The Wharf Butcher (11 page)

Mason grinned. ‘Someone you wouldn’t like to meet in the dark, eh.’

‘Not if you were his next victim. No.’

The three of them fell silent.

Chapter Seventeen

Lexus was hungry. He had not eaten in days now and he was running on pure adrenaline and catnaps. He felt cold inside and yet, the room temperature was overpoweringly humid. High up on the nineteenth floor, in one of Newcastle’s notorious tower blocks, he had found sanctuary
.
He had made this place his own, and for the past six-weeks had been able to come and go as he pleased. He was alone here, isolated, free from the distractions and demands of the cruel outside world. Behind heavily bolted doors, he sat cross-legged on the cold concrete floor and pondered his next movements. A light flickered in the darkness, a solitary candle flame that cast eerie shadows over graffiti filled walls. He had no electricity: that had long since been disconnected.

Then, the voices returned.

What do you think of your new place?

‘It’s perfect,’ Lexus replied.

No one will ever find you here.

The flat was unfurnished, and filled full of black polythene bin liners and other junk. To one corner, an unmade makeshift bed was cluttered with rubbish and discarded food wrappers. The air reeked of decay and a rotten stench of human squalor. It played on his nostrils, a rancid smell, but it still didn’t excite him. Only the dead could do that.

There was nothing here of value, except for his laptop computer, and that went with him everywhere. He seldom let it out of his sight. The batteries had run flat, and it annoyed him intensely. He was going to recharge them, but then remembered.

There was no electricity, was there?

Don’t you prefer the darkness
?

‘You have two minutes, get to the point.’

Lexus paused for a moment, and glanced down at the black and white photograph now positioned at his feet. He’d memorized every single one of these people; closely, and without prejudice. Why shouldn’t he? Hadn’t he studied them for as long as he can remember? Didn’t he say these people were important? At least to him, they were. Dressed in their best attire for a very special occasion, every single one of them carried an air of arrogance on their faces. Lexus shuddered at the thought, and wondered what it would be like to be dead. Was there such a thing as life beyond the grave . . . ?

‘I’m scared, mama.’

What are you scared of, my son
?
The voice in his head questioned.

‘Do the dead ever come back?’

Why should they? These people were scum, all of them. How dare they call themselves Good Samaritans when all they did was to make vast fortunes out of ordinary people’s misery? Didn’t they deserve to die?

Not all were dead of course, Lexus was certain of that. But hey, wasn’t he the chosen one, the only person who could rid this world of this so called evil . . . Gilesgate?

Spread around his feet was dozens of newspaper cuttings. Each meticulously catalogued, each an important record of his unbelievable achievements. He never once watched TV, preferring instead to read about his exploits in the daily tabloids.

After all, wasn’t this his story?

Absolutely––

Plagued by uncertainty, Lexus searched the darkest corners of his mind for that one piece of inspiration that had made him famous. His next would be spectacular. It was important to him, if only for his fans.

And there were many.

Oh. You’re such a genius, Lexus.

Rocking back on his haunches, his head struck another resounding blow against the wall. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the whites protruded as though invisible fingers had pulled the lids apart. His mouth open, not from convulsions; this was pure euphoria. Then, as he moved towards the trapdoor of perpetual delusion – a spiralling abyss that threatened to drag him ever closer towards the edge of eternal darkness – he reached out towards the image of a young woman. She was beautiful, with long golden locks that hid her face from view. She cradled a small child, wrapped in a thin white cotton shawl and held close to her bosom. Panic gripped him, as the ghost-like vision continued to shimmer in the flickering candlelight.

Was this a dream?

He watched in astonishment as the young woman’s lips moved as if to answer, but her pitiful voice was too weak to grasp. He cried out to her in the darkness, but the image slipped from view and all that he was left with was the fearful reminders of a childhood and a mother he never came to know.

Then, just as Judas Iscariot had betrayed Christ, his evil father appeared. Gripped by unimaginable hatred, he lunged out, and towards the apparition that dared to call himself Father. Plucked from the depths of hopelessness, the voices returned––

Do not despair, my son. The monster that created you was never a match for your genius.

Drawn in by an act of pure sadistic defiance, Lexus stared down at the photograph again. His pen circled a face, a young woman’s face. He had played out this ritual before, yes, many times. This wasn’t his first, nor would it be his last. He knew that. These people were close to him, all of them, and why shouldn’t they be?

His pulse quickened as he reached over, and kissed the photograph and the fourteen familiar faces within it. His next would be spectacular, and he was certain of that. Then, quite unexpectedly, a feeling of calm surrounded him. He clicked his tongue, softly, and hissed as a viper would attract its prey.

Deep inside his twisted inner mind, Lexus reached out – towards the outstretched hand. Both arms fully extended now, he lovingly called out her name again. His voice echoed through the darkness – a haunting sound – but there was no one there.

There never had been!

Chapter Eighteen

Mark Patterson’s telephone conversation was brief. They usually were. For the next few hours, David Carlisle pondered over his contact’s intriguing proposition. A local crime reporter working for the
Shields Gazette,
Mark Patterson had a gift for sniffing out a good story. If his intelligence was correct, and Carlisle had no reason to doubt otherwise, then any information regarding John Matthew would be a valuable boost to the team’s morale.

The light was beginning to fade when he eventually called by the Northeast Press offices in Sunderland. At the reception desk, he picked up the sealed envelope that his friend had left for him. Inside he found a compliment slip and two free admission tickets for the Pelaw Grange Greyhound Stadium. His contact’s unconventional approach to doing business never ceased to amaze him. It went with the territory. Press reporters usually had to work hard to grab a good headline story. Freebies and backhanders came with the territory. It opened doors that otherwise would have remained shut.

Returning to his car, Carlisle phoned the office and moments later his business partner answered.

‘It’s me, Jane,’ he said. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

There was a long pause at the other end of the phone.

‘Is that a proposal, or a hypothetical question?’

He thought about it, and then went on to explain his friend’s bizarre arrangements.

‘So, what do wan
t
m
e
to do about it?’ Jane Collins replied.

Carlisle sensed bad vibes; he was obviously not in her good books.

‘My contact at the Shields Gazette has booked a table for four, seven-thirty at the Pelaw Grange dog track, and he’s bringing a female partner along with him. I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for the two of us to sit back and relax a little.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Jane sighed, over the phone. ‘Surely you can do better than that.’

‘I take it that’s a no?’

There was another long pause.

‘So you’re inviting me to the dogs?’

‘That’s the bottom line. I––’ His voice began to crack.

‘OK, be at my place for seven.’

The phone went dead.

Wearing black designer jeans, a low cut blue silk blouse and ankle boots, Jane looked simply stunning. They met in the bar, and after short introductions Patterson led them to a premium table overlooking the dog race track. According to the race programme, t
he Pelaw Grange Greyhound Stadium in County Durham is home to some of the most exciting racing action in the country. Not that he knew anything about greyhound racing, or how the betting system operated come to think of it. No, Carlisle was there for another reason.

With the two women holding a central gambling kitty, the action-packed race card soon had them on the edge of their seats. The first race, a 590 metre sprint, got off to a flying start. With odds of 2-1, the blue dog was picked out by Jane whilst Patterson’s partner, Jennifer, had chosen the red dog at odds of 4-1. Amidst the razzmatazz and hype, the race was over in less than 40 seconds. Nudged out on the final bend, both women’s dogs were sent crashing into the hoarding boards; along with their money. By nine o’clock, they’
d lost the entire betting kitty and desperate measures were called for. Between placing bets, ordering drinks, and dashing to and from the monitoring screens to work out the betting odds, Jane was in her element.

Billed as the climax of the evening, a loud fanfare announced the arrival of the next six runners. Down at the trackside, the bookies were doing brisk business. With everything to play for, the atmosphere was electric. With all six greyhounds now loaded into its chosen trap, the hare was sent running.

‘A word in your ear, if I may,’ Patterson said, pulling Carlisle to one side.

What made Mark Patterson stand out above the rest of the crowd was his ability to lure people into a false sense of security. It was all about timing, and Patterson was a master at his game.
“
Timing is everything when you ac
t
,” he’d once told him.
“
Always remember that the past no longer exists in life, it is just what it is . . . The Past!
”
If Mark Patterson’s life was governed by timing, then he couldn’t have chosen a better moment to have caught Carlisle off guard. Pushing their way through the crowd, they soon found a quiet corner.

Patterson’s mood had changed – along with the humour. As his story began to unfold, it soon became apparent that John Matthew was well known to the local authorities. Brought up in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of Newcastle, his parents were incapable of managing their son’s unruly behaviour. Ordered into foster care, Matthew soon built himself quite a reputation for sorting other people’s problems out. He was good at it and nasty with it by all accounts. Amidst countless other problems, it wasn’t long before Matthew began to graduate to the more serious crimes. Gaoled for killing a notorious pimp by the name of ‘Benny the Bracelet’, Matthew always swore his innocence. Not just content with knocking his victim down, according to CCTV footage, he intentionally reversed his car back over Benny’s already broken body. Charged with manslaughter, Matthew was found guilty and given a fifteen-year prison sentence.

Carlisle racked his brains.

‘And this all happened ten years ago–– ’

‘John Matthew has contacts – he knows how to work the system. That’s how he managed to get early prison release.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I know, but that’s how the system works unfortunately.’ Patterson folded his arms, a defensive pose. ‘Within days of his release from prison, he was back to his old tricks again.’

‘So what was he doing up at Barrow Burn?’

Patterson stared at him, his hard face pinched. ‘That’s when this all starts to get a little messy, I’m afraid. Prior to his recent capture, John Matthew was involved in an armed robbery on a petrol station in the Bensham area of Gateshead. At the time, he was working for a guy called Henry Fraser.’

Carlisle cocked his head to one side, his interest levels heightened. ‘Henry Fraser. Now there was a name from the past!’

‘Yeah, he’s better known as Newcastle’s Mr Fix it.’ Patterson paused in thought. ‘Fraser’s got form. He owns half of Newcastle, and runs a heavy muscle service besides acting as Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles’ publicity manager.’

They exchanged glances

‘What, the local politician!’

‘That’s the guy, and he’s not exactly everybody’s cup of tea by all accounts.’

Already ahead of the game, Carlisle’s mind was filled with a thousand questions.

‘So it was Fraser who got Matthew to rob a petrol station for him, is––’

‘No.’ Patterson cut in. ‘This petrol station robbery was Matthew’s own idea. When Fraser got wind that he was out on prison licence, that’s when he hired Matthew to do a hit for him.’

‘So tell me, what was John Matthew doing up at Barrow Burn?’ Carlisle asked again.

Patterson grinned. ‘He was running away from the police. When Fraser found out, that’s when he contacted his friends in Strangeways. It was the inmates who spread the rumour about that someone wanted Matthew silenced. Sadly, the Prison Service and the Northumberland police both fell for it.’

Carlisle’s felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. ‘I should have known. I had a hunch that something wasn’t right. Besides, prisoners seldom break their own code of silence.’

‘It certainly fooled everyone.’

Patterson’s eyes narrowed as he went on to explain Fraser’s involvement in Sir Jeremy’s wheeler-dealer style of politics. Not the best of people to deal with, the man was a political thug in Patterson’s opinion. Those who asked awkward questions, or demonstrated a negative attitude towards his policies, could expect to face the consequences. That was Henry Fraser’s role, that’s what he was paid to do. Sir Jeremy, it seemed, had it all worked out and even the press were in his pockets.

The stadium noise levels heightened as the next event got underway.

‘So, what kind of contract did Fraser have in mind?’

Patterson looked down at his shoes. ‘Rumour has it that John Matthew was sent to go after someone, but that’s as much as I know.’

Carlisle felt his friend’s answer was loaded.

‘You mean take someone out?’

‘Fraser’s well connected; he knows people and it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t know who’s responsible for this recent spate of killings.’

Patterson’s face had remained expressionless throughout. Surely his friend didn’t think these were gangland killings – surely not. Carlisle’s mind was suddenly at sixes and sevens again.

‘So how did you come by this information?’

‘That would be telling,’ said Patterson, tapping the side of his nose.

Suddenly the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were beginning to come together. There was more to this than had first met the eye. Whoever killed Charles Anderson had obviously ruffled Sir Jeremy’s feathers. But why had the killer selected Gilesgate to carry out his artistic talents.

‘So what do I owe you, Mark?’

Patterson whistled through his teeth. ‘I need a big favour, old boy.’

‘Try me.’

His friend stared out across the dog track, as the next race reached its climax. ‘I’m under a lot of pressure from my editors, and desperately in need of a good story. You know me, David, it’s all about timing. Everything I’ve told you is kosher, but it’s worthless as it stands.’ Patterson turned to face him. ‘When you do eventually catch up with your killer, and no doubt you will, I need to be amongst the first to know.’

‘
Quid pro qu
o
?’ Carlisle said.

‘That’s the kind of deal I’m looking for.’

Carlisle nodded. Not a good idea, he thought.

‘When we return to our seats,’ said Patterson. ‘Check out the big guy sitting alongside the loud mouthed blonde with the big tits and low cut leopard skin dress.’ His friend paused for effect. ‘That’s Henry Fraser.’

Carlisle felt his jaw drop.
‘
What
!
’

‘I thought that might perk you up.’ His friend grinned. ‘Rumour has it that Fraser is working with Gilesgate’s Board of Directors, but don’t quote me on that.’

‘When did you find this out?’

‘Think about it,’ said Patterson. ‘When the police arrested John Matthew, he wasn’t too far from Derek Riley’s place . . . was he?’

‘So what’s the connection?’

Patterson looked on in surprise. ‘I would have thought the police would have known the answer to that.’

‘They do, but I was––’

‘So why ask?’

‘Believe me, Sir Jeremy and his cronies have been under police surveillance for weeks now,’ said Carlisle, lying through his back teeth.

Patterson shook his head glumly.

‘I always knew those bastards were up to no good. And now I know.’

If nothing else, Mark Patterson certainly knew how to weed vital information out of people. With Matthew out of the frame, Henry Fraser would undoubtedly be of major interest to Jack Mason. It took Carlisle all of two-seconds to pick out the big man. Everything about him exuded trouble. Greasy slicked back hair, swarthy complexion and sporting two day stubble, Fraser was no bible reader – he probably did not own one. Then it dawned on him. Why would Sir Jeremy employ a notorious thug like Henry Fraser, unless of course he wanted someone silenced?

As the evening wore on, Carlisle’s mind drifted back towards more important issues, and it had nothing to do with greyhound racing. His biggest concern, right now, was Jack Mason. If the DCI continued to put the squeeze on Matthew, then every criminal in the North East of England – including Fraser – would simply go to ground. One thing for sure, the killer certainly knew how to stir up a hornet’s nest. No wonder Sir Jeremy and his cronies were running scared.

Amongst the last to leave, Carlisle climbed into the front seat of his Rover P4 100 and sat for a while. Not twenty feet away, he watched as Fraser’s henchman stubbed out his cigarette with his foot, and fired up the Jaguar XJ engine. Seconds later, just as Henry Fraser appeared, the car’s headlights flicked on and off. A signal no doubt. People like Henry Fraser, who took the law into their own hands, always worried him. Invariably the dregs of society, they were difficult people to deal with.

It was 11.30pm, and time to make tracks.

After jotting down the car’s registration number on a spent betting slip, he popped it into his wallet. Jane said nothing, but her eyes were all over the place.

Not a bad night’s work, he thought. It was time to make tracks.