The Wharf Butcher (28 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

The ten o’clock team briefing trumped up all the usual faces, thought Mason. The only oddball was an unkempt, bleary-eyed David Carlisle, who, having stayed up into the early hours of the morning listening to an ol
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concert, looked decidedly the worse for wear. From where he now stood, Mason sensed a distinct buzz in the room – a new found enthusiasm. Determined to put Sir Jeremy behind bars, Mason had set up a small investigative team to deal with the sordid details of the corrupt politician’s nocturnal activities. If nothing else, Sir Jeremy’s sleazy social life had raised more than a few eyebrows in the corridors of Westminster. Shunned by the general public, his long-standing association with the press was over. Having finally turned their backs on him, he was now facing the more serious charges of an active involvement in a paedophile ring. It was headline breaking news, and his lawyers were having to work flat out in an effort to salvage his name. Mason was loving every minute of it. No longer posing a threat, Sir Jeremy’s political career was all but over and his business empire in free fall.

Having opened up a whole new raft of enquiries, uncovering the Wharf Butcher’s whereabouts was proving more difficult. Luke James had likened it to searching for the Holy Grail. How true that statement had turned out to be. Activities surrounding Cleveland had also been stepped up a level. It was due sail on Friday’s early morning tide, and Mason had kept a watchful eye on the ship’s passenger list. To date, none of Gilesgate’s board members had shown their hand. With only a few days remaining, surely one of them would break cover. It was a fine balancing act, a game of cat and mouse that was severely testing Mason’s patience. His initial thoughts were to sit tight, and allow Cleveland to slip her moorings before impounding her in territorial waters. It was a risky plan, he knew that, but it was the only option that appealed to him.

It was a single gunshot that halted the morning’s proceedings, a muffled sound reminiscent to that of gunfire in an enclosed environment. With lightning reflexes, Mason had already cleared the occupants of the front two tables, long before they’d even realised it. Not too far away, he thought he could hear low rumbling noises coming from beyond the corridor. His heart raced, and the eerie silence that followed swept throughout the rest of the building as though struck by a nuclear blast.

There it was again.

Motionless, Mason just stood there and stared. His hands were shaking, and his mouth felt dry. Then he heard voices, and ran towards the distant echoes of fast approaching footsteps. He did not run far. Seconds later he was confronted by a distraught receptionist, ashen faced and petrified. Making no efforts to console her, the terrified young woman swept past him as though he had never existed. Palms sweating, his heart pounding, he pushed on.

Moments later, what he saw caused him alarm.

‘Out!’ he screamed, herding a group of onlookers back into the corridor.

Slamming the office door shut behind him, he stood silent for a moment. Stunned, he noticed the back of the ACC’s head had been blown away. The remains were scattered about the ceiling and walls. From the angle and position of the body, Mason quickly deduced what had happened. He would need to work fast, as there were those beyond the corridor who would soon outstrip his authority. He searched for clues, and there were plenty. Then his eyes dropped to the corpse. The arms were dangling; the body slumped forward over the desk. It was not a pretty sight. Death had come quickly, it seemed, a single bullet through the mouth. It was a painless demise, decisive and swift, but nevertheless messy. Skirting the body, he searched for that one vital piece of evidence that would tell him everything. His foremost thought was the integrity of the police force. Suicide, he told himself, was never straightforward; it was always embroiled in complexities or entangled in doubt. Whatever his reasoning, the ACC’s ultimate intention had been to blow himself into the realms of kingdom come. Who could doubt that achievement?

Then he heard shouting, but not before latching onto the blood stained envelope. Lowering the body, he wiped the blood from his hands and turned to open the office window.

Seconds later, he was confronted by the Head of Security.

‘What in hell’s name is going on in here?’ asked Colin Bradshaw.

Mason pointed to the body.

‘What the––’

‘It looks like a tragic accident.’

The Head of Security looked him in the eye and then down at the body again. ‘It appears anything but an accident, Detective Chief Inspector. It looks like suicide to me, even I can see that.’

‘True, but we cannot be sure at this stage.’

‘Why did you find it necessary to shut the door?’ Bradshaw insisted. ‘What in God’s name were you thinking of?’

‘It was––’ think fast, ‘purely security reasons.’

Mason slipped the blood-soaked envelope into his trouser pocket, and felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His head was pounding and his hands were sweating profusely. Most senior officers would attempt to talk their way out of a problem, choose their moment, and all too quickly lay blame on others. That’s how the system worked. That’s how most senior officers had reached their invariable positions in the first place. It was necessary to strip away the delusion, react first, and think it through later. Right now he needed an excuse, and any excuse was better than none. Whatever he said in the next few minutes would need to sound convincing. Besides, he was here on secondment – an outsider – easy prey for the local boys to close rank on him. Then he noticed the corpse was directly in line with the open window.

Now was his moment.

‘I’d stay well clear from the window,’ Mason said, anxiously pointing to the building opposite. ‘Someone may have popped a shot off at him.’

Bradshaw drew back, and for one dark moment it seemed as though the game was up. Then he caught the hesitation in Bradshaw’s body language.

‘Sorry, Jack. I’m not thinking straight.’

As if witnessing his first gunshot incident, Bradshaw took a closer look at the ACC’s lifeless body. ‘My God, it’s left one hell of a mess,’ he said, shaking his head in profuse disgust. The Head of Security expelled a long drawn out breath. ‘What an utter waste of a career, Jack.’

‘It’s not good, is it?’

Mason stepped aside as Bradshaw popped his head out of the open office window and checked the building opposite. Turning sharply to face him, his posture demanded attention. ‘This is a nasty business, Jack. We best keep this under wraps for the time being. I can’t imagine what the press will make of it all, once they find out what has happened.’

‘You’re right. This kind of incident never sits well at the best of times, especially one involving a senior police officer. We both could have done without this.’

‘I agree, but I’ll need a full written statement all the same.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Mason nodded.

‘Good man.’

‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ Mason said, turning to leave. ‘Mind, I’ve seen its likes before. It’s not uncommon for a police officer to play around with a gun at some stage in their career. It’s a man’s thing, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Let’s hope for his family’s sake that this was a dreadful accident. But I’m still not convinced.’

‘We’ll need to get ballistics involved. Let’s see what they make of it all.’

‘It’s suicide, Jack, nothing else.’

‘You’re probably right, but the only person who can tell us that for sure is now dead.’

That had done the trick, and there was doubt in Colin Bradshaw’s glances.

‘Best leave this one with me,’ Bradshaw insisted.

Mason slipped quietly from the room and into a corridor full of curious onlookers. Mission accomplished, he told himself. Having cast the seeds of doubt in the senior officer’s mind, he was hoping for enough breathing time to sort things out. Accident, he chuckled, like hell. The ACC had blown his brains out rather than face the music.

He felt for the envelope . . . still there.

As he turned the corner heading towards the back of the building, he was almost beyond himself. It was insane to think that someone could end it all this way. What about his wife, thought Mason. What about his kids? Not to mention the fragments of bone, teeth and brains splattered about the place. What a waste, he shuddered.

Seconds later, he pushed back the toilet door, slid back the bolt, and sat for a while. Nerves jangling, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the blood-stained envelope. What dark secrets it was holding he had no idea.

He tore back the flap.

Chapter Forty-Eight

A warm wind had whipped up through the streets of Ponteland, as Carlisle pulled into the car park at Police Headquarters. By the time he reached Jack Mason’s office most of the shouting was over. George Wallace sat flushed, surrounded by a team of fellow dejected detectives. Something was afoot, and whatever it was, he was about to find out.

‘One of my Mondeo’s has turned up at a property in Forest Hall,’ said Mason.

‘When was this?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Late yesterday evening.’

He had walked slap bang into the middle of a heated discussion, with Jack Mason taking centre stage. The atmosphere was strained, and had every reason to be. From what he could gather, one of Mason’s police bait cars had been stolen close to the Wallsend Metro Station. Left unattended with its doors unlocked and ignition keys thrown onto the passenger seat, it had been easy pickings for some unsuspecting thief.

But was this the Wharf Butcher’s doing?

‘Do we have an ID?’

‘He’s male, 6’2”, aged approximately thirty-five and walks with a limp. What more do you need to know . . . he fits the description perfectly.’

Carlisle trod carefully. ‘So what’s your problem?’

The team of detectives stared at one another.

‘We need some advice,’ Mason finally admitted. ‘If this is the Wharf Butcher’s doing, then how do we best approach him?’

Mason was right. Despite the myth that serial killers want to get caught, only a few had ever turned themselves in. This wasn’t an easy decision, he realised that; they were sitting on a powder keg and the fuse had already been lit.

‘What can you tell me about the property?’

‘It’s an upmarket four bedroom detached, with large surrounding gardens,’ Mason mumbled. ‘There’s a team over there now, and they’ve set up a makeshift surveillance room in one of the properties opposite. Let’s hope our suspect doesn’t spot them. If he does, then god knows what will happen.’

‘And the occupants of the house, where are they now?’

‘On holiday in Australia, and they’re not due to fly back for at least another month.’

Carlisle did a quick mental calculation. ‘What else do we know about the neighbourhood?’

‘It’s secluded, quiet, and very upmarket. The people who live there are loaded with money.’ Mason let out a long lingering sigh, as if to release some innermost tension. ‘They’re so far up their own arses; they don’t even know when their next door neighbour’s property has been broken into. What a fucking shambles.’

The other detectives remained silent, preferring to let Mason do the talking.

‘I’d tread careful, Jack. Whoever’s occupying the property may have overridden the house security system.’ Carlisle stared at the others. ‘And we all know he’s good with electronics.’

Mason shook his head. ‘That’s a good point.’

‘Who’s keeping an eye on the property while the owners are away?’

‘We’ve made a few discreet door to door enquiries, but that’s about it at this stage.’

Carlisle was silent for a moment. ‘So, where is your suspect now?’

‘He left the house around seven thirty this morning, and was followed to the High Street in Wallsend. That’s the last we’ve seen of him.’ Mason shook his head in despair. ‘He’s a cunning bastard; you’ve got to hand him that.’

‘Who’s following him?’

‘DC Carrington,’ Mason lowered his head. ‘I’ve instructed her to stay with the stolen Mondeo, on the off-chance he’ll return to it. If he doesn’t, we’re sunk.’

The one thing Carlisle had learned was never to underestimate a serial killer’s cunning, as they were masters at their game. If this was the Wharf Butcher’s doing, and he had no reason to believe otherwise, the team would need to take advantage of every opportunity. He sat in silence for a moment. This was a big breakthrough, and the tension was already beginning to show. They would need to tread carefully, bring a sense of order to the place. Easier said than done, he thought.

‘The trouble is this, Jack. These people are good at playing Jekyll and Hyde. They have the ability to move in and out of society at will. Never underestimate their actions. You’ll need to stay close, blend into the background so to speak. One thing for sure, he’ll be watching you every step of the way.’

Mason sighed, and scratched the side of his head. ‘Yeah, but will he return to the Mondeo? That’s my biggest concern right now.’

‘If he is who I think he is, then yes.’ Carlisle turned to the others. ‘There again, if he’s active, then that’s an entirely different matter.’

‘What’s his state of mind?’ said Mason, pacing the office.

‘Psychopaths are very grandiose; their world is all about them. Right now he believes he has the power over life and death. In which case, our best option would be to play him at his own game. Think as he does.’

Mason just stared at him. ‘Which is?’

‘How does a spider catch a fly, Jack?’

The DCI stood for a moment. Carlisle could almost hear the cogs going around in his head. ‘We set a trap,’ said Mason. ‘Put a stop to his movements. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes and no, it all depends on what kind of trap you’re thinking of setting?’

‘First things first,’ Mason shrugged. ‘We need to get a fix on the property.’

‘Fix! What kind of fix?’

‘I’m looking for a DNA match, fingerprints, anything that points us to the killer. The last thing we need is to go in heavy handed only to find it’s not him. I’ve been there before, and I’ve certainly no intentions of going there again.’

Stirrings and mumblings came from the team.

‘Be careful, Jack. He may have set traps. This one’s clever with electronics, remember?’

‘Did you hear that, lads?’

At least Mason was thinking rationally for once.

‘May I suggest no marked police cars or uniforms are seen in the area?’ Carlisle advised. ‘Anyone on duty there should be dressed in plain clothes. If he is active, and I believe he is, then he’ll need to move around freely without the feeling of being watched.’

Nursing a mug of coffee, Mason stared blankly out of the office window. Seconds later, he banged the empty mug on his desktop. ‘This is beginning to sound like a plan. If this does turn into a lengthy stake-out, which it may, we need to be prepared for every eventuality.’

‘Who else is involved in following the Mondeo?’ Carlisle asked.

The question had caught Mason off guard.

‘No one is, why?’

‘If he is active, then DC Carrington will need to be on guard. The last thing we need is a dead female police officer on our hands.’

Mason stared at him dumbfounded. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d tell you to sod off. Carrington’s wired up, she only has to call in for assistance.’

A memory jogged him.

‘This surveillance property,’ Carlisle said, remembering how the killer had slipped through the net at Annie Jenkins’ funeral, ‘how secure is the place?’

‘Why don’t we take a look for ourselves,’ Mason sighed.

Aware that the suspect’s mind had a bad habit of going into dark places where ordinary people’s minds didn’t go, the DCI appeared on edge. For the first time in weeks, Carlisle began to realise that Mason never had a plan in the first place. Maybe he was operating on pure adrenaline alone, which was usually the case. Despite all that was going through his head, it was still the same old Mason. Behind his hard-cop carapace, there was a certain inevitable vulnerability. Spur of the moment tactics, and back of the fag-packet plans had their place, but now wasn’t the time for either. Mason was floundering, and running short on ideas. Not the best of situations to be in, especially when a serial killer was out there.

Before leaving, the DCI dished out a new set of instructions, and made a few discreet phone calls. The minute they pulled out of Police Headquarters, the first spots of rain fell on the car’s windscreen. Another bad omen, thought Carlisle.