The Wharf Butcher (26 page)

Carrington fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘I’ve seen pictures of people sitting on the roofs of trains before. Is it really like that . . . India, I mean?’

‘That’s the real India,’ he smiled. ‘And that’s the part of India that Jackie always wanted to explore, she––’

‘Are you sure you’re OK to talk about this?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Sorry, it’s just––’ she hesitated. ‘Please do go on.’

It was obvious Carrington just wanted to sit and listen to him. He could tell by the look in her eyes, and the tone in her voice. She knew the world he was talking about, its people, its cities, and its vastness; and yet her knowledge of them was that of the blind. He gathered a few chips on the end of his fork, and popped them into his mouth. ‘Boats and ferries are a common form of transport in India’s remote rural regions, but the safety standards are appalling.’ A memory tugged him. ‘We understood the risks we were taking, but we still went ahead with our journey. There we were, the two of us looking over the ferry handrail when this great big lorry appeared at the dockside. You should have seen the vague look on the other passengers’ faces – nobody took a blind bit of notice. Somehow, and I don’t know how, they managed to squeeze this beaten up old wreck of a lorry onto the back of the ferry.’

‘Gosh!’ Carrington gasped. ‘It sounds horrendous.’

‘I know, and the more I think about it now the more ridiculous it all sounds.’ He paused for a moment, and wrestled with his emotions. ‘Barely five minutes into our journey and there was this terrific jolt . . . seconds later . . . and it could only have been seconds, the ferry rolled over and capsized. The noise was deafening, and everything was thrown into utter confusion. And that was the last time I ever saw Jackie alive.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘The next thing I remember, after being plucked from the water, was this sweet old Indian lady staring down at me. She had the face of an angel, and I will never forget her kindness.’

The look on the detective’s face told him everything he needed to know.

‘Life’s shit,’ she said. ‘It’s unfair, and you never know the moment.’

They talked a while, but Carrington never broached the subject again.

The sea was remarkably calm when she finally dropped him off on South Shields’ promenade. The wind had got up, but he still felt the need to clear his head. It was weird how some things turn out, and how just talking to someone could cut through the mental barriers. For the first time in months, it felt as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders and life was worth living once more.

Chapter Forty-Five

David Carlisle watched the morning press conference unfold from his iPhone. Beamed live across the major News networks, Jack Mason opened with a brief statement concerning the brutal murder of Trevor Radcliffe. The Detective Chief Inspector appealed to the general public for any information regarding a black MK3 Ford Mondeo – seen in the vicinity of Wallsend during the early hours of September 15th. He closed by saying the police were satisfied the net was closing in.

The reality, of course, was very different.

After grabbing a cup of coffee from the dispensing machine, Carlisle made his way towards the operations room. Met by DC Harry Manley, together they chewed over the latest developments. Having moved to her new moorings on the Quayside, Cleveland had seen more than its fair share of Gilesgate boardroom directors of late – too many in Manley’s opinion. Something was afoot, and whatever it was the police were determined to get to the bottom of it.

Jack Mason’s timely arrival brought with it the usual good-humoured banter, and after a brief exchange of words, Carlisle was ushered into Mason’s office. The DCI’s mood seemed relaxed, and it wasn’t long before they got down to the business in hand. Following Monday night’s live
‘
Crimewatc
h
’ TV broadcast, an anonymous viewer had phoned in with new information regarding the Wharf Butcher’s identity. Sceptical of hoax calls, a few discreet enquiries soon uncovered the caller might be telling the truth.

Mason gave him a contemptuous look. ‘You don’t seem convinced.’

‘Serial killers’ identities never surprise me anymore, but the motivation that drives them to kill and the reasons behind their killings certainly do.’

Sipping coffee and eating a KitKat whilst jotting down a few notes, Mason was deep in thought. The one thing that Carlisle had learned about hard hitting coppers was never to underestimate the reasoning behind their feelings. Mason was annoyingly tight lipped, withdrawn, and at times lost in his own little world.

‘Thanks to you, and Sue Carrington, we now know our killer is suffering serious gunshot wounds. Even so, he still hasn’t surfaced and that worries me.’

‘He’s territorial, Jack.’

‘You have a very specific way of thinking about things, my friend, but unfortunately we have more pressing matters to deal with.’ Mason shook his head, and flipped the pages of his notebook. ‘I recently put it to Sir Jeremy’s that his son could be responsible for these killings. Naturally he denied it. Not only that, his legal team advised that unless I intend to press charges against their client, he is under no obligation to answer any further questions.’

‘That’s a bit strong.’

‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ Mason shrugged. ‘His solicitor was a right pain in arse, but he needed to be. Those maggots certainly know how to play the system.’

‘That’s politicians for you.’

‘The guy’s a hypocrite, if you ask me,’ Mason shrugged.

The noise of laughter ebbed and flowed from the ops room. Distracted, he watched as Mason pushed back in his seat. His jaw was set tight, and the tiny muscle in his left eye kept twitching. Behind the occasional grunt, he detected a deep resentment towards clever-arse solicitors. Mason hated legal jargon at the best of times, and could never get to grips with it. As his story began to unfold, the more Mason elaborated, the more resentful he became. Reading between the lines, Carlisle’s concerns over the Wharf Butcher’s upbringing had been well founded. After their marriage fell apart, Maria Agrioli – Sir Jeremy’s ex-wife – had been given custody of their only son. Half Italian, as the name suggested, amongst other things that Maria possessed was a volatile temper. A single-minded woman, she soon began to place unreasonable demands on young Samuel. Unable to cope herself, she not only subjected him to terrible emotional, physical and verbal abuse, she was extremely violent towards him. A disruptive youngster, young Samuel had spent the best part of his childhood in a youth offenders’ institution. Why his mother had singled him out for such harsh treatment was anybody’s guess; even so, the courts had failed miserably in their duty. In the end, it was left to Social Services to pick up the pieces, and in doing so young Samuel was eventually placed into foster care. When that didn’t work out, that’s when he finally went to live with his aunt.

Several concerns flashed through Carlisle’s mind. If the Wharf Butcher was indeed Sir Jeremy’s only son, he couldn’t have written a better script had he tried. The emotional scars ran much deeper than anyone could have imagined. His was a classic case of schizophrenic paranoia, and there was no getting away from it.

‘So why did Samuel leave his aunt?’ Carlisle asked. ‘Surely she was the only person that showed any affection towards him.’

‘Good question!’ said Mason, hands in pockets, now staring out through the office window. ‘With the help of Social Services, we managed to trace her to an address in Wallsend. Some years ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Having been placed into a Residential Care Home, she died there shortly after.’

Different scenarios played out in Carlisle’s mind. He’d seen its like before, parental rejection manifesting as hatred. Had the loss of his aunt tipped Samuel over the edge? Could that have been the trigger that had turned him into whom he now was?

‘So what became of the boy?’

Mason took another sip of his coffee, and bit a huge chunk out of his KitKat. ‘After his aunt went into a residential care home, young Samuel simply vanished from the face of the planet.’

‘What about Social Services, surely they must have something on him?’

‘Nah, we drew another blank on that enquiry.’

They mulled it over for a while, both reaching the same conclusion. In Carlisle’s mind, young Samuel’s upbringing bore all the makings of a serial killer. Socially isolated and ignored as a child, he’d been brought up in an unstable family environment. Abandoned by his domineering mother, abused by a perverted father, there was little wonder he’d turned out as he did.

‘Take a look at these,’ said Mason, tossing a large green folder towards him. ‘They’re young Samuel’s offender records. It’s all there . . . his early psychiatric problems, childhood offending patterns, even the accusations aimed against his father’s abuse.’

Although never proven in the courts, it wasn’t long before Carlisle began to form his own opinion over the whole sordid affair. If young Samuel had been abused as a child, then this whole damn case smacked of a professional cover up.

‘What do you make of it?’ asked Mason.

‘It’s a classic case of child abuse, it’s what sparks these people into doing what they do,’ Carlisle replied sharply and a tad aggressively.

Mason screwed his face up. ‘Malice springs to my mind.’

‘He’s definitely driven by narcissistic fantasy,’ said Carlisle. ‘Sexual abuse as a child is one of the key elements in creating a serial killer. It’s more likely to have formed part of Samuel’s thinking process, and that’s why he’s hell bent on tearing his father’s boardroom apart. It’s his only way of getting back at him.’

Mason just sat there and stared at him, not saying a word. It wasn’t just coincidence that the Wharf Butcher had chosen to target Gilesgate’s board of directors. He’d said all along their killer was determined to destroy someone else’s world. Now Jack Mason had the proof.

‘You’re beginning to unsettle me,’ said Mason, staring into empty space.

‘You said all along he’s becoming more ambitious, Jack.’

‘Maybe, but that’s the last thing I want to hear.’

‘This is all about retribution. I’m convinced of it.’

‘God help us all,’ Mason sighed.

There followed an awkward silence between them.

‘He’s gaining in confidence,’ said Carlisle, ‘and filling in the gaps. It’s his way of dealing with it, and nothing will get in his way.’

‘So what does that tell me about his current mental state?’

‘Whatever his state of mind, he’ll need to surface at some stage or other.’

Now deep in thought, Mason gazed down at his laptop. ‘Sadly, we still don’t have enough concrete evidence to lay charges against Sir Jeremy. And, if we do bring him in for questioning, do we run the risk of this maniac son of his going to ground?’ Mason rose to his feet, scraping his chair back from the desk. ‘Let’s push those thoughts to one side for a moment. The question is this, how do we find a way of getting Sir Jeremy to talk?’

Christ, what a nightmare this was turning out to be, thought Carlisle.

‘There may be a way, Jack.’

Mason spun to face him – as if he’d been prodded in the back.

‘Let’s hope this isn’t another one of your hare-brained schemes?’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Carlisle replied, thankful they were at least on equal terms for once. ‘But I do have some rather interesting scandal regarding Sir Jeremy’s nocturnal activities.’

‘I thought as much,’ Mason said, as if taken aback. ‘You’ve been talking to your reporter friend at the Shields Gazette.’ Mason never took his eyes off him. ‘So what’s he after now . . . money no doubt?’

‘Not this time, Jack.’

‘What then?’

‘He’s looking for an exchange of information
,
qui
d
pro qu
o
.’

Mason loosened his tie, and gathered a few papers together. The pieces of the jig-saw puzzle were nicely coming together, but the important pieces were still missing. ‘What the hell? Sooner or later the press will pick up on it, those maggots never fail.’ Mason sighed, shaking his head. ‘Tell me, what is it your friend is hoping for?’

‘He’s looking for an exclusive, Jack.’

‘Hmm . . . a headline breaking story, eh.’

‘Yes. And all he asks in return is when we finally do catch up with the killer; he’s amongst the first to know.’

Mason fell silent for a moment. If there was one person he despised above all others, it was Sir Jeremy. He loathed the man, and everything he stood for. Reaching into his pocket, the DCI took out his notebook and placed it on the table in front of him.

‘OK. You have my undivided attention,’ Mason grinned.

Carlisle grasped the opportunity.

‘Six months ago my friend was covering a sports celebrity function at one of Newcastle’s big hotels. Whilst there, a porter friend tipped him off that Sir Jeremy had checked in earlier that evening with a young Asian girl under his wing . . .’ Carlisle stopped to emphasise a point. ‘He was later caught in bed with her.’

Mason eyed him inquisitively. ‘And––’

‘He was caught naked and tied to the bed by a pair of tights. His little Asian friend meanwhile was whipping him with a thick leather strap.’

Mason’s expression hardened. ‘What kind of exclusive do you call that, for God’s sake?’

‘She was thirteen!’

Mason sat stunned.

‘
She wa
s
what
!
’

‘Thirteen!’

‘Christ! It doesn’t come much better than that,’ Mason said, trying to stay calm.

‘It does when I tell you they were filming everything on a home-movie video camera.’

Mason slammed his hand on the desktop, making his plastic coffee cup shake. ‘That’s the second piece of good news I’ve received this week.’

‘Oh! And what might the other be?’

‘The IPPC has taken a dim view of the Acting Chief Constable’s involvement in Gilesgate, and they’ve finally decided to press charges.’

‘On what grounds?’ he asked.

Mason’s desk phone rang, but he chose to ignore it.

‘They’re looking at allegations of fraud, and one involving gross misconduct. The ACC, it appears, has been abusing his position as a senior police officer.’ Mason leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. ‘Twenty-two years of unblemished service, what a bloody mess.’

‘So what happens now?’

Mason just stared at him, letting the silence grow between them. ‘He’ll probably be suspended on full pay pending the outcome of the IPCC’s enquiry.’

That had clinched it. With the Acting Chief Constable and Sir Jeremy now in the firing line, it meant the team could now get down to the real business in hand. Reaching into his bottom desk drawer, as a magician pulling a rabbit out of hat, Mason handed him a large brown envelope.

‘Take a look at this.’

Teasing back the flap, Carlisle slid the photograph from the envelope. Neatly pencilled across the back, was the name: FLATLANDS FLOOD BARRIER. He sat for a moment, and tried to make the connection. The name sounded familiar, but where had he seen it before? Then, the penny dropped: it was the name on the file that Lewis Paul had carried with him during their meeting at Gilesgate’s Operational Headquarters.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Carlisle. ‘So, this is the Flatlands Flood Barrier team?’

Mason looked at him sceptically. ‘All is not what it appears to be, my friend.’

‘Oh and why not?’

‘Hell man, the UK Environment Agency still hasn’t drawn up any project plans. Take another look.’

Carlisle swung his spectacles onto the top of his head, and moved closer to the light. A dozen familiar faces, tightly bunched together, amongst them, Sir Jeremy, the ACC, Trevor Radcliffe and the towering figure of Henry Fraser. The sheer size of the man was terrifying.