The Wharf Butcher (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Through the glass fronted entrance panels at South Tyneside Magistrates’ Court, beyond security, the court ushers could be seen taking down details of late arrivals. Amidst the confusion, solicitors, court officials, witnesses and clients were hurriedly preparing for another afternoon’s onslaught. With two half-day trials in the mix, it meant for a busy schedule. The moment the diminutive figure of a repeat drug offender homed in on him, Carlisle’s heart sank. Dressed in blue track suit bottoms, grey hoody jacket and white trainers, if nothing else, he appeared stereotypically turned out for the impending occasion.

‘Nice day, Davy,’ the drug offender grinned.

Carlisle cringed. Some things were far too predictable, he cursed. He liked nothing more than dealing with serious crime, the grislier the better. This work was different. Dealing with low-life was the pits. Unlike most decent people, these despicable cockroaches brought nothing but misery to other folk’s lives. They were a plague on humanity – pushing drugs as if it were an accepted way of life. Carlisle watched as the drug offender stubbed out his cigarette with the sole of his shoe, and casually ambled towards the court waiting room.

‘One of your mate’s . . .’ Mason chuckled.

Carlisle gave a thin, wintery smile. ‘You must be joking!’

Greeted by the court clerk, she spoke briefly to them, but not before handing Mason a batch of freshly signed search warrants. Within seconds she’d disappeared back into the bowels of courtroom-one.

Mason shook his head in bemusement. ‘Fancy a quick pint?’

‘Love one,’ he replied.

The Dolly Peel, a real ale pub on the corner of Commercial Road, was busy, but not overly crowded. Inside the bar they ordered two pints of Black Sheep, and found a quiet corner away from prying ears. Both casually dressed, much to Carlisle’s amusement, they blended in well. Too well if the truth was known. How someone could habitually spend their entire lives stuck inside a pub all day was beyond him. But they did, and in large numbers by all accounts. Above the bar, a large plasma TV screen was playing out a national news bulletin in silent mode. He recognised the anchor-man as Jeremy Thompson, who was running an interview on the state of the nation’s economy. Somehow, the whole depressing episode seemed much better without sound.

‘What a bloody mess,’ Carlisle cursed.

Mason grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t take it personally, but you’re spending far too much time climbing into other people’s heads to understand what’s going on inside your own. Whatever it is that’s troubling you, it’s eating away at you, my friend.’

‘That’s politicians. They’re only in it for what they can get out of it.’

‘It’s not that, is it?’

‘Oh. What then?’

‘It’s Jackie,’ Mason said. ‘And don’t try to hide it from me.’

He caught the look on Mason’s face, and felt the hot flush. ‘Yes, if you must know.’

‘I thought as much.’

‘It’s the little things, I––’

Mason’s grip on his arm tightened. ‘No one ever said it was going to be easy, my friend. Every time you lose someone, it feels like a failure. That’s life, I’m afraid.’

There were times, not too many sadly, when Jack Mason displayed a compassionate side. Six long years had passed since they’d last worked together, but things had moved on since then. His colleague was right: Jackie’s untimely death had changed his whole outlook on life. He knew that, but he still felt physically and emotionally drained by her passing.

Christ, he needed to get a grip of himself.

‘Have you talked it over with anyone? I mean––’

‘No,’ he replied.

The hurt welling up in him, an image formed in his head. It was Jackie, and she was staring at him from across the room. He closed his eyes and tried to blot out the image. Then he saw reason. Mason was right; he was only trying to be supportive towards him. He realised that, but he still felt riddled with guilt.

‘Take my advice,’ said Mason, pointing towards his empty glass. ‘You need to snap out of it before it completely destroys you. I’ve been there, worn that T-shirt, and it’s a horrible experience, believe me.’

Having spoken his mind, Mason shrugged as if that was the end of the matter. At least he’d aired his views, which was more than a lot of other people had done lately.
Glancing in the mirror, behind the range of spirits and wine bottles, he watched as Mason screwed his face into submission. His mind elsewhere: like the tall young blonde now standing in the pub bar doorway – tarty looking and far too young.

As the afternoon wore on, it wasn’t long before their conversation got down to the real matter in hand. Annie Jenkins’ sad demise was an inevitable occurrence, it seemed. Had the Wharf Butcher not killed her, then the drink demons most certainly would have. According to the autopsy report, Jenkin’s was suffering from the final stages of cirrhosis of the liver – a debilitating condition that would have finally put an end to her life.

Carlisle’s phone rang, and went straight to voicemail:
‘
Hi, David, I’m getting a copy set of CCTV tapes run off from Manors Metro station. Talk to you later
.
’

Mason shot him an inquisitive glance. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘George Wallace,’ he replied.

Mason took another swig of his beer. ‘What’s he up to?’

‘We’re working on a new of line enquiries involving the Metro System.’

‘Oh!’

‘I’m convinced these murders were planned,’ he replied.

Retrieving a crumpled Tyne and Wear Metro map from an inside pocket, he opened it out on the table in front of him. Mason said nothing, but his eyes were all over the place. ‘I’ve seen this type of pattern before,’ Carlisle went on. ‘It’s indicative of the way that these people’s minds work.’

‘This isn’t going to spoil a good afternoon’s drinking session, is it?’ Mason said.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s the serious look on your face, my friend. It concerns me.’

‘Hold on . . .’

‘Listen, my friend, I’m up to my neck with senior management issues at the moment, besides a whole pile of bad ass press. I could dearly do with a break. To tell you the truth, I was beginning to enjoy myself.’ The young blonde at the bar threw a cursory glance, enough to attract Mason’s attention. ‘Besides, never look a gift horse in the face.’ Mason grinned.

‘Yeah, but you’re old enough to be her Granddad.’

‘Christ’s sake!’

That had done the trick. Five minutes later they were back down to business again.

‘You were right,’ said Carlisle, ‘our killer leaves few clues and yet he offers his victims up like sacrificial lambs.’

‘Hmm,’ Mason grunted.

Fresh drinks arrived, with the crisps. Mason popped the packet open, and dug into them. ‘I understand the pressures you’re facing,’ Carlisle went on. ‘Like me, you need to rise above it. Let’s face it, our killer’s trying to gain celebrity status here, and wants his public to recognise him for it. Hence the theatrical way in which he displays their bodies. Four separate crimes, and on each occasion he’s stolen a Mondeo to carry out his mission. What does that tell us about the killer’s MO?’

Mason shrugged. ‘He genuinely likes Mondeo’s?’

‘I’m trying to be serious, Jack.’

‘Yeah, so am I.’

Carlisle thought for a moment as he engaged Mason in another staring match. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, pointing down at the map. ‘The kill zone is rarely ever the drop off zone. In other words, he always steals his cars from the South side of the river and abandons them on the North side . . . and, all within a one-mile radius of a Metro Station. ’

‘Well I’ll be damned!’

‘I’m convinced he’s working to a plan,’ said Carlisle, suddenly feeling far more relaxed. ‘There’s a distinct movement pattern taking place here, Jack.’

‘Bugger me, I––’

‘Close to the river, all within easy reach of a Metro station.’ Carlisle paused for effect. ‘And another thing, I’m convinced he’s holed up here somewhere, between Manors and Tynemouth Metro stations.’

‘So why Mk3 Mondeo’s, what the hell is that all about?’

Carlisle sighed. ‘It’s all part of his comfort thing, and he probably feels at ease with it. There’s nothing wrong with that, unless of course, you happen to own one.’

Mason winced as the barman turned the TV volume up to watch the horse racing channel. ‘If you turn that thing up any fucking louder, I’ll shove that remote control up your arse.’ The barman stared at him, and quickly thought the better of it. Seconds later, the volume was turned back down again.

‘How would you describe him?’ Mason asked bluntly.

‘Retaliatory is the simple answer.’

Mason took a huge gulp of his beer, and wiped the froth from his lips. He ordered a fresh pint, as though to state his intention. ‘We need to get our hands on a list of Gilesgate’s employees. Run a cursory check on anyone who lives within easy walking distance of Manors and Tynemouth Metro stations.’

Carlisle drew back. ‘It’s only a theory at this stage, Jack.’

‘Nevertheless, a damn good one,’ Mason said, thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, what’s Wallace up to nowadays?’

‘He’s checking out CCTV coverage.’

‘What the hell for?’ said Mason, bluntly.

He pointed to the map. ‘I’m convinced the killer is using the Metro system to stalk his victims, and it’s fast becoming his signature.’

‘Don’t hang your hat on CCTV coverage,’ said Mason, leaning heavily back in his seat. ‘Most of the footage I’ve ever come across is crap.’

‘George is a good operator. He’s thorough with it. Let’s see what his investigations throw up before we go making rash judgements about him.’

They left the Dolly Peel into bright sunshine. Apart from a few minor distractions, Mason was in an incredibly agreeable mood. There again, the DCI wasn’t the only one who wanted results. Right now Carlisle would have given anything to see their killer behind bars.

‘Who the hell is Dolly Peel?’ Mason asked, pointing to the pub sign.

Carlisle wracked his brains. Then he remembered. ‘She was an old fishwife back in the eighteenth century. The story goes that her husband and son were both press-ganged to serve in the Royal Navy.’

‘Just curious . . . that’s all.’ Mason shrugged. ‘It’s a queer name to call a pub all the same.’

‘If you’re still interested, Jack, there’s a life-size commemorative statue of her over by River Drive.’

‘Best not go there . . . eh.’

‘Why not––’

‘You’re forgetting,’ Mason said breezily, ‘Isn’t that Wharf Butcher territory?’

Chapter Thirty

It was just another routine call that brought PC Harper back to the high-rise tower block in Gateshead. It was three-fifteen in the afternoon, and he was responding to an urgent call concerning complaints about rowdy adolescents playing pranks on vulnerable old folk in the community. The presence of his blues and twos police car lights must have temporarily frightened them away, but Harper knew otherwise. A notorious melting pot, Bethel Court was riddled with drug dealers, pimps, racketeers, and young adolescent troublemakers who
had no ambition to conform to the rest of society. The grownups around here bred like rabbits and fought like rats within the confines of this concrete sarcophagus. Harper was well aware of the dangers that lay within. Two days earlier it had been the turn of the Community Police teams to sort things out; today it was his. It was that kind of community: the adults who lived round here were the product of a forgotten society – no jobs, no money and no future prospects. It was a legacy they passed on to their children.

Stifling a yawn, on reaching the nineteenth floor Harper noticed a steady stream of water escaping through the bottom of one of the flat doors. Some idiot had left a sink tap running, he cursed. Having cut its path along the narrow corridor walkway, a steady trickle of water was now cascading into the bowels of the building below. Reporting his findings to the local authorities, he was soon joined by a distraught caretaker – a cantankerous, lumbering, overweight hippopotamus whose rubbery pug face oozed flab. Not the brightest bulb in the box. There were food slops all down the front of the caretaker’s T-shirt, and his clothes stank of cigarette smoke. Stepping aside, Harper observed the warden’s frustration as he fumbled his way through the huge bunch of keys.

‘Do you not have a master key?’ asked Harper.

‘Nah, they keep changing the locks.’

Rapidly losing patience, Harper brushed him aside and placed the flat of his hand on the central door panel and gave it a gentle push. Taking a pace back, he employed a forceful well placed kick – close to the side of where the lock was mounted. After several attempts at kicking the door open, the lock finally gave way and the door crashed inwards with a loud bang. Stumbling blindly into pitch darkness, the eerie silence that followed caught Harper unawares.

‘Stay exactly where I can see you,’ said Harper.

‘I’m right behind you, Constable.’

‘OK. I want you to move back to the walkway.’

Adjusting to the dark, Harper caught sight of a small shaft of light penetrating through a chink in the window blinds. The air inside was hot, repressively hot, tinged with an overwhelming stench of urine. It hung in the back of his throat reminding him of a CS gas training session. It had a distinctive odour of ketones, overpowering and incredibly strong. Whoever lived here sure had a poor sense of smell. If not, they had massive health issues.

Extending one foot in front of him, Harper shuffled towards the light source. On nearing his goal, he fumbled in the dark and tugged what he thought was the window blind cord. There followed an almighty crack. Seconds later, the blinds fell down on top of him.

‘Are you all right in there?’

‘Yeah, stay back.’

Adjusting to the light, Harper shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight that now poured into the room.

‘Holy shit!’ the caretaker shrieked. ‘What the hell is all this about?’

‘Stay where you are,’ Harper insisted.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, the Constable replaced his police cap and gave his uniform a quick dust down. Nothing had prepared him for this; it had all happened so quickly. Reaching towards his waist-belt he unclipped the radio handset, pursed his lips, and gently blew into the speaker.

Dust flew everywhere.

‘PC Harper, Sarge. I’m responding to a call to Bethel Court. I need backup.’

Swearing quietly, Harper took a step back and began to take stock of the situation. Inexplicably drawn towards the strange matchstick figures and macabre illustrations of death that covered every wall, he tried to focus his mind. Confused, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone and began taking pictures. Whatever these images represented, they certainly had a sinister feel. He stood for a brief moment, unclipped his radio handset, and spoke directly with the sergeant again.

‘We need forensics down here, Sarge. I’m sure they’d want to see this,’ he whispered.

‘I’m dealing with it!
’
the voice on the other end of the handset boomed out.

All in all, PC Harper was having a good day. Whatever it was he’d stumbled across, he was certain it would appeal to the experts. His thoughts now were to secure the building. Touch nothing, seal off the flat and await the arrival of the forensic team.

Without warning his handset suddenly sprang into life again; it was the control desk. Whatever it was Harper had uncovered, the sergeant was certainly excited about it. His voice sounded strained, high pitched and he was talking at ten to the dozen.

‘You’re to touch nothing; DCI Mason is on his way.
’

Acknowledging the caller, Harper replaced his handset back into its case and closed down the flap. ‘Nobody is allowed along that corridor,’ said Harper. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘Why . . . what’s happening?’

‘Just do as I say.’

The caretaker’s bright red face contorted as though he’d reached condition critical. Turning on his heels, his battered slippers made a squelching noise as he trudged towards the balcony. It was time for action. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Harper placed it over the water mains stopcock and slowly shut off the supply. At least the water had now stopped pouring over the top of the sink. Curious, his eyes returned to the wall sketches. Apart from the bizarre complexity of inhuman suffering, young children could have drawn them. There was, of course, a subtle difference. Only a madman could have drawn them – someone with the warped twisted imagination that only a madman could possess.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing, until I’ve taken down your statement.’

‘
Statement
!
’ the caretaker gasped. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Removing his police notebook, pencil poised at the ready, Harper returned to the balcony. His voice now in official mode, his questions came thick and fast.

‘When was the last time you were up here?’

‘I . . . can’t remember, I––’

‘Was it, days . . . weeks . . . months?’ The puzzled expression on the caretaker’s face told Harper all he wanted know. ‘Well man, what is it to be?’

‘This part of the building hasn’t been occupied in months, Constable. Nobody ever comes up here.’

‘Well, when was the last tim
e
yo
u
last set foot up here?’

‘Maybe three months, I––’

The caretaker started to say something, but Harper raised his hand as if to stop him. Three months seemed an awful long time, and a lot of things could have taken place during that period, thought Harper. He would need to get the bottom of it.

‘So, who lives here?’

‘I don’t know, it was––’

The sound of a police siren wail broke Harper’s concentration. Peering over the balcony, he saw the whole area was now swarming with police. Minutes later he was joined by a half-dozen plainclothes detectives, who moved in haste along the nineteenth floor walkway.

This was no ordinary investigation, Harper told himself.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ the lead figure called out.

The knot in Harper’s throat tightened. Turning, he immediately recognised the stocky figure as he brushed purposefully past him. It was the Bulldog – Jack Mason.

‘That would be me, sir,’ Harper replied nervously.

‘And who might this bag of shit be?’ asked Mason, glowering down at the bedraggled looking caretaker.

‘This is Arnold Tomkinson, sir.’

‘Really,’ said Mason, brushing him aside to poke an inquisitive head in through the open doorway. ‘Tell me, Constable, who occupies this place?’

PC Harper felt his jaw drop. There were times, and there had been many of late, when he wished he’d taken up a desk job – this was one of them.

‘That’s what I’m trying to establish, sir.’

Mason looked up at the broken doorframe and tugged at a loose piece of wood splinter. ‘Was this broken before you arrived?’

‘No. It was me who gained a forced entry. As far I’m aware, I’m the only person to have entered the building since.’

‘And no one else has set foot inside these premises?’

Harper shook his head. ‘No––’

‘What about this bag of ––’ Mason checked himself.

There followed a tense few moments, a gathering of thoughts.

‘You did a good job, Constable, but don’t let it go to your head. If it is the person we’re looking for, he’s probably miles away by now.’

Harper was feeling the pressure. What had started as a routine enquiry had now turned into a major crime investigation. Surely this couldn’t be the Wharf Butcher’s hideaway, surely not, thought Harper.