of crap, it sounds much nicer coming from her lips.’

Mason stepped closer, his eyes shone like daggers. ‘Don’t push me, John. You were picked up near Barrow Burn which isn’t too far from Derek Riley’s place. In my books, that makes you my number one suspect.’

‘Thanks for the tip off, Jack.’

Mason drew breath. ‘You’re up to your neck in trouble, my friend, so don’t dig yourself into a deeper hole. Besides, you were spotted drinking in The Hanging Tree Inn.’

‘That sounds like a good idea to me.’

Mason’s expression grew cold. ‘Outside this door there’s a heavily armed police presence. Further down the corridor there’s a dozen more. Now I’d say that’s an awful lot of protection for a little piece of shit like you.’

‘Sure, but just how far do you think I can get?’

Mason pursed his lips and leaned back. ‘I’m not trying to keep you in here, John; I’m busting a gut in trying to keep your enemies from doing what they do best.’

Matthew’s eyes suddenly shifted in their bloodshot sockets, the concern on his face now showing. ‘That sounds like a threat to me, Jack.’

‘Don’t push me––’

‘I’m still listening,’ Matthew croaked.

Mason was selecting his words carefully, playing around the edges.

‘Someone doesn’t like the way you operate, my friend. Maybe you had nothing to do with these Riley murders, but someone believes you did.’

‘Like who?’

‘My contacts tell me these people are itching to cut your tongue out.’ Mason shuffled awkwardly. ‘So if you want my advice, you’d better start cooperating.’

There was a long silence between them, broken only by the blip of the heart monitoring machine as it sent out another set of meaningless signals.

‘What’s it to be?’ asked Mason.

‘I’m thinking––’

Carlisle sensed the fear; he could almost reach out and touch it. Matthew’s face twitched and contorted with Mason’s every word. He watched as the hitman ran his tongue over his lips, as if crossing a burning desert without a single drop of water. He was drowsy, laconic, and fighting back the effects of the drugs.

‘Play it your way, John,’ said Mason, ‘but you’re fast running out of time, my friend.’

‘These Riley people, I didn’t––’

‘Go on,’ Mason urged.

‘I was working for Henry Fraser, he had . . . ah––’

‘Stay with me, John.’

Suddenly, it felt as if the spotlight of life had been extinguished long before the show had ended. It was over, thought Carlisle; nothing would happen now until Matthew regained consciousness again. Whenever that would be? Still there were alibies to check, and reports to write up. Even so, the outcome was still depressing in Carlisle’s mind.

At the reception desk Mason picked up Matthew’s possessions, including a bundle of blood-stained clothes – all neatly bound and labelled with white plastic hospital ID-wraps. Tossing a pair of muddy Nike Blazers into the plastic bag provided, Mason swung to face them. ‘He’s holding back on something.’

‘I got the same impression,’ Detective Carrington nodded.

Carlisle, who had said very little so far, was quick to signal his thoughts.

‘You do know he’s not your man, Jack.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Mason shrugged. ‘The son-of-a bitch is still out there somewhere. Even I know that.’

Each nodded in agreement, each sensing the DCI’s disappointment. Carlisle could almost smell the failure clinging to the senior detective, but he was still refusing to lie down. Defeat, it seemed, wasn’t a word in Jack Mason’s vocabulary.

A memory tugged him.

‘He’s getting to you, Jack. I warned you he would play games with your mind.’

Mason turned sharply towards the hospital main entrance, and away from the high security wing. ‘We know where he killed them, when he killed them, and how he killed them. The question is . .
.
wh
y
?’

‘That’s always the ten million dollar question, I’m afraid.’

‘Even so,’ Mason said, thoughtfully. ‘Why is he killing them to order?’

‘He’s local, and it’s his way of dealing with it. This one’s geographically stable and intent on tearing his world apart – brick by brick if needs be.’ Carlisle sighed. ‘He’s out there and his mind’s racing, but the trouble is he’s so caught up in his own fantasies that he can hardly breathe.’

Mason swore. ‘Goddammit, I could have sworn John Matthew was our man.’

‘Matthew is undoubtedly dangerous, but it’s not his style of killing. The person we’re looking for is a loner, someone who can mutilate his victims for the sheer impact of spreading fear into someone else’s world. His is a game of elimination, a world full of hate and fear where his victims are mere pawns in a reign of terror against someone he utterly despises.’