The Wharf Butcher (25 page)

‘Ah, the very man,’ Mason said, desperately trying to compose himself. ‘What the hell happened to my twenty-four seven surveillance operation?’

Taylor gave Mason a withering look. ‘I believe two of your team were covering it, Jack.’

‘Covering what?’

‘Trevor Radcliffe. It’s––’

‘From what I’ve seen so far, the killer had enough spare time on his hands to carry out his own private post mortem.’

Taylor’s head dropped. ‘I heard – well, I’ve only just arrived. It’s––’

‘How reassuring, perhaps I can help.’

Taylor nodded, but said nothing.

‘You cocked up, and big style,’ said Mason. ‘I’m now left with another stiff on my hands, and a whole lot of explaining to do.’

‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation, Jack. It––’

‘There may well be,’ said Mason, sucking in the air. ‘But I need answers . . . and quickly. Make sure I have a full written report on my desk – first thing tomorrow morning. Are we clear on that?’ he said, stepping aside to allow the two police officers to carry on with their duties.

The shadows lengthening, Mason watched as a lone police launch began another sweep of the northern riverbank. Closer to home, a team of uniformed police officers were checking out on a derelict warehouse building. Soon it would be dark. Even so, nothing was being left to chance. Everything that could be done was being done.

The question was where the hell was he?

Chapter Forty-Two

Sliding his hand around the butt of his trusty Smith & Wesson 36, Jack Mason gently eased it from its holster. Extending his right arm out across the river, he began to take aim. As the front sights came into view, he gently squeezed the trigger. Suddenly he felt an enormous sense of power, even though the gun wasn’t loaded.

‘
Bang, ban
g
!’ he whispered.

‘You can get arrested for that,’ a familiar voice from behind him rang out.

Lowering the gun, Mason spun sharply to face David Carlisle. It seemed a lifetime since he’d last fired a gun in anger, but his twenty years with the force had taught him there would be no hesitation. ‘Just keeping my hand in,’ Mason replied, trying to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m glad you could make it. When did you arrive?’

‘Only just, I came over on the first available ferry,’ Carlisle replied.

Mason shuffled awkwardly, his shoes crunching the hard gravel underfoot. ‘There’s not a lot I can tell you in all honesty,’ he said. ‘Not until the so-called experts have finished their investigations.’

They talked a while before moving towards the boathouse.

‘When will he stop,’ said Mason, pointing up at Radcliffe’s lifeless body.

‘It’s becoming too much of a habit,’ Carlisle replied.

Mason shook his head. ‘Tell me about it. Each time he seems to take it a step further. What’s going on?’

Carlisle gave a little grimace, as though the killer’s handiwork had struck another chord with him. ‘He’s becoming more ambitious, I’m certain of that. It’s as if he’s reached the point of no return, and he’s rushing towards the finishing line. Sadly he’ll stop at nothing until he gets there. In his mind it’s a matter of elimination, and his victims are mere pawns in a reign of terror against the person he loathes. The more violent his killings, the greater the terror he hopes to spread. It’s his way of showing off his power over the person he despises.’

‘This one’s totally off his head, if you ask me.’

‘It always appears that way, I’m afraid. There are days when even the Wharf Butcher doesn’t understand his own thoughts . . . and that’s worrying.’

Mason’s expression masked unease. ‘I’m getting bad vibes about this one, David. He’s gone a step too far this time, and that concerns me.’

‘It was never going to be straightforward, Jack. These people have the ability to get inside your head. Radcliffe wasn’t a victim of chance; he was a victim of choice. He’s planning the risks, and working it all out.’ Carlisle took a step back and stared blankly out across the river. ‘Tell me, have you had anymore feedback from Monday night’s “Crimewatch” appeal?’

Mason pondered his statement; it had been a busy week. After heated discussions with several Crimewatch television producers, rather than a full on five minutereconstruction, they’d plumped for th
e
Wanted Faces boar
d
. He’d been well advised. Following Monday night’s live broadcast, the police had been inundated with phone calls. Two leads in particular were of great interest to him, plus a further dozen follow up calls. No thanks to the profiler, his three minute live appearance with Sophie Raworth– one of the lea
d
Crimewatc
h
presenters – had raised more than a few eyebrows amongst the top brass.

‘We’ve had a positive response,’ Mason replied cheerily. ‘Sadly, this incident isn’t going to help us any.’

‘Let’s hope he never watches the show, eh.’

‘Now there’s a thought!’ Mason shuddered.

It was dark when Mason finally reached the Mobile Command truck. The lights were still on, and the place was jam-packed with coffee drinkers. He recognised the suited and hooded figure of DI Swan. Holding a video camera in his left hand, he was pointing to a large map pinned to the back of the Command Truck. The man he was talking to, a short, ruddy faced duty SIO called Dick Broderick, was taking down some details. No doubt the press would be hanging around for a statement, but it was still early days as far as Mason was concerned.

‘A mug of coffee, sir?’ a young female police community constable said.

‘No thanks.’ Mason nodded in appreciation. ‘I must be off.’

‘What shall we tell the media?’ asked Harry Baldwin, the police liaison officer.

Mason though a moment. Trevor Radcliffe’s murder was as near as possible a carbon copy of the way Annie Jenkins’ body had been found. Only this time, and as Carlisle had pointed out, the killer had gone a step further. Newcastle had seen its fair share of murders, but this time it was different – as if the killer was hell bent on exhibiting his handiwork. Besides, the last thing he needed right now was badass press. Even so, the community still had a right to know and he would need to think carefully about it.

Mason shook his head feebly, and then turned to Baldwin. ‘Tell them we’re holding a press briefing at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. That should do the trick.’

‘I’ll do my best, boss, but those cockroaches have been pestering me all evening.’

‘No doubt they’ll find something to print, Harry.’

Harry Baldwin stared sullenly across at him, stretched his mouth and gave him a lopsided grin that showed off a mouth full of nicotine stained teeth.

‘Not just a wee statement, Jack.’

The silence seemed to go on for eternity, before Mason answered. ‘No. Not tonight, Harry.’

Just out of habit, he checked in on Stan Johnson. There were a number of factors to consider, and most of them surrounding Gilesgate. Another board member added to the killer’s shopping list was the last thing he wanted right now. Sometimes it was all so predictable, as if the killer had rehearsed his murders beforehand. The fact the Wharf Butcher could slip through the police net as though he were invisible, didn’t bode well in Mason’s opinion. He felt unsettled by it all – strangely nervous.

Now dark, there wasn’t a lot he could do anymore. There were reports to fill in, and procedures to set in motion. He thought for a moment, and tried to get his head around it all.

‘So, where the hell is he, Stan?’

The SOC officer gave him a vacant smile. ‘God knows, Jack. He’s probably miles away by now. Let’s hope someone has spotted something suspicious.’

Then, David Carlisle appeared in the doorway. His hands were filthy and his shoes were covered in mud. It was the look on the profiler’s face that caught Mason’s eye.

‘Yes, David.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,’ Carlisle said, holding up a forensic plastic evidence bag. ‘But I found these down by the Fish Quay.’

The room fell silent.

Chapter Forty-Three

How bad is the pain
?

‘Dreadful . . . I can barely breathe.’

Where does it hurt, my child?

‘Everywhere . . . really bad . . . what am I to do, mama?’

You will think of something
,
the voice inside his head replied
.
You always do.

Then, from an upstairs bedroom window a young woman appeared. She was petite, late thirties, with long shoulder-length hair and a smooth pale complexion. He sat for a while, confused, his eyes hunting through the darkness. She made him smile, and Lexus had never seen anyone more beautiful before.

What do you wan
t
? She asked.

‘Don’t you remember me?’

She stood for a while, as though reading his thoughts, then beckoned him inside. He thought he could hear voices, children’s voices, and there was music coming from another part of the building. The room felt cold, despite a huge log fire that burned fiercely in a large open fireplace. Everything was surreal, unnatural, as though he was living out a dream.

‘Is that you . . . mama?’

She smiled and her hand reached out and tenderly touched his thigh, but the pain in his side was unbearable. He tried to switch his mind to other thoughts, but the voices kept telling him to turn away. He froze, still bleeding profusely from the gunshot wound in his thigh. This was more serious than he had ever imagined; his was a desperate situation. Then it dawned on him. This wasn’t Trevor Radcliffe’s blood he was staring down at, this was his blood and he was slowly bleeding to death.

‘What am I to do . . . mama?’

You’re a genius, my son; you will think of something.

Then he remembered: had he taken his medication? Not today he hadn’t. Not that it made any difference, to him at least. Up here amongst the dead, the whole world was assembled at his feet. It was an awesome sight, a million candles that flickered like glow worms in the dark night sky. And wasn’t he so incredibly talented for spotting it? At least he thought he was. Then, his eyes suddenly shot open again as he struggled to cope with the truth.

‘Are you still there, mama?’

Yes, my child . . . what is it you want now?

‘They’ve shot me, mama, and it wasn’t me those evil policemen had fired at . . . it was Trevor Radcliffe. He was the wicked one, the vile beast they were trying to kill.’

Surrounded by darkness, Lexus writhed on the ground in agony. The pain was relentless, excruciating, sapping his strength until he could barely breathe anymore. This was all his depraved, evil father’s doing; he was certain of that. Wasn’t it his despicable actions that had driven him to the lowest depths of despair? His pulse quickened, and he threatened to end it all by throwing himself into a place where all light ends and eternal darkness begins.

Then, in the pitch-black darkness of the night, he sucked in the air and tried to clear his mind of all wicked thoughts.

‘How will it all end . . . mama?’ he begged.

You must talk with God, only he knows how to help you now, my child.

‘I know, and he talks to me the entire time.’

Inside The Ship Inn, a rundown, derelict public house long since boarded up, Lexus’ mind was in turmoil. Everything was unreal – unnatural, as though he’d fallen into a pit full of writhing demons. Then, as another squad car tore headlong into the night, he crashed to the floor in agony. His shirt felt wet, and unbearably sticky.

Then the voices returned, only this time more forceful.

Death is final, but life is full of possibilities, my child.

‘Is this a dream . . .?’

Do you feel pain?

‘Yes, I do. I really, really do,’ Lexus cried out.

Then this is reality, my child.

Chapter Forty-Four

David Carlisle watched as the water droplets rippled down the windscreen. It was late afternoon, and the rain was drumming down and bouncing off the pavement. He sat for a while, staring at the derelict building opposite and tried to get inside the Wharf Butcher’s head. This place certainly felt right; he was convinced of that, but the killer was playing mind games with his thoughts and jumbling things up.

Someone clambered out of a patrol car opposite, turned his collar against the driving rain and scurried towards them. Lowering her car window, DC Carrington let out a long exasperating sigh as the police officer bent down and stuck his head in through the opening.

‘Do you want us to check the building out?’ the sergeant asked.

Carrington stared at him, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Is there a problem, Sergeant? I––’

‘No,’ the sergeant replied, the rain bouncing off the peak of his cap and sending water droplets in through the open window. ‘I just thought I’d save you the bother . . . that’s all.’

‘Maybe I should have flashed my tits off and stimulated your brain into action.’

The officer touched the peak of cap in salute, and stepped back a pace.

‘Oh, come on,’ Carrington shrugged, still staring up at him. ‘You don’t think for one minute I was going to do that, surely not.’

‘Not while you’re on duty, ma’am,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Another time perhaps . . .’

Carlisle ran his hand over a two-day stubble, and tried not to laugh.

‘What the hell was all that about,’ she sighed, as the sergeant trudged smug faced back towards his marked patrol car. ‘A fat lot of bloody good the two of us sat here on surveillance operations, when some dick head RTO decides to blow your cover. What a Pratt!’

Seconds later the police patrol car pulled away from the curb and swung west, back over the road bridge and towards Wallsend. As the vehicle’s red tail lights trailed into the distance, Carlisle sat back and studied the old Ship Inn opposite. Its windows and doors now boarded up, there was a large gaping hole in the roof where the tiles had been removed. Further afield, beyond the overgrown car park and derelict waste ground, was emptiness. If anyone wanted to lie low, this was the perfect place, he told himself.

‘So,’ said Detective Carrington, turning to face him. ‘Do you still believe the Wharf Butcher is holed up inside the building?

‘It’s definitely his kind of place . . . and he’s predictable.’

The young detective gave him a mistrusting look. ‘This sounds like I’m about to get my bloody hair wet,’ she groaned. ‘Maybe I should have got that dick-head Sergeant to check it out for us in the first place.’

Adjusting to the dark, Carlisle worked his way through what was once the downstairs bar. The Ship Inn – a once popular drinking hole with local shipyard workers – was now in a sorrowful run-down state. The vandals had moved in, and most of the fixtures and fittings were missing, and water was pouring in through the roof. The place had a fusty smell and stank of stale urine. Then, in a corner of the room, he found what he looking for – a makeshift bed. Whoever was holed up here was obviously intending to stop a while.

‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Carrington said, shining her torch beam beyond the wooden staircase and into the upper level of the building. Seconds later, Carlisle stumbled across a heap of discarded blood soaked rags and bent down to take a closer look.

‘Someone’s in big trouble,’ he called out.

Detective Carrington shone her torch beam down at his feet.

‘
Shi
t
,’ she gasped, as if rooted to the spot. ‘Those look pretty new to me.’

‘And similar to the ones I found near North Shields Fish Quay,’ he replied.

‘You were right all along. He was here.’

It was then Carlisle spotted the sketches, not too dissimilar to ones found in the Wharf Butcher’s flat. He studied their content; they were unquestionably the killer’s handiwork. All the signs were there, the little idiosyncrasies that drew them ever closer towards one another.

It had to be him.

‘What is it?’ whispered Carrington, her face now pallid.

‘We’re closer than we ever dared to imagine.’

‘How can you possibly say that?’ she questioned. ‘You’re spooking me, David.’

‘Sometimes you get so close to these people, you eat and sleep at the same times as they do. You become as one.’

The young detective stared at him in utter disbelief. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

‘I’ve never been more serious. Psychopaths are very grandiose, and their world is all about them,’ Carlisle replied. ‘They believe they’re smarter than anyone else, more powerful. This one stays close to his kill zone. He’s territorial, and he’s feeding off it.’

‘Just as a salmon returns to its spawning ground . . .?’

‘Hmm. Something along those lines.’

Her words, and the manner in which she spoke them, were a new revelation to him. Carlisle shone his torch beam into the old pub lounge, and swore he felt a presence. Where darkness concealed the dangers, the young detective hovered close to his heels. Deep down Carrington appeared physically shaken by it all.

‘Are you sure it’s him. I mean . . . the Wharf Butcher?’ she whispered. ‘Could it not just be kids using this place as a play den?’

‘No. It’s him all right. I’m one-hundred percent certain of that.’

They searched the building together, but found nothing more. Then, the young detective pulled out her cell phone and rang Jack Mason.

Seconds later she turned to face him.

‘Bugger!’ she groaned. ‘My shift ends in twenty minutes and Jack Mason is already on his way over. Let’s hope your hunch pays off, David, as the old sod sounds in a real foul mood.’

They did not wait long. First to arrive was George Wallace, quickly followed by DC Manley. The moment the burly Constable poked his head in through the open pub doorway; Carlisle caught a whiff of Humbugs. That was it: no turning back. Over the next fifteen minutes, one by one the rest of the team arrived. Then, finally, the frosty faced figure of Jack Mason appeared in the doorway.

‘What have we got, Sue?’ said Mason, his cold penetrating eyes touring the building and taking in the detail.

‘Whoever he is, he’s badly in need of medical attention, boss.’

Mason took another look at the collection of faces now present.

‘Well! Anyone got any bright ideas as to where he might be?’

‘He can’t be far away,’ Carlisle said, pointing down at the pile of blood stained rags now scattered about the floor. ‘By the look of things, I’d say he’s not long moved out of here.’

‘How did you find the place?’

‘Intuition,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘I guessed he’d stay close to home.’

Someone’s mobile rang, but it was quickly silenced.

With all the media hype in the case, it wouldn’t be long before someone would come poking their noses around the area. Everyone knew that. Hands in pockets, head hunched slightly forward, Mason was deep in thought. ‘If he is in dire need of medical attention,’ said Mason, ‘we’ll need to warn the medical services.’

‘Tread carefully, Jack,’ said Carlisle pensively. ‘If he feels trapped in any way, he’ll want to end it all.’

He watched as the DCI took a step back, and furrowed his brow.

‘So where the hell is he?’ Mason huffed.

Carlisle rolled his eyes and tried not to think about where this was all heading. The way the killer’s mind was working right now, he would need to feel in control. If not, then he would simply go to ground. It was a fine balancing act, a game of chess where one false move would end in checkmate.

‘After each attack there’s a cooling off period,’ Carlisle said, thinking out aloud. ‘Then the fantasies take over again, and that’s when he feels the urge to kill. He’s cold, calculating, and right now full of terrible rage. It which case, he’s a major threat to anyone who chooses to challenge him.’

Mason stood transfixed. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘He’s been badly wounded, Jack, and his ego has been severely dented.’ Carlisle hesitated. ‘If he’s running out of time, it can only mean one thing.’

Mason shook his head. ‘The bastard is about to strike again.’

Carlisle acknowledged the somewhat obvious comment with a faint nod. ‘Whoever drove him to kill in the first place is now in the firing line. I’m certain of that. His thoughts and the feelings he is now experiencing are way beyond his fantasies. He’s reliving his childhood past, and he’s so full of rage and hatred it’s tearing him apart. He’s out there, Jack, and he must be stopped.’

‘Bugger,’ Mason shrugged.

‘If we don’t spook him, we have every chance of catching him,’ Carlisle said, addressing the rest of team.
‘He’s a wounded animal, so he’ll need to stay low for a while.’

Mason’s grin broadened. ‘And when he does surface, I’ll be ready and waiting for him.’

Easier said than done, Carlisle thought.

*

News travelled fast and the crowd of journalists had grown. Several outside broadcast vans were already parked up in the area, their satellite dishes brushing the tree line. Detective Carrington said very little as she strode past the cameras and microphones that were pushed in her face. Carlisle sensed her displeasure, but refused to comment as they climbed back into the undercover vehicle.

It had stopped raining, but the ground underfoot was still damp when they eventually pulled up outside the Powder Monkey public house. Halfway between Police Headquarters and his South Shields office, the sign outside the pub door read: TWO MEALS A TENNER.

‘Fancy a quick pint and a bite to eat?’ the young detective asked.

The pub wasn’t busy, but still had welcoming appeal. The clientele – a mixture of pensioners and young couples with children – made for a homely atmosphere.

Carlisle ordered drinks, and then glanced at the menu.

‘Thanks for sharing our find back there,’ said Carrington. ‘There are those on the team who would have taken all the credit for themselves.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Carlisle nodded.

They stood at the bar for a while, before grabbing an empty corner table close to the window, and overlooking the main street. It was weird sitting down to a meal with another woman. Sue Carrington was the first since Jackie’s passing. Although not an unattractive young woman, the though suddenly crossed his mind that she was at least ten years his junior. What the hell, he thought.

‘How long were you married?’ Carrington asked.

Carlisle thought about it before answering. ‘Almost six years; why do you ask?’

‘Are you able to talk about it still? I mean––’

‘No, it’s OK,’ Carlisle replied.

Jackie’s sudden death had cast a constant dark shadow over Carlisle’s life, and he was only too pleased to talk it over with someone. Unlike other women, who were shallow and only interested in exploring the morbid details, this felt different? Touched by the young detective’s caring approach, he felt comfortable in her presence.

‘Jackie’s been dead over a year now,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She died in a freak accident whilst we were on holiday together in India.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she added.

There was genuine understanding in her face and voice.

‘It’s OK,’ he acknowledged. ‘I’m slowly coming to terms with it.’

‘What happened?’

How direct was that
?
Carlisle thought, but restrained himself from saying it. ‘It was one of those last minute bookings,’ he replied. ‘You know how these things go, we were both trying to get away from it all, I––’

A memory tugged him.

Her face clouded for a moment, and her eyes rested upon his. ‘Sorry. I have a nasty habit of opening my big mouth at all the wrong times,’ the young detective said, lowering her head in embarrassment. ‘When I was younger, my mother used to tell me I would need to know the far end of a fart about everything. Some things never change, I guess.’

He hesitated, and took another sip of his lager before placing the glass back down on the table in front of him. Oblivious to their surroundings, the old couple sat opposite were deep in conversation over some financial problems or other. He watched as the old man’s weather beaten face contorted, as if disapproving of his partner’s comments. Somehow the timing felt right, as if the dark clouds that had hung over him for months now, were slowly being pulled apart.

‘Jackie was itching to travel on the local river ferry that morning. She always wanted to see the real India . . . to be amongst its people. She never cared much for the tourist attractions; it wasn’t Jackie’s thing.’ Their meals arrived, along with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. He collected his thoughts again. ‘The quayside was crowded when we arrived there that morning, thousands of people all jostling for position and wanting to catch the same ferry. It was quite something, I can tell you. We could see there was a problem, but no one gave a damn. Overcrowding, it seems, is an everyday part of life in India. That’s how these people move around, thousands of them, travelling between cities and all desperate to get to their next destination.’